Perspectives

You shower, Lisa eats breakfast and you start to plan the days ahead. Lisa reveals that the money she put aside will last for 4 months, more with careful spending. That's enough time to find a new job, and start getting back on track. Her eyes have a look of determination now, and you feel reassured that everything will be alright. Immediately after breakfast, she dives into job postings online, looking for opportunities.

The day is mostly spent like this, with her searching for a new job, and you helping her - by diving under her desk and providing relief whenever she needs it or you're feeling like it. She finds a handful of positions that fit her experience, and sends out applications.

This continues for a couple of days, until she receives an email from one of the companies she applied to. They politely decline her application, explaining that deviants like her aren't welcome in their company.

"They know? What? How?" she asks, frowning.

"Maybe someone reported you," you suggest, stroking her inner thigh. "Or maybe they asked around. It wouldn't surprise me if people talked about you."

"That's not right," she mutters, biting her lip. "It's not fair. I worked so hard..."

"Relax, Mom," you whisper, kissing her leg. "We'll find something. It'll be okay."

In the next few days, all of her applications are declined in a similar fashion - except one. A law firm that fell a bit out of reputation because of a scandal recently. They ask her to come in for an interview, but make no promises. On the day, you help her prepare, and give her some words of encouragement before she leaves.

"Go get 'em, Mom," you say, smiling at her.

She returns home three hours later, fuming with rage. Her skin is boiling, and she's breathing heavily. You immediately jump to attention, sensing her anger.

"What happened?" you ask, rushing to her side.

"Those... those assholes!" she shouts, kicking off her shoes and ripping off her clothes, tossing them carelessly against the wall. "They straight up asked me if I could repeat that scene in the bathroom stall that they heard so much about! So I told them to stick their so-called offer where the sun doesn't shine, and left!"

This trend continues, Lisa growing more and more frustrated with every job rejection. "It's as if the women see me and decide to hate me without even knowing me!" she complains one evening, when you're lying in bed together.

"I think they're just jealous of you, Mom," you whisper, rubbing her shoulder. "They compare themselves to you, and how can they not find you intimidating? You're beautiful, sexy and intelligent. And you have a massive cock. An alpha female, as they say."

She chuckles, rolling onto her back. "Well, yes, there is that. But the men are almost just as bad. They either don't want to hire me, or they do, but not for the job I'm applying for. I mean, who hires a female lawyer for sex work, anyway?"

An idea pops into your head, and you sit up, looking at her. "Mom, uhm... I may have a solution."

She raises an eyebrow, looking at you expectantly.

"Please don't freak out," you start, trying to avoid her gaze. "But, uhm... it'd a different kind of solution."

"What is it?"

"There's money in porn. A lot of it." You wince a bits and hold your breath, waiting for her to explode.

Instead, she laughs. "You're kidding, right? That's ridiculous."

You don't answer, and just look in her eyes. After a moment, she finally catches on.

"Wait, you're serious?" she asks, slowly turning back to face you.

"Think about it," you say, grabbing her hand. "You're attractive, experienced and you have a huge cock. It's like the perfect combination. The audience would love you. Also, not to brag, you have me. Remember that **** video we saw?"

"No, no, no," she shakes her head. "Absolutely not."

"But-"

"Doug! It's not happening. End of story."

You pout, crossing your arms over your chest. "Fine. Be like that. I was just trying to help you."

"Oh, come here," she grunts, pulling you towards her.

Five disheartening days later, Lisa has gotten nowhere with her job search. She's sulking and depressed, and you're worried that she's going to give up. She walks into the door of the house, shoulders slumped because of another unsuccessful interview. She strips off her clothes, drops them on the floor, then walks up to you and rests her forehead against you, sighing heavily.

After a minute, she asks:

"How would one even begin making porn?"

Your heart leaps.