All images shot by Kaitlin Parry, courtesy of the author.
I fucking love being a whore. I don’t mean in the colloquial sense (though, yes, I am a slutty little whore). I mean in my legitimate role as a card-carrying courtesan in a regulated Nevada brothel. Until a few years ago, my life was pretty “normal”—salutatorian of high school and college, athlete, humanitarian, fashionista, comedian—you know, your average good girl. Sure, I was doing a little sugar dating in secret, but it wasn’t until my most recent ex dumped me that I finally felt brave (or angry) enough to live out the fullest extent of my money kink and start my job at the bordello.
It couldn’t have gone better. Since spreading my legs wings, I’ve collected fascinating stories, pleasured countless cocks and pussies, and felt my heart swell bigger than the Grinch at Christmas, but one unexpected night sticks out more than the rest:
I was midway through my two-week “tour”—a courtesan’s temporary stay living and working at the cathouse—when I walked into the bar and saw a very obviously gay couple sitting at the far end. Undoubtedly, a rarity to see. The bordello is pretty straight in that they only employ female courtesans (sigh), so I figured these husbands were just stopping by for the “freakshow,” as my lady co-workers and I lovingly call it when people visit to look, not touch.
So, I felt zero nerves or pressure striking up a conversation with Cal and Jamie because, hey, I had nothing to lose and (I thought) nothing to gain, other than a potentially-entertaining chat. We hit it off right away as the gays and I usually do (I myself am a raging femme queerdo). They were from San Fran, and both had daddy vibes. Cal held a senior position at a tech company you definitely know and use on a daily basis. Jamie was in the crypto world, which, as we all know, can be up and down, but through our convo, it became clear he was on an up. Too bad they won’t be booking with me, I thought, realizing these two probably had a ton of money to spend given their career sectors.
“We’re in the process of having a baby!” Jamie excitedly shared a couple of drinks in.
“Oh, no way!” I said, “What method are you using?” We were vibing enough that I felt comfortable getting personal—I mean, if there’s anywhere you can go deep fast, it’s a fucking brothel.
“Surrogacy. She’s in the IVF process right now,” Cal answered.
“Aww! Congratulations!” I said, taking a sip of my sparkling water and wondering silently which one’s sperm made the final embryo. “I myself will not be having kids in this lifetime, but I love a good breeding kink.”
“No way!” Jamie exclaimed. “We’ve actually gotten super into breeding dirty talk because of surrogacy…”
Wait, hang on…did I just feel a flirt?! Are these two going to book with me after all?! I felt my pussy light up inside.
“By the way, you’re super fucking sexy, and this outfit is killer,” Jamie said, gesturing up and down my all-black look. I had garter straps grabbing my thighs, a sheer skirt atop a thong, and gold chains dripping around my tits, which sat up in my see-through bralette. (The same outfit I wore in the photoshoot accompanying this article, shot by Kaitlin Parry.)
I blushed. If there was any chance to be with either one (or both) of these men, I would jump at it—a bisexual man happens to be my favorite type of lover. Something about the vulnerability in this society to have a cock swinging between your legs and openly swinging both ways really does it for me. I went in for the soft sell:
“Oh my gosh—thank you! Well, I don’t have any appointments for the next few hours in case you’re interested in exploring more with me…But I wasn’t sure, since you’re married, if either of you are into women…”
To my surprise, Jamie downed the rest of his gin and tonic, jumped up out of his seat, gave Cal a kiss goodbye, and we were off.
The negotiation was one of the easiest I’ve ever had. Jamie was a point-and-click (the kind of guy who has enough money not to haggle), simply picking the amount of time he wanted off of my menu. He also passed his “dick check” or “D.C.”—a visual STI screening required before any booking.
We headed to the office so Cal could pay for Jamie’s time with me—how fucking sweet of him to treat his husband to a woman. (Remind me to get a spouse who pays for my sexual indulgences if I ever decide to get hitched.)
I had Jamie take a hot shower with lavender essential oils to relax before we got started. While he was in there, I set the room and the mood, putting on my “songs to fuck to for the end of the world” playlist and turning down all the lights except the twinkly fairy ones that hung above my bed. Cal had spent enough money on our booking to give us access to any of the brothel facilities we wanted, but Jamie loved the way I’d filled my room with my own artwork, so we elected to stay “home.”
When he came out of the shower, I could clearly see his erection lifting the towel around his waist—yum.
“Come here, Daddy,” I said, crawling on all fours atop the mattress to show off my ass.
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to BOYSLUT to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.