I've had experience writing, both in general and in erotica, but this is the first story I've ever uploaded on this site. Hope you like it!
I'd had big plans for my future, once. I'd been making them up since before I began high school. I would go to Amsterdam for university, land a nice job there, and live my life in Holland. It would be wonderful, living in one of the freest places in the world, where everything I could ever need was a short bike ride through some of the most beautiful streets the world has to offer. The rich history, the transportation, it was all so terribly appealing. In my last year of high school, I got accepted into a university there. I was ecstatic, elated, overjoyed. I started planning the same day -- seeing what house I would rent, where I would work; I even landed a job that I would start as soon as I arrived. I learned Dutch. I saved up over the year, I had money for the plane ticket, for the first month of rent, a fund for the first few weeks of groceries -- I had it thought out.
The plane ride for anyone else would've been miserable. But for me, the only bad part was how long it took. I was too excited to be uncomfortable. I was running on an adrenaline high, I couldn't have fallen asleep in the most comfortable of beds, let alone the cramped confines of the plane.
I rushed off the plane, I almost sprinted to the baggage claim, I knocked off a wheel of my suitcase with how fast I was dragging it. I paid for my train to Amsterdam in Dutch just to see if I could do it. I hopped on the train and stared out the window the entire distance. When we pulled into the station, I was waiting at the door. I walked all the way to my building, soaking in everything the city had to offer.
Entering my room, it was small. It was shitty. It smelled funny. It was my favourite place in the universe. A place of my own -- I could put whatever I wanted in here. I could live here. Sure, I don't own it per se, but for all intents and purposes it was mine. I flopped onto the bed and let out a long, satisfied sigh.
After a few hours I'd gotten everything squared away. My clothes were in the drawers, I'd hooked up my phone and laptop to the WiFi, I'd gotten changed, bought groceries. I went down to my place of work, a grocery store chain where I'd be stocking shelves. There are worse jobs to have. When I arrived, however, I was greeted with:
"We're sorry, we already filled that position because we couldn't wait for you to get here."
The next few weeks were a downward spiral. I spent hours every day applying for jobs, handing out resumés, going to interviews, but I never managed to land a job. I had to start dipping into my university fund to afford food. I sold my laptop to meet rent.
Nothing worked. I cancelled my university application because I couldn't afford to travel to the campus, and had no way to get the money together to pay my tuition. I packed up what little remained and left the apartment.
How did it go so wrong, so quickly? I don't know. All I know is that on the street I got picked up by Damien.
Damien was from Cincinnati. He said I was pretty enough, and that if I worked with him I might make it as a prostitute. Of course, he was sly, so he found a way to word it that made it sound a lot better, but that was the gist. He told me to maintain my appearance as best I could and take every gig that came to me.
So that was what I did. Every dollar I was allowed I put into myself. Going to the gym, skincare, getting all my nutrients in, taking care of my hair, staying clean. I was the healthiest I'd ever been, and simultaneously the poorest. As for my work, he'd have me go after tourists hanging out in the red light district and work for low prices since there was always very little demand for male prostitutes. "There's room in this economy for five of you, and currently, there's three hundred." Damien would tell me. Sometimes he'd have me make films with his girls, and then I would get a percentage cut of the views. That was good -- views over time was a few bucks I could fall back on consistently.
...
I finished styling my hair just as my phone's screen lit up, accompanied by the buzz of the device rattling against the bathroom table. Picking it up, I read the text off the lock screen.
"Lot of people on the streets tonight. Be out at 21"
The text was from Damien. I did some quick mental math -- in my mind, I still operated on twelve-hour time. Nine PM, an hour and a half earlier than usual. I checked the time. Eight fourty-five. I could make it, if I rushed a bit.
I reacted to his message with a thumbs-up emoji, shut the screen off, and put the phone back down to finish getting myself together. I applied a bit of cologne, a tad of makeup (mostly to hide the bags under my eyes), straightened out my shirt, packed up my stuff, and left the restroom.
The city was still bright, with the sun refusing to relinquish its hold on the sky any time before ten PM. That was helpful, it made it easier to get where I needed to be -- that being the Red-Light District. It was a ten-minute walk from the restaurant bathroom I usually freshened up in. I chose this one in specific because it was one of the few in the city that was relatively clean, empty, and didn't charge me to use.
Checking my phone, I took note of the time: eight fifty-five. I silently cursed myself for not having a bike and picked up my pace.
Damien was right; the streets were especially populated tonight. If I was lucky, I might pick up two or three jobs before the night was over.
Arriving at the canal, I slowed down, taking a moment to catch my breath. I checked to make sure everything in my handbag was still there before making my rounds up and down the street.
After only about fifteen minutes, I noticed a woman staring me down. She looked significantly older than me, twenty or so years, with tan skin, straight dark hair, and piercing brown eyes. Indian, I reckoned. She had a great figure, and smooth skin despite her apparent age. Over her physique she wore a suit, business formal, with the jacket unbuttoned and hanging at her sides, the top button of the dress shirt undone, and the tie loosened.
She began making her way towards me. That startled me -- she didn't seem like the type who would need to pay. Hell, there was probably any number of men who would've paid her.
"Uh, h-hey m-miss," I stuttered out, internally cursing myself for my god-awful first impression, "what brings you around here?"
"I guess you could call it shopping." She replied with a smile that showed off her perfect teeth. Her accent confirmed my previous suspicions of her ethnicity.
"And, if you wouldn't mind me asking, what might you be in the market for?" I probed, matching her smile and trying to look slick.
She took a step closer, until she was in arm's reach. Her smile dissipated. She reached a hand out to touch me, paused, and asked "do you mind?"
"Not at all." I answered. Some customers liked to feel the goods to know I was good product. I didn't mind -- it was part of my job to not mind.
She placed her hand on my chin, feeling around my jawline, running her fingers along my neck, lifting my head and bringing it back down. She hooked a thumb in my cheek and pulled, inspecting my teeth. "Stick out your tongue." She instructed, removing her thumb from my mouth. I abided. She didn't say anything, but she seemed pleased.
Her hand drifted to my shirt. Lifting up the hem, she did a half grin at my abdominals before lowering the shirt back down.
"Perfect." She said. "You'll be perfect."
"Oh, um, great." I said, surprised she didn't go for a feel of my member -- that was usually what my clients did when they did a physical inspection. "Should I take you up to my spot, or-"
"I have a hotel." She interrupted.
I blinked a few times. "Let me just tell my boss, it's a policy thing." I pulled out my phone and sent out the message. "Would you like to hear my rates first?"
