My Steamy Story: She is a trashy cheap hooker who has bee...

My Story Time:

Okay, so, spill the tea, bestie. I show up to this boujee loft for this “party,” right? The guy who booked me, let’s call him Mark, is giving me the interview vibes from the jump. He’s all, “Are you experienced enough for this?” with this look that’s high-key thirsty but trying so hard to be chill.

So I’m like, “No cap, I’m your girl. You want details? Iconic.” I lean in, letting my top gape so my tits are basically saying hello. “Look, handling a line of 35? It’s all about logistics and enthusiasm. You gotta work the room. Start with the shy ones, get ‘em hard with just eye contact and a whisper about how wet your pussy is thinking about all their dicks. Then you move to the bold ones, let them feel you up over your clothes, get a little grind going. You create this…vibe. A chain reaction. One guy cums, it’s like a fuckin’ dinner bell. They all wanna feed the slut.”

I see his pants getting tight. Bingo. So I get a little extra. I pull out my bag and start unpacking lube, a stack of condoms, and my little dog bowl—iykyk—right on the coffee table. The other dudes are trying not to stare, but I can see their brains short-circuiting. I turn back to Mark, my voice all low. “You wanna know my real strategy? I make sure the guy who booked me is the hardest one in the room. I’ll wink at him while I’m sucking someone else’s cock. I’ll make him jealous until he just…breaks. Until he admits he wants to be the one fucking this cheap mouth. That’s the goal, right? To make you lose control.”

His breath hitches. Sheesh. I put a hand on his thigh, sliding it up until I feel the thick outline of his cock through his jeans. “You love it, don’t you?” I murmur, just for him. “Love that I’m a fucking trash bag for your friends. That my body count is probably higher than this room’s IQ. Go on. Admit it. It’s making you drip.”

He’s shaking, his resolve crumbling. I give his dick a firm stroke right there in front of everyone. “Tell me you wanna cum in this whore’s mouth,” I whisper, and finally, with a groan, he nods. “Fuck. Yes.” Slay. Game on. The party’s about to get real spicy.