Chapter 3

The night had been long for me. Intrusive thoughts invaded my dreams, making me daydream in a way that felt uncomfortable. My brain seemed determined to figure out that issue on its own, projecting possibilities I preferred not to face yet.

I woke up wrecked. I sat on the bed and stared at nothing, hoping some divine intervention would give me direction. I could just lie back down and sleep until noon if I wanted — after all, I was unemployed. I grabbed my phone to see if there was any message from him. Nothing.

My tits hurt. I’d slept with my arm under them again. I stretched lazily and felt the stench of an open manhole. “I need to brush my teeth right now.”

In the bathroom, the mirror didn’t reflect my face — in the morning, the sunlight didn’t hit that side of the apartment, and the bulb had been burned out since last month. I sat down for my morning piss, holding the toothbrush with paste already loaded in my mouth. I wiped myself and, as always, checked the paper to make sure everything was okay.

“God, I look like a bear. Look at this damn pussy, how hairy it is!”

I inspected myself, imagining the work it would take to shave it all off with a razor. It had been two or three months since I’d prepped with the intention of fucking someone. When I knew I was going to have sex, I put effort into the trim, kept everything neat. Guys usually preferred I shaved it all, but I always hated that look. It was just another spot to get all red and irritated, and the unbearable itch when the hair grew back drove me crazy. My skin down there was super pale, any inflammation left red marks and even purple ones. On a daily basis, I trimmed with the clippers, keeping the minimum on the bottom and a bit more up front. It made me feel more feminine that way.

I grabbed my phone and sent a message to my best friend before hopping in the shower.

“Girl, I’ve decided to go meet him! Do you think I should shave it all or just go like a hairy beast?”

The reply came right away.

“Whoa, you slut! I knew you wouldn’t resist! I dunno, babe, this guy’s got any woman he wants just by snapping his fingers, and those little bitches I’m sure don’t have a single hair on their bodies, they do it to look like little nymphs. I think you should leave it the way that’s most comfortable for you, do something that’s your vibe! He chose you after all, if he asks you to shave it, you shave it, whatever!”

It made sense. I had some money left over and could book a wax. I always hated doing it on the day of — the area got so irritated. It would be better to do it the day before, that way I’d have time to slather on creams and be ready for action, no issues. But to schedule, I needed to know the exact day and time.

Still sitting on the toilet, all messed up, toothbrush in my mouth and looking like a lunatic, I realized this was the moment. The decision I made right there would change my life. I was building up the courage to send the confirmation message. If I sent it, I’d be accepting something extremely delicate, something that could mark my life forever. Step by step, I mentally retraced the paths that had brought me here. I tried to remember every detail, no matter how small, to make sure no loose ends could get me in trouble. I took a deep breath, my fingers trembled, I closed all the apps like it was a ritual, and sent the following message:

“Hi, I’d like to know when and where we can meet for the job.”

To my anguish, the reply didn’t come. I finally finished brushing my teeth, took a quick shower, and slathered on lotions. I tried to keep busy so I wouldn’t get too anxious waiting for the response.

“This guy’s loaded, he probably doesn’t even wake up before noon. I should’ve sent the message in the afternoon!”

I didn’t have much to do as usual. My apartment was a tiny pigsty, and I kept it clean. I thought about baking a cake to kill time.

“I wonder if he likes cake? I could bring him a slice.”

All my thoughts, somehow, led back to him.

“I could just rub one out to relax!”

Masturbating calmed me down. I went to the living room and checked if the front door was locked. I went back to the bedroom, closed the curtains, and locked the door. I couldn’t cum with the door unlocked, everything had to be secured for me to relax. It was like a ritual I had to perform!

I sat on the bed, took off my panties, wet my fingers, and started like a machine. I pinned my clit between my index and middle finger, making circular motions. Every now and then, I’d dip into the hole for more lube. I didn’t need to think about anything to masturbate, didn’t even need to be turned on; it was purely mechanical for me. I only got really aroused after cumming from jerking off — I was all wrong.

My whole life, I’d used masturbation as therapy. Stressed, hurt, pissed off, hungry, or cold, didn’t matter the problem — I’d touch myself to relieve it.

The orgasm came quick, but it was one of those artificial ones — a fleeting relief, without the earth-shattering force that knocks you off your feet. I sat there frustrated, looking at my wet fingers. I got thoughtful about why people taste their own secretions.

Curious, I smelled it and touched the tip of my tongue. I’d tried myself before — if you’re a woman, you’re kinda obligated to — but I never got the fascination some people have with tasting their own juices. My taste wasn’t bad, but still… why do some folks seem to love licking themselves?

I was lost in thought when the phone pinged — it was a message from him saying:

“Come tonight.”

Tonight… “Should I go without prepping? Maybe he just wants to talk…”

I was kinda numb, lost in thoughts, lying on the bed still without panties, reflecting.

“Do prostitutes spend their day like this before work, like I am now?”

I’d accepted selling myself. He was gorgeous, rich, and the opportunity was good. My only fear was what he might ask me to do and if I could handle it. Not that I’m bad in bed, but I’m pretty normal, never done acrobatics like in the movies.

As funny as it sounds, I wasn’t afraid of him hitting me. My real fear was that he’d try to fuck me hard from behind by force. My last attempts were really painful. My last partner tried, ignoring my screams to stop, and kept forcing it while telling me to hold on just a bit longer. I never wanted to see him again.

The rest of the day was a blur. My routine felt empty, and I felt completely dead inside, going through the motions on autopilot.

I prepped my outfit carefully, like I was getting ready for a regular date. I tried one or two ways to tie up my hair, picked out underwear even though I didn’t have anything decent, and did basic makeup. I didn’t know if he’d want to go out somewhere and didn’t want to be dressed wrong.

I ended up falling asleep and only woke up when it was time to get dressed.