Girl for Hire

The Three Rules for Selling Sex

Lisette Ashton

1. Always get the money up front.

2. Always have sex under an assumed name.

3. Be a whore – not a slut.

* * *

1. Always get the money up front.

You’re going to think I’m an absolute whore for saying this but money is the thing that always turns me on. I think money is the thing that separates whores like me from those sluts who will do anything to please the guy they’re with.

It’s been this way ever since I started seeing Peter.

As soon as I feel money in my fingers, I enjoy a minor thrill of arousal. It’s as though there’s a money sensor in my fingertips, and that sensor triggers a reaction in my pussy. Push a five or a ten into my hand and the inner muscles of my sex clench as though they’re ready to feel something slide inside my wetness. Push a twenty into my hand and I will hold my breath whilst my pulse quickens.

I have genuinely climaxed whilst holding two fifty-pound notes.

This is because I’m a whore – not a slut. There’s a difference.

In some ways my instantaneous arousal is an embarrassing response that extends beyond my work as a whore. Recently, for a single week, I stopped working in the sex industry and took a conventional job, working as a cleaner in a hotel. When the duty manager paid me on the first Friday evening, I came close to fucking him simply out of habit.

We were in a hotel. It was a hotel where I’d occasionally worked in the past as a call girl. (Coincidentally, it was the first hotel where I screwed Peter.) The duty manager was thrusting a wad 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 day I’d been studying alongside him I’d wanted him. And, even though it would have been the reprehensible behaviour of a slut, I would have happily fucked him for free. More than that, I would have paid him if I’d thought he would have fucked me for the money.

But Peter was a rich college boy with no need for the little money I could have scraped together. He was tall and dark and boyishly good-looking. A wealthy relative had left him an endowment that made him seem like a lottery winner on the campus. And, to my frustration, Peter and I had fallen into the trap of being platonic best friends rather than passionate lovers.

I’d spend study nights round at his apartment and he’d provide pizza and bottles of cheap lager. I kept promising myself that I’d make a move but it never seemed like the right time. It wasn’t until there came a night when we were both amicably drunk that I plucked up the courage to say something bold.

We’d been watching an old movie on TV: Pretty Woman. It’s the film where Julia Roberts plays a whore to Richard Gere’s client. As sex was a main topic throughout the film, I took the opportunity to ask Peter if he’d ever paid for sex.

He laughed. It was a strong sound that made me yearn for him. Swigging from his bottle he said, ‘I’ve never paid for sex. What about you?’

I shook my head. I had expected to catch myself blushing but I seemed beyond embarrassment. ‘Women don’t pay for sex,’ I reminded him. ‘Women are the ones who get paid.’

He considered this and then nodded as though my point made sense. ‘Then I’ll rephrase the question. Have you ever been paid to have sex?’

I studied him levelly. ‘Are you offering?’

He laughed again. This time I saw it was bashful laughter. He clearly sensed we were overstepping the boundaries of our platonic relationship. And, whilst that was something he had been trying to avoid, it was a barrier I was desperate to breach.

‘Are you offering?’ I repeated. ‘I won’t be offended if you try to put a price on the contents of my pants. You never know. It might be more affordable than you think.’

His cheeks were touched by twin spots of colour. It was quite endearing. ‘I couldn’t afford someone as classy as you.’

‘Are you sure? Why don’t you put some notes in my hand and see what happens?’

His mouth worked soundlessly for a moment. His eyes shone with a smile that made me desperate for him. And I could see that he was seriously considering my suggestion.

‘Put some notes in my hand,’ I urged, ‘and I’ll tell you what I’m prepared to do for that amount of money. There’s only you and I in the flat this evening so I’m sure this conversation won’t go any further.’

We were sitting in the kitchen of his apartment. It was surprisingly tidy, but that was only because Peter could afford for a cleaner to visit twice a week. A glass-topped table was between us and I watched him reach into the pockets of his jeans as he struggled to find cash.

His hands were shaking.

I wasn’t entirely sure, but I thought it looked like he was already sporting a modest erection that thrust at the zipper of his jeans.

In that moment the dynamics of our relationship changed.

We’d been platonic friends before. Now, Peter saw me as someone sexual. More than that, if he produced enough notes, he would see me as someone sexual that he could possess. The thought melted my loins. All that was needed was for me to maintain my integrity and be a whore – not a slut.

Peter deserved more than a mere slut.

‘Here,’ he said quickly. He pulled out a five-pound note and put it in my upturned palm.

I sneered. ‘I wouldn’t even look at your cock for that much. I certainly wouldn’t do anything sexual for a fiver.’

But, even as I said the words, there was a tremor in my voice. And I was sure that Peter had heard as much. To cover my embarrassment, I lifted the note to my nostrils and pretended to study it closely.

That was when the smell first hit me.

There is a distinctive scent to a five-pound note. It smells of sex. It reminds me of the musky scent I can catch on the gusset of my panties at the end of the day. It’s a lingering aroma of arousal that taints each well-thumbed banknote. As I drank in the fragrance of the five-pound note that Peter had placed in my hand I found the intoxicating aroma had already started to make my pussy muscles clench.

Peter passed me a twenty.

