This is my first story submitted here and one of my first erotic stories, so I welcome any and all feedback. It covers the journey of Ana, a college student in need of money, who reluctantly turns to sex work, but comes to love it. I'm not sure which category this story fits into most clearly. Exhibitionism/voyeurism seems like the best, but it also has group sex and some light humiliation.
*****
I couldn't be sure how many of them fucked me. Afterwards, I could barely walk. My hair was soaked from the champagne they poured over my head. Cum glazed my face, chest, and back. I came so hard I nearly passed out. I earned just over $8,000 that night, but I didn't do it for the money.
There were things I said I would never do, lines I wouldn't cross. I crossed them all. I told myself I had good reasons, to pay for my education, to help my family. But then I kept doing them. Doing the thing mattered more than the why. I became someone I no longer recognized, someone I never thought I was capable of being.
***
I had just left my introduction to sociology course when I noticed two missed calls from my mom. She normally texted, so I called back immediately.
"Hello Ana. How are classes?"
"Not bad... I have some papers and midterms in a couple weeks. Right now it's pretty slow." I gave a smile and a nod as I passed some friends across the quad. "So, what's up?"
"Is this an okay time to talk?"
Her question made my stomach tighten. "Just walking home. What is going on?"
"There isn't an easy way to say this. Your father has melanoma. He has cancer."
All I heard was cancer. My arm started involuntarily shaking. Adrenaline shot through me like electrical current. My maternal grandfather had died from colon cancer; my paternal grandmother, breast cancer; my uncle, prostate cancer. The mother of my childhood friend Danielle passed away within a month of being diagnosed. Cancer meant only one thing: death.
"C-, C-, C-ancer," I stuttered.
"We just found out last week. He didn't want to tell you because you're so busy, but I thought you should know. We're going to start treatment next week."
I would've been angry at him for wanting to keep this from me, but I was too stunned. "How serious? What's going to happen?"
"It's stage 3 skin cancer. The doctors say it's treatable, but they aren't making any promises. I don't trust them if you ask me, but your father is stubborn and doesn't want a second opinion."
"Do I need to come home? To be with you and...?"
She cut me off before I could finish. "Absolutely not. Focus on your studies. Your father doesn't even want you to know, but you can call him and tell him I told you." I would call him. No one else in my family attended college and my dad made it his personal mission in life to make sure that me, his only child, would not only get a college degree but go to a top school. My success meant everything to him, I knew that, but I also felt betrayed that he let that get in the way of him telling me about his illness.
When the conversation ended, I rambled aimlessly back to my dorm, crashed into my bed, and stared at the white-plastered ceiling. I wanted to cry but couldn't. This room more closely resembled a prison cell than bedroom: a single bed and a small desk, with just enough space to stand, if not walk, between them. I chose to live in a single for my sophomore year, but now the peeling drywall seemed to be closing in with suffocating silence. I had never been more alone.
Over the next couple of months, I rebounded, thanks to the seeming success of my dad's radiation and chemotherapy. When I came home for winter break, I felt reassured by his appearance. I hugged him harder than I ever had. He joked that I might crush him if I squeezed any tighter. "I'm just happy to see you!" I assured him. Despite the chemo, he was no balder than before the treatment.
The trip home for break eventually turned sour. Before I returned to school, my parents sat me down. My mother led the conversation.
"Your father is doing well, but the insurance won't cover all the treatment. We've taken out loans and a second mortgage to help pay for it, but we're running out of money."
I gulped and felt a sick feeling at the pit of my stomach. "What does that mean?" I asked.
Dad grew pale, coughed, and spoke calmly: "We want you to stay in school. Your education means everything. But after this year I'm not sure if we can afford it, at least not where you are now."
"Maybe you could get a scholarship or a job to make-up some of the difference," mom said, "maybe, but I don't... I'm so sorry sweetie. I know how much you like it there."
I sighed. "It's ok mom. I get it. Dad's health is more important. I will talk to the school and see if I can apply for anything. I can also move back home and go somewhere closer or cheaper. It'll be ok."
I said the right words, but felt guilty. I didn't want to move back home. When I boarded the plane back to school, I was excited to go back to my friends, classes, professors, and independence. I wanted to become psychologist. I needed good grades from a good school to get into a top Ph.D. program. I also knew the possibility of a scholarship was unlikely. I already had one and had taken out loans to help cover the exorbitant costs of my education. What now? I thought. My mind wandered with different schemes: I could get a night job bartending. A friend told me that it paid well. I could take out more student loans. I could sell my old car, which I rarely used anyway. As I calculated the numbers, however, I came to a stark realization: even together, it wouldn't be enough.
