The three men, standing in a row opposite me, reminded me of a synchronized dance team at Les Folies-Bergere, performing the Can-Can. As one, they threw off their shirts, kicked off shoes, opened alligator belts, dropped their slacks and stepped out of their under shorts, presenting three fully engorged cocks. My pussy drooled in response as my eyes imagined how each of those cocks would feel inside of me. What a wonderful conclusion for a girl who had started out looking simply for one guy, any guy, to fuck her.

"How about we start with three quick blow jobs to get the edge off? Then we can work our way around to your other holes." That was Harry speaking. Dick and Tom nodded in affirmation at what they thought was a great idea.

Those weren't their names, of course. At least I didn't think so, because I really didn't know their names. Just three horny guys in Las Vegas for a convention, in the midst of getting their rocks off and assembling a truthful story to add to all the bullshit stories that they would tell their buddies back in Mud Fuck, U.S.A. Sure, they gave me names and business cards, and I remembered them while they were fucking me, but by the next morning they were forgotten. But not quite completely; more of that later.

"OK," I said, "if you want. But I've got another idea that won't make any of you wait. How about you all three start at the same time? One of you fucks my box, one gets blown and the third gets a hand job. Then you can rotate any way you want."

I never call my cunt my box, but I can read people fairly well and I figured that these three rubes from way back wherever would be more accustomed to the genteel word box than to the cruder word more common out here where anything goes.

Tom was obviously the ring leader. About 5-8, he was solidly built but not fat. He had a swarthy complexion, obviously Caucasian but with plenty of time spent in the sun. His eyes bore into me, not merely undressing me (back when I had clothing on) but dissecting my brain. His voice was low, so much that I had to lean in to hear what he was ever saying. It probably worked very well in helping him to pick up cunt around a hotel pool. I couldn't picture how he was a top car salesman. I think that he got to go to the convention because he must have had pictures of the dealership owner in flagrente delicto with the owner's wife's 15 year old daughter. I wouldn't trust the guy to give me change of a quarter.

Harry was your typical salesman. Also 5-8, he had a full head of black hair, slicked down yet not looking like a punk. He was earnest with his customers, always giving them prompt and direct answers to their questions, albeit neither not complete answers nor necessarily even close to the truth. He was the Rotarian type of good guy, helping the community, guiding little old ladies across the street like a Scout. At work, he surely was always the best dressed of the salesman. Still, even if he had a sexy wife, he would have had no compunctions about fucking little boys, though not his own.

Dick was a true gentleman. At 6-3, he was the tallest of the bunch. A Jamaican, he was also the handsomest of the group. He was soft spoken, a mediator candidate, who could bring together the differing opinions of husband and wife. Clearly unmarried, for otherwise he never would have considered sex with anyone other than his spouse. If I had been looking for a husband I would have stopped looking right there. But due to his heritage, he had the largest cock of the crew.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's go back an hour or so.

My work outfit looked very patriotic. My top was a strapless shirt with a built-in bra, bright red, tight around the boobs, enough flesh showing on top as one of the clues to identify me as female. The other clue was the fact that the bra did nothing to disguise my protruding nipples. The bottoms consisted of a flared flag-blue skirt, coming down barely as far as the crotch of my panties. Virginal – Hah! - white was used for the trim of the top and skirt, and also for the body of the panties. The panties flashed without any effort on my part, whenever I bent even the slightest few inches, as I was expected to do regularly. The entire outfit was silk, save for the trim. I wore an open pouch tummy pack of the same three colors, the same silk.

That was the standard uniform for every Cocktail Waitress in the casino of the newest hotel on the Strip. The tummy pack was for the tips we received for serving drinks to the gamblers. The tips of course always go into a kitty to be divided among all the girls, but it was still a game we all played, trying to see whose ass could shake in the best money. Forgive my bragging, but I was one of the best of the bunch. And don't think it was easy, turning away the grab-ass gropers yet teasing them enough to get good tips.

