Dirty Dollar Bills

I open my little black notebook to check my next appointment, see the name in the next entry and shudder. I’ll definitely be earning my fee tonight. I put the notebook back in my purse and start to head to the location. Time to put my game face on.

He is already waiting as I enter the room, his 400 lb. frame testing the integrity of the ornate stool he is piled on top of. His body glistens with oil, little rivulets running between the folds in his skin, no doubt mixing with the grime and gunk hiding in there.

In my experience - with regards to personal hygiene - I’ve found that the very rich go in one of two directions. They either take advantage of their wealth to have an army of tailors, beauticians and stylists (plus the occasional cosmetic surgeon) on call 24/7. They get regularly plucked, waxed, shaved, exfoliated, moisturized and doused in fragrances so expensive the average person would need to sell a kidney to even sniff it.

Otherwise they view their wealth as a vessel to remove them from the everyday norms of society. Why dress nice? Why bathe? Why perform these rituals of vanity? They have priced themselves out of a need for attractiveness or desirability, reasoning that anything they need from another human being they can just buy. Maybe that’s where the term ‘filthy rich’ comes from?

This client falls very firmly into the latter category.

His wealth is evident from the garish opulence of the room we are in, every surface either gilded or covered in a fresco, floors of marble and curtains of silk. If he doesn’t have at least a handful of furnishings crafted from the carcasses of endangered animals I would be stunned.

I dread the sessions with this bloated biohazard of a man. Not that I look forward to any of my sessions really but, as with anything else, apprehension has levels.

I have two specific traits that make me suited to this kind of work, one of those being a very strong stomach. I smell the toxic scent of this unwashed sack of humanity and continue working and smiling, without fear of covering him in my last meal. The other trait is discretion. I’ve worked hard to gain the trust necessary to be exposed to some of the more particular cravings of my client base. In this line of work silence really is golden.

In this instance it is mutually beneficial. Amongst the collection of kinks being explored is a latex fetish, meaning I get to do the whole session in a full latex bodysuit. Have you ever been washing dishes and had a piece of wet food touch your bare skin? If so, imagine instead of wet food it was a greasy mound of humanity that smelled like a decaying tooth and you’ll understand my relief at being covered from the neck down.

This client never wanted sex. Couldn’t have it in fact. At full growth his equipment was roughly the same size as a baby carrot. Supposedly it was a side effect of an experimental treatment for male pattern baldness - to be fair he does have a lovely head of hair.

Erotic massage is the order of the day, hence the oil slicked skin.

I start to massage him, my latex clad hands gliding over his heavily oiled skin. It’s like massaging a bin bag full of cottage cheese. I repress my shudders and move south.

As I work him over, his breathing grows heavier. This is unfortunate as his lack of personal hygiene also extends to his dental care. My face betrays nothing. I soldier on.

I perform like I’m giving it my all, like this is my masterpiece, when in actual fact I’m just going through the motions. Running through a choreographed list of moves I prepared ahead of time. It makes it easier to mentally check out.

As we’re nearing the end he does something that catches my eye, he makes a gesture with his right hand. In my periphery I see one of the silk curtains pushed aside by a girl dressed similarly to myself. She is carrying a metal briefcase and a small stool. She places the stool in front of us, opens the briefcase and places it on top. At no point do I take my focus from the client. At no point do I stop working.

A deep groan starts to build from his very center, he starts shuddering violently. This makes his belly jiggle so much, I nearly giggle. But I keep control, I keep my composure.

The groan reaches its climax just as he does. He adjusts his body to aim at the now open briefcase. As he finishes I take my first good look inside. It’s filled with cash. Looking at the bundles I estimate it to be around $20,000. Cold hard cash, doused in our man’s secret sauce.

This is a new wrinkle to his game, but it’s important to keep things fresh I suppose.

The curtains part again and a collection of girls file into the room. They drape the client in a silk robe and help him into a wheelchair, garishly decorated with god knows how many precious metals and gems.

He makes another gesture. One of the girls closes the briefcase and hands it to me. My composure breaks slightly as I look at the client in shock. He smiles and winks at me before being led away.

I’m stunned as I stand there holding the case. A ridiculous tip, more than my original fee even. I allow myself a small smile. This gets me a big step closer to getting out of this game. I couldn’t care less about the mess on the money. I’m not above cleaning off some dirty dollar bills.