A Whole New World -

As I approached the discreet black door—three small steps above the pavement—my heart raced with anticipation. A single buzzer awaited my touch, and for a moment, I paused, surveying the quiet, well-heeled street that stretched out before me.

Elegant Victorian houses stood proud, their facades painted in muted tones, no doubt the interiors elegantly decorated in chic Farrow & Ball shades—Elephant’s Breath, Lamp Room Yellow—names as luxurious as the lives lived inside. Mercedes, BMWs, and Audis lined the pavement, glittering beneath the streetlights. This was a place for the “comfortably off,” where wealth hummed softly under the surface.

I didn’t belong here, not really. Six months into my first year at university, I was already floundering. Not academically—my mind had always been sharp, and I thrived on the challenge of my course, soaking up every moment of my newfound freedom. But financially? I was sinking fast. I’d grown up knowing what it meant to go without, in a cramped rented house where my mum worked tirelessly, yet still struggled to keep the cupboards stocked and the bills paid. University had been my escape, my way to carve out a different life. But even with a full loan, the costs had piled up—tuition, books, the steep rent for my student flat. I worked at a local pub, pulling pints until my feet ached, yet I still barely scraped by.

I was fortunate in some ways. My friends—kind, generous—never let me go without a drink in hand, happily covering my tab when my bank balance hit rock bottom. But pride is a stubborn thing, and I hated the feeling of always being indebted, of never being the one to stand at the bar and say, “This round’s on me.”

And so here I was, fingers brushing against the cool metal of the buzzer, standing on the doorstep of this unremarkable house in well-to-do Hove. I was about to step into a world I barely understood, a world where money, power, and desire entwined in ways I’d only imagined.

I pressed the buzzer. The response was immediate, a woman’s voice slipping through the intercom, soft yet firm, authoritative with just the slightest edge of curiosity.

“Hello,” she said, her tone sending a shiver down my spine. “Can I help you?”

_

I took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the moment settle over me. This was it—the threshold between two worlds. On one side, the well-heeled respectability of this quiet street, its elegant houses gleaming with success, even if they felt worlds apart from my reality. On the other side, behind this nondescript door, lay a world I was about to step into—a world that felt dangerous, exciting, and completely unfamiliar.

But let me explain how I ended up here. Working at the bar had been my life just a few weeks ago. I liked the job well enough, but it wasn’t enough to keep me afloat. Even with five shifts a week, I was barely scraping by. Balancing work and university was hard enough, and I knew it would only get worse as the year went on. I needed more.

So when I heard that two of the girls from the bar had left for jobs at a strip club, claiming they were earning double the money for half the work, it caught my attention.

One of the girls, Kelly, had become a friend, so I asked her if she could help me out, maybe get me an interview. A few days later, I found myself sitting across from the club manager, a slim, forgettable man with a Turkish accent. He offered me three nights a week at more than double my current pay—and I wouldn’t even be stripping. My job was to work behind the bar and “work the floor,” flirting and chatting up the men, coaxing them into spending more money on dances from the girls.

At first, it seemed like an easy gig. But after just three weeks, I was desperate to leave. The job itself wasn’t physically demanding, but the emotional toll was something else. The strip club felt like a pressure cooker of misery—both from the men and the girls. The guys were usually drunk, sad, and desperate for attention. The dancers, almost without exception, hated every second of it, their disdain for the men only thinly veiled by forced smiles and sultry glances. And nearly every night, I found myself having to fend off a guy who didn’t understand the meaning of the word “no.”

As for the two girls who had left the bar to work here, one had already gone back to her old job. The other was just as miserable as I was.

-

It wasn’t that I was a prude—far from it. I had no moral objection to strip clubs; in fact, before I ever set foot in one as an employee, the idea actually turned me on. When I applied for the job, I’d secretly entertained fantasies about becoming a dancer, imagining the rush of performing, the seductive power of swaying my hips under the lights, feeling the heat of all those hungry eyes on me. I even pictured myself in a skimpy black bikini, letting their gazes undress me, one tantalizing layer at a time.

I remember one night, after I’d gotten the call saying I was hired and would be starting that weekend, I spent hours in bed, fingers trailing over my body, losing myself in that fantasy—teasing the men, leaving them desperate, and reveling in the control I’d have over their desires. It was erotic, intoxicating even. Or at least, the idea was.

The reality? That was a different story. The strip club wasn’t glamorous or sexy. The heat, the desire, the thrill I’d imagined—none of it existed in that dingy place. Instead of power, I found indifference. Instead of sensuality, I found sadness. The money wasn’t even that good. It was all a disappointment.

But then, one night, everything shifted.

I overheard three of the regular dancers talking, their voices low but tinged with excitement. They weren’t just chatting about another night at the club—they were discussing something much more intriguing. They were talking about their “other job.” As I eavesdropped, it became clear: they were being paid to do more than just tease men. These women were escorts, and they weren’t just stripping for tips; they were being paid to fuck.