***
As a freshman, I got assigned a random roommate, a girl named Jane. We hardly got along. Jane came and went at all hours of the night, while I tended to tuck in early. She constantly "sexiled" me, bringing boys over and locking me out of the room. Jane also annoyed me with how she spent money: new clothes every week, jewelry, the latest gadgets, and vacations to exotic locales. A lot of fairly privileged students go to my university. One could find not only BMWs and Mercedes in the school lots, but Maseratis too. Jane fit the "rich kid" mold, but I came from a relatively middling family. Later in the year, to my surprise, Jane revealed that she did too. She got her money from her job. It also explained her late nights. "Working?" I asked.
"I'm a stripper. But keep that between us," Jane said. Curious, I asked how much she made. "In a good week, usually $4,000. I once made $8,000 in a busy week. In a bad one, though, it might just be $1,500. It depends how many nights I work and how lucky I get with tips."
That seemed like a lot more than I would've expected, but I shouldn't have had any expectation really.
"You could do it too you know. You have the body, from what I've seen at least. I know you're shy but just throwin' it out there."
I blushed. "Um, I'll think about it!"
I never did. At least not until almost a year later when I found out my family could no longer afford my schooling. But taking my clothes off for a bunch of strangers? I had one boyfriend before college and had two short relationships since. Only three people had ever seen me fully naked. Yet $4k a week equals $16k a month. That's $192,000 per year. That would cover not only my undergraduate education, but my dad's treatment and even graduate school.
I debated whether to reach out to Jane and felt almost queasy working up the courage. When I finally texted her, she responded that she had dropped out of school and moved back to her hometown of Chicago. Go figure. But Jane gave me the name of a club, "The Mad Hatter," which she said catered to richer clientele. "That's the best and safest club in the area. Ask for Joey D. He's the manager. I would say you could use my name, but we didn't leave on the best of terms." She ended her text with laughing emoji.
The next day, I battled my nerves again, this time to call the club and ask for Joey D. He said their roster was full, but if I came by later that day, he would meet me. I wasn't sure how to dress for the meeting. I didn't own any "sexy" clothes, at least nothing that screamed "stripper," so I went with what I had: acid wash jeans and purple tank top.
When I got to the club, I thought Jane might've played a joke on me. The Mad Hatter didn't look like a high-end establishment, but then I had never been to a strip club before. The neon sign atop the blacked-out building had a burnt-out "d" and "t" so it read as "The Ma Hater." I told the bouncer I had meeting with Joey and he let me in. Inside, the place looked a little more upscale. Red felt lined the floor and walls. A pristine glass bar stood in the back, a DJ booth to the side, and two stages. There were dancers, completely naked, but only about six patrons. It was, however, 2pm on Wednesday. I had no idea where to go and had to talk to the bartender. "I'm here for Joey."
The woman nodded, "Through the curtains behind the DJ. Second door on the left. Knock on the door before you go in darlin'."
I felt light-headed as I walked behind the curtain and into a musty dark corridor. Just as I began to knock the door opened. A burly middle-aged man with a thick beard and Judas Priest t-shirt stood in the doorway.
"Who are you?" he said in an almost accusatory tone.
"Um. Ana," I stammered, "we spoke on the phone, you said I should come in."
"Oh right right. Ok come in then." I walked into the office and glanced over the walls plastered with pictures of women in different stages of undress, some of them autographed. The room smelled like a falafel truck I sometimes go to for lunch. I gulped audibly. "Have a seat," he said, pointing to the sofa across from his desk. "What brings you here?"
I struggled to make eye-contact, but managed to tell him I needed a job.
"Dancing? Bartending? Waitressing? Janitorial services?" I felt an overwhelming rush of panic and before answering Joey interjected with a laugh. "I'm joking hon. I know you said you wanted to dance. Have you danced before?"
"Um, not exotic dancing. I did gymnastics for twelve years. Some ballet."
"Better than nothing. Am I right?"
I couldn't tell if he meant for me to answer.
"Well as I told you our roster is pretty full," he continued before pausing to look me over. "You seem nervous. Are you sure this is something you want to do?"
"Uh. Um. I need the money. Thought it was worth a try?" I shot him an awkward smirk.
He smiled back, "Look, you have a lovely figure and a coed look that some customers love. You also have a certain exoticness. Maybe that's not politically correct thing to say. Are you Latin?"
I figured he meant Latina or Hispanic. "My dad is from Honduras. My mom is mostly Irish."
