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Copyright 2016 Adrian Amos

Smashwords Edition


Daddy's High-Class Call Girl

Part of the “Horny House” Series

By Adrian Amos

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Author's note: All characters depicted in this work of fiction are 18 years of age or older.

I stitch on a smile, the one I practiced in the mirror, the one I know guys like. Kind of innocent, kind of seductive, but mostly fuckable. A fuckable smile. That's all that matters in my job.

If I can hook them with a curl of my lips, then I've won the game.

They're going to pay—I'm already walking to them, they've already called—but maybe I can get an upsell working for me as well. Whatever they want. Whatever they'll pay for.

I can't get a buyer if I'm not for sale.

I breathe deep. Practice. This is practice, don't forget. I haven't done this yet. It's my first time, but I feel like I have it all under control.

How hard can it be? They've already invited me in, and once a man starts thinking with his dick, there's nothing stopping me from getting him to order off the menu.

At least, that's what my handler wants.

More food for more clients. How else am I going to pay for college? My handler says you can't make money without quite a bit of sacrifice.

The name handler sounds funny, but I have to remember to keep it as professional as possible. We want this to seem like a legit business for anyone who might be curious.

High-class, that's the image we want to present.

I look down at my dress, flattening the curves with my palms. My dress looks kind of fancy, but it's really a cheap knock-off. What do you expect? I haven't made a dime yet, so a dime-store, clearance-rack item makes sense.

But I love it anyway. It's this bluish-gray, yarn-like mess. Simulating something fancy, but nearly falling apart at the seams. I don't think a guy is going to pay much attention to the fabric anyway. What he'll see is the threads unraveling at the ends, and the strings stretching across my chest, barely holding me together and revealing the curves of my cleavage.

The tiny strings, the loose strands, makes it seem like my dress just wants to come undone with the simplest tug. It makes me feel vulnerable to the desires of men, which makes me feel a whole lot sexier. And if I feel sexy, then I'm projecting sexy, which is all I need.

I knock on the hotel door, the one I was given over email. The hotel's nice, of course. I'm not trying to be a dollar hooker on the corner. I want the prestige of being a 'call girl', which means a higher-class, richer type of clientele. Hopefully, fewer problems is the goal.

It takes a moment for a voice to resound from deep in the room.

“Come in,” the man calls out.

The door beeps and I turn the handle, entering the low-lit room. It's like every step I take is another dose of adrenaline. I'm nervous as hell. Like I said, never done this before. My first client could be a prince, or a drugged-up frat boy.

The door swinging shut behind me, it takes a moment to adjust my eyes to the room. The shades are drawn and the man is sitting in the corner on the sofa chair.

As I approach, I'm caught by surprise.

What the hell? What's he doing here?

“Don't