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She was 27 the day she accepted her first job in the realm of personal services, but they told her she might and must pass for younger.

That week, she was 22 to anyone who asked. It was the perfect age, you see: old enough to consume, likely a university graduate (indicating some procedure of intelligence and conversational capability), but still young, flexible, and desirable. Marketable to a wide range of tastes.

In other words? Successful.

Selling yourself was legal here, to lower it to easy terms, although she didn’t realize that’s what she ‘d be doing the very first day she walked in. She didn’t know she ‘d end up being a product named Annika *, the name she offered to her new work personality.

This pseudonym didn’t just safeguard her on paper– it safeguarded her sense of self. She could detach, dissociate, vanish. Annika would do all the work while she saw from a safe range, hoping each time she had actually brought out her self-respect intact.

This was just temporary, she told herself. This didn’t specify her, didn’t negate all she ‘d accomplished and intended to accomplish afterwards.

On a cool September night in Melbourne, Australia, not-yet-Annika pushed the call button beside an unmarked metal door. A female voice crackled through the speaker: “Hello.”.

” Hi, I’m here for the interview? From the Craigslist advertisement?”.

The buzzer called. She pressed the door open to a long narrow corridor lit with strips of multicolour LED lights; floor-to-ceiling mirrors lined the ideal wall, closed doors lined the. “Come down to the end,” called the voice.

She did.

Later, when asked what she thought of discovering there, she honestly had no answer. She ‘d come in for a club promo and modelling position; she ‘d understood in an immediate that hallway didn’t result in one.

Later on, when asked why she remained a complete week once she understood what it had to do with, her reply came easily:.

” For the money, of course.”.

Annika made over $7,500 in eight days. And she didn’t even need to fuck anyone.

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Her very first consumer, a white male in his 40s, provided some much-needed on-the-job training.

” You look nice,” he said, deep blue eyes drinking in her exposed body. “Your underwear is actually quite.”.

She shivered under the blast of cooling, trembling in her four-inch heels, but maybe it was something else. “Thank you.”.

” So, let’s get started? Do not fret, I’ll walk you through it.”.

In the middle of the space stood what looked like an ordinary massage table, upholstered in a cushioned black product, with a hole at one end. This table (along with all the other ones here) had one strange difference: a second hole, right where one’s lower upper body would line up.

” Grab some of the oil. Warm it between your hands. We’ll start with a back massage, easy and nice.”.

He eliminated his clothing, all of it, and laid face down on the table.

Annika placed her hands gingerly on his shoulders and took a deep breath. She could do this. She understood how to provide a back massage, no problem.

His voice came smothered from below after numerous minutes. Massage my legs and move up to my ass. Reach in between my legs, don’t be shy.

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He stiffened to full mast at the very first brush of her fingertips.

” Oh, that’s ideal. I’m going to turn around now. You can massage my chest and keep playing with me.”.

She followed. She was good at following instructions. When he tapped her wrist, she stunned.

” I’m gon na have you do a body slide. Remove your bra … yes … oh, you look tasty. Get on the table, that’s it, don’t hesitate. Put some oil on your chest. Just slide all over me, there you go. Oh, baby, that’s so hot …”.

Her mind was blank. Annika slid and winced, skin on skin, letting her primal impulses take over. She currently knew how to drive a male insane. However there was something left to learn.

” You can do the reverse slide. Remove your panties and climb up back up here. Program me that stunning …” He needs to have seen the look on her face, because he added, “Don’t fret, I won’t touch you there.”.

Dealing with towards his feet she straddled him and leaned forward just so, her back arched ever so slightly, her intimate parts on full display screen.

” Oh, delicious,” he purred again. “It’s a beautiful view, sweetheart. Keep going.”.

Yummy? Was that what she was? She didn’t feel yummy; she hadn’t wished to be. Instead, she felt absurd, self-conscious, even traitorous. A plaything for men with disposable income under the very finely veiled guise of “masseuse”.

Mainly, she felt clashed. Because she also understood just how much power she held. This was a place where clients paid for the benefit of putting their most sensitive parts into the hands of a complete stranger, after all.

” That’s a good girl. Complete me off,” he gasped. Her hands handled a life of their own, moving quicker.

He gripped her thighs and released with one final sigh. And it was over.

At the end of those 45 minutes, she had $110 cash in her hand. It was enough to convince her to accept the next walk-in.