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I SWEAR TO GOD if I had to fake one more orgasm today, my fucking head was going to explode. The heavy-set older man’s sweat dripped onto my back as he tried ferociously to pound into me from behind. He was breathing so hard I feared that he would have a heart attack if he didn’t lose his fucking load soon.

“Oh baby. Yeah, like that,” I said in my well-practiced, seductive voice as I stared down at my nails while thinking about how I needed to schedule an appointment for a manicure. I needed to call my agent as well and tell her that if she scheduled me with anymore older men who had issues keeping it up long enough to even penetrate me, then I would throttle her.

This wasn’t the way I envisioned my life playing out when I was younger. I never had the thoughts of “Hey, I’m going to be an escort when I grow up”. I know what you are thinking. Escort, call girl, prostitute, whore. What’s the difference? The difference is I don’t care. I don’t care about the men I fuck on a daily basis. I don’t care that they might have families at home. I don’t care if they are some of the most powerful men in the news or the movies. The difference is I
just don’t care
.

I don’t experience many of the emotions or feelings that normal people do. I don’t feel remorse. I don’t feel emotional pain. I occasionally experience happiness, anger, and agitation, but I sure as hell don’t feel love. It is something that I have always dealt with. I don’t have the ability to identify or describe most of the everyday feelings that people experience. It is a condition I was born with. Gifted by the grace of God to live almost emotionless in this world of fucked up shit.

What is the one thing I do experience? Pleasure. Having sex is the only time that my mind and my body get to truly...
feel
. I guess you could say that is the reason behind my chosen profession. Having sex with men gives me a sense of tipping the hat at normalcy. Having someone buried deep within the walls of me is the only occurrence in which I don’t feel like a stagnant, vacant person.

“Oh Jericho, your pussy is tighter than I remember,” the man behind me said as he pounded into me with as much force as he could before he choked out his release. I tried to clench my inner muscles as tight as I could, willing for even a hint of an orgasm to follow.

Nope.

Nothing.

Fuck.

I hung my head in frustration as the man pulled out of me. Pressing my palms into the mattress, I lifted my chest and scooted to the side of the bed to put my clothes back on as the man walked to the bathroom to discard the used condom. I watched as his wrinkled, sagging ass jiggled with each step he took. I would have laughed if I felt some amusement. I would have shuddered in disgust if I knew what that felt like. Instead, I reached for the brown envelope on the side table and slipped it into my bag. Mr. Patterson was probably the easiest grand I made. It took him all of about five minutes when he could have had a whole hour. My policy though is once you cum, we’re finished and the session was over. My clients know this. It kept shit from being personal and gave me a reason to high tail it the fuck out of there without having to actually engage in conversations I couldn’t care less about.

“Always a pleasure, Jericho. I put a little something in your envelope this month. I will call and schedule another session with Alexandra soon.”

“Thank you, Mr. Patterson,” I said as I put my coat back on and slung my purse over my shoulder and exited the hotel room.

The frigid air of New York hit me in the face as I finally made my way outside. Walking to the curb, I threw my hand up in the air and allowed my leg to stick out a little from my coat. Sure it was cold enough to freeze my pussy lips shut, but I’d do anything to be able to get into a cab faster.

One of the familiar yellow cabs with the stereotypical Middle Eastern man pulled up to the curb, and I hurried my freezing ass into the car. After barking orders to the cabbie to take me to my downtown Manhattan apartment, my phone rang from inside my bag.

“Lexie,” I said, addressing my agent.

“Are you done with Mr. Patterson already? Wow, that is a record, even for him,” her throaty, cigarette smoke produced voice said through the speaker.

“Why the fuck do you keep scheduling him with me, Alexandra? It is a waste of a good orgasm that some other man could have given me. If I’m going to fuck someone, I should at least get the benefits of it.”

“So I’m Alexandra now. Are you pissed? Wait. Never mind, forget I asked. Stupid question.”

