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)
Fucking hell, I can’t stop staring at the screen. On Sunday morning, I’ll have more money in my account than I’ve ever had in my life – another £3200 on my balance after agency fees. Insane.
My trip to Australia is looking a whole load more likely by the second. My parents are going to get a jingle bells in person from me this year.
I’m grinning as I settle down to sleep. On Saturday night it’s going to be double penetration party and a little bit of banter in Chelsea.
Yes. Fucking. Please.
Chapter Eight
Users 1458 and 1459. Males. Both 25.
We want a hot girl to share. Ass and pussy at the same time – a fuck ton of hot DP for us. Call it a quest for a hot, kinky bitch for some party time. Big tits a must. Yours look fucking ace. Don’t be surprised if we talk to you like you’re a dirty little bitch by the way. Call it banter.
Duration – 4 hours.
Proposal price – £4000.
Jesus Christ, this gig will be enough to set me up with my flights. Just four hours of hot action and kinky banter and I’ll be able to book my travel. And then what? I smile as I take my cab to Chelsea, grinning in the back seat with pure relief.
I know what next. Money for presents, and spending during my trip, and so much more… If I keep doing this, I can clear my debt. I can get my own place. I can have a life again.
I tell myself not to get carried away. There only two things I should be thinking about right now. Users 1458 and 1459. I need another five-star review.
The hotel is a crazy rich one. The lights outside are huge domes lighting up the courtyard, and the black and gold doors are tall, guarded by two lion statues, one either side. This place is magnificent. The cab pulls up on the gravel, and I click arrived on the app before I pay the cab driver. I’m expecting a room number to ping through, but I don’t get one.
In the bar is all the message says.
In the bar? How the hell am I supposed to recognise them?
I head straight through reception, knowing the staff are whispering about me in my long black coat and stilettos. My hair is loose and curled, and my lipstick is dark purple. I stand out in this place by a clear mile.
I’ve never been anywhere like this in my life.
I hear the bar easily before I arrive there – a hustle and bustle of a room off to the right. It’s busy with posh guests, in suits and glamour dresses, and I’ve no idea who I’m looking for. Two guys aged 25… I’m scanning the place when I hear a wolf whistle, and there they are. A pair of guys sitting on barstools with one empty one between them. They wave me over with cheers, making a raucous spectacle, but they don’t seem to give a shit about that.
I know the whole bar is watching me as I approach them. I feel tottery on my heels, shy and exposed and out of my comfort zone, but I force myself to hide it, pasting on confidence as one of them pats the stool between them. I tell myself that I’m Holly here. The entertainer. I’m going to live up to it, whatever it takes.
The guy on my left is blond, in a posh smoking jacket and bow tie, clearly born with a silver spoon in his mouth. The one on my right has hot ginger hair, slimmer, in a tight-fitting suit jacket with jeans. These two look like they own the place, clearly tipsy as they spin on their stools to check me out.
“I’ll take your coat,” blond guy says, and I hope he doesn’t notice I’m trembling as I hand it over. I’m not dressed for this place, in my tiny PVC skirt and fishnets. My tits are on display in my tight matching crop top, my cleavage on show to the world. Come on, Holly, I tell myself. Be an entertainer.
I’m being examined by the Users. Their eyes rove all over me, and they give each other a nod and a high five, right in front of me.
“Good choice,” the ginger haired guy says to his friend.
“Yeah, I knew she’d be a good one.”
They don’t even say hello. Mr Ginger hair points to the drinks displayed behind the bar.
“What do you want?” he asks me.
“I’ll have a Coke, please.”
“A Coke? Come on. That’s hardly party fuel.”
I lean forward, checking out the selection, and I sum up the confidence from the depths of me. They want a party girl, they can have one.
“Alright, then. I’ll have a champagne, thank you. The finest.”
“Good call,” Blondie says. He taps on the bar for the bartender’s attention. “A bottle of De Chante, please.”