And the way they talked about it—well, it wasn’t just the money that had them excited. They seemed to genuinely enjoy it.

If you know anything about me by now, you’ll understand that the idea of getting paid for dirty, delicious sex definitely piqued my interest. More money than I’d ever made, all while doing something I already loved? My pulse quickened at the thought.

With a mix of curiosity and boldness, I decided to join the conversation.

“Hey,” I began casually, “what are you girls talking about?”

“Escorting, honey,” said Talia, a statuesque Brazilian with dark, flowing hair. She gave me a knowing smile, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “Why, you thinking about trying it?”

Her words were met with a soft giggle from the blonde Eastern European girl beside her, who was idly picking at her nails.

“Is it good money?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady, though my heart was racing.

“Way better than here,” Talia replied, leaning in a little closer. “But it ain’t for virgins.”

Another giggle from the blonde.

I felt a slow, wicked smile curl at the corners of my lips. “Well,” I said, feeling the rush of excitement flood my veins, “I’m definitely no virgin.”

-

“Ooooh, I know a man who would love to meet you, sweetheart,” purred a voice behind me. I turned to see her—an older Black woman with an air of sensuality so thick, it practically enveloped the room. I had only glimpsed her once before, but that brief moment had been enough to slip her into my dreams more than once since then. She was the kind of woman who made you wonder how anyone could exude that much raw, effortless sex appeal.

She stepped closer, her gaze roaming over me slowly, taking me in from head to toe like she was sizing up something she wanted to taste. “I’m Michelle,” she drawled, her voice as smooth as velvet. Her hand extended toward me, slender and toned, with skin like silk and nails tipped in perfect French polish, gleaming under the dim lights.

I took her hand, surprised by how cool her touch was against my skin. “Sara,” I introduced myself, smiling as her eyes lingered on me. “Nice to meet you.”

Her lips curled into a wicked smile as she gave my hand a soft squeeze. “You too, honey,” she replied, her voice low, teasing, making my pulse quicken. “So, you serious? You really wanna escort?” Her eyes raked over me again, slower this time, like she was savoring the sight of me. “Because the guy I work with? He’d love you.”

The way she said it, the heat in her gaze—it wasn’t just a suggestion. It was an invitation to something darker, more thrilling, and I could feel the pull of it deep inside me.

-

Two days later, I found myself at a local Starbucks, the familiar scent of roasted coffee beans filling the air, my cappuccino warm in my hands. Across from me sat Jay, my soon-to-be employer, and he was even more captivating in person than I’d imagined.

Mid-thirties, short dark hair, an athletic build that hinted at regular workouts, and that wicked, devil-may-care smile. He had the kind of casual confidence that made him hard to ignore. Despite the scruff on his jawline, his middle-class accent was as polished as his appearance. It made me wonder how someone who clearly came from privilege had ended up running an escorting business, but maybe I was just being naive. Perhaps my perception of the whole industry was outdated, stuck in some misconception of prostitution.

“So,” Jay leaned in, his voice low, intimate yet teasing. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Sara, but why would a smart, beautiful girl like you want to get into escorting?”

His tone was gentle, caring even, but there was something else beneath it—a subtle, mischievous curiosity. The kind that made me feel like I was about to be tested, my desires weighed against his expectations.

I took a breath, eyes momentarily dropping to the smooth surface of my coffee, though I’d been rehearsing my answer for days. Michelle and the girls had warned me that this was always how the conversation started, and I was ready.

I met his gaze, my voice soft yet steady. “Honestly, Jay? I love sex. I’ve been with all kinds of men—older men, younger men, guys you’d never look at twice, and ones who could walk straight off a runway. I love it all… anal, oral, being tied up, having my mouth used.” My voice dipped, a soft, breathy whisper, aware of the other patrons sipping their drinks around us. “I love giving long, slow blowjobs, taking my time, and seeing how much I can turn a guy on. And I’m single, happy with that. But I’m broke. So if I can do what I already love and get paid for it? Well, that sounds like the perfect job to me.”

I let the last part hang in the air for a moment before adding, almost as if confessing a secret, “And between you and me… the idea of getting paid for it? It really turns me on.”

I kept my eyes locked on his, my pulse quickening as the words left my lips. I could feel my confidence building with every sentence, and something else, a soft heat stirring between my legs. The thrill of saying it aloud, of owning my desires, was as intoxicating as anything I’d ever felt.

As I spoke, a slow, knowing smile spread across his face. He leaned back slightly, studying me with renewed interest, and I could sense that this was only the beginning.

And so I found myself here, on the doorstep, pushing against the front door as the sharp, metallic buzz of the door release sounded and the door swung open.