Confessions of a Call-Girl
I'm a whore. I guess that's the first thing you should know.
I am a whore.
I don't mean that in a metaphorical way, like "My job as a PA makes me feel like a whore", or "I had sex with so-and-so on the first date, god, I'm such a whore". Many of my friends will use the word as a way to express their feelings about their job as a temp, or as a clerk at an upscale clothing store; they've often compared their job situations to something akin to prostitution. In those occasions I nod knowingly, and smile while sipping from a straw. I always smother the urge to laugh; I've been a salesgirl, I've also fucked for money. Those two things are worlds apart. They are not even in the same solar system.
The second thing you should know about me is that I live in New York. These two facts may or may not be related. I haven't decided yet. It's not a cheap city let me tell you, and I'm not exactly known for my ability to keep a 9 to 5 job. I moved here after college looking for a job. If not one in my field of study, at least one that was interesting, exciting. Like any other kid out there looking to make it in the big city, I guess. The Salvatore brothers from Tennessee came looking for opportunities in the music scene; they haven't found any. The Gilberts came from middle-of-nowhere Iowa, following Jeremy's dream of becoming an artist; poor kid is a waiter, while his sister makes coffee for some old guy that likes to grope her. They have it rough, so I guess I can't complain.
Prostitution is a steady job. Nothing cushy but steady. There will always be men and women who are desperate or kinky enough that they will pay for sex. I meet a lot of people, in my line of work, mostly men who I'll probably never see again. Also, I'm required to fuck them, regardless of whether they are fat and smelly or are old enough to be my grand-dad. They pay the agency, I make their every fantasy come true; even if it involves re-creating a fantasy that involves their third grade teacher. I guess it beats waiting for call-backs for jobs that I know will never call; so when compared to that kind of disappointment, I guess spreading my legs for cash on a regular basis is not that bad.
Having said that, the drastic career change did not happen overnight. In between college loans and my share of the apartment rent, and my complete lack of restraint when it comes to shoes, the bills started to pile up. That's when the text came, from Hailey, a girl from one of my psychology classes that I still hang out with – so yea, we fuck from time to time- about meeting one of her graduate classes' professor. Heard you're still in town, come meet with Prof. Sulez at The Plaza the message said. Professor Sulez was a magnificent woman, very well known in the field of child psychology that I had met at a fundraiser a few months ago; I never thought I had a chance with the woman. She had a cut-glass accent, wavy black hair, and honey-accented skin that spoke of her ethnicity. But as soon as her back had turn, Hailey had assured me in hushed whispers and furious gesture that the woman was an amazing laid and that she was interested in me.
I saved that text for days as my imagination conjured fantasy after fantasy. Before long Professor Sulez had morphed into the latex-wearing bitch from hell that I masturbated to. I dreamed of devouring her body, from head to toe, licking every span of skin I could find. I texted Hailey back. She called two hours later to say that the Professor and her husband would love to meet me at The Plaza for dinner the next week. I panicked for days about what to wear and splurged on a new haircut and heels. On the night itself I tore my closet apart looking for something to wear, changing from dress to dress and outfit to outfit. Finally, I decided on a black cocktail dress with a v-neckline. Simple but still modestly sexy. I arrived at the hotel 10 minutes late; the traffic was murder at 7 PM, with people still rushing home from work. I rushed inside, my heels sounding obnoxiously loud against the marble floor. The hostess was kind enough to walk me to my table, were Professor Sulez and her husband waited with smiles for me.
She greeted me with a smile and a small peck to my lips, her eyes shining as she murmured Glad you could make it, dear. Her husband, Lucas, hugged me as if we were long lost friends his hands straying down to my ass and pushing my form against his body; I could feel his erection against my stomach. We soon were talking about sports and art, about my decision not to go to medical school as I had planned when I met her a few months ago. As I explained that I wanted to gain more experience in the field, maybe apply for an internship or something, I felt her stocking-clad foot slide against the inside of my bare leg. So you want to be a criminal psychologist uh, Lucas asked me as I felt his hand creep up my short skirt. I opened my legs.
I knew exactly what they were after, I had known all along. Wasn't that why I had waxed my body of any unnecessary hair, bought new lingerie, cut my hair? I didn't fool myself into thinking that Professor Sulez wanted to talk to me about my dreams, or my perfect academic record. So as we waited for our food, I let her husband's hand slide in between my thighs, while his fingers played with my clit I maintained eye contact with her; she smiled and licked her lips. I came easily, almost in a whisper. He brushed his lips against my neck.
Excellent, she said. Now do it again.
So he did. After our meal we left the restaurant. He asked me to strip off my dress and to sit in the passenger seat while she drove. From the back seat he played with my breast and pulled and pinched my nipples as she drove the short, but excruciating, distance to their house. I walked from the car to the door in my underwear, and once inside, was ordered on my knees. She disappeared to the bedroom as he stood in front of me, his cock in his hand, telling me to make him cum by the time Angie returned. She returned with lube and a whip. During my short "affair" with Damon I had become used to being spanked and being at the receiving end of a riding crop. However, it was a new experience having it done with my legs in the air, while she fucked her husband with a dildo. After three hours, he entered her, and like the domme of my many fantasies, drove her face-first into my pussy.
