I had fantasized about this for a long, long time. But I never dared to go through with it. Not until now, not until I had moved into another city. A city where I knew noone, far enough away from anyone who might recognize me. But now? Now is what feels like the perfect time to go through with one of my deepest sexual fantasies. The perfect time to work as a prostitute. To become a whore.
I have it all planned out in advance. I bought a cheap, slutty outfit. Not something I would usually wear, but perfect for this: a tiny little lace thong and matching bra, just barely enough to cover my pussy and nipples, and almost completely see thru. A pair of stockings, going up to mid thigh, topped with lace. A tiny skirt, just barely covering my ass cheeks, riding low on my hips, pleated and checkered. A tight white crop top, half a size too small for me. A tiny denim bolero jacket. A pair of black leather stiletto booties, ankle high and decorated with rhinestones. And lastly, a tiny handbag, stuffed with a pack of condoms, and a few bills of cash for giving change.
All of that was in a duffle bag when I left home and took the bus to the train station. There, I went into one of the stalls, and quickly changed, putting my normal street clothes into the duffle, and changing into my whore uniform. I quickly did my makeup in the dirty mirror, intentionally overdoing it a bit. I'm aiming for slutty, whoreis, not well done makeup. When I step out of the railway station toilet, I feel different. Cheap. Slutty, For sale. Like a whore. I quickly stash my duffle in a locker and lock it, the key the only other thing in my tiny little handbag other than condoms, and cash.
My heart is hammering as I make my way to the street I had scouted before: The street that all the street whores were standing on, waiting for clients. The one that everybody knew but nobody talked about. Luckily, the subway was mostly empty, so I got there with just two or three catcalls by men late from their shifts. I feel equally anxious and excited, will I meet one of them as a client later?
Walking the last two or three minutes through the empty streets to the spot I picked, I feel surreal, like I'm floating. I'm excited, but also nervous. My stomach is fluttering, and I feel a wash of arousal. Soon, I'm going to stand on the street to get picked up, like a whore! Soon I'll be a whore! I try to imagine the clients I'll get while I walk, my stiletto heels clicking on the pavement, echoing in the cool, damp air. Rich men, looking for a cheap thrill? Older men with dead bedrooms, pent up and looking for release? What if it's someone unattractive, or a worker, sweaty and dirty on the way home? What if he doesn't want to use a condom? What if a pimp decides I'm on his territory, or the police decide to do a shakedown?
Then I reach the spot I have chosen. I swallow down the lump of nervousness in my throat, plaster on a fake smile, and stand beneath the lonely streetlight on the corner. Waiting for a car to stop. Waiting for my first client to stop, waiting to become a whore.
(Feel free to also send me a private message if you prefer that
)
I have it all planned out in advance. I bought a cheap, slutty outfit. Not something I would usually wear, but perfect for this: a tiny little lace thong and matching bra, just barely enough to cover my pussy and nipples, and almost completely see thru. A pair of stockings, going up to mid thigh, topped with lace. A tiny skirt, just barely covering my ass cheeks, riding low on my hips, pleated and checkered. A tight white crop top, half a size too small for me. A tiny denim bolero jacket. A pair of black leather stiletto booties, ankle high and decorated with rhinestones. And lastly, a tiny handbag, stuffed with a pack of condoms, and a few bills of cash for giving change.
All of that was in a duffle bag when I left home and took the bus to the train station. There, I went into one of the stalls, and quickly changed, putting my normal street clothes into the duffle, and changing into my whore uniform. I quickly did my makeup in the dirty mirror, intentionally overdoing it a bit. I'm aiming for slutty, whoreis, not well done makeup. When I step out of the railway station toilet, I feel different. Cheap. Slutty, For sale. Like a whore. I quickly stash my duffle in a locker and lock it, the key the only other thing in my tiny little handbag other than condoms, and cash.
My heart is hammering as I make my way to the street I had scouted before: The street that all the street whores were standing on, waiting for clients. The one that everybody knew but nobody talked about. Luckily, the subway was mostly empty, so I got there with just two or three catcalls by men late from their shifts. I feel equally anxious and excited, will I meet one of them as a client later?
Walking the last two or three minutes through the empty streets to the spot I picked, I feel surreal, like I'm floating. I'm excited, but also nervous. My stomach is fluttering, and I feel a wash of arousal. Soon, I'm going to stand on the street to get picked up, like a whore! Soon I'll be a whore! I try to imagine the clients I'll get while I walk, my stiletto heels clicking on the pavement, echoing in the cool, damp air. Rich men, looking for a cheap thrill? Older men with dead bedrooms, pent up and looking for release? What if it's someone unattractive, or a worker, sweaty and dirty on the way home? What if he doesn't want to use a condom? What if a pimp decides I'm on his territory, or the police decide to do a shakedown?
Then I reach the spot I have chosen. I swallow down the lump of nervousness in my throat, plaster on a fake smile, and stand beneath the lonely streetlight on the corner. Waiting for a car to stop. Waiting for my first client to stop, waiting to become a whore.
(Feel free to also send me a private message if you prefer that
)