“Why are you calling if you knew I was with Mr. Patterson?”

“Because I know Mr. Patterson,” she chuckled again while I stayed silent. “Ugh, you are such a hard ass, Jericho.”

“I don’t feel like playing games, Lex. I have nasty old man sweat on me, and all I want to do is curl up in my tub and give myself the much needed and deserved orgasm that your Mr. Patterson deprived me of tonight. Shit, it’s been like four times in a row now. I think you should give him to one of the other girls.”

“I tried, he wants you.”

“Everyone wants me.”

“Conceited much?”

“Get to the point.”

“I need a favor. Kiki sprained her ankle or some shit and her client is refusing to cancel. He said to provide someone else, or he wouldn’t require our services anymore.”

“Not my problem, Lexie. I’m done. As I said, old man sweaty, wrinkled balls is reeking off of my body.”

“Jericho, when do I ever ask you for a favor?”

“All the time.”

“Point well made. But, please. He is one of our biggest clients. He pays well. Cash. Four grand.”

I paused from our conversation to try and process what Lexie was saying. Four grand? That would cover my living expenses for the month plus have plenty left over to go shopping. But who the hell would pay that much money to be with a woman one time? The thought had me a little turned off. What if he was old like Mr. Patterson? What if he wanted some kinky animal shit going on?

“He isn’t some sick motherfucker who is into bestiality and shit like that either, is he?”

“Oh my God, no. I would never send any of my girls to a client like that. You know very well that we screen all of our clients thoroughly. It is my job to protect you girls while you make money for yourselves as well as for me.”

“Fine, but I want next weekend off, Lexie. I’m due for it.”

“Deal. But there are a few stipulations.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

“The client requires complete anonymity. You have to wear a blindfold the entire time you are in session and will not be allowed to remove it until after he leaves.”

“That I can do, Lex. At least that way I don’t have to look at his wrinkles or his hairy ass and can imagine it’s someone like Brad Pitt fucking the hell out of me.”

“Good. I’ll send his driver to your apartment in the next hour. Jer, this one is important. He is one of our highest paying clients. Do your best.”

After hanging up, I wondered what kind of man I would have to deal with tonight. I was tired, even after my lack of orgasm with Mr. Patterson, but maybe I could get my much-needed release after all.

The cabbie pulled up in front of my apartment building, and I handed him a twenty through the slot in the glass that separated us. After telling him to keep the change, I made my way through the frigid New York air and into my building. The Camarades was a small set of ‘for sale’ condos housed just minutes from downtown Manhattan. They leaned more towards the luxury side of life and I found solace in knowing that I worked my ass off, literally, for the amenities of them. After a short elevator ride to the top floor, I produced the key from my purse and opened the door to my apartment. Sitting in the corner of the building, my apartment produced a beautiful view of the Manhattan skyline. Lights twinkled in through my windows, casting illuminating shadows across the dark, stained wood floors.

Flipping on the light, I sat my purse down on the bar and noticed the blinking red light on my answering machine. I didn’t have time to listen to whoever was trying to reach me because I needed to get ready to meet Mr. Mystery Client. Padding into my bathroom, I turned the shower onto a temperature that wasn’t quite scalding but would be hot enough for me to stand while I washed the remnants of Mr. Patterson from my body.

I did a double check to make sure my body was smooth everywhere, something that most of my clients preferred, I lathered up my preferred honeysuckle body wash onto a loofah and began scrubbing my skin. Using the same scented shampoo, I paid special attention to the long strands of my pin straight, blonde hair that contained highlights that only the expensive salons in town were able to produce.

I came from a very prestigious family. My father was a New Jersey senator, and my mother ran in the highest of social circles. From memory, they were good parents, but they weren’t around much of my childhood, which was spent mostly in dormitories at a boarding school. Little did I know that not only were my parents broke, but they left me with absolutely nothing the day I was told my freshman year that they were both killed in a plane crash. Now, if I experienced emotions like normal people, I would have broken down and cried that day, but instead I felt nothing. My heart didn’t ache, nor did I cry a single tear. Not even when they were placed in their coffins and lowered into the ground.

