Chapter 1

Monday, July 16, 2018

Flagstone, Nevada

“What the heck am I doing?” The grimace on Lindsay Anastacio’s face belied her youthfulness as she gazed at the eclectic, Spanish-style house. She twisted and plucked at her fingers and did her best to suppress any thought of the wicked impurities she would inflict upon herself by being here. Her moral compass pleaded to turn and run away, but she refused to budge, convinced the first step toward independence awaited within those walls.

Everything appeared identical compared to the online photographs Lindsay had scrutinized over the past several months. The desert backdrop provided spectacular views of orange-banded canyons, towering yellow limestone peaks, sandstone crags, crumbling rocks, and an assortment of colorful wildflowers. Nestled at the end of a cul-de-sac, the house looked normal with its white stucco exterior, red-tiled roof, manicured grounds, and dense shrubbery.

Yet Lindsay realized this house was anything but normal. It represented all the sinful things she had been taught to avoid while growing up in a conservative, religious family. According to her mother, what happened in establishments like this was dehumanizing and potentially life-threatening.

Don’t do this. Her inner voice continued to protest. Save yourself.

Run!

But Lindsay ignored it.

Again.

“Well, I’m here. I’m actually here. Dope. Might as well go through with it, huh?” She spoke to herself while applying a fresh sheen of flamingo pink lip gloss. “There’s no turning back now.”

Need to look my best, right? This is the most important day of my life. Random thoughts swirled through her mind much like gray ash and dust did in the desert air thanks to strong, whipping winds. Mom and Dad would turn all salty, maybe even disown me, if they had any idea of what I’m about to get myself into.

Lindsay wrung her hands out and a deep furrow tangled her brow. I’m gonna do this. She gave her too-short shorts a self-conscious tug and tipped her chin high with false bravado. It’s time to be a big girl and move on to the next phase of my life. Remember, fear is for the weak.

Lindsay maintained a brave face, flung her backpack over her shoulder, and footslogged across a path of marble steppingstones toward the entrance. Settle down. It’s just a job interview. She rubbed her forearms to combat a sudden chill. You’re such a worrier.

Besides, the eighteen-year-old had nowhere else to go. After paying for an Uber ride to commute here, she was broke.

Lindsay fell in love with Las Vegas after a whirlwind sightseeing tour and staying at a hotel there overnight. An oasis of lights, sounds, and uncaged debauchery in the heart of the Mojave Desert, Sin City was more like a theme park than an urban metropolis. It awed as much as it overwhelmed, and that was part of the appeal.

Known for its luxurious rental properties, the clink and ring of slot machines, dazzling shows, and a cornucopia of fine dining, Vegas had more than earned its moniker as “The Entertainment Capital of the World.” Activity raged everywhere, and the endless parade of tourists from all levels of society boggled Lindsay’s naïve, impressionable mind. And the Las Vegas Strip resembled a flamboyant, boisterous, and eccentric adult fantasyland with limitless possibilities where reality, with its pitfalls, ceased to exist.

Hmm, this sure ain’t Vegas.

Located 175 miles upstate, the town of Flagstone grew up in anticipation of the Union Pacific Railroad, which began its expansion across the American Plains in the 1860s. When the tracks met the settlement in 1872, its tents, huts, and businesses multiplied at such a rapid pace that Flagstone earned an anything-goes reputation. Saloon girls, prospecting, gambling, and lawless streets abounded. Its success during the subsequent mining frenzy led those who settled there to build mansions, opera houses, schools, hotels, and everything in between.

Today, Flagstone honors its past with many of the board sidewalks and buildings being restored. Twisted debris littered Grasberg, an old gold mine abandoned long ago. The Flagstone Historical Museum features countless artifacts, including one of the original train engines used to haul ore from the mine. Outdoor enthusiasts enjoy a sanctuary for plants and animals in the Calafell Canyon National Wildlife Refuge while history buffs can explore the town’s most notable attraction, Crown Hill Cemetery. It serves as the final resting place for dozens of shady characters from a violent, bygone era. Many locals insist those spirits haunt it to this day.

The temperature on this Monday held steady at 105 degrees Fahrenheit, typical July weather, though sweltering heat didn’t faze Lindsay. Three weeks ago, she celebrated on stage under the blazing sun at her high school graduation ceremony in the small town of Citronelle in California’s southeastern desert.

