I'm warning you guys now, this story is rated M for a reason. This is a story about a New Vegas prostitute, if you want a frame of reference for what to expect from the first five to ten chapters, then I highly recommend Belle De Jeur's writings. There will be sex in this story, a lot of it, and I mean a lot of it.
If that is not your thing, turn back now.
One last warning, Prostitute Story imminent.
You have been warned.
It was a night like any other. It shouldn't have been, there should have been a thunderstorm that night, or a dust storm blown straight out of the Divide. The earth should have shaken, every light on the Strip should have flickered. Every beast in the wasteland should have turned their heads to the moon and howled like the end of the world had come. Every hand should have turned up Blackjack and every roulette wheel should have landed on 21.
But none of that happened.
No, it was just a night, no different from any of the other thousands of nights, the lights of New Vegas engaging in their never ending standoff with the forces of darkness and a decent night's sleep, hundreds of idiots adamantly refusing to learn the old adage, don't throw good money after bad. And the occasional sound of a gunshots drifting over the walls as soldiers dueled drug addicts to earn pay checks that would inevitably be devoured by the Families, just to remind everyone what they were trying to forget.
Cards shuffled, chips fell, slots rang, dice rolled, drunks sang, and welchers screamed.
Just another night in Vegas.
And just like any other night, I was working.
Flat on my back while some trooper from Oak Creek pumping into me, I don't even know his name. Still, I scream and I moan, I writhe and beg for climax, I put on the show that he paid for. I don't resist when he shoves the inhaler full of jet in my mouth, like everything else I just lay back and accept it.
Everything goes hazy and the next thing I know, there's a spray of warmth inside of me and the trooper groans, the haze comes over me again, then he's gone and I'm alone. All that remains of him is the money on the nightstand and the bit of him leaking onto the sheets.
I drift in and out, I don't know if it's the jet or exhaustion.
He was the eighth today. Some last an hour or two, others barely fifteen minutes. Most are men, but women occasionally.
They say I'm in high demand, no need for condoms, radiation took care of that. Willing to do anything, unlike Dazzle and Joana. I take what they give me, do as I'm told, the clients, the Family.
They own me after all.
And then I slip into oblivion.
The slap wakes me up, but he throws in another for good measure.
"Wake up you lazy broad, you're on floor duty."
Floor duty, distracting the gamblers and showing off the merchandise under the guise of serving drinks.
I drag myself from the bed, he throws a pair of leather panties and a roll of electric tape at me, but stops me before I can put them on, reaching between my legs and cupping me, squeezing.
"Going to have to have to sample to the goods myself pretty soon, make sure they haven't gone stale."
I didn't respond, just stood there staring straight ahead, waiting for him to finish.
He didn't like that, he pulled his hand away and wiped it on my stomach. Then he gave me another slap across the face. "Get to work you dumb bitch."
He slammed the door as he left. I didn't even bother shaking my head, far from the worst indignity I'd dealt with here.
I just pulled on the leather underwear and put two strips of the black tape over my nipples, trying not to think how much it would hurt when I had to take it off.
Suitably attired, in the loosest sense of the word, I left the suite and made my way to the elevators, plastering a fake smile across my face and doing my best attempt at a flirtatious wink at any guest I passed. By now my best attempts were fairly convincing.
They didn't have to be, everyone knew what I was.
A small blessing, the elevator was empty, five minutes to myself.
Two floors down, my luck broke, a lecherous old Californian stepped in with his wife on his arm. The man threw a glance coated in sleaze at my chest every two seconds, the wife stared at me with undisguised hatred.
Three floors further and we hit the lobby, I spouted some flirtatious nonsense and found my way to the casino floor. A pit boss directed me to a section without giving me a second look.
For the next two hours, I sashayed between the tables in the way I'd been taught, serving drinks and the occasional drug to gamblers, hanging on their arms and sitting in their laps, giggling inanely and pretending each one was the most interesting and sexy man in the world, subtly pushing the winners to bet bigger, subtly persuading the losers that the next shuffle was their big break.
And then I noticed a new face walk in. Far from an unusual occurrence, but something about her drew my attention. Maybe it was the star shaped scar sitting prominently on the right side of her forehead. Maybe it was the duster that seemed exactly like the ones the elite Rangers wore that seemed to hide an endless arsenal that she turned over to the door guard. Or maybe it was the silent man with the shades and the red beret standing at her flank like a bodyguard, hesitant to turn over the rifle on his back. Even across the room you could feel the intensity radiating off of him.
Whatever it was, my eyes followed her as she went from reception to the cashier, I watched as the cashier counted out two hundred caps and gave her back four fifty cap chips as I whispered sweetheart bullshit in the ear of a man four hundred caps down.
My eyes followed her as she turned and walked over to the nearest roulette table, she caught my gaze and threw me a wink, still I didn't look away. I didn't look away as she put it all on 21.
35 to one odds, might as well be throwing the caps in the garbage.
I didn't look away as the wheel spun.
I didn't look away as the ball landed on 21 and the dealer stared in disbelief.
That was the night the Courier first set foot on the Strip.