Call Me Desla (Please Read My Lonely Talk Pt 1)

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Please, call me Desla.

Not my actual name, mind you, but there is no real reason for you to know me by anything else. I was born—well, that is not important either, is it? All you need to know is that I am an alien—the extraterrestrial kind, not the immigrant kind—we can engage in intercourse for a fee, and you will most certainly not survive the experience.

Upon entering my boudoir you will undoubtedly notice the notches on the posts of my ornate bed. Your first inclination might be to assume these markings to be sexual conquests, and you would be severely mistaken. They are actually deaths. The number of grooves carved into the wooden headboard is one hundred and ninety-seven, at present, but the actual number is at least four times that. Only the deaths I regret have been engraved here. The rest received precisely what they came seeking and ultimately deserved.

A bit harsh, I realize, but how could you expect me to pity or mourn the passing of those who have tossed away so many possibilities, so many futures in search of la mort parfaite?

But I digress.

Due to the residency protocols of your Office of Planetside Security, the majority of my life was made an open book, yet there are certain things that remain hard for me to discuss. It is known that I was charged with treason back home for defending my personal beliefs—which remains my concern alone—and because my mate stood by my side during the trial, we were both exiled from my homeworld.

Set adrift in space, my people chose to let the universe decide our fate. If we were intercepted by a space vessel and taken aboard or found a world that would permit us to stay, then we were fortunate and were surely meant to live. If not, we would die on our craft when the life support and/or provisions ran out.

We traveled for what seemed like an eternity and never crossed paths with another vessel. Eventually, the ship malfunctioned and crash-landed on your planet. Only I survived, pulled from the twisted wreckage of my prison ship by a farmer who hid me away and chained me in his barn like an animal. He hosed me down and threw me scraps to keep me alive. What I did not know was that he was mustering the courage to have his way with me.

When I realized what he had in mind, I tried to warn him but I didn’t speak the language yet. I’m not sure even if I did that it would have made a difference. He forced himself on me and upon orgasm, promptly died.

My race can only mate with one partner in our entire lifetime. The first union sets into play a biological defense against infidelity by secreting a vaginal toxin that forces orgasm and subsequently death.

The aptitude test I was given, to determine if there was a place on Earth for me, was grueling and humiliating. And when I was finally issued a case worker, she sat with me and explained that the only opportunity available was in legalized prostitution. I was insulted and furious and baffled by the thinking behind this. Did they not understand that of all the professions they could have handed me that this was by far the worst possible choice? Then I stepped back to look at the bigger picture. The planet was overpopulated by indigenous humans and the influx of extraterrestrials and what better to cull the population than to tempt the thrill seekers who wanted to risk death? To treat terminal patients who wanted sweet release?

So, I embraced my role in society and performed my duty and was dubbed the “Whorebinger of Death” and the “Grim Raper” by the press. And naturally, because humans are bizarre creatures, there were ladies who worked the same profession who envied me.

I have yet to warm to this planet and it does not resemble my home planet in any way. My assimilation was slow to nonexistent and this was primarily my fault since I declined to undergo the genetic surgery offered to offworlders to make us appear more human. Though the human form is better suited for the physicality of this world and less cumbersome and my world has turned its back on me, I am still proud to be of my race.

The more time I spend here, the less confident I am about my appearance. On the occasions I watch a television show or movie or glance at an advertisement that places perfect people on display and I learn that there are those among you who feel your appearance doesn’t measure up, consider this: at least you are of the same species.

I stand at the edge of acceptability, balancing on the fine line of grotesque fascination and physical revulsion simple because my eyes are not the same color or shape as humans, and my hair, what little I have in places considered odd by your lot, was actually tufts of fine fur.

I also need to be aware of my nails and keep them within an acceptable length to where they were not considered claws. The same with my smile. Apparently, when I bare my teeth it triggers a fight or flight response in most people.

To be continued…

©2014 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys

So, You Want To Date A Prex Girl, Do You?

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E-mail. I get e-mail. Tons of email. The two most frequently asked questions are:

  1. Can I get your private number, because I’d like to date you outside of work?
  2. Do you know such-and-such-girl on such-and-such-floor? If so, can you put in a good word for me? I think we’d be great together.

