I could see myself reflected in the golden elevator doors and I smirked at myself. Behind me, I could see the expensive marble floor, the impressive (if a little gauche) Corinthian columns, and the gilded trim that was stretched around the perimeter of the lobby. Everything, including me, had a slightly gold-metallic tinge from the reflection, giving everything the impression of being made of money. I really couldn't help but sneer at myself; I looked so perfect from that perspective; like I belonged.
What I mean by that is that I looked like money, like self-consciously ostentatious cash. I looked like the sort of vulgar power, elegance, and sophistication that this place was trying to cultivate. That the men who lived here wanted to associate themselves with. I was wearing my most expensive pair of black, five-inch stiletto heels that ran a couple of inches up my calves. Those calves were quite shapely (a favorite feature) and, while they looked bronze in the reflection of the elevator, were actually the sort of sophisticated pale white that I cultivated all over my body. Tans are nice for some people, I guess. But tans turns to wrinkles and can be uneven. Soft, creamy white skin lasts longer and has a timeless appeal. And it fit perfectly now, in the dead of a New York winter.
Above calves were several inches of exposed skin. Despite the cold, I was wearing a rather short (but by no means slutty) dress that fell a few inches above my thin knees. The dress itself was a simple, dark blue affair that hugged my figure like a second skin. To that end, it tapered out as it ran up my thighs and then flared widely at my hips. I could not see it, but I knew that my most commented-upon feature, my large, round, but toned, ass was rising like a helium balloon behind my back. From my hips, the dress narrowed down to my narrow waist. I spent a good deal of time keeping this particular feature fit and trim, making sure that the sudden contraction from my hips to my waist was particularly dramatic. From the narrowest part of my waist, the dress tapered back up to my chest.
This dress was selected, in part, because of the way in which it accentuated my breasts. It fit so tightly and held me up firmly. Further it had a low, swooping round neck. A couple of inches of cleavage were exposed from my C-cup breasts and the full round shape of them was clearly visible. Between my breasts was the large pendant of a gold necklace, some sort of precious stone polished to a perfect shine. My breasts were not quite as wide as my hips, giving me a slightly off-balanced hourglass look. My shoulders were covered by my coat (a thick, fur item that fit the false-elegant theme), but it was possible to see the short sleeves of the dress. I knew that deep in the sleeves of my coat were my narrow, delicate arms and long, thin fingers. There were expensive bracelets and rings and on my hand (not too many, just the right amount to be a little trashy).
Regardless, growing up out of the top of the dress was my long, elegant throat. My oval face was rested above that perch. I had a strong, but feminine chin sitting below thick, deep red lips. I knew that beneath those wide lips were perfectly straight, white teeth, but they weren't visible through my smirk. I had a small, slightly upturned pixie nose and wide, desperately gray eyes. My ears were quite small and large earrings hung from them. I knew that my face had a somewhat severe, icy beauty that made me look intelligent and intimidating. My hair was silky, full and impossibly black. It hung down loose halfway across my back and laid slightly across my eyes, giving me a mischievous air. The whole package was around 5'3 tall (not counting the heels) and a little over a hundred pounds (I'll never tell exactly how little).
I suppose that the only thing that threw off the vision was that, over my right shoulder and in the distance, I could see the doorman behind his small desk. He was looking at me, ill-concealed disgust on his face. It was roughly the same look that the driver who had picked me up and was waiting outside for me had provided when he opened the door and let me in. I guess they knew why I was there.
My beautifully maintained body split in half and I looked into the elevator. I looked briefly over my shoulder at the doorman. I slipped my long red tongue out from between my lips. I ran it along the thick length of my lips and winked at the doorman. He looked slightly flustered and turned away. But I didn't pay attention to what he did next. I turned back to the elevator and stepped inside.
Well, fuck the doorman. But he was right. He knew what I was doing here (had seen me here many times, in fact) and apparently didn't approve of it. That was fine by me. A callgirl can't afford thin skin. And at the age of 25, I was more than a veteran at this and barely even thought of the moral aspects of my work anymore.
Hell, I guess I've never really thought about the moral aspect of my work. I started this when I was 18 years old, fresh out of high school. I had absolutely no interest in college or the military or a job of any kind. My family never really gave two shits what I did. They had important lives (or so they thought) and didn't really have any time for me when I was growing up. They'd pissed away the money they'd inherited from my grandmother and weren't really interested in bankrolling me while I lived the same kind of pointless lives that they lived. But I knew I liked nice things, I wanted money, I was sexy and I liked fucking. Day after graduation, I put up an ad on Craiglist and the rest was history.
Some girls like to mythologize their first time, to build it up into some sort of terrible, horrible, wonderful event. I can remember talking to some of them. They'd cry. They'd describe every little detail. They would talk about the way it made them feel. It was like a made-for-TV movie. Lifetime: I was a Craigslist call girl. That wasn't my style. I had fucked before my first time getting paid. There were only two differences between normal sex and callgirl sex: I had to pretend it was good even when it was shit and I got paid. A little acting was well worth the paycheck. Guys would pay a premium for a young girl, right out of high school. I'd wear my brother's letter jacket when I gave a blowjob. Johns got a real kick out of it.
I didn't stay on Craiglist long. That was only a half-step up from being a junkie on the street in my opinion. I guess it was other girls who helped me out. You get numbers and contact information from a girl you got to know (in one way or another) when she couldn't work. You call or text a guy and say, "I am Mary's friend, she said we'd get along. How'd you like to go on a date?" He'd know what that meant and set something up. Eventually, I got together what I called my "stable." A collection of stalwart regulars who always paid, didn't hit, and I knew were clean (both in terms of disease and legal trouble). Sometimes a new guy would slip in for a date, but I relied on my regulars.
