of notes into my hand. And the feel of the money in my fingers was enough to give me the same thrill I got from being paid up front by a client.
Three fifties, two twenties and a ten.
I could have climaxed on the spot. He was paying me enough for anal.
I disappeared to one of the hotel’s rooms and satisfied the appetite awoken by the Pavlovian response of holding notes in my sweaty hand. I rubbed myself to a furious, frenzied climax whilst sniffing the dirty money. An hour later I quit the cleaning job and returned to my more lucrative calling of being a call girl. I can honestly say I haven’t looked back.
Talking about money gives me a thrill.
It’s foreplay for me because conversations about money always precede a session of slow, sultry sex. It’s more exciting than cunnilingus. It’s more arousing than a pornographic movie.
My panties get wet whenever the client says to me, ‘How much?’
I don’t mean my panties get sopping wet. I’m not going to pretend that I’m constantly horny and desperate for cock. But the subject of money turns me on in conversation. The subject gives me a chance to tease and flirt and take control of the exchange.
‘How much for what?’ I ask.
I always lower my voice to a husky whisper. It adds to the illusion that our transaction is something discreet, unusual and extraordinary, rather than something that’s likely happening in a hundred or more different hotel rooms within a single square mile of where we stand.
‘What services do you offer?’ he asks.
This is the point where my nipples harden. The skin tightens as the buds of flesh fill with blood. The sensitivity radiates through the shrinking confines of my bra. The client usually discusses sex in terms of euphemisms. He will ask about the services I provide, as though I’m going to defrost his freezer or offer to rewire his house. It’s very rare that the client will be forthright enough to say: ‘How much for a blow job? How much for straight sex? How much for anal?’
To some extent, I’m pleased about that.
Conversations without euphemism tend to strip away the mystery of the sex act and make the whole encounter seem more like a tawdry and vulgar transaction. When we talk in euphemisms it’s as though I’m sharing some sort of telepathy with the client. We’re talking about costs and services and extras, and we’re meaning my mouth around his cock, or half an hour with our sweaty naked bodies writhing together, or his length sliding into the depths of my ass.
‘The cost depends on what you want. Half an hour of my time will cost you a straight hundred. It’s another hundred for each part of a half-hour after that. If you want anything kinky then I might have to charge extra.’
I always meet the client’s eye when I say the word ‘kinky’.
If I can give a suggestive smile too it helps build rapport. And, if the client happens to have a kink that I haven’t tried before, it’s convenient for me to get paid for my experimentation.
It was through the suggestiveness of a client that I discovered the pleasures of wielding a whip. It was through one customer’s need to administer a ‘kinky’ spanking that I found out how pleasurable it is to have my buttocks turned warm crimson by the slap of a large manly hand.
And so, after I’ve mentioned the word ‘kinky’ I give the client a moment to recall if he has any vices he’d like to explore. It’s another of those moments that makes me hold my breath. I’m aware I could be on the verge of encountering another life-changing experience. And, if the client’s suggestion sounds too depraved for my simple tastes, I can always ask for extra money to compensate me for the experience.
If he thinks it’s my first time, the client is always happy to pay extra.
I always talk about time when I’m making negotiations with a client. I never talk about specific acts if I can avoid such details. But, whilst I’m talking about the cost of my time, I think about the image of my bare body pressed against the naked body of the client. I try to send him a mental picture of my mouth against his and our bare flesh sliding smoothly and rhythmically together.
I’m not sure whether or not that particular trick works. But I’ve rarely been turned down once I’ve started discussing terms.
Most of the time I’m paid in twenties.
Once I’ve rubbed the money between my fingertips – resisting the urge to smell the musk of those notes that have been passed from hand to hand and used to secure countless transactions before – I’m just about ready to begin. And I say it to myself like a mantra: always get the money up front.
I have to get the money up front because I’m not a slut. I’m a whore.
* * *
2. Always have sex under an assumed name.
‘What do I call you?’
It’s a common enough question. And it’s one to which I always try to avoid giving an honest answer.
‘Call me Magenta.’
‘That’s not your real name.’
‘It’s real enough for the moment, isn’t it?’
My working name is Magenta. If the client presses me to know what my real name is, I tell him it’s Maggie. Usually the client is happy to call me Magenta and he calls me that for the remainder of his time with me. When the client calls me Maggie it seems to let him believe he’s having sex with someone other than the persona I usually play in a stranger’s hotel room.
I don’t mind.
Whatever gives him the satisfaction he craves. If it makes the client consider giving me a tip afterwards then he can call me anything he likes. Whatever it takes to help fulfil his fantasy.
And that’s really what the job is all about.
From the moment the cash is safely stuffed into my purse, I allow myself to be the subject of the client’s fantasy. My smile grows broader. I give in to the thrill of electric excitement that tightens the air. And I start to tease myself out of the clothes I’m wearing.
Sometimes the client expects a striptease.
There are other times when the client is happy for me to screw him whilst I’m fully clothed, with just my skirt hitched up to expose the tops of my stockings and the crotch of my thong wrenched to one side so he can slide his sheathed erection into the wetness of my hole. But most times the client is curiously satisfied to watch me undress whilst he comes to accept that we’re about to fuck.
It’s not an automatic understanding. The client seldom assumes that sex is going to go ahead until I start to unbutton my blouse. And then you can see the lascivious smile of desire flicker in his eyes. He stares appreciatively at Magenta’s body knowing he’s paid for her for the pleasure of her company over the next thirty minutes.
And that thought really does make me wet.
The first time I had sex for money was back in college. There was a guy called Peter and I’d fancied him for an age. From the first