She fled those old stomping grounds yesterday morning, leaving behind her parents, three sisters, and everyone else who mattered, and took a charter bus from Palm Springs to Las Vegas. Mr. and Mrs. Anastacio insisted she had no clue what she was doing and was downright crazy to venture out on her own at such an early age.

But Lindsay had a plan. She just didn’t tell anyone what it was, including her lifelong best friend, Evie Bancroft.

For as long as she recalled, Lindsay wanted to ditch Citronelle. Sure, it was home, but nothing ever happened there, and no one ever left. The next closest sign of civilization was thirty miles away. In her mind, the entire region, with its barren wastelands, sand dunes, and dry lakes was insufferable. What aggravated her most was the sense of trapped isolation. Continuing to live in Citronelle offered no opportunity for a successful future. Hmmph, I don’t want to morph into the second coming of my mom.

For years, Lindsay clung to the hope something better was out there waiting but wasn’t sure what it was – or where to find it. And unless she drew the courage to branch out and search, Lindsay realized she’d never find it because it sure as hell wouldn’t come looking for her in Jerkwater, USA.

With her two older sisters attending Pepperdine and Cal State Berkeley, respectively, going off to college proved out of the question. There was no way her parents could afford the tuition. Besides, Lindsay lacked motivation during her high school years and flat-out didn’t care about applying herself or giving the slightest effort. Getting accepted into a top-flight university would be a daunting task with less-than-favorable GPA and SAT/ACT scores.

Dipping and frying corn dogs for minimum wage at the fairgrounds each summer could no longer be an option either. Ewwwww, gross ... corn dogs. Lindsay choked down an uncomfortable swallow. I. Can’t. Even. As the only job available to her, it provided further evidence she needed to escape this purgatory.

So, in the fall of 2017, an idea popped into her mind and refused to go away. At first, Lindsay found the notion downright repulsive, but soon the perversity of it intrigued her like nothing ever had.

Why wouldn’t it? It involved sex.

Lots of sex.

And having sex was this girl’s favorite activity.

Lindsay did extensive research on brothels in the state of Nevada and their working conditions. She read every news article, blog, and message board available on the Internet related to brothels – whorehouses, to be blunt – and examined their long, checkered history.

Lindsay created dummy accounts on Twitter and Instagram, followed all the “working girls” she found, and socialized back and forth with those gracious enough to respond. Claiming to be twenty-four with aspirations to join the world’s oldest profession, she asked numerous questions and gathered useful feedback.

Though fraught with controversy and heavy opposition, brothels are legal in Nevada counties where the population does not exceed 400,000 residents. This means brothels are illegal in Clark County, home to Las Vegas, and Washoe County, home to Reno. Carson City, an independent city, outlaws them as well. But for counties with less than 400,000 people, decisions to permit these houses of prostitution are up to local officials.

A small scattering of municipalities in seven of the state’s seventeen counties are the only places in the United States where buying or selling sex is legal – provided it happens inside one of these brothels.

Advocates claim visiting one is the safest sex anyone can have in their lifetime. That is because every aspect of their day-to-day operation is subject to the strict regulations of the local county as well as the Nevada State Legislature. Ordinances mandate all sex workers must undergo stringent medical testing on a recurring basis. If a result comes back positive, they cannot return to work until cleared by a physician. Failure to comply would lead to a jail sentence for the lady, and license cancellation and permanent shutdown of the brothel itself.

After months of social media communication with employees and patrons alike, Lindsay applied online at Happy Ending Ranch in Flagstone. Aesthetically, Flagstone wasn’t much different from Citronelle – a sleepy desert town with century-old buildings, cottages, and neglected homes peppering the streets. The nearest town was seventeen miles away and housed a mere 160 residents. It’s like I never left home. Mountains hugged the horizon and locals enjoyed wild game hunting and trout fishing in the surrounding landscape.

Despite the cruel familiarity, Lindsay chose Flagstone and this specific brothel, anyway, because she hadn’t read one negative review about it. Complaints infested online forums about several other houses, but customers raved about the girls at Happy Ending Ranch and how mellow the staff was. The owner overdelivered for his clientele, and judging by his photographs, Lindsay considered him easy on the eyes too. Goddamn, that man is fine as all hell. Customers also spoke far more glowingly about the house’s vibe than they did any other in the state.