Answer #1: No, because I’m off the market. Despite the fact that the devotion pact I made with my husband dissolved the moment he died, he is still the husband of my heart and I will never take another. I am, however, in a steady relationship with an ex-floor manager here at the prex, the nature of which is none of your business.

Micha isn’t attractive to me… in the same way none of you humans are, not that this is your fault… your race is simply not designed to be alluring to my race. I chose Micha as a companion because I feel safe being with him. Working in the same field, I don’t have to hide anything and that makes me feel good about the chances of our relationship staying the course.

Answer #2: I’m no matchmaker. You want to pick up a working girl at the prex? Do your own legwork.

The first thing you need to realize is only we’re allowed to call each other girls.

Prex girls are women.

And despite what we do for a living and the abuse we put up with on the job, we are interested in finding good men, the same as most other women. Especially since we meet so many different kinds of men everyday at work, and ninety-nine percent of them don’t even come close to being on their best behavior.

So if you want to be selected by a prex girl, you really need to be outstanding.

The worst tactic to try is becoming the object of your affection’s regular customer. You are no longer dating material at that point, you’re a revenue stream that dries up when you attempt to cross over into the relationship zone. Prex girls know how to treat clients, and rarely, if ever reveal their true intentions to the clientele, so the girl you fall in love with might not be the girl you wind up with if you manage to finagle a date this way.

Is it true that prex girls only date the staff?

Ummm, yes, that’s mostly true, but mainly because it’s a safe bet. Working together, you get to know the real facts about this particular job. And it’s easier for a girl to open up and feel comfortable being honest. Giving of yourself in open truth is always preferable to giving of yourself in guarded truth, if you understand my meaning.

So, are you saying I should get a job at the elegance palace?

Absolutely not!

You wouldn’t be the first guy who thought they could land a quick job here and go girl hunting. Prex girls are very sensitive about this and can spot an intruder and sniff out your intentions in an instant. You’ll be avoided so hard you’ll swear you had leprosy.

If you really want to date a prex girl, never step foot in the prex, and meet them somewhere else, at a location that has nothing to do with the escort, sex, or adult star industries.

How am I supposed to know they’re prex girls, then?

Well, that’s the trick, isn’t it?

To be continued…

©2014 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys

Creative Commons License

Don’t Call Me Princess

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There’s a term I’m encountering more and more that started on the message boards that has finally made it’s way to the prex.

Princess.

I can’t tell you how much I hate it.

Girls in my line of work offer their flesh to men for money, not pleasure. Why use such a beautiful word to describe someone they can’t be bothered to treat half as beautifully?

Is it because the men who pay for sex don’t want to own up to the fact they bought the act of ejaculating? Because the memory of being with a beautiful and experienced woman is tarnished by the reality of cash exchanging hands?

Does princess magic all the bad stuff away? If they drill the word into their everyday vocabulary, does it make it seem like they respect the girls. If it makes them feel good, then isn’t it good word to use?

The truth of the matter is they reduce the sense of sin of buying sex when they use the word. After they’ve enjoyed the sex play and before the guilt sets in, they start calling us princess.

Worse are the ones who practically live at the prex and feel they’re experts in the field and try to lecture you on what an honor it is to work at the prex because so many smart and entrepreneurial girls working in the field.

They want to think their behavior is right. Wake up, you just bought a prostitute! It’s not respectable. Whenever you say, “I spend my time with lot a of pretty princesses.” what you’re actually saying is, “I feel like a man when I pay cute girls to fellate me.”

If you want to get off properly, you should just be honest. Don’t say things like, “I’m going to the castle to see my princess.” just say, “I’m going to a whore house to see a prostitute because I want to have sex with somebody instead of being alone at home, giving myself a French handshake.”

Got me?

To be continued…

©2014 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys

Creative Commons License

Shrinking Violetta And Shirley Swiper

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There’s a girl at work who calls herself Shrinking Violetta. In very high demand because she’s the best submissive you’ll ever have the chance to meet. And we’re not talking role play submissive, either. She is the genuine article, a true submissive.

When you hire her, she serves you from the bottom of her heart. None of that pretend nonsense of addressing one another as Mistress, Master or Slave, or negotiating limits of submissiveness. Vi has the uncanny ability to anticipate her client’s needs and fulfill them before they ask, sometimes before they’re even aware they wanted it.