We dressed, she said good-night and went to lie down. He walked me out as we waited for the town car he had called. His arm lay across my shoulders, drawing me in as the chilly wind pick up. We looked like father and daughter to any passing stranger, my head on his shoulder as we laughed and talked. We looked quite comfortable with each other.
She's quite something, uh? I said.
Whatever keeps her happy, he said.
I nodded. The town car approached us slowly, and he kissed my forehead before opening the door for me. He had a few words with the driver, before handing him a few notes; the usual fare, I guessed. Before we drove away, he wished me a goodnight and said I was welcome anytime as he handed me a wad of cash. I was halfway home before I unfolded the roll of money and realized that it was at least enough money to pay for my part of the rent for the next two months, the fee of my student loans, plus any other trivial expense that I was bound to have. I thought I should feel a pang of regret or disappointment at having being used and paid for. But it was nothing like that. They'd enjoyed themselves, and so had I.
And as the town car drove through the streets of New York, the idea of being paid for sex grew, it festered.
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Chapter 1
Hi, I'm Caroline.
Samedi, le 1er Février
A client was latched on my nipples like a new born baby. "Careful there hun," I said, while guiding his mouth elsewhere.
"Tell me about something you want," he said.
Not having to wear skirts on the middle of the winter.
A normal Friday night with the Salvatores and Gilberts.
Sex with someone remotely attractive. Maybe I'll call Damon tonight.
Sunday nights off.
"Well, I always wanted to be a mom, y'know? The two point five kids, the husband, the dog and cat. Being fucked by my husband regularly, once in the morning and once before we go to bed. Like a normal couple," I said, knowing that Jerry's marriage was a failed one.
"Do you pleasure him orally?"
"Oh yes… I suck him deep into my throat, moaning around his length, my saliva dripping down to his balls. He's so fucking big Jerry, his cock almost chocking me."
"Are you gagging?"
"Yea, I lick him from top to bottom, like a lollipop. Then I suck on him while playing with his balls, letting his cock go deeper and deeper each time. Till I can feel him down my throat and I'm gagging on his big, hard cock."
"How much can you fit in?"
"About halfway, his cock is so damn big Jerry. So big and hard, and I want him to cum on my face, my lips…"
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Lundi, le 3 Février
It was two in the morning and someone was trying to knock down my door. I had gotten home not one hour ago, my body sore from a 24 hour "appointment" I had with a client. I sighed before getting out of bed, a too-big shirt served as a night gown, and I had forsaken taking off my make-up in lieu of getting to bed. I navigated through the messy apartment, being careful not to step on Stefan's guitar, or on the music sheets that littered the floor. "What?" I snapped as I opened the door, my eyes trying to adjust to the sudden light emerging from the hallway.
Jeremy Gilbert was stood outside the door, his hair disheveled and his white shirt stained with blood.
"What the fuck happen, Gilbert?" I asked as I let him into the apartment. "Where's Elena?"
"She's with that fucktard Lockwood, tending to the baby's wounds," he spat as he crashed onto the couch, his hands scattering the music sheets towards the floor.
"Careful, fucktard." I cried before bending down to pick up the scattered papers; they were Stefan's and they meant the world to the kid, they were the key to his future. I had given up on mine, for the time being, but his was still a reachable one. The kid had talent. "The fuck you doing here, it's two in the morning in case you didn't know!"
"I couldn't stomach staying in that place, Care" he sighs and rubs at his mouth. "He hit her and she's still making excuses for the douchebag." Jeremy was the youngest of the Gilberts, at 21 he was closer to my 24 than to his sister's 27, but he still managed to act like the adult of the relationship. He looked out after Elena like a parent would, making sure she was breathing every morning, that the track marks down her arm weren't noticeable before she went to work, that Lockwood didn't killed her in a drunken rage. I respected the love he had for Elena, even if sometimes she didn't deserve it.
"Is she ok? Does she need a doctor or anything?" I asked from the kitchen where I was looking for Damon's well-known stash of liquor. "And I thought she was gonna give the Donovan kid a chance? What the hell is Lockwood doing in your house anyways?"
"As if, the night of the supposed date she was so fucking high on coke I had to watch her just to make sure she didn't OD," he took the drink I offered him, his head coming to rest on my lap. "I can't take this anymore, Care, she's gonna end up dead one of this days."
I could feel his tears wetting my skin, his body shaking as he cried into my lap. Elena was too far gone for us to help, she needed professional help and Jeremy didn't have the kind of money needed to pay for such services, and at the moment neither did I. I had spent most of the money I've made the past few months paying for my student loans, sending money back home so my mom could take care of both herself and Dylan –a little boy my mom had adopted after I moved from home-, and to pay for my share of the rent and utilities. I had diddly squat in my bank account right now.