In short, Happy Ending Ranch struck Lindsay as the ideal spot to test the industry. She’d gain valuable experience as an employee here and could, in theory, work her way up to the larger and more well-known houses where the real money was. I’d give anything to score a gig at Chastity’s Ranch one day.

Lindsay’s forehead scrunched as she stared at the battered metal sign mounted on the front door.

NOTICE: Cell phones, pagers, personal digital assistants (PDAs), laptops, recording devices, and two-way radios are prohibited on this property and will be confiscated.

She assumed the sign’s intent was to protect anonymity and safety and such rules were for the public, not the working girls. Surely, management wouldn’t forbid their employees from using cell phones, would they? That’d be whack. But to be safe, she stashed her wireless device inside her backpack. Ain’t no one touching my phone.

Lindsay extended her finger, pressed the doorbell, and an incessant chime emanated from somewhere behind the thick, reinforced mahogany.

And as if on cue, the sound set off an avalanche within her. Maybe I have it all wrong. Are Mom and Dad right? Seriously, do I understand what I’m doing? Thoughts swirled, rushed and chaotic. Am I about to make the biggest mistake of my life? Her mouth twisted to one side.

You’re insane, but welcome to the rest of your life, girlfriend. This is what you wanted, and now it’s here: time to get fucked for a living. She gripped the hair at the base of her skull as her pulse staggered. Hey, they can print that on your tombstone. Lindsay Michelle Anastacio, December 4, 1999, to ... whenever. She was a prostitute – and she liked it. A flicker of a smile passed over her lips. A cocksucker du jour.

The young woman blew out her cheeks with a wheezing breath, told herself to stop over-analyzing this, and surveyed the peaceful setting one more time. Her mother was against the idea of prostitution, legal or otherwise. Mrs. Anastacio claimed brothels were “houses of ill repute” and the women who dared work at them “unholy sinners.” Mom is such a Karen. She watched daytime talk shows and insisted sex workers were the lowest form of scum on the planet and would forever rot in Hell.

If she ever finds out I’m here, it will be a disaster. The color drained from Lindsay’s face. Mom would spaz out and need years of therapy to recover. She bounced and shuffled on her insoles. Dad would suffer a stroke and call the National Guard. No, no, he’d do one better. He’d contact Seal Team Six and have me extracted.

Still, the door hadn’t opened. God, what is with this place? Was everyone still sleeping? Lindsay’s research suggested most denizens of these “cathouses” showed up at night under the cloak of darkness. But the establishment opened ninety minutes ago. Someone had to be awake and lurking about inside, right?

She pressed the buzzer again, shifted from foot to foot, and emitted a screechy, low-pitched whine. C’mon, let’s get this over with. Showing up here wasn’t an easy decision, but at least it had been a well-thought-out one. Lindsay again reminded herself that this was what she wanted to do with the next phase of her life. It doubled as a one-way ticket out of Citronelle too. I never wanna see that shithole again.

The rust-stained knob wheeled around, and the door squeaked, groaned, and scraped open, and a much older man materialized sporting a warm smile. “Hi, how’s it going? Welcome to Happy Ending Ranch.”

Dressed from head to toe in black, the gentleman’s face featured prominent cheekbones, heavy brows, and a defined jawline. Tall and lean, with a dark, healthy tan, he had green eyes that reminded Lindsay of the forest on a calm autumn day.

“Hi. I’m great, thank you. How are you?”

“Good, good. It’s a lovely morning, isn’t it?”

She again tugged on her denim shorts and couldn’t peel her eyes off this silver fox. Lindsay often daydreamed of being with an older, experienced man who would control her in the bedroom. In those fantasies, she was defenseless, a submissive plaything, and at her lover’s mercy.

She craned her neck, her blue eyes shining, and nibbled on a finger. That face. I know I’ve seen your picture before, sir. Who are you? What is your name? She racked her brain for an answer but soon found her thoughts derailed by another impulse altogether: dropping to her knees and taking his cock into her mouth. Lindsay yearned to taste this sexy stranger, to swallow his sperm, and demonstrate what a productive, hard-working employee she could be.