Obviously, tips are the main source of my income. The average tourist will give me one or two whites ($1 each). A few will give reds ($5 each). Occasionally I'll get a green ($25) and blacks ($100) are few and far between. That's for working the main floor. Girls (no one is interested in a guy's cleavage) working the high-roller rooms do better; while those covering the Keno area not as well. But on average, I make more in tips on one ten minute or twelve minute circuit as my hourly salary. And if each girl gets about the same tips, then my share of the total is just about equal to what I bring in myself.

The drag of course is that any man who sees the top one third of a tit assumes that the rest of the tit, the rest of the body in fact, is there for the taking.

Now, you may already have guessed, but the basic fact is: I love to fuck, I love to suck. I love to cum and I love it when I make a man cum, when I can feel his spunk inside my body.

But here's the complication: even though I don't actually handle any gambling money, nor have any control of any games of chance, I'm not allowed to 'fraternize' with any of the customers. I can't have a drink or dinner with them and I can't do any of those wonderful things with them for which beds are made. It's the same as when I want to gamble myself. I have to leave the hotel and go to another casino which is not owned by the same company that owns the one I work in.

So there I was, my shift over, stripped to the skin in the locker room, ready to put on my civilian clothes, jeans and a sweater with fuck-me stilettos. I could feel eyes from some of the girls imagining what they'd like to do with my body, and I felt the same way about their bodies, but again, off limits. Nothing to do but either go home to munch carpet with Mom or to hit the streets for two blocks to our nearest competitor. It was not really a close contest.

The strip was crowded, mostly tourist couples, plus some groups of guys, two or more, who were most likely conventioneers going from one hotel to another looking for girls to pick up. 'What happens in Vegas, etc'. Well, those were the very people I was looking for as I headed for my destination. I wanted, needed, craved for a good zipless fuck, just enough for an orgasm or two or three but no connections, names, faces, residences to be quickly forgotten. That's the stuff I could have easily gotten in my own hotel but I didn't want to risk my job.

Even at that hour, unshaven and disheveled derelicts stood handing out leaflets and brochures for out-call whores. They earned their drinking money by giving them to anyone, even married couples. Heck, you never know what someone's fetish might be. They even offered the stuff to me, but I never accepted it. I've never had to pay for it, and I dislike littering Las Vegas Boulevard.

My thing was to go into a bar, usually in a casino, and see who tried to pick me up. If I must say so myself, I attract enough attention by my looks and body. All I expect is someone clean, intelligent, sober, not skuzzy looking. I had no doubt that I could have made decent money peddling my ass but I knew that any arrest would cost me my job instantly. Sure, I could have made more money putting out rather than waitressing, but I'm a nymphomaniac, not a whore.

Not that anything is ever easy. One night a guy was doing me doggy style. As soon as he came, he rolled off of me and lay on his back. As I cleaned off his cock for him, he asked me, "Why didn't you ask me for money before we started?"

"What for? I'm here for fun, not money."

"I'm glad," he said, "because if you had asked for money, I couldn't have fucked you. I'd have had to arrest you."

I had no reply, but after that, whenever I saw him in a casino, I dimed him out to all the working girls. That no good cock sucker! As distinguished from me, of course, who's a good cock sucker!!

Listen, I come by my sex like any average female. Neither my Daddy nor any of my uncles ever made a sexual move on me. My first experience was with a boy in school when I was fourteen. I was in the middle of giving him a hand job when he told me that he loved me and convinced me to convert it into a blow job. A week later I was on my back for him with my legs spread, saying goodbye to my cherry. I didn't do it doggy style until the following year and it wasn't until I was seventeen and drunk that I first took it up the ass. That's definitely not my favorite, and I just don't do it.

At my destination on the Strip, I headed directly for the cocktail lounge at the edge of the casino. As always, I sat at one of the curved ends of the bar. That way I could see whoever might be at the bar as well as half of the cocktail tables. My ears were ringing from the bells on the slot machines and the screamers around the craps table. I put a twenty on the bar.

"The usual?" the bartender asked. I nodded. He put a hand down on the bar and used his thumb to point in the direction that he suggested I turn. He knew that the twenty was his no matter what, but that if he had to make me a drink, it would have to go into the register rather than the tip jar, so he hesitated as usual.