I know this first hand because she demonstrated her talent for me. You must understand I have no desire to control anyone, but the attention Vi paid to my every desire was a heady experience and though I never need to do it ever again, I enjoyed myself immensely and I’m honored that she shared her skill with me.

I plan to talk about Vi and her amazing abilities in depth, with her consent, of course, or maybe give her a chance to vent as a guest blogger at a later date. This post, however, deals with a completely different matter, a non-sexual reality about working this business that saddens me.

I gave you the brief insight into Vi so that you may understand just how popular she is. She’s the only one of us that consistently books clients the instant her high-heeled foot touches prex floor.

So, one day when her line of clients ran out the door and the rest of us fought for scraps, Vi dashed into the changing room to slip into her business attire and left her purse in the room. And she wouldn’t be the first. Lots of girls leave their bags on the table instead of their lockers, because this place had been safe for long time. When she returned to the room, as you might have guessed, she found some of her money was missing.

At first, she thought she misplaced it and looked all over, but it never turned up. It wasn’t a little bit of money, either. It took several days to make that money. She worked prex subbing during the day and hostessing at night. She made that money selling her obedience. She made it selling her flesh that was soft and smooth but now covered with welts and bruises. She needed that money to pay off her loans.

We all had an idea who the thief could have been. Vi, heart as large as the sun, helped out her best friend, Shirley, by getting her a waitressing job at the prex. It’s not the best gig and you have to constantly fend off gropers and develop a thick skin against derogatory comments, but at least you’re not being penetrated by the clientele.

Come to find out that Shirley really isn’t such a good friend because she was extremely displeased to discover a guy she likes was one of Vi’s regulars. Not that jealousy was a good enough reason to steal someone’s hard earned cash, but you could have understood the revenge angle. But other things have gone missing since Shirley started working the prex. Make-up, clothes, jewelry and not the expensive stuff, either. Just junky costume stuff, but still, it was the principle of the thing.

A couple of the girls confronted Shirley Swiper, a name that surfaced almost the instant she became a suspect, but she denied stealing anything and there was no proof so the whole matter was dropped. There really isn’t a point to this other than venting frustration on how shitty people can be to working girls. Even friends. Needless to say we all use the lockers now.

Thanks, Shirley.

To be continued…

©2014 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys

Creative Commons License

Blind Man’s Bluff

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The elegance palace I work at is huge, larger than most I’ve seen in the city, with at least two thousand working girls at an average age of twenty-five, which is pretty decent for a bordello.

In the center of the Hostess Center, there’s a big stage, where a live band sets the palace’s mood. Why a live band at a sex shop? To help break the ice. Most of the clients are pretty intimidated when they first walk in, so it’s the hostess’s job to make them relax.

One of the activities is the Single Mingle, where I have to dance with a client if they ask me. Refusing a client the dance means I have to pay a penalty. The only time I was ever tempted to pay was when this client who looked like he had great, great, great, great grandchildren, asked me to dance.

He kept pulling me in close by the waist and I could feel his erection poking my thigh. Hard enough to sex four women at once. But that was the only solid thing about him. His grip around my waist was feeble and he had a body tremor that he desperately tried to suppress. My guess is that he was rounding the corner on eighty and found a pill that gave him an eighteen year old erection. Problem is if I kissed him hard enough he’d have a heart attack, so instead I danced him around until his hard on caught up with his age and sent him on his way. I considered that my senior citizen service for the month.

***

I have a regular customer, a blind man, and if it’s possible for a girl in my line of work to have a favorite, then he’s mine. A hassle-free man that I don’t have to dress up in silly costumes for or pretend to be someone else. Our sessions are almost always the same. Short, but sincere small talk, followed by kissing and heavy petting, then a massage followed by a leg hump in cowgirl position until he ejeculates. The very first time I put his erection between my lubricated thighs and moved up-down for several minutes, he exploded easily.

When it was over, he asked, “Did you use a rubber?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Why not?”

It caught me off guard, the way he asked. If I’m honest, I felt a little insulted that he thought I was so filthy that he could get a disease off me from a simple leg hump. I wanted to tell him what I pack is far worse than any STD he could ever imagine.

“Is it really all right with you?” he asked.

Then I understood. He thought he was inside me. I chuckled and explained who I was, what I was capable of and what I actually did.

