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She was 27 the day she accepted her first task in the realm of personal services, but they told her she might and ought to pass for more youthful.

So, that week, she was 22 to anyone who asked. It was the ideal age, you see: old sufficient to consume, likely a university graduate (indicating some step of intelligence and conversational ability), but still young, flexible, and desirable. Valuable to a large range of tastes.

To put it simply? Rewarding.

Offering yourself was legal here, to reduce it to easy terms, although she didn’t understand that’s what she ‘d be doing the very first day she walked in. She didn’t understand she ‘d become an item named Annika *, the name she gave to her new work persona.

This pseudonym didn’t just safeguard her on paper– it protected her sense of self. She could remove, dissociate, disappear. Annika would do all the work while she saw from a safe range, hoping each time she ‘d come out with her dignity intact.

This was just short-lived, she informed herself. This didn’t define her, didn’t negate all she ‘d accomplished and hoped to achieve afterwards.

On a cool September evening in Melbourne, Australia, not-yet-Annika pushed the call button next to 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 sounded. She pressed the door available to a long narrow hallway lit with strips of multicolour LED lights; floor-to-ceiling mirrors lined the ideal wall, closed doors lined the left. “Come down to the end,” called the voice.

She did.

Later on, when asked what she imagined discovering there, she truthfully had no answer. She ‘d come in for a club promo and modelling position; she ‘d known in an instant that hallway didn’t lead to one.

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

” For the cash, obviously.”.

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

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

” You look great,” he said, deep blue eyes drinking in her exposed body. “Your underwear is truly pretty.”.

She shivered under the blast of a/c, shivering in her four-inch heels, but perhaps it was something else. “Thank you.”.

” So, let’s start? Do not worry, I’ll walk you through it.”.

In the middle of the room stood what looked like a run-of-the-mill massage table, upholstered in a cushioned black material, with a hole at one end. This table (along with all the other ones here) had one strange distinction: a second hole, right where one’s lower torso would line up.

” Grab a few of the oil. Warm it between your hands. We’ll begin with a back massage, great and simple.”.

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 might do this. She knew how to provide a back massage, no problem.

His voice came smothered from below after a number of 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 extremely first brush of her fingertips.

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

She followed. She was good at following instructions. She surprised when he tapped her wrist.

” I’m gon na have you do a body slide. Take off your bra … yes … oh, you look delicious. Get on the table, that’s it, don’t be afraid. Put some oil on your chest. Just slide all over me, there you go. Oh, child, that’s so attractive …”.

Annika slid and winced, skin on skin, letting her primal instincts take over. There was one thing left to learn.

” You can do the reverse slide. Take off your panties and climb back up here. Program me that stunning …” He must have seen the search her face, since he added, “Don’t worry, I will not touch you there.”.

Facing 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 once again. “It’s a beautiful view, sweetie. Keep going.”.

Yummy? Was that what she was? She didn’t feel tasty; she had not wanted to be. Instead, she felt ludicrous, uneasy, even traitorous. A plaything for men with disposable income under the very finely veiled guise of “masseuse”.

Mainly, she felt contrasted. Since she also understood how much power she held. This was a location where consumers paid for the privilege of putting their most delicate parts into the hands of a stranger.

” That’s an excellent girl. Complete me off,” he gasped. Her hands handled a life of their own, moving much faster.

He grasped her thighs and launched with one last sigh. And it was over.

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