My head slowly turned, looking to see who might be staring at me and who would be ignoring me. I skipped them all until I reached the table that the bartender had indicated. If he looked good, I would smile; if not, I would turn back to one of the prior men doing the staring and smile back.

The target table had three men and one empty chair. Conventioneers, obviously. Casually but well dressed, averagely handsome, looking sober. My smile was involuntarily broader than usual. The guy on the left stood up and walked toward me.

"Hi, I'm Tom." As I said before, I really don't remember what name he actually said. "Would you be so kind as to join me and my friends?"

What an interesting phraseology, I thought. I gave him an affirmative smile and stood up.

"Put her drink on my tab," he said over his shoulder to the bartender.

He sat me down as he introduced me to his friends, so I was with the ubiquitous Tom, Dick and Harry.

"Hello", I introduced myself, "I'm Ginger." At least one out of every three times that I'm in a situation like this, especially with more than one man, I know that someone was say some variation of 'Is that your name or what you taste like?' or, in a nursery rhyming tone, 'How does your Ginger snap?' Happily, these three were not so crude.

As I had guessed, the three of them were in Vegas for a convention. They were the three top salesmen in the auto dealership of the manufacturer who was paying for the whole shebang. Their home town was Kalamazoo or Waterloo or Timbuktu or something like that, a place that ends in an 'oo' sound. Or maybe they named a state that began with New. They were there on the arm, which means that someone else was paying their expenses.

It also meant that they had plenty of cash available to get laid. Shit, if I was charging for it, I could make more that night that I make waitressing for a whole month. If only...

It usually takes no more than two rounds of drinks and small talks before a guy says, in some form or another, 'enough of this bullshit, let's go fuck'. It was Dick's turn to make the move.

"Would you care to join us in our suite for a nightcap?"

I smiled, and nodded.

We did a bit of small talk on the way to the elevator, but the trip up to their floor was quiet, as was the walk down the hallway. Once in the suite, Harry moved toward the bar.

"What were you drinking again?"

"Thank you Harry, but I don't think that I need another drink."

"Ah yes," he said, "we have something else to discuss."

Suddenly I realized that they expected to pay. I didn't know how I wanted to respond so I said nothing. But Harry was a salesman, and he knew that silence during negotiations was not good for sales.

"Would a thousand dollars be adequate?"

I raised my eyebrows in shock, drew my head back, at the idea of being offered so much for something I would gladly do for nothing. He looked toward Tom and Dick.

"How about fifteen hundred?" he amended.

Still dazed at the idea of unexpected money, like a tip that I didn't have to share with the other waitresses, I looked at the three of them, one at a time, slowly. To my surprise, each one nodded.

"Of course each," Tom said, "but we expect an all-nighter."

I was numb, speechless, but I realized that my head was nodding up and down. I didn't even have to call Mom. She knew that I often did all-nighters, and she was quite willing to take care of the baby until the morning.

What amazed me so much was that these three were, or so they claimed, top auto salesmen, people who tried to beat buyers out of every last nickel, bidding against themselves and giving away money. They must really have been horny, hungry for sex that they could brag about back in wherever. I guess that their girl shopping had been fruitless so far.

But was I interested in crossing that line? Was I ready to take money for fucking after all those instances of giving it away? Did I want to run the risk of arrest, of being shaken down by crooked cops, of losing a decent job? Was I willing to give up the ability to insist that a guy go down on me, eat me in and out? Should I give up the title of 'easy lay' or slut and become whore, prostitute?

I had watched silently as each of them had pulled out a roll of hundreds and seemingly counted off fifteen each, stacking them on the dresser under an ash tray. I knew beyond all doubt that the instant I picked up that pile of money, counted it and put it in my pocket, I would irrevocably become a whore, selling my body to all men, to be fucked by anyone with a dollar in his pocket. Right now I was doing it for fun and orgasms; after, I would be submitting to whatever the guy wanted to do to my body, for his pleasure and maybe for the pleasure of some pock-marked pimp who would someday convince me that I needed a needle in my arm.