Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92809 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92809 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
There is the sweet Harlot, hooded and shaking as Len strips her bare. She looks so tiny in comparison to Tiffany. You could play a tune on her ribcage. And her hip bones are clearly visible as Len slides her panties down.
He raises his eyebrows in surprise as he sees me there, but doesn’t say a word. Neither of us do. I communicate as best I can by pointing to my phone and then to the door, mouthing I have to leave as I grab my coat from the rack.
Harlot flinches as I step up close to her, and my fears solidify to certainty. The idea of playing filthy games with such a willing participant does nothing for me whatsoever. I’m numb as I look at her naked body. Not a hint of animalistic lust in my veins.
I’m quiet as I open the door and mouth a bye, and then I’m out of there.
I need to go home. I need to get out of this place. I need to get away from the seedy den that used to satisfy every filthy craving I had.
It’s only a week until my booking with Tiffany, I remind myself – but my resolve crumbles.
I don’t bother waiting for my driver before I call up the Agency app. I click through to the calendar and call up Creamgirl’s profile.
So many bookings. One after the other. Client after client expecting the beautiful slut to arrive for their appointments, ready to serve. But I can’t take it.
It’s madness. I know it is. But I do it anyway.
I click postpone on every one of them due to personal circumstances, selecting random dates in the new year for fresh bookings.
There is one I can’t move, though. Not without scrutiny and a whole host of ramifications.
The founders’ gig.
I can’t change that without approval from at least three other members.
Fuck.
It won’t be Harlot standing hooded in Bryson’s hallway in two weeks’ time as Len undresses her, it will be Tiffany, and there is nothing I can do about that. My hands are tied.
But they aren’t entirely tied tonight.
We do need to be responsible advocates of the Agency after all. Entertainers are our primary assets, to be supported at all times.
I click on the address of the Glory Wall.
Just for reference…
And then I log in as User 5639.
14
TIFFANY
User 3980. Male. 39.
It’s your time for the glory hole wall.
Can’t wait to get you bound up and ready for it, you kinky bitch. Make sure you’re hungry for it.
Duration: 9 hours.
Proposal Fee: £18,000
The glory hole is another one of my favourite bookings. Nine hours straight of being trussed up and used by whoever wants me. These nine hours are a different league of hardcore than playing kitty and watching gardening shows. These guys always milk it for every fucking second, and I milk them for every fucking second right back. Nine hours of pure sucking and fucking is no easy feat, but that’s why I’m top of the leaderboard. I don’t give a toss if my cheeks hurt for three days straight. They always get prime service.
I wear a cup-less bra in black lace, and stockings and suspenders with no panties. This is a late nighter, so it’s gone 9 p.m. when I get my cab. I wrap myself up in my long leather coat, but it won’t be staying on long. The glory wall is in Chelsea. Some rich millionaire has turned their gothic manor into the ultimate seedy sex den, but it suits the place.
The cab drops me at the bottom of the driveway, and I walk on up in my red gloss stilettos with a sashay of my hips. I give the butler a coy hey and a wink, like usual. I know his smile by now, a half smirk that lights his face up. Only this time, it makes my guts flip.
He’s a silver fox, and he’s got to be in his fifties. He’s nothing like Reuben whatsoever, bar his beard. The trim of it. The shape around his chin. But fucking hell, just that one pathetic parallel is enough to give me a rush.
The bullshit rush makes me giddy when I hand him my coat. He hangs it up like it’s just another day at the glory hole wall, but I have major fucking butterflies. Beard be damned. Stupid comparison.
Reuben, Reuben, Reuben, fucking Reuben. I hate myself for this bullshit. If I didn’t have a whole night of action ahead of me, I’d consider calling my therapist this very second. Consider. Yeah, right. That’ll never happen. I’m lying to myself. I’ll be Reubening myself to death before I make that call.
Me and the butler don’t speak as he leads me to my destination. The glory den is along the hallway and off to the right, in a room literally split in half by a plasterboard wall. I know which side of it I’m going to be on and take my position – just another day at the office. Time to focus and get into Creamgirl mode.