The Professional Lover II (18+) | [Complete]

01 : Working It

July 2002. Six months earlier ...

Grinding on a fat, old man's lap for money wasn't exactly what I had in mind when I left home, but neither was twenty-six thousand dollars per year in school loans. Fuck my life.

I swirl my hips slowly, grinding my ass against the erection hiding in his slacks. Arching back to lie on his shoulder, I run my hands over my breasts, caressing them slowly for his viewing pleasure. As I tug on a nipple and softly moan, his fingers twitch against the arm of the chair. You want to touch me so bad right now, I think as I grin. I'd make a lot more money if he could, but I'm not complaining. He just paid me two hundred dollars to give him blue balls.

The light shines in the corner signaling his time is up. I take my time as I stand, sure to poke out my ass when I turn to face him. "You're time's all up, sweet thing." The clients like my southern twang, whether it's forced or not. I may not be a Georgia peach, but these assholes don't know that.

He readjusts himself and stands. "Erm ... thanks."

"Anytime, cutie." I give him a wink to send him on his way.

When the door closes behind him, I let out an exasperated breath. This job is fucking awful. It isn't the dancing I hate, it's that I feel like a half-naked zombie going through the motions, waiting for a bit of cash to get thrown my way. I hope working at the brothel will be a bit more entertaining. At least it will pay better.

I place my top back on and retie it. The bass from the main room rumbles through the floor. Peeking through the window, I find it isn't as busy as I'd like it to be for a Thursday night. That means I'll have to put in some effort. Ugh.

I'm already exhausted, far too tired to try to find another idiot willing to blow his money on a private dance, but I don't have a choice. Laziness doesn't pay my bills, men named Bill that like my tits do.

Walking out of the room and down the short hall, the loud music overtakes me once again. There goes my skirt, droppin' to my feet, Tweet sings. What a fucking stripper song.

The lights move in time with the music, giving the dark room a sultry, red tint as it illuminates my possible targets. It only takes me a moment before I spot him.

Late twenties, flawless, olive skin, dark stubble and buzz cut hair -- all wrapped up in a perfectly tailored Armani suit. He sits alone, sipping his glass of bourbon, looking at his cell phone rather than the half-naked women all around him. His body language radiates a "don't fucking talk to me" attitude; his strong, broad shoulders hunched forward, elbows leaning onto his table so to not invite the girls to come by.

Unluckily for him, a buff, Dominican in an expensive suit screams "pro baseball player." No matter what he does, every girl this club is going to try him.

I smirk as Cheshire approaches him, right on cue. She's a bad bitch and practically runs this place, but even her charm can't work on him. She flips her auburn hair and leans towards him, subtly wiggling her exposed breasts within his view. He barely gives her the courtesy of eye contact when he rejects her.

She looks miffed, but we get so much worse in here. She leaves his table, walking over in my direction. When she's within earshot she raises an eyebrow and says, "Don't waste your time. That one's a real prick."

I smile. Little does she know.

She presses a quick kiss to my cheek before walking off. It sucks that she's so nice. I'd really like to hate her for being prettier than me. And for thinking that "we should hang out sometime" meant I actually wanted to hang out and not fuck her. But mainly the pretty thing.