He said nothing. There was only the brittle stiffness of a crisp note touching my palm. As the silence dragged on he eventually asked, ‘What would you do for that?’

I yawned, feigning a boredom I had never felt in Peter’s company. A boredom I could never feel. ‘Double it,’ I said idly, ‘and I’ll suck your cock.’

The words were strong enough to wrench the air from the room.

Peter swallowed. There was a moment when I thought I’d gone too far.

And then he was fumbling in his pockets trying to find more money.

I lowered my voice to a sultry whisper. ‘Do you want to feel my lips around your cock?’ I asked. ‘I could suck you so hard for fifty pounds that you’d swear it was the best investment you ever made.’

Through the glass-topped table I could see the bulge at the front of his pants had grown considerably. Peter made no attempt to hide his arousal as he rummaged through his pockets in the search for more cash.

‘That suh-sounds pretty guh-good,’ he stammered.

‘For one hundred you can slide your cock inside me,’ I murmured. ‘My pussy is so wet for you now I think I’d drown you with it.’

I shifted in my seat so that he noticed I was wearing a short tartan skirt. It was a short tartan skirt that was visible through the glass-topped table.

He went still.

I placed my hand on the hem of the skirt and began to draw it slowly upwards. Peter’s eyes grew wider as the skirt moved higher. His mouth hung open and then he was drawing a tongue across his lips and swallowing with obvious, urgent need.

I couldn’t stop myself from grinning.

His gaze was fixed on my thighs. The hem of the skirt had crept so high that, I knew, it would be possible for him to see the white cotton crotch of my panties. I wondered if the panties looked as moist as they felt. Talking about money, and threatening to suck Peter’s cock, had made my inner muscles flow with fluid need for him. I could imagine the white centre panel of the panties was silvered with the dew from my eager sex.

I slipped the fingers of my right hand away from the hem of the skirt and brushed a fingernail against the gusset of my panties. The tickle of my own touch was almost enough to make me climax.

I snatched a staggered breath. And I held myself rigid for fear of suffering an orgasm before we’d properly done anything together.

Peter raised his gaze to study my eyes.

‘A hundred pounds and you can slide your cock in here,’ I told him. Without allowing myself to think about the action, I tugged the crotch of my panties to one side.

I was touched by the delightful chill of the kitchen’s cold air against my exposed pussy lips. The thrill of that cool chill brought me close to exploding. I clenched the muscles of my thighs, trembling with the vibrant need I harboured for Peter. And I steeled my voice to sound cool, calm and unperturbed. ‘Do you want this?’ I asked.

‘Oh! Yes.’

I stroked a finger against my sex. The lips parted immediately, as though they were urging him to hurry up and find the necessary money. I wasn’t sure if it was the intensity of my imagination or a symptom of my arousal but I believed I could smell the piquant aroma of my need for him.

Peter began rummaging again through his pockets. He pulled out another twenty and a ten. A third twenty fell onto the table. I thought it had fallen directly in the line of his view of my pussy and I was pleased that he pushed it to one side. He stood up to delve deeper and I noticed that the thrust of his excitement was shamelessly pressing at the front of his jeans. I barely noticed as he pulled out another pair of tens. And then a twenty. I was captivated by the sight of his denim-sheathed erection.

‘That’s more than a hundred,’ I observed.

I was stroking my fingertip back and forth against the line of my labia. The flesh was maddeningly sensitive. The slippery wetness allowed my finger to glide easily against the bare flesh. Instead of touching myself I wanted to reach up and stroke the thick girth of his bulge.

‘If you’ve got more than a hundred available perhaps we could do more?’ I suggested.

‘Such as?’ Peter croaked.

I slid my finger into the wetness of my hole. The sensation was not devastating but it did send a long warm tingle throbbing deep through my sex. When I slipped the finger out, I stood up and touched it against Peter’s lip.

He closed his eyes as though in an ecstasy of bliss.

‘For two hundred pounds I’ll let you take me up the ass.’

Peter groaned.

‘For this much,’ I began. I scooped up the money and squeezed it in one fist. The sensation of the crumpled notes against my palm was a glorious spur to my excitement. I felt light-headed as I realised I was holding more than a hundred pounds of his money. I tossed the five-pound note back onto the table and held up the hundred pounds. ‘For this much, I’ll let you screw me for the next thirty minutes.’

‘Are you serious, Ma–?’

I silenced his words with a kiss. ‘When we’re playing this game you can call me Magenta. If you don’t want to call me Magenta you can call me Maggie. But you must never call me by my real name when we’re having sex for money. Do you understand?’

He shrugged instantaneous acceptance of this request. I doubt he understood the condition. I’m still not sure I understand why I made the distinction. But the important thing was that Peter didn’t question my demand.

‘Whatever you want, Magenta.’

The name sounded strangely forced, and that added to my excitement. Peter was paying to have sex. He was going to screw someone called Magenta. And I was going to get to watch the experience and take the money afterwards.

My heart raced.

And then I was taking the initiative and pushing myself against him.

His hand went clumsily to my breast. I allowed him to fumble against me for a moment and then I pushed him away. Unfastening the buttons for him, I opened my blouse and pulled my right breast free from the cup of the bra.