Veronica was a top producer at one of the most elite brothels in Nevada. Sometimes men would wait several hours for the opportunity to see her, ignoring the propositions of less popular girls. This natural beauty had a seductive aura about her, an asset that nullified any need to flaunt or strut to get attention. She dressed conservatively for a prostitute, disdaining flash in favor of secretarial styles with a sexy flair. This perceptive saleswoman had figured out the game very well. The money was pouring in. She was depositing bundles of cash into hidden offshore accounts, saving for her future. The girl had come a long way in a short time.
Two years earlier, the bottom had fallen out. Ronnie's twins had turned twenty, moving away to take jobs on the East Coast. Soon after that, the simmering rage she had felt for years toward her husband boiled over in an altercation in which he experienced the full scope of her anger. His broken nose and jaw took months to heal. He moved away to Tasmania, taking all the money, leaving her with a pile of debt for which her lawyer told her she was now solely responsible. A month later, a California wildfire blazed through her town, turning her uninsured house with all her belongings into an ash heap.
The beleaguered woman ended up homeless on the streets of Los Angeles for two months, scraping by in a hopeless state of fear until a women's shelter took her in. The accommodations were a closet-size room with a bed, but it was a big step up from a sleeping bag in the woods. The social workers at the shelter also helped her find work at a local fast-food joint. Although it wasn't her dream job, she knew she had to take things one step at a time to get back on her feet. Sometimes the work was stressful when the restaurant got busy. While working the front counter near the end of a long shift one night, Ronnie had an unhappy customer at her register.
"I picked this up at the drive-up window fifteen minutes ago. You see anything wrong?" The angry woman slammed a burger down, splattering the bun and the toppings around the counter, getting ketchup on Ronnie's uniform.
"It looks like a Whizzy Burger with a bite taken out of it."
"I know it's a Whizzy Burger, you moron! I ordered it with no fucking onions because I'm allergic to onions. I could have gotten very sick. I want my money back and a free meal. Do you understand me, dumbass?"
"Yes, I understand you perfectly, ma'am." Veronica scooped the toppings into a pile, putting them back on the burger. She then picked it up and rubbed it in the woman's face.
All hell broke loose. The cops came, and Ronnie was fired. The manager sympathized, but his hands were tied; there was no way he could overlook what she had done. While storming out, she smashed her fist into the exit door, cracking the glass. Seething with frustration, the frantic unemployed girl walked halfway to the shelter before stopping to sit on a concrete slab in a strip mall parking lot. She put her head in her hands, sobbing uncontrollably for ten minutes.
When Veronica raised her head back up, the first thing that caught her eye was the red neon light in one of the storefronts proclaiming: 'Finnlander Sauna & Massage.' Beneath it was another set of lights announcing: 'Open Til Midnight Every Night.' Ronnie stared at them for a long minute as if they were a lighthouse on a dark stormy night at sea.
The owner, Charlene, answered the door. "Hello, what can I do for you?"
"I was wondering if there are any openings?"
"For a massage?"
"No, job openings. I'm looking for work."
"I see. Have you ever worked in a massage parlor before?"
"No, but I've had plenty of experience. I was just stupid enough to always give it away for free."
"How old are you?"
"Thirty-five." It was a lie. Veronica was forty-two, but she figured it was best to fudge, knowing she could get away with it.
"Hmm, well, you could pass for thirty." Charlene was spinning the truth a bit too.
"Thank you."
"Are you in any kind of trouble?"
"Plenty, but not with the law."
The parlor owner was getting some good vibes. She knew the type of girl that would bring in business, and she sensed that Ronnie was a diamond in the rough. "You know what we do here, right?"
"Not exactly, but I think I'll figure it out pretty quickly."
Charlene smiled. "I'll tell you what, honey, you come in tomorrow at three and work until midnight. I'll give you a tryout. If it works out, I'll hire you. Sound good?"
"I'll be here."
"Very good. And uh, wear something a little sexier than a Whiz Burger uniform with ketchup stains, would you?"
"Yes, ma'am. Thank you very much. I'll see you tomorrow afternoon."
.................................
The next day Ronnie turned seven customers, making $850 in tips. The seven included two regulars that Charlene had called in "to try out a new girl." The glowing feedback she got from the two was enough to convince her to keep the newbie on. Veronica had a job.
The new masseuse showed up to work the next thirty days straight, sometimes doing twelve-hour shifts. She was determined to work hard, to make as much money as possible to get her out of the hole she was in. Another motivating factor was that she liked the work, not just the pay. Ever since her teen years, she had fantasized about using her sexual powers to make men pay for her beauty and talents. She liked being on a pedestal, refining her style and psychology to attract more men who could afford her. Selling sex at a maximum profit was an enjoyable challenge. Most of her clientele were gentlemen. There were a few rude and crude customers, but they soon found out that Ronnie demanded professional respect. She knew how to put a jerk in his place.
The majority of the customers were there for a "happy ending" massage, a rubdown with a handjob. It was a quick thrill for them. After paying the house fee of $40 for a half-hour, they would lie face down on the table while Ronnie massaged their backs. After fifteen minutes, she would tell them to flip over. At that point, they usually started copping feels and groping, a signal they wanted more. The minimum she would accept was a $50 added tip to be handy, $100 for a blowjob, $150 for full service wearing a condom. Added extras cost more, of course, and Veronica was becoming adept at upsells. One generous client who quickly developed a yen for her charms came in weekly to satisfy his kink. Ronnie gladly led him around on a collar and leash, even feeding him dried dog food from a bowl after he paid her $300 training fee. These select clients paid a house fee of $60 for an hour.
As the owner of the business, Charlene rarely did massage herself. She managed the details, paid off the cops, and took care of the seven girls working the parlor. She took a liking to Ronnie right away, taking her under her wing, teaching her the art of making good in the world's oldest profession. There was often downtime during the day when the two would talk.
"Many people think that guys who pay for it are losers. Nothing could be further from the truth. Most of them are very successful. They have disposable income to spend on their pleasures. Respect them for that. Butter them up with flattery, but don't overdo it. Make them feel like they have earned the right to enjoy themselves in this way. They love that. Empathize, give them understanding. If they're married, give them what their wives aren't giving them."