People take me for a hard ass. Someone who has no empathy for the things that would affect others. It isn’t that I am doing it on purpose; I just have no control over what I do and don’t feel, except when it comes to pleasure. When my parents left me with nothing, I mean they left me with
nothing
. The house, that I lived in, was foreclosed on. The boarding school that I went to kicked me out because my parents had failed to pay the tuition for several semesters. I was left with only the clothes on my back and the ability to not let my circumstances affect me.

That is why I became what I was today. I had to find a means of survival—a way to put food in my belly and a roof over my head. I had no family, my grandparents all having died before I was born. I had no siblings, no close relatives. I was completely and utterly alone. When I was approached in a dark alley, in a less than desirable neighborhood of somewhere in New York, by a man willing to give me fifty dollars for a few moments of time in my pussy, I said what the hell. When he gave me seventy because I was quote “the best pussy he had ever had”, my profession was born. I worked for several years on my own and then I met Alexandra, my agent. She started booking me with clients instead of me finding them on my own. I got paid more money, she got her cut, and we were both happy.

I saved enough money for a down payment on my condo, and everything I have furnished it with since. So to me the little luxuries, like my favorite honeysuckle bath products, weren’t taken for granted because they were a reminder of the struggle I went through to get to where I was today.

After rinsing off, I made my way down the hall to my bedroom. A normal person’s closet might contain things like dress suits, several pairs of jeans and some cute tops. My closet was full of lingerie, and not just any lingerie, but the high-quality shit that I had to fuck five men for in order to afford. I picked my favorite red lace bra and garter from the hanger where they hung pristinely in my closet, made my way over to my bed and laid it down before I padded over to my dresser and produced a pair of red silk stockings that matched. Using a towel, I dried my hair and sat on my bed with my honeysuckle lotion and began to smooth the creamy concoction on my tanned skin.

The scent was soothing to me—giving me a sexy feel when I had to perform some not-so-sexy acts with some not-so-sexy clients. When the lotion was absorbed into my skin, I rolled the stockings up my legs to where they came to rest mid-thigh. Reaching over, I grabbed the lingerie and got dressed, adjusting my breasts in the cup of my bra to where they looked their perkiest. Alexandra said this client was important, and I had never been one to disappoint, but I was also intrigued by the anonymity he required. Was he some dirty rich man who tried to hide his extra-marital activities from his wife? Or was he some lonely old widow looking for a one-night companion?

Who gives a shit? It's four grand.

My phone beeped in my purse, and I retrieved it to find a text from my agent.

Lexie: Car will be there in 15. Don’t be late. This client is big on promptness.

I rolled my eyes and threw the phone back into my purse. If this guy wanted an escort so badly, he could wait. I proceeded back down the hall to the bathroom where I blew out my towel-dried hair until it settled softly down to my mid-back. After applying a few finishing touches with the flat iron, I went to work creating a dark smoky eye and paired it off with a dark red lip that matched the color of my lingerie.

There was a knock on my condo door just as I slipped the black form fitting dress I chose into place and grabbed my purse from the kitchen island. Opening the door as I grabbed my dark trench coat, I was greeted by a gorgeous looking man dressed in a solid black suit with matching solid black tie and chauffeur hat. My eyes raked over the late twenty-something man and knew he couldn’t be any older than I was. His broad shoulders and narrow waist made the black suit he wore fit his body perfectly. Dark, soft curls fell just above his brows and matched the small amount of scruff that graced his face. He was tall, possibly well over six feet as he towered over me even in my Louboutin heels. I admired his pert nose and strong jaw and smiled in appreciative delight at the deliciousness of the man that stood in front of me.