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

My Story Time:

Okay, so I show up to this boujee-ass hotel room, still feeling kinda slick from my last group, no cap. My hair’s a little crunchy, but whatever. This guy—let’s call him Mr. Client—opens the door, and his eyes just drag down my whole cheap, shiny latex vibe. I can see him clocking the ‘SLUT’ tattoo peeking over my hotpants. Iconic, right?

He’s all business at first, asking about my “crowd control techniques” for his party of thirty-five. I take a deep breath and spill the tea, bestie. I’m like, “Look, stage one is all about the vibe. I walk in looking like this”—I gesture at my dripping eyeliner and these ridiculous bimbo tits—“and just let the tension cook. I’ll sit with my legs just… open enough. Let them stare at the camel toe. Let them get thirsty.”

I can see him shifting in his chair, and I know that look. So I lean forward, my cleavage practically in his lap, and I go, “Do you like whores? Did you just get hard because you realized I’m a total slut?” His face flushes, and it’s so awkward, but also… spicy. I keep going, detailing how I’ll use the lipstick, the kisses, the game where they guess my body count. “I just say ‘higher’,” I tell him, watching his Adam’s apple bob. “They get so mad, so judgey, but their dicks are out, period. It’s a whole thing.”

Then he drops the bomb. He’s like, “The agency said you have the highest body count they’ve ever seen.” OOF. The humiliation hits me like a truck. My real number—349—feels like it’s glowing on my forehead. I feel so exposed, like a used-up trash bag, for real. But I see his pants tenting, and a weird, shameful heat pools in my own pussy. I use it.

I pop my compact, slowly applying more neon pink gloss, making a show of my DSLs. “Yeah,” I say, my voice a little shaky. “I’m a slut. But I’m your slut for the night, if you want a demo.” I get up, doing that ditzy, hip-swaying walk I use on the street, before sinking to my knees between his legs. I don’t wait for an answer. I just unzip his pants, freeing his already leaking cock. “See?” I whisper, looking up at him. “I know how to make a line form. Starting with you.”

I take him deep, my throat relaxing on instinct, showing him my zero-gag reflex—well, almost zero. The taste of his pre-cum mixes with the stale semen still on my breath from earlier. It’s disgusting. It’s perfect. I work him with my mouth and hand, detailing between strokes how I’ll manage the condoms, the cocktail glasses for cum, the way I’ll swallow every last drop. He’s grabbing my ponytail, his hips jerking. “You’re a filthy slut,” he groans, and it should hurt, but my cunt just clenches, wet and eager.

“I know,” I gasp, pulling off with a pop. “And I’m gonna make your friends say it too.” Then I take him back down my throat, deep, until my nose is buried in his crotch, and I let him fuck my face, proving I can handle anything.