Romance for the Emotionally VacantMature

When you're hired by someone to do a job properly, it's best not to fall in love with them, else risk the mess and heartache that comes as an added bonus. Love is for shmucks and the hopeless romantics, not for a night club owner and a prostitute.

Roxy: Three Rules

In my line of work there are just three rules:

1)     Make sure you get paid first before doing what your client wishes.

2)     Do whatever you client wishes with no complaints or questions asked.

3)     Don’t, under any circumstances, fall in love.

These three rules have done me fine over the past five years  and I intend to stick to them strictly for the next five years, if not longer.

You see, my job isn’t just any job. Oh no… I am an escort… a lady of the night… a prostitute. I sell my body for the pleasure of men and feel very little shame for my – what some would say – degrading profession. The way I see it, everyone needs money to live and somebody needs to fill the position I hold, so… why shouldn’t I do what I do to earn a living?

I admired the sleek, slender finger stood before me, taking in every detail of the hand embroidered, blood red, custom fit satin corset that hugged their figure perfectly, emphasising their best assets: stomach bum boobs. Perfect.

The midnight black garter around the thigh was positioned perfectly and complimented the matching lace knickers and nine inch peep toe stilettos, encrusted with ruby diamantes on each heel.

Lips pouted seductively back, painted in a rich red rose with rouged pink cheeks and dark, smoky eyes. The vivid blue of their eyes pierced the soul and screamed… begged to be explored. Perfectly tousled, chocolate curls framed the heart shaped face, a water fall down their back, with diamonds perfectly placed on each earlobe.

The girl stood before me looked truly beautiful… stunning… desirable. I smiled seductively, taking a deep breath in before moving away from the mirror and positioning myself on the silk sheets of the bed in my tart’s boudoir. The door to the powder room opened and my client entered; a sheepish smirk plastered across his chiselled, smug face.

“Come on, stud,” I enticed, a rasp of desire tinting my voice, “show Roxy what a real man looks like.”

The End

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