Chapter 2

The Fitness Enthusiast

Athletic VALKYRIE

Flexibility You Won’t Believe

Available 3/22-4/21

My Height: 5’9”

My Weight: 54 kg (120 lbs.)

My Measurements: 37c-24-36

My Age and Birthdate: 23; October 8, 2001

Hi there,

I’m Valkyrie, your ultimate active courtesan at Happy Ending Ranch! Before pursuing showbusiness in Los Angeles, I was a competitive athlete growing up in Norway, and I’ve maintained my passion for fitness and the incredible things the human body can do.

When I’m not cultivating unforgettable experiences at the ranch, you’ll find me at CrossFit, practicing advanced yoga, or hitting hiking trails at dawn. My dedication to fitness has given me exceptional stamina, strength, and flexibility that will translate perfectly to our intimate time together.

With platinum blonde hair that’s natural from root to tip, eyes blue as a cloudless winter sky yet crackling with warmth, and the kind of fair, flawless skin that seems to glow from the inside out, I bring authentic Scandinavian beauty to the vast Nevada desert. Genetics blessed me with unusually limber joints and natural abilities that you’ll find absolutely thrilling when we’re alone together.

What really gets me hot is putting my flexibility to good use in creative positions that hit all the right spots. I can hold challenging positions for extended periods, allowing us to experience angles and depths you never thought possible. I love the surprised look on a gentleman’s face when he realizes what’s possible when athleticism meets passion. Nothing excites me more than finding that perfect position that hits all the right spots for both of us.

I particularly enjoy rugged sex that incorporates elements of strength and balance – standing positions, challenging holds, and movements that require core control. Ever try a standing 69? Do you want to? The endorphin rush from an intense physical session is absolutely addictive!

For those who appreciate a partner who won’t tire out and can keep going round after round, call or visit, and ask for Valkyrie. I guarantee a workout you’ll never forget!

Let’s get physical,

Valkyrie

P.S. I can put my ankles behind my head while maintaining eye contact. Just saying...

Oh, God. I think I’m gonna throw up.

One hand flew to Kristanna’s mouth while the other clutched the edge of the saloon-style table. A bitter cocktail went nuclear from within. She swallowed hard once, twice, a third time, each attempt more desperate than the last. Her complexion faded to chalk, jaw clenched so tight her temples throbbed. Success? The blast wave reached its apex but remained at bay, then began to recede.

The world itself contorting like a funhouse mirror, Kristanna slouched, her forehead thumping the table. Messy fingers snatched napkins from the chrome dispenser, wadding them against her lips to combat the vile taste.

Thank God. If Kristanna were to vomit during her first night on the job, especially here in the bar, it would probably be her last night on the job too.

Though a curtain of flaxen locks, her manicured nails clicked the tabletop, blindly patting in expanding circles until they connected with her Samsung Galaxy S25. Fingers curled around the device, dragging it beneath the veil of hair still hiding her face while the revelry all around her continued uninterrupted. No one noticed?

Kristanna willed herself to raise her head, not wanting to draw attention, and gazed at her smartphone. The fitness enthusiast. Athletic Valkyrie. Flexibility you won’t believe. This was madness! Lindsay wasn’t exaggerating earlier when she claimed Jenn could craft a biography based on Kristanna’s real-life interests and experiences and give it an erotic twist, directed to incite a man’s most primal urges.

Who is this person? That’s not me. Can’t be me. Yet the photographs dotting the profile, all from Kristanna’s phone, declared otherwise. I can put my ankles behind my head while maintaining eye contact. Just saying. Her identity, dismembered and reassembled into commercial seduction.

A memory surfaced – sharp, vivid, unexpected. Crisp, icy air burned in Kristanna’s lungs as she sprinted alongside the old family barn and through the apple orchard. The sharp scent of pine and woodsmoke hung in the crystalline air, her breath forming clouds that trailed behind her like exhaust. Coach Bjornson had been clear: championships weren’t won in May, but in the off months, when lesser competitors took it easy indoors.

Snow crunched beneath her specialized winter trainers as Kristanna drove her knees higher, faster, harder, quadriceps screaming in protest as she imagined breaking the tape at nationals, representing her small school against Oslo’s elite athletic programs.

Ahh, what I wouldn’t give to be fifteen and back home again.

Kristanna watched Jenn gulp her bottled water and set it down. The house manager, who also served as lead bartender (and part-time courtesan), seemed to have a penchant for dancing while she worked. For someone who is forty-one, that woman has limitless energy. She’s been nonstop all day. Kristanna had also learned from interacting with her that she was one of those who possessed the unique gift of making others feel important and valued with effortless ease.

Was it sincere? Or manufactured, like the profile she’d conjured up? Ever try a standing 69? Do you want to? Kristanna strangled her phone with both hands and wanted to break the damn thing. That ... that’s not me! What? How? Why? Jenn had spun a brief comment she’d made about an encounter with an ex-boyfriend into an entire fantasy narrative. One drunken night with Marcus and suddenly I’m some acrobatic sex goddess?

