After finishing up They All Love Me and getting ready for Brothers Who Brandy I’ve been also working with Paige on a romantic comedy. Knowing me though, I had to make it an MMF. And boy, was it fun. I wanted to drop the first chapter here for you all to read. Hope you like it!
The hotel room is surely opulent and luxurious, but I don’t really take notice in my surroundings. My client didn’t allow it. He instantly takes off his pants and underwear, showing his erection. He makes a ‘come hither’ motion, and of course, I comply.
I put his cock in my mouth, running my tongue on the underside.
“Shit, yes,” the man above me groans, holding my hair in a limp grip. I hum, the vibrations making him moan more.
But wait! Record scratch, freeze frame. You probably wonder how I got here, on a hotel room, sucking some old man’s dick. So yeah, I should greet you. Drum roll, please!
Welcome to the life of Foxy, the world’s most bored hooker.
No, don’t give me that look. Sex workers deserve respect, too. Don’t give me that bullshit.
It’s not like I actually love doing to this. But hell, we can’t all come from affluent families, okay? Some of us need to do the nitty and gritty to earn money, feed themselves, and put themselves through school.
Like me.
You can say that my family is not the richest family out there. We can barely buy food, let alone pay for rent, utilities, and my university tuition fee.
My parents aren’t doing much to change our situation. They are hilariously chaotic at best, and devastatingly toxic at worst. When they’re not all shacked up and lovey-dovey, they’re out there almost ruining each other’s lives.
The only thing they got going for them is that I know that, in their own way, they love and care for me. But that’s not enough. I have dreams I want to achieve, and I know that I won’t get any help from them.
So as soon as I graduated high school, I packed my bags, said my goodbyes, and headed for the city. That summer, aside from admission exams, I worked hard for my tuition and other necessities. Waited tables, worked as a temp, maid–you name it, I did it.
But most of the time, the income from all those jobs was just not enough. Then someone approached me, and offered me this job. It’s not the most “clean” job, but who gives a shit about clean jobs if you’re struggling to support yourself?
The first night being a hooker earned me triple of what I earned in my previous jobs combined, so I said to myself that I’m seeing this through.
Foxy was born one night in a seedy motel, taking it hard from an old lonely man who paid me more cash than I’ve held in my hands my whole life.
Well, the name’s Caroline Fox, really. But these men know me as Foxy, the girl who gets them off real good, as long as they give me good cash–and fuck me good.
Speaking of fucking me good. This is not the definition of fucking me good. I haven’t even unleashed the full potential of my tongue. Just one deep swallow, and he grips my hair too tightly and comes down my throat.
He comes too soon, not even ten minutes into our session. He didn’t even warn me, that fucker.
I pull away from his cock and having no other choice, swallow the bitter cum. I stand up, wipe my hands on my jeans, and fix my hair a bit. My client tucks his flaccid dick into pants and leans back into bed, sated.
“Wanna go for round two soon, honey?” I ask, sitting down on the edge of the bed. I just hope that he would say no–I need to get ready for class soon.
“No, Foxy, no need for that. I just wanna ask something, before the session ends,” he asks, looking part-serious and part-embarrassed.
I just nod and motion for him to ask away. What is it that my client wants to ask? I bet you today’s pay that he’s gonna be asking for advice.
He has that look on him, the lonely facade. He’s giving off the my-marriage-is-dying vibe. I just wait for him to finally voice out his marriage woes. It’s good practice anyway.
My client finally opens his mouth, to ask me for advice about his wife, who according to him, has been going out more and more these days. I answer with the usual: treat her with dates, flowers and the like, compliment her, and be consistent.
Seriously, if these old geezers just treat their wives well even though they’re not in the prime of youth anymore, they wouldn’t have problems. On the other hand, I won’t have income if not for lonely old geezers, so whatever.
This type of thing–my clients asking for advice, be it sex tips, marriage advice, or just life shit–has been a normal. I don’t know what’s going on in these men’s heads, asking advice from a hooker, but hey, I’m not complaining.
My client mulls over my words, nods, and gets off the bed. He gives me the agreed amount, with some extra, because of the advice I gave him earlier, I guess. With that, I say goodbye to him, get out of the hotel, and go back to my dorm before my classes.
I am a Psychology major, already in my junior year. One year in school, still more years in med school to go. But like I said, it’s been my dream since I was in high school, so fuck if I’m not gonna fight and persevere for this degree.
I arrive at my dorm, fucking finally. I still need to change my clothes and get my things from my room. Fuck, class starts in 15 minutes! I hurry back to my room, wash my face and brush my teeth (duh, I don’t wanna smell like jizz all day), put on fresh clothes, and grab my books.
I make it to class with a few minutes to spare. I go to the back row, where my friend Faith sits. I sit beside her and greet with a smile. “Heya, Faith.”
“Hi, Caroline,” she greets back. We hear the professor come in, but we don’t give him much thought.
Faith is not just some other classmate. She’s like me, a hooker–goes in the name Baby Ruth. We’ve met through our handler, and found out that she’s studying in the same university and the same major. So we became friends.
“So how’s the client?” Faith whispers to me. Aside from being classmates, we’re also roommates, so we know each other’s schedules.
“Mediocre as fuck. Didn’t even last the whole session. Asked for my advice as well,” I say, snickering under my breath. Faith almost laughs out loud, but smothers it in time. “How about you?”
The professor is droning on and on in the background. We’re currently in the Abnormal Psychology class. The subject could be fun, if not for the professor from hell. He hates all of our guts, but I swear to God he hates me the most, maybe because I look like a dumb bimbo in his class, but bitch, that is never the case.
Case in point: he gives both Faith and I a stink eye for chatting, before going back to the board again.
Faith answers when the professor’s attention is away from us.
“He’s okay. Hung enough. The bad breath, though!” she says. I can’t help myself, I snicker loudly. Faith softly giggles.
Prof then calls me out, looking sour. “Ms. Fox, would you and Ms. Michaels like to share something to the class?”
“No, sir, we don’t,” I answer nonchalantly.
“Well then, Ms. Fox, please tell us what delirium is, if you’ve even opened the textbook to study,” the professor spits. He thinks that he’d get me with the sudden question? Joke’s on him, though.
“Sure, sir, no problem. Delirium, a serious disturbance in a person’s mental abilities, often results in confused thinking and reduced awareness of their environment,” I say without breaking a sweat.
“Well, then. You do open your book sometimes. So, what are the contributing factors of delirium?” he fires away, obviously still hoping to intimidate me. Ha, as if that would happen.
“There can be several factors that contribute to delirium: surgery, severe or chronic medical illness, changes in metabolic balance, alcohol or drug withdrawal, medication, or infection,” I say confidently. I look at the professor straight in the eyes.
Leave me the fuck alone, you old hag, I say in my head.
Once he hears my answer, he turns away, looking pissed and teaching rest of the class. Some of my classmates look at me but I stare straight ahead. I hear Faith giggle.
I look at her, and she gives me a thumbs up. I give a smug grin and finger guns back. I don’t even care if the professor sees. I’m done giving a shit.
My phone suddenly vibrates, signaling a message. I take it out of my pocket and hide it under the armrest–I don’t wanna give old prof any more headache today. I see a text from my handler.
New client. Go to the usual hotel at 1715. Code D.
Dollah dollah bills, y’all.
You can get the book here:
