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

My Story Time:

Okay, so I’m walking into this boujee hotel suite, and the vibes are immediately… formal. Like, the dude is sitting there in a chair, all business, with a clipboard. I’m in my streetwalker best – pink micro skirt, thigh-highs, the whole bimbo look, feeling extra AF. He needs a girl for a party of 35, and I need to prove I’m his girl.

He starts asking about my “crowd control techniques,” and I can see him trying not to stare at my cleavage. So I spill the tea, no cap. I tell him about the arrival – the pink outfit, the baby oil, making every single man touch me under the guise of “helping.” I describe how I pose, legs spread on a stool, letting them see my white panties, and how I kiss each one, turning my head so they get my mouth. I can see his pupils dilate as I talk. His knuckles are white on the pen.

Then I get to the messy part. The blindfold, the speculum in my mouth for the marshmallow game. I tell him how I gag when one hits my throat, the drool all over my tits, the secret filming. I’m being super specific, talking about the sounds I make, the contrast between my girly giggles and the violent gags. I see him shift in his seat, and I know. I just know he’s hard.

He asks about managing the… finale. So I go there. I tell him about the condom hand-out, me saying it’s “just in case they want to finish in my asshole.” I describe the cocktail glasses for cum, the glass bowl I bring out that says everything without saying a word. My voice is steady, but inside I’m shaking. It’s so humiliating to lay it all out like this, to see the mix of lust and judgment in his eyes.

He clears his throat, his voice a little tight. “And your… experience level? The agency said you had a high… volume.”

And there it is. The body count question. I feel my face flush. I look him dead in the eye, my DSLs glistening with fresh pink gloss I just applied. “Over three hundred and forty-nine,” I say, letting the word slut hang in the air between us without me even saying it. I watch his Adam’s apple bob. “Is that… too many guys for you?” I ask, my tone low, pushing it.

He doesn’t answer. He just stares, his breath shallow. So I stand up, my skirt riding up higher. I walk over, my boots clicking on the floor, and I kneel right between his legs. I don’t ask. I just rest my hands on his thighs and look up at him. “You wanna see my gag reflex for yourself? To know I can handle the load?” My hand finds the obvious bulge in his pants, and I give it a slow stroke through the fabric. He lets out a shaky gasp. “Or are you just talking to me because you want to be inside my throat?”

He’s totally shook. He just nods, his professional facade completely gone. I smile, unzip his pants, and take his dick into my mouth, deep, letting my throat relax and then constrict around the head. I can taste the pre-cum already. He moans, “Fuck, you really are a pro,” and his hand tangles in my high ponytail. I just think, bet. This booking is mine.