My real name's Bethanny, but no one ever calls me that anymore. I mostly go by Kristen now. I'm twenty-five years old, but I look like I'm about sixteen. I've lived in Austin, Texas for the past two and a half years. I come from a long line of hustlers. My mama's a hustler. Her sisters are all hustlers. And their mama was a hustler, too; a really good one, I hear. That's where they all learned the trade - by watching her. Grandmaw Hazel was one of the best. We're all clever bitches - and we all still look really good - why not cash in on that ? I mean, no one really LIKES to work - do they ? Not when there's an easier way to get your hands on a little cash . . .

As soon I got to Austin, I found me a car and a cute little house. I moved in straight away and started looking around to see what kind of men were hanging around this town. I couldn't waste any time. Moving clear across the country costs a girl a lot of money and I needed to re-fill my coffers, so to speak.

I've heard stories from Grandmaw Hazel and Mama about the Old Days, and I have to say that hustling is a whole lot easier in the Internet age. Like I said, I placed a few postings on some online singles sites. Also a few on Craigslist-type sites. In my ads, I always said I was wishing and hoping and searching for my "one true soulmate" but that I was beginning to lose faith. I love how that "losing faith" part gets 'em everytime.
There were a few replies, not half as many as I'd expected. I played "Fuck and Forget" with a couple of the hotter guys. I mean a girl has needs you know. But there was one guy whose reply stood out like a blinking beacon. And one is all it takes . . . Andrew said he was thirty-five, which meant he was probably a good ten years more than that. He also he worked out every day - which in this town meant he most likely packed a few extra pounds. He also said he was an attorney, and that he owned his own place; a reconverted warehouse loft in the trendy part of town - as well as a cabin on a few acres in the country someplace. He said he kept a boat moored there. He said he drove a BMW. I could just picture the rest: A gold Rolex. A closet full of expensive suits and shoes. Top of the line laptop and i-phone. This one was ripe for the picking; he was just waiting for me to come along and help myself to everything he'd worked so long and hard for.

So I replied to his reply immediately (and even included a couple of recent photographs of myself laying on the beach in a teeny-weeny bikini), but I acted like I was a little too busy to get together for awhile. This, of course, left him drooling and chomping at the bit. By the time I got around to "making time" for him nearly three and a half weeks later, poor Andrew was already half-melted in my hands.

Right from the start, I played the diva and demanded only the best of everything - and right from the start he foolishly gave it to me. Looked like this one was going to be easier than I thought. Sure - why not let him pay for stuff . . . he can definitely afford it. It's not like I ain't worth it - I mean, I'd be cute enough if my boobs were normal-sized and all. But there's nothing normal about my boobs - and nothing about my body that's normal. My boobies were better than ok to start with - and then my last guy went and paid for me to get 'em done - they cost him over $8,000.00, in case you're interested. And I must say they're spectacular - worth every penny he paid and all the pain I went through. They're big; really big. They're nice and round. They stand up high and proud, with little wrinkly pinky rosebud nipples. They're absolutely perfect. I'd show them to anyone - anytime - if they flashed enough cash.

He literally hadn't been able to take his eyes off my girls the first time we met. Of course, I pretty much had them hanging out there for all to see and appreciate. Flashing the flesh was one of the things I'd always done best. I made sure he had an excellent view of things. I also made sure he knew I had a shaved pussy and that I wasn't wearing any panties. I'd flashed him a big wide hello right off the bat. No sense in wasting valuable time . . . .

We had a long, chatty dinner that first night at the most expensive, most exclusive restaurant in town. (Lobster - champagne - caviar !) He'd even had his car and driver pick me up (didn't that just set my neighbors wagging !) - and then we went to pick him up at the office. Yes, yes yes ! Looked like my new boyfriend-to-be was a workaholic, trying to get in a few extra minutes of billable time. Good - I loved it ! Meant less time to spend hassling me (not to mention more time spent earning those big bucks I loved so much) . . .

Andrew started off being a big slobbering fool - and it all went downhill from there. But he kept right on asking me out - and of course, I kept on going. He told bad jokes by the bucketload - and I laughed at every last one of them. He introduced me to all of his boring and unimaginative co-workers (the poor boy had no friends outside of these clowns), and I pretended they were all wonderful, creative people whose company I was enjoying tremendously. I always showed up smiling on his arm at all his more-boring-than-dead company functions - while looking drop-dead gorgeous wearing the brand-new designer clothes, expensive shoes and sparkly jewelery he'd bought me specially for the occasion. After all, I had a responsibility to look good for him, now, didn't I ?