“Taking advantage of a blind man, eh?” If he was hurt, I couldn’t detect it.

“That’s not it at all. You didn’t know who I was. You didn’t come here looking to beat the odds or for an easy way to die. You didn’t judge me based on my appearance. I wasn’t a spectacle. So, what I gave you was pleasure and let you keep your life.”

He reached out for my hand and I took his. “I’m not sure how happy I am being deceived like that, but it felt real. The best I’ve ever had.”

And the damnedest thing happened. Despite the fact that I sell sex and death for money and I hate my job, this blind man paid me a compliment that made me feel good about myself.

Pathetic, I know, but you have to take the good bits as they come.

And for the record, for all you that might think a leg hump is lazy, let me tell you that it’s more work and harder to make a man ejaculate than either manual or oral stimulation.

Now, I hear you asking, “If you can do all this then why do you kill so many men?”

Human men die because human men are stupid! I offer them options but they always want what’s worst for them. Who wants any other orafice when they have access to a taboo killer vagina?

Did I mention how stupid human men are?

To be continued…

©2014 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys

Creative Commons License

Prexing Elevator Chat

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For most of my life on your world I’ve made my living working in an elegance palace. Before you ask, the place I work at is really nothing more than a bordello. I don’t know who came up with the name elegance palace, but I have to tell you, neither I nor any of the other girls working there find anything elegant about it.

The elegance palace is secreted in a building that looks like any other office building, only this one is filled with nothing but adult-themed shops on each floor. I call it prex melata, which in my native tongue translates as ejaculation building.

The thing I really hate about the prex is that it only has one entrance and one elevator. When my shift ends, no matter how I time it, I always manage to get stuck in the elevator with potential customers, who know who I am because I’m the only person on the planet who looks like me.

Alien.

The thing that doesn’t belong. The piece that doesn’t fit. I don’t know what you do by trade, but try to imagine that after an arduous day of ending the lives of horny men through intercourse that you now have to ride in a crowded box with men who just had some other girl service them and all of them eyeing you and thinking that they’re the one who could probably beat the odds and survive.

I hate it. I hate the looks, I hate the arrogance, and I hate the sameness of it all. Eventually they all will come to see me. Eventually they all will die.

At least in the elevator there’s hardly any conversation. I envy girls who don’t have to talk to the men they sleep with. I, on the other hand, am legally obligated to strike up conversations with everyone interested in sleeping with me. I’m the only elegance girl that comes with a Surgeon General warning. Sleeping with me will kill you. You must be made fully aware of that and sign legal documents to that effect.
Occasionally, though, I’ll get a customer that asks, “Do you work here?”

Well, duh, is what I think, although I answer, “Yes

I’d like to visit you. What’s your name? What floor do you work on? Do you see customers outside of here?”

I want to tell him not to come. Tell him that I don’t want to see him. That I don’t talk to, let alone service, customers outside the shop, especially to men who have not paid to talk to me.

Some men do that, the smart ones. They come in and lose their nerve and I don’t blame them. They still have to pay for my time but I cut them a discounted rate. And while I don’t enjoy talking to people who view me as a sexable piece of flesh, I take pity on the ones who back out at the last minute. It must be similar to talking someone down off a ledge.

If I do happen to get a talker on the elevator, I don’t smile or make eye contact. I simply answer their questions as curtly as possible and walk away abruptly when the elevator doors open. This usually avoids them feeling comfortable enough to follow me on the street. It’s what scares me the most about the job, no joke.

I have a friend, well, she’s more of a colleague, in the business we call the sexociates, and I don’t know if it’s a vibe she gives off or what, but she attracts more gawker stalkers than all the rest of us combined.

Gawker stalkers are creepy men that lurk around the prex and watch the girls as they leave the building. It’s gotten so bad that Tawni, my sexociate, not her actual name but I doubt even I know her real name, has a taxi on call that she runs into every night as soon as the elevator doors open.

Gawker stalkers never do anything to the girls, to my knowledge, they just watch. But it’s still creepy. I get chills thinking about the possibility of some strange guy following me home. They should just commit and pay the fee and get to play a little bit rather than being a loser that skulks in the shadows and goes home alone, unsatisfied.

