Massage Girl in Brothel

Better Luck Next Time
by Massage Girl
Source: cuntlet.com, US based MPA, May 24, 2009

Today I worked a real brothel, for the first time in years. Not a massage parlor, although the sign outside said MASSAGE with big, red letters. Inside, it was pure brothel.

You enter through a door that leaves you in an enclosed alcove. It’s basically a very small enclosed porch. As soon as you enter we get buzzed, and can see you through several one-way windows as well as a peep hole. The way it works (I was a temp worker, invited to stay with a friend who was running it for a week), is we look at you and decide who gets you. If you look over 40, Mimi gets you (she’s close to 60, but says she’s 40). If you look twenty, the young girl gets you. She’s the hired help, a real pro, and in her late twenties. Twenty somethings don’t have much money and last forever, so we make her take them all. Better she get sore than me, right?

If you look crazy, the cleaning lady answers the inner door. She is almost toothless and wrinkly, but she likes to jerk a man and make an extra twenty. Her sales rate is about 40% meaning about 60% of the time she answers the door, the guy decides not to come in. No crazies.

If you are fat, we argue about who has to take you. If you are strong and fit, June gets you. She can smell a cop a mile away because she was married to one (and still is, technically, because there was no divorce). If you are normal looking I fight to get the chance. Actually, I’m happy to take just 3 per day because I’m not much of a brothel whore to begin with. I’m just here to keep my friend company, stay active, and cover my bills.

Today YOU came in and I got you. You saw right away it was set up as a massage place, but I was wearing a sun dress with nothing else underneath. You saw that the massage table was built of massive lumber, able to withstand just about anything a 200lb guy could be doing on it. But even though you saw these things, you stayed quiet and let me go through the full massage motions before you touched me to let me know you liked the way I was bare underneath my thin dress. Dumbass. You wasted 30 minutes.

You then failed to communicate to me what you actually wanted, so we wasted another fifteen minutes in playful conversation that bored the shit out of me and made me wonder how you think you will ever have time to enjoy anything with just 10 minutes left on the clock. You are lucky I didn’t leave you there to relax for that last 10 minutes.

By the time you were open to communicating clearly, my answer to almost everything was no. No BJ. No full service. No back door, and no, I would not lick you there nor put my finger there. So you overpaid and under delivered, honey. Not my fault, but yours.

You see, that first time I stood next to the massage table and put my bush right next to your face, while I held you hand and stroked your back, you should have moved my hand behind my butt so the two of us could have gently eased my mid section in towards your mouth, so you could kiss me through my thin yellow chiffon dress. I would have responded with the right sounds, and lifted my knee up onto the table. Had you then turned over and slid up on the table just a bit, to drop your head over the edge, I would have lowered myself onto your lips and enjoyed a warm up. Who knows, your fingers may have ended up somewhere interesting, coming from the back side like that. And, if things were going well, I would have probably dropped forward onto you, so we were chest on chest on the massage table, positioning my mouth convenient to your “privileges”.

For sure I could have been yours today, for at least 50 of the 60 minutes. Better luck next time.

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