"Hush, darling. We'll figure something out soon," I murmured as I ran my hands through his hair, thinking on how many clients I would have to see to come up with at least half the money by next week. I felt my eyes watered, tears sliding silently down my face. "She'll be ok soon, you know Lena always the drama queen, eh?"
Jeremy nodded, his arm coming around my waist as he hugged himself to me. He was like a small child looking for the comfort only his mother could offer; it felt nice, for the past few days every time a man hugged me it wasn't comfort he was looking for. I let him cry himself to sleep on my lap, my hand rubbing circles on his back, my lips murmuring a song I had forgotten I knew. Life always managed to screw us over, uh? I thought to myself as I texted Sheila about needing a few more clients this week.
Why? I thought you wanted a few days to yourself, everything ok Caroline? Sheila Bennett was the nicest woman you would ever encounter, she worried about us girls as if we were her granddaughters, always making sure we were ok, that our clients were nice enough, and that we had time to relax and to compartmentalize what we had done the previous few days.
Family emergency, I need enough money to pay for a rehab center. A good one.
I know some people who would gladly help, dear. I'll contact you tomorrow with the details of your meeting. Sleep well, Caroline.
Thanks, Sheila :) I'll try.
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Mardi, le 4 Février
Prostitution is not an easy trade, at least if you don't want to be identified as a hooker. Which I don't. You've to be sexy, but classy. Act as if you belong inside hotels that are worth thousands of dollars a night. Speak with the haughty tone of someone who knows that she has money, more than she needs, and more than that of any concierge who might dare look at you the wrong way. This is a difficult trick to master when you were raised in the middle of nowhere Virginia, and your family was so dirt-poor that your father opted to kill himself than to face his reality, when you have never known anything besides simple.
However, the clients don't know that; they don't want to know that. They want perfect, and sweet, and sexy, and punctual. They don't want the concierge shooting glances at them as they talk to the woman who looks like a hooker. They want an escort who looks like a businesswoman, but fucks them as if their rent depended on it. Which it did. Sometimes.
Sheila had called me at 10 AM; someone would like it if I met with them in their suite at 12 PM. I never had to say yes, but I of course did. I was the one begging Sheila for appointments, wasn't I? I had two hours to get ready, as I always did, which was enough time for me to shave away any unneeded hair, shower, do my makeup and hair. I spend one hour exactly, at the house, which included getting dress and eating breakfast as I waited for the town car the agency sent.
I entered the hotel at exactly 11:55, my heels click-tacking against the floor. I nodded to the concierge behind the desk. I paused to take my cellphone out of my bag as I scanned the lobby for the elevator. You never asked the staff for help. If you have to leave an impression at all, it should be of a well-dressed businesswoman. Which I am, kinda.
Once inside the elevator I text the agency, which I have to do, always. They want to know if you're going to be on time, if not they call the client and let him know to expect you a bit later. Inside the elevator I take the time to freshen my lip-gloss, never lipstick; it is a pain to reapply once you finished giving someone a blowjob. I smooth the non-existent wrinkles out of my dress. One of my rules is to never be sweaty or looking rushed; it takes away some of the sex-appeal. Once the elevator has reached the floor, I find the door and knock once, firmly. "Darling, hello, I'm Caroline please to meet you," I said on entering the room. "Sorry to have kept you waiting." Even if I wasn't late, even if I make it right on the dot. The client would have been waiting; he would have been watching the clock like a hawk. And if anyone is to be nervous inside that room, it certainly won't be me. I take my coat off and sit down by the window; this is procedure now. He will offer me a drink, I will say yes, never no. We will talk for a few minutes before I collect the money. Always collect the money before anything starts, rule of thumb that one.
After I'm inside the room, money comfortably in my purse, I make the client's dreams come true. I dance, I suck, I lick, I fuck. I become the submissive woman he craves his wife to be. I moan and sigh, tell him he's the biggest that has ever been inside me, ask him to spank his dirty girl. At 2 PM on the dot I leave, before opening the door I kiss his sweaty cheek, "It was an absolute pleasure. I hope I see you again, George." The moment I'm out of the room I call my manager, tell her I'm ok, that everything went great. If I don't Sheila will call the client, then the hotel, our own security if they happen to be nearby, then the police. She was an escort once; she has been in my shoes.
I'm three thousand dollars closer to my goal, after that two hour session, with a few more like that one Elena will get the help she needs sooner rather than later. I look up to the clear sky, the skyscrapers doing nothing to hide the fact that storm is coming. Better days ahead, I promise myself.
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I'm planning this to be more of a dairy entry kinda thing. We will experience everything through Caroline's eyes. Which will be a bias at times. I'm planning this to be no more than 10 chapters, which are going to be between 3k words, never less, sometimes more. It is going to be Klaus/Caroline romance, Caroline/Client sex, Caroline/Damon past romance. The other pairings will be discovered throughout the story, but they wont be the main focus. Finally, this is inspired by BBC's Diary of a Call-Girl and Lifetime's The Client List.
None of this is mine. I do not make a profit. This is for pure entertainment purposes only.
Thanks for reading.