Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 103000 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103000 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
“I have my first client.”
“FUCK YES! That is ridiculously fast, by the way. You’re going to ace it. What do they want?”
“He wants basic. Blow job and pussy. He offered four hundred quid.”
She nods. “Four hundred. That’s alright. Easy enough.”
“How much does the cash go up? You said the hardcorers are in a different league. How much do they get offered?”
She leans back in her seat. “The highest I’ve heard of is 150k.”
I blink at her. “One hundred and fifty thousand pounds?!”
“Yep. She earnt it though, believe me. Don’t ask.” She does the zipper gesture over her mouth. “Confidential. You can ask them yourselves in group chat when you get added.”
I wonder what the hell the entertainer did for one hundred and fifty thousand pounds. I wonder what I would do for one hundred and fifty thousand pounds right now. It’s not a hard question. I’d do just about anything…
It only makes me more determined to get my naughty list extended. Quickly.
I barely sleep that night, tossing and turning – my entire body thrumming at the thought of being a whore. I imagine a hot, dirty guy as my client and get myself off, but it doesn’t help me sleep. The nerves are just too strong. I look at my clock so many times I lose count, and then, when sleep finally does get me, I almost doze through my alarm.
I’m like a rabbit on speed dashing about the place to get ready for work, but I’m glad about it. Adrenaline is going to be a very, very good friend of mine this evening. I try to ignore the waves of panic at work, doing my best to keep my mind on tomato ketchup stocks and not on offering my pussy to a stranger, but it’s hard. Understatement of the century.
I grab a sandwich as a token dinner as soon as my shift ends, and I’m out of the door, bounding down to the tube station. The trip back to my place is such a blur that I barely notice my tuna mayo as I munch it, my actions on autopilot as I get off at my stop, charge down the street, let myself into the house and head on upstairs. I already know the dress I’ll be wearing. I lay it out on my bed before I shower and shave. I blow dry my hair and put my makeup on, being careful not to snag my fishnet holdups as I pull them up my legs. I choose decent stilettos, then I slip my dress on. Short and velvet, hugging me tight and barely covering my ass when I walk. I spin in front of the mirror. Yes. I live up to my profile video, and I’ve followed my client’s requests. I hope he appreciates my efforts.
With that, I wrap myself in my long black coat and head to my destination.
I click arrived on the incognito app as I stand outside, and get a ping back straight away.
Head up to room 5.
A woman smiles as I arrive at the reception desk, and I point up the stairs behind her.
“I have a friend waiting for me. In room five.”
“Sure,” she says. “Next floor up. Furthest on the right.”
“Thank you.”
My legs are trembling as I make the climb, and I’m shitting myself, beyond any nerves I’ve ever known as I walk down the hall. I wish I’d downed a couple of shots of vodka first as I see the number 5 on the door.
My palms are sweating as I build up the courage to knock, but that’s ok. I’m five minutes early. Plenty of time.
Breathe, Ella, just breathe.
Except I’m not Ella here. I’m Holly. I’m Holly the entertainer, and it’s time to take on my role. I think of booking flights, and the £400 – minus the agency cut, that will be in my bank account very soon.
I smile as I knock, hoping User 1378 doesn’t realise how terrified I am. I do everything I can not to baulk and run as the door swings open, and there he is, my client. My first client.
User 1378 isn’t some crazy, hot megastar, or a monster of a mountain man, or a sinister looking guy from the head of the mob somewhere. He’s just a guy with brown hair and thin rimmed glasses. He’s as tall as me in my stilettos, slim, but not muscular. Just a regular kind of passerby I’d barely notice in the street. He’s not in a tux, or head to toe in leather, just a pale blue shirt and jeans. He steps aside to let me in, and it’s a nice enough room with a decent double bed. It’s bright, and warm, and he’s drawn the curtains closed. There is nothing ominous here in the slightest.
“Hey, Holly,” he says, and gestures to the dressing table. “Want a drink first, before we get down to it?”