Was anything, or anyone, in this house sincere?

Kristanna’s day had been a blur – endless forms to sign, training sessions to endure, and the sterile bureaucracy of the Sulaco County Sheriff’s Station where she obtained her work card, that small plastic rectangle declaring her a legal prostitute in the state of Nevada. Why did it have to be that surly from the diner? He is so cold. What was his name again? Spaeth? Mr. Smug Face processed her application – checking boxes, taking her photo against a blue background, scanning her ID.

The fingerprinting technician rambled on about an approaching storm front, treating Kristanna with the special kind of politeness reserved for people whose choices you silently condemn. Worse still was the trafficking prevention interview in a windowless interrogation cell where a member of the clergy named Miss Singleton cycled through questions about Kristanna’s consent while making notes that would determine if she was victim or volunteer. Once cleared, Kristanna had declined three different “rescue” programs and accepted a hotline card she would later toss into the first trash can she passed.

By late afternoon, she’d been given a list of house rules, safety protocols, and suggested tactics for negotiating “extras.” I signed so much paperwork today; I seriously wonder if I signed my entire life over to this place.

The earlier tour with Amelia was surprisingly mundane. A commercial kitchen where employees could prepare meals or have the certified chef, Fernando, do it for them. A laundry room. Lindsay’s private office with monitors surveying every public area. “My door is always open if you ever have any issues or concerns,” she told her.

Back to the bar, or “floor” as Amelia called it, where customers could mingle with working ladies before exchanging money. A place to drink, to let loose. Private rooms with panic buttons hidden behind each bed. The “chick cave”, located downstairs, with its outdated magazines and vending machines felt like any break room, save for the price lists displayed above the coffeemaker.

Kristanna also met several other women, including Riley and Sahara, a couple who flaunted matching wedding rings as they offered advice about clients and house procedures. “You can always say no at any point for any reason, ” Riley offered. “You never have to accept a client if you don’t want to. You’re an independent contractor, allowed to make your own rules. Never forget that.”

Was that really Piper Merlot who passed by me this morning? The porn megastar? During the orientation, Amelia confirmed that yes, indeed, it was. How can I compete and make any money with that? Suddenly I feel wildly underqualified.

Paisley, age nineteen with pink-streaked hair and calculating eyes, had assessed Kristanna with open hostility, muttering “European princess playing whore for fun” before ducking through a doorway and out of sight. Alright. Cross that one off the list for potential friends.

I wish I could go home.

Kristanna’s earliest memory was accompanying her mother, also an actress, to a cavernous theater hall in Rykkinn and watching her audition for the titular role of Barock Friise in Cecilie Løveid’s controversial Norwegian play. 2004? 2005? From the front row, Kristanna did her best to mimic her mother’s dramatic gestures and commanding voice, earning laughter from both her mother and the stone-faced director, a sound that still lingers. That day ignited her own passion for stage, becoming an emotional touchstone Kristanna returned to whenever she needed a reminder why she’d pursued drama to begin with.

Although Kristanna excelled at athletics, particularly track and field, there had never been any doubt about what she would be when she grew up.

Acting had been in her blood. Still was.

Lindsay and some hulking, broad-shouldered firefighter were practically having sex on the dance floor. He’d arrived twenty minutes ago, interrupting Kristanna and Jenn’s conversation, and asked for Lindsay by name. Has to be a regular for her, right? Kristanna retreated to this very corner, hoping to observe the queen herself in action, to learn from her. Research. Professional development. Definitely not voyeurism.

The petite, golden-haired nutcracker soon emerged from the back in a pair of daggered heels and an outfit that defied decency. White piping traced the microscopic hemline of the otherwise beige fabric while angular cutouts exposed hip bones and ribs. The minidress left very little to the imagination, making Kristanna’s own rhinestone ensemble from earlier look like church wear compared to it.

By now, after a reintroduction consisting of spirited hugs and breathless small talk, the man’s hands traced Lindsay’s ass on the dance floor as they moved as one.

The message in his eyes was crystal-clear: Let’s fuck.

His hips thrust, hands wandered, and Lindsay encouraged every violation – assault in the outside world but simply foreplay here. I wonder what her husband thinks of all the men she’s been with? Lindsay clawed at his shoulders, his back, offering a free appetizer before the main course his credit card would serve up in private.

“Kiss me, Justin,” came her plea.

One masculine hand hiked the hem of her minidress up, beyond her waistline, while the other pushed into her hair, and he claimed her mouth.

Holy fuck, they were already going at it. Just like that? Lindsay gave each kiss everything she had, and it was hot as sin to witness. Justin’s hands skimmed down to her sides as she dry-humped his pelvis through his fatigues, her curves molding to his hard frame. What happened to the cool, composed lady who did my interview earlier? Where did she go? Kristanna saw this man unraveling, too, his fireproof veneer disappearing into visceral lust.

“Goddammit, baby. I want every fucking inch of you.”