She yanked her hand away from her mouth and squirmed in place as a twinge flared between her thighs. Through the thin fabric of her tank top, the twin peaks of her nipples stiffened into view. Lindsay’s libido, already the stuff of legend at Citronelle High School, was raging out of control. X-rated thoughts on the bus ride led to and peaked during an overnight masturbation session at the hotel. After all her careful planning, Lindsay was finally at a brothel.

And she knew what happened at these houses of ill repute.

“May I see an ID, please? Need to do an age check.”

“Uhh, sure. Hold on.” Lindsay’s imagination crashed back down to Earth as she fumbled through her backpack and presented a California driver’s license. My ID, huh? What a buzzkill.

Realization dawned – she recognized this man from the online videos about Happy Ending Ranch and various related pictures too. She couldn’t remember his name offhand but felt certain he was a high-ranking employee. He isn’t the owner. I’d know Mr. McCarron’s face in a heartbeat. Perhaps the head of security? The lead bartender?

Will I meet the owner today? Lindsay considered herself lucky she may work with not one, but two impeccable older men. I’d let both smash me at the same time.

“Oh, Lindsay. Lindsay Anastacio.” The knowledge brought a grin to his lips. “We’ve been expecting you. I’m Jim Mayer, the house manager.” He stepped aside and extended an arm. “Come on in. So nice meeting you.”

“It’s nice to meet you, too, Mr. Mayer.” House manager, huh? You must be second on the totem pole. One side of Lindsay’s mouth curled up as she slipped by and navigated into the foyer. The structure gave the impression of a typical family home on the outside, yet inside Lindsay surveyed the wet bar, wraparound mirrors, and the stripper pole in the background with a rigid posture and wide-eyed countenance.

This den of iniquity – think sports memorabilia, poster prints of rock-and-roll legends and adult film stars, peeling paint and bright neon signage, and padlocked doors leading God-knows-where – was Flagstone’s gateway to glamorous women and salacious good times.

This crib is lit.

The lobby featured two booths and four bistro tables with worn, leather-backed chairs, with the bar itself as the focal point. Hardcore pornography played on two separate flat-panel televisions and a sprawling glass showcase displayed exotic toys available for purchase. OhmiGod. Is that a strap-on dildo? Look at the size of it. A jukebox with records, touchscreen games, mismatched glassware, a fake mounted fish, and a pool table in dire, yet technically playable disrepair added charm and character. Open doorways flanked either side of the counter with raggedy curtains draped in front of them. The air reeked of nicotine, booze, and sex. Is this what people mean when they say something is a dive bar? Several placards indicated condoms were “mandatory”, yet Lindsay inclined her head and smirked at a specific sign: Get your woody serviced here. That’s cute, it’s funny.

“You took a bus from Palm Springs to Vegas, yes?” Jim ran Lindsay’s driver’s license through an electronic scanner and handed it back. “Did you have a pleasant trip?” His gaze anchored into her. “Run into any problems?”

Warm and inviting, Jim spoke from the chest, not the head, and conveyed richness, wisdom, and stability. After years of dealing with boys her own age, it provided a welcome change of pace. Finally, I’m around people with the same maturity level as me.

“Nah, the trip was Gucci.” Lindsay sensed Mr. Mayer was sizing her up. She possessed the innocent girl-next-door vibe, standing five-foot-three with blonde hair and deep blue eyes atop a petite, blossoming frame. Back home, Lindsay was the two-time reigning Homecoming Queen, an accomplishment less impressive given her graduating class comprised a mere sixteen students. She took pride in a made-for-sex body but considered herself more cute than hot. An easy, charming temperament made her irresistible.

“My only gripe is it took too long. Ten hours from Palm Springs to Las Vegas with a gazillion stops and breaks.” Is that a cigarette vending machine in the corner? Lindsay blinked and drew in a lungful of air. What seemed like decades-old wafts of tobacco smoke would take some time getting acclimated to. Reminds me of Grandma’s before they dragged her off kicking and screaming to the nursing home. And what was the deal with this unholy music? Sounds hardcore ancient, like some eighties hair metal or something. “I have no clue why they found it necessary to pull over at every single rest stop.” She rolled her eyes. “It was so extra.”