When people find out what I do for a living, they seem so fascinated with the concept of dealing out sex for money. I almost regret letting people know because all our conversation after that point turns to them pumping me for kinky-or-weird-but-true stories.

And that’s when my relationships begin to die.

I don’t have any eccentric stories. My vagina forces orgasm and death, and if that isn’t enough to interest you, then what else do we have to talk about? My life is boring, really. So boring that no one wants to hear about it.

How about you?

Will you please read my lonely talk?

To be continued…

©2014 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys

Creative Commons License

Call Me Desla

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Please, call me Desla.

Not my actual name, mind you, but there is no real reason for you to know me by anything else. I was born– well, that is not important either, is it? All you need to know is that I am an alien — the extraterrestrial kind, not the immigrant kind — we can engage in intercourse for a fee, and you will most certainly not survive the experience.

Upon entering my boudoir you will undoubtedly notice the notches on the posts of my ornate bed. Your first inclination might be to assume these markings to be sexual conquests, and you would be severely mistaken. They are actually deaths. The number of grooves carved into the wooden headboard is one hundred and ninety-seven, at present, but the actual number is at least four times that. Only the deaths I regret have been engraved here. The rest received precisely what they came seeking and ultimately deserved.

A bit harsh, I realize, but how could you expect me to pity or mourn the passing of those who have tossed away so many possibilities, so many futures in search of la mort parfaite?

But I digress.

Due to the residency protocols of your Office of Planetside Security, the majority of my life was made an open book, yet there are certain things that remain hard for me to discuss. It is known that I was charged with treason back home for defending my personal beliefs — which remains my concern alone — and because my mate stood by my side during the trial, we were both exiled from my homeworld.

Set adrift in space, my people chose to let the universe decide our fate. If we were intercepted by a space vessel and taken aboard or found a world that would permit us to stay, then we were fortunate and were surely meant to live. If not, we would die on our craft when the life support and/or provisions ran out.

We traveled for what seemed like an eternity and never crossed paths with another vessel. Eventually the ship malfunctioned and crash-landed on your planet. Only I survived, pulled from the twisted wreckage of my prison ship by a farmer who hid me away and chained me in his barn like an animal. He hosed me down and threw me scraps to keep me alive. What I did not know was that he was mustering the courage to have his way with me.

When I realized what he had in mind, I tried to warn him but I didn’t speak the language yet. I’m not sure even if I did that it would have made a difference. He forced himself on me and upon orgasm, promptly died.

My race can only mate with one partner in our entire lifetime. The first union sets into play a biological defense against infidelity by secreting a vaginal toxin that forces orgasm and subsequently death.

The aptitude test I was given, to determine if there was a place on Earth for me, was grueling and humiliating. And when I was finally issued a case worker, she sat with me and explained that the only opportunity available was in legalized prostitution. I was insulted and furious and baffled by the thinking behind this. Did they not understand that of all the professions they could have handed me that this was by far the worst possible choice? Then I stepped back to took in the bigger picture. The planet was over-populated by indigenous humans and the influx of extraterrestrials and what better to cull the population than to tempt the thrill seekers who wanted to risk death? To treat terminal patients who wanted sweet release?

So, I embraced my role in society and performed my duty and was dubbed the “Whorebinger of Death” and the “Grim Raper” by the press. And naurally, because humans are bizarre creatures, there were ladies who worked the same profession who envied me.

I have yet to warm to this planet and it does not resemble my home planet in any way. My assimilation was slow to nonexistent and this was primarily my fault since I declined to undergo the genetic surgery offered to offworlders to make us appear more human. Though the human form is better suited for the physicality of this world and less cumbersome and my world has turned its back on me, I am still proud to be of my race.

The more time I spend here, the less confident I am about my appearance. On the occasions I watch a television show or movie or glance at an advertisement that places perfect people on display and I learn that there are those among you who feel your appearance doesn’t measure up, consider this: at least you are of the same species.

I stand at the edge of acceptability, balancing on the fine line of grotesque fascination and physical revulsion simple because my eyes are not the same color or shape as humans, and my hair, what little I have in places considered odd by your lot, was actually tufts of fine fur.

I also need to be aware of my nails and keep them within an acceptable length to where they were not considered claws. The same with my smile. Apparently when I bare my teeth it triggers a fight or flight response in most people.

To be continued...

©2014 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys