Was ever a woman less suited to be a whore than poor Grace? Her virtues betrayed her. So modest
that she blushed to see two dogs sniffing each other with amorous intent, she was required to perform acts of reckless
depravity. By nature meek and submissive, she must now publicly solicit wickedness in the most blatant manner
imaginable. Alas, her mother had sold her to a brothel, and she was too dutiful a daughter to disobey.
Worst of all was her discovery of what men were really like. Not one of her assignations was sweet and
romantic. Blunt and selfish was the best she could wish for. Perverse and weird was what she usually got. Who would
have imagined? They all wanted to do disgusting things with leather, rubber, diapers, clothes pins, urine, feces,
dead fish Not a day went by without a new and appalling fetish.
It was disillusioning.
Still, she soldiered on. Like a good little scout, she did her best. She hid her feelings, gave good weight,
and never short-changed the house. The other whores despised her for it, but what could she do? It was the way
she'd been brought up.
One day a supremely confident woman walked into her little room in the bordello and told her to pack her things.
"I paid off your pimp," she said. "You're working for me now."
Grace wailed. To be bought and sold like a piece of merchandise it was really too much! Her life had reached an
absolute nadir. "Could any human being be more miserable than me?" she wondered out loud.
"Easily," the woman said. "Let me teach you how."
Then, almost as an afterthought, she added, "My name is Elena."