My Steamy Story: She is meeting the man in a hotel room f...

My Story Time:

Okay, so I’m walking into this boujee AF hotel room for this “interview,” and low-key, I’m still tasting the last guy from an hour ago. No cap, I feel a little nauseous, but I push it down. The guy—let’s call him Mr. Booker—is sitting there looking all serious in his chair, and I can already tell he’s trying to size me up without getting hard. Iconic.

He starts with the basics, and I’m spilling the tea, bestie. I explain my whole system, step by step, even though talking about the gory details to a stranger is a big yikes. I tell him about the pink latex hotpants, the streetwalker vibe, how I just let the sexual tension simmer until the guys are practically vibrating. I describe sitting on the couch, legs just open enough for them to clock the camel toe through the latex, and how I’ll ask if they want to see the splits. I can see his eyes glaze over a little, and sheesh, his pants are getting tight. So I lean forward, letting my new, extra-large silicone tits practically spill out of my top, and I go, “Do you like whores? Did you just get hard because you realized I’m a slut?”

He chokes on his water, no cap. But I keep going, getting into the real spicy stuff. I tell him about the lipstick game, how I let the guys paint my DSLs bright pink so I can thank them with a deep, tongue kiss that gets progressively filthier. I see his hand flex on his knee. I describe the crowd control, how I manage lines of men with my hands and my ass until it all devolves into a sweaty, manhandling mess where I’m just a hole for them to use. I’m specific, talking about the gag reflex competitions, the condoms for finishing in my ass, the cocktail glasses for cum. I even mention the puking—every four loads or so, a girl’s gotta reset.

Then he drops the bomb. He’s like, “The agency sent you because you have the highest body count.” OOF. My stomach drops. I’m high-key humiliated, my “SLUT” tattoo feeling like it’s burning on my lower back. But I see the way he’s looking at my lips as I nervously reapply my neon pink gloss. So I use it. I look him dead in the eye and say, “349 men. Does knowing I’m that much of a slut make you want to test my skills right now?”

His breath hitches. Period. He doesn’t even answer, just stands up, his dick visibly straining against his slacks. He walks over, his fingers tracing the word on my lower back before sliding under the waistband of my latex briefs. “Prove you’re tight,” he grunts, pushing a finger into my ass. I clench down hard around him, showing off, and moan. “See? Still grips like a virgin.” He’s shaking, totally shook by my rizz.

He unzips his pants, and his cock springs out, already leaking. I don’t wait. I drop to my knees, take him deep into my throat in one go, my gag reflex totally suppressed from practice. I look up at him, mascara probably dripping, and hum around his dick. He fists my ponytail and groans, “You really are just a cheap, used slut, aren’t you?” And even though it stings, the shame twists into heat in my pussy. I nod, slurping loudly, bobbing my head with a practiced rhythm I know drives men wild. I can tell he’s close. He pulls my head back, his cock glistening with my spit and his pre-cum. “Swallow it all, whore,” he pants. And I open my mouth, stick out my tongue, and let him finish all over my face and glossy lips, the warm cum mixing with my makeup. I lick my lips clean, making a show of it, and whisper, “So… do I get the booking?”

He just stares, his dick still twitching, and slowly nods. Slay.