Despite her comments, Lindsay thought the bus ride was a steal and would do it again. I like to complain. Dad says I’m such a whiny brat. Just thirty-five dollars to uproot her life to a whole new world? Can’t beat that.

The Uber ride from Vegas had been more efficient and comfortable, and the driver made her laugh, but it set Lindsay back $221 and obliterated the rest of her budget.

“Would you like a bottled water? Coke or Pepsi? Powerade? Coffee? All free of charge, of course.”

Her eyes still taking inventory, she flashed a perfect row of teeth. “No, Mr. Mayer, but thank you.” Most of the indoor lighting came from strings of Christmas lights. While bush-league on the surface, Lindsay recalled a prostitute on Twitter who claimed such dismal luminance levels made it difficult for customers to find physical imperfections in their chosen ladies. She said every brothel is dark and spooky like this. It also helped protect their anonymity. “I appreciate you asking.”

“Please, call me Jim.”

She drew a deep breath that lifted her breasts higher in her tank top. “Kk.” I wonder if this is one of those houses where management has nonstop sex with their employees. At first, Lindsay hoped that wasn’t the case, but now here, she welcomed visions of Jim ripping her clothes off, throwing her on top of the bar, and feasting like she was Thanksgiving dinner. Give me a test drive, Daddy. Her body tingled and burned as anticipation continued to build. Devoid of any logic due to the circumstances, Lindsay would let him have his way.

She caught herself staring at his hands. They were strong and masculine, and she imagined them gripping her ass as he fucked her from behind. Hmm, I bet you’re an animal in the bedroom. Her daydreams transitioned to what he might be packing between his legs. Can I see? I’d love for you to ... throat me.

“Your ID checks out, and we’ve already verified through our background check that you’re eighteen. You don’t look eighteen. You look younger, which is the best thing you have going for you, at least to start.” Lindsay bit her lip and a rosy blush dusted her cheeks as Jim continued to talk. Her mind was still racing, her pulse pounding. “The big boss, Colt, has been hoping for some younger talent. Play your cards right, be willing to listen, to learn, and you’ll make a considerable amount of money here.”

Glancing down, she twirled a sneaker-clad foot upon the floor. “I hope so.”

“I need to inspect your backpack and make sure you didn’t sneak anything on to the property you shouldn’t have. A full search is mandatory.”

When Lindsay’s head shot up with arched brows, Jim added in a soft, reassuring voice, “All employees or turnouts – prospective employees, that is – have their belongings searched every time they enter the building. It’s a safety thing.” He reached forward and carefully snatched her bag without waiting for permission.

Oh, rip. What the fuck? An infusion of adrenaline rocked Lindsay as Jim emptied the backpack’s contents and sifted through what amounted to all her worldly possessions. I have nothing to hide, but seriously? The brazenness of the search insulted her, and she didn’t like the prospect of losing all semblance of privacy either.

But that’s how these places operate. You knew that coming in, did you not? It was time to face facts: as long as she was here, her liberties would be subject to the whims of management.

The epitome of professionalism, Jim inspected and placed each of her bras and panties into separate piles. Though she stared at him with clenched fists, Lindsay appreciated the respect with which he regarded her things. Calm down, don’t jeopardize your chance of getting hired. It’s just a simple search. Her sneakers squeaked on the hard floor and her fingers fidgeted. It’s not like he’s going to find anything that’ll land you in trouble.

Jim did the same for her tops and bottoms, shoes, socks, hair and beauty supplies, purse, laptop, iPad, and paper notebooks, and gave her smartphone a quick courtesy glance. Evidently, it wouldn’t be confiscated after all. Thank God. I’d die without my phone.

Jim offered no visible reaction to Lindsay’s long silver dildo and the Ben Wa balls she would occasionally insert into her vagina first thing each morning and go about her day as usual. The balls were hollow and weighted with smaller metal balls inside them. These balls bounced as Lindsay moved and kept her in a constant state of arousal even as she did the most mundane activities.

She once wore them to school and experienced an orgasm when walking from one class to the next. Oblivious, friends feared she was about to faint (or worse) and called the nurse for assistance.

Until today, that was the craziest, naughtiest thing she had ever attempted. I love getting fucked with every single step I take.

“Your stuff checks out,” Jim said. “All clean.”

What? No full-body pat-down? Lindsay’s lower lip protruded. Disappointing.