And I also had to endure hour after hour of miserable, unimaginative sex. The only way I could live through these "flesh feasts" as he called them, was to flash back to the many times I used to have really hot sex with my cousin Lonnie when I was a teenager and Lonnie was in his twenties. And then there were those truly bizarre encounters with Randy the tattoo artist. He was a little on the perverted side, to put it mildly. He liked whips and handcuffs and enemas and buttplugs and stuff like that. He also liked to watch extreme videos: piercings and poop and animals and other weird-o things I wanted no part of, thank you very much. I'd watch those videos with him and had to admit that some of them even made me hot and wet - but no way in hell was I fucking a dog or having my nipples or pussy lips pierced.

But I did let him do pretty much whatever he wanted with my body, short of causing me actual physical pain . . . and I let him fuck me with lots of household objects and unusual things, including candles, cutlery and vegetables. I had gritty, no-holds barred sex with bunches of his friends - sometimes all of them at the same time and sometimes one after the other until their hot cum was running down the insides of my thighs and they were all satisfied. I gave raunchy sex shows for his buddies whenever and wherever he told me to (including outdoor locations) . I learned to relax and enjoy bondage and spankings (even hard ones !). After awhile, I could even tolerate enemas. I let them all fuck me up the ass. I let him take all the photos he wanted and also allowed him to film anything he wanted to film. I acted like the slut I really am. I loved all of it but found early on that the more I acted like I didn't want to do something, the higher the payoff would be for doing it.
These exciting memories brightened up the dull and unmemorable "spread-your-legs-wide-open-for-me-baby-and-I'll-shove-it-right-in" sex I was forced to endure with Andrew these days. He had absolutely no desire to learn to please me more because he thought he was the best lover I (or any woman) had ever had . . . I was always bored to tears during these encounters and needed to be way buzzed up on expensive champagne and memories before I could even allow him to touch me. I didn't mind being slapped around and treated rough during sex - in fact, I rather enjoyed it - but Andrew said that whole scene "wasn't for him". He only liked plain ordinary with-the-man-on-top stuff - no variations at all. Sex with myself was more interesting than sex with my husband - not to mention infinitely more pleasureable . . .

He slobbered and drooled on my neck and bit too hard. He didn't know how to kiss. In order to make myself come, I had to imagine myself being bent over someone's lap and having my ass reddened - or being tied spread-eagled to a bed on my belly and being butt-fucked - or being forced to take a soapsuds emena and hold it in while I diddle my clitty and make myself cum.

Andrew and I have been married a little more than a year now and it's all definitely on the skids - and has been for awhile now (like for at least the past six months or so). I don't laugh at his pathetic attempts at humor anymore. I never bother to go to any of his company functions these days. And it's been months since he got head. We maybe have sex a couple of times a month, unless I can figure out a way to get out of it. Lately he has the nerve to start bitching at me because I won't get a job. What ? Me - go to work ? No way ! No woman in my family has ever worked - and I'm not about to let them all down by starting now . . .

But I've got a plan. Sometime next month I'm going to go visit my sister in Denver. She's got a real live one on the line and has asked me and Mama to come out there and help her out. She says the payoff this time will be huge; it'll be so big none of us will ever have to work again. Andrew knows I'm going, although he has no idea why. He thinks I'm going to celebrate Mama's birthday. Trouble is he thinks I'm coming back. And a day or two after he realizes I'm probably gone for good, I'm having him served with divorce papers. I mean - enough is fucking enough. This year of being married to hm has been the longest year of my life. It's high time for this girl to move on.

I've already lined up a lawyer. She's a barracuda. I got her number from a friend who took her old man to the cleaners. She's really fucking expensive - but I figure if she delivers what she says she can, she'll more than pay for herself. She figures I have at least $300,000.00 coming to me - and that's after she's taken her cut of the action.

Don't go feeling all sorry for him or something - he's a total Tool, bragging about all the toys he had and all the money and stuff he had. Don't tell me he wasn't fully aware of what kind of girl I am. He knew I was a highschool dropout from Shreveport. Did he really think I was just some ordinary girl who'd fallen in love with him or something? I mean, come on . . . He's an asshole, and he's got it coming.