Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 133034 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 665(@200wpm)___ 532(@250wpm)___ 443(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133034 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 665(@200wpm)___ 532(@250wpm)___ 443(@300wpm)
And then, I come for the guy in the front row.
The bright lights blur overhead, and I am lost in the highs of the sensations. The smile on my face is all real as the reams of clients I’ve been with zip in clips behind my eyes.
So many experiences. So much fun.
So much money.
I tell the audience that, too.
My commentary is all real as I tick the boxes on an imaginary laptop, and profess I’m going to hit the top of the hardcorer tree one day.
This is crazy. The whole experience is crazy. A blur of fantasy and reality that is so surreal, I feel I’m looking in on myself from afar.
I offer a striptease from a tight latex dress for my next number. I perform with a confident smile as I double fuck myself and squirt all over the wooden stage floor, without giving a shit for the consequences.
And I’m grinning now, because in the aftermath I can hear the guy in the front row, his heavy breaths, and I’m sure he’s jerking off.
I retreat to the side of the stage and rush into my college uniform after that scene, skipping back into the spotlight with a backpack on my back.
Daddy! I say. Daddy, I’m home!
I picture Daddy in my mind while I’m performing. His amazing silver fox hair and the way he washes me with a flannel in the bathtub. I suck a realistic fleshy dildo and tell Daddy how much I love his cock. I wipe myself clean like he would, and tell him I’m a good girl. A good girl who knows she’s been bad.
By now I’m beaming. Ella coming to life.
The Ella that I am today is coming to the forefront as I find my real identity, free after years of suppression.
Next, I go for the stretch play. I whimper as I use the fake fist on my pussy. I’m groaning like a real fucking slut as I shove the knuckles in and pump it in and out.
Yes, yes, more! Please, yes!
I tell the audience what a slut I’ve become. How my world is shining. How my bank balance is growing along with my confidence.
I tell the audience how proud I am of being a hooker and entertaining people. Of living out people’s fantasies with them night after night.
The bottle of fake blood makes it so easy to act out my proposals with Mr Monthly – fucking my bleeding cunt on my period. I let the fake blood drip all over my bare tits, and giggle at an imaginary client licking it clean, eating out my pussy that I spread for him.
Next comes my terror at running and hiding from a client as he chases me through the darkness. It gets my breaths hitching in my throat.
Don’t hurt me, please, no!
I display the true reality of how that kind of fear turns to pleasure. How much my wet cunt reveals the truth behind the words as my adrenaline spikes.
And finally, at the climax to the performance, I change into my evening dress, striding tall on my stilettos as I grin like the proud slut I am today.
I hitch up my skirt and show my stocking clad legs to the viewer in the front row. I tease him with a wink, and tell him I’m now an expensive woman who will fulfil any dream he’s ever had.
Because I’m top of the Naughty List.
Just like I was destined to be.
I’ve made myself a name, and I’m living the high life, with a stretched pussy, and a used asshole, happy to drink golden piss like champagne.
My name is Ella, I say, repeating the line from the beginning. And now, instead of scrabbling for pennies, my life is filled with gold.
I’m beyond nervous when I take my final bow, my heart pounding to a different kind of tune now I’m waiting for the verdict. At least I can say I’ve given it my all, like I have done for every single proposal since the day I started.
The seconds are some of the longest of my life as I await the verdict. A panicked part of me thinks I’ve goofed up and should have gone for a horny Alice in Wonderland or something, but when the first clap of the applause sounds out, it’s like I’ve won the fucking lottery.
I bow again with a huge fucking smile on my face as the shadow of the man in the front row rises to his feet.
“Encore!” he shouts. “Bravo, Ella! Encore!”
He wants the encore!
Holy shit, I hope he’s ready for it…
I saved the most extreme until last.
It takes me a few minutes to prepare for this one while the applause continues. I’m naked when I reappear from the side of the stage, having torn my evening dress off from over my head.
I’m carrying a glass cooking bowl, full of chopped up nettles, a pair of blue latex gloves and my torture implements laid on top.