“You want me to put everything back or would you prefer to do it yourself?”

“I’ll do it.” Without hesitation, Lindsay grabbed the plastic baggie with the Ben Wa balls inside and clutched them like they were her most cherished possession. Uhhhhh. Her face flushed fifty shades of red as she realized how silly she must appear for having archaic, old-world sex toys like this and, with trembling hands, refilled her bag. But I love my Ben Wa balls.

Lindsay angled a subtle glance toward Jim. There’s nothing like a bad boy who pretends to be a gentleman. This man was a bad boy, right? He managed a brothel, sold sex to random customers, and fucked the prostitutes in their downtime. And hell if that idea didn’t melt Lindsay’s panties into the twisting nether. I want his dick in me.

Jim meandered behind the counter and picked up the old-school, rotary telephone. “Colt? Yeah, hi. The turnout is here. Yeah, the girl from Palm Springs. Lindsay Anastacio, the eighteen-year-old. Early, yeah. Oh, you have us on surveillance?” He trawled his gaze down her figure and her soul shuddered. “A keeper, isn’t she? I think so. Oh, yeah. Mighty fine. Better than I thought too. Want me to send her back to your office or do you prefer to come out and meet her here instead? Yeah, yeah, okay. I got you, boss. I’ll tell her. No problem. Yeah, I contacted the lawyer first thing this morning like you asked. Blake’s secretary said he’ll call you at twelve forty-five sharp. Yeah, yeah, my pleasure.” Jim placed the phone down and again regarded Lindsay. “Colt will see you in his office now.”

“Who is Colt going to see?” A female’s voice called from behind as Lindsay stashed the last of her belongings into the backpack. She whirled around and offered a visual sweep of the hypnotic, celestial blonde who’d emerged from the curtain on the right side, and a shock of something nuclear exploded within her.

Whoa.

At initial glance, this woman possessed it all: an angelic face; thick, healthy hair that flowed down to the midpoint of her back; soft, pink lips; a bronzed, voluptuous figure; and a disposition as bright and warm as the desert sun. She wore a yellow minidress with red trim running down either side of her ridiculous curves. Lindsay struggled to tear her gaze away from those succulent, tanned legs and the spiked high heels supporting them.

Those are stripper heels.

“Oh, you’re the turnout. It’s awesome to finally meet you in person.” The woman, who appeared no older than twenty-one, shuffled over, brows raised, and extended a manicured hand. “Hi, I’m Pamela. You’re Lindsay, am I right?” She pressed a hand to her own lips. “I guess I’m gonna look silly if you’re not Lindsay, huh?”

They must be six or seven inches high. Pamela’s heels still distracted Lindsay, and for good reason. Those rides are fucking killer. Pamela’s legs were pure muscle, pushing, pulling, and shifting as she had slinked closer with a beguiling grace, and the heels shone a spotlight on them. Lindsay was unable to comprehend how anyone could parade about in such dramatic pumps. I’d fall and fracture my neck in those things.

“No, no, you’re right. I’m Lindsay.” She stole another glance of Pamela in her minidress as they shook hands. Do all the girls here look like you? She expected them to be attractive, but not on the scale of international supermodels. How am I going to compete and make any money?

“Oh, look at you. You’re so shy. What a doll. Are you nervous? Don’t be nervous, sweetie. Those pictures you texted me didn’t do you any justice.” A joyous flame danced in Pamela’s chocolate brown eyes as she hooked an arm around Lindsay’s elbow and motioned toward the hallway to the left. “Want me to escort you back to Colt’s office?” She rubbed gentle fingertips across Lindsay’s inner elbow.

“Uhh, sure, I guess?” Lindsay’s heart rate, which had leveled off in the past few moments, soared again. Who is this woman? Her body reacted to Pamela’s intimate touch, the closeness, tingles sweeping across her skin.

I love it. Coming here, Lindsay didn’t expect any inhibitions or boundaries. Why would there be? It’s a brothel. She had never been with another girl in bed before, either, although the idea of experimenting with her best friend back home provided a recurring fantasy.

Evie is so sweet and pretty. It had only been thirty-six hours, but Lindsay missed her already. In fact, she missed Evie more than anyone in her own family. We’ve been homegirls forever, like fam.