Georgia’s Elite, a (non-smoking)Mound House Brothel, because we care about your health. . .
The Sleep Overs
The sleep-overs had been Madam Georgia’s idea to bring in more business to their faltering bordello. Jade hadn’t been happy about it at first. Didn’t want a john in her bed all night. Rather a few quickies, give them the boot, then spend the rest of her shift alone to work on her master’s thesis in Clinical Psychology, “The Pathophysiology of Somniloquy”.
What had started as a hobby, during her six years at a sand-blasted Wells brothel, a short stint at the Bunny Ranch and a year at Georgia’s had become an obsession. She’d heard countless drunken confessions, both awake and in their sleep, from her clientele. She had become adept at coaxing their guilty dreams into speech.
She sat up in bed writing while Steve slept. A few times he’d muttered something unintelligible, waved his hand in fron of his face, and rubbed his runny nose. Jade wondered what Steve’s job was. He’d come in last night, wearing blue jeans and a polo shirt, but she had him pegged for a suit — computer analyst, accountant, lawyer. Jade glanced at the nightstand on his side of her king size bed. A half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels and a half-full pitcher of water. Just like this john spending the night, half-awake and half-asleep — a perfect candidate for a little game she liked to play.
Placing her notepad on the nightstand, she stretched out beside him and whispered in his ear, “Steve, are you awake?”
“Um hum. Sleepy.”
“I’d like to hypnotize you.”
“Make me hop around like a bunny?”
“Something like that.”
“Anything your heart desires.” He reached for her breast, gave it a squeeze, then let his hand fall to her leg.
She waited while he settled in again. “Tomorrow whenever you hear the word ‘job’, you’ll scratch your face like you’ve just walked through spider webs.” Hmm, kick it up a notch, “and you’ll pick your nose.”
“Knows. Knows about the desert,” Steve muttered.
“Desert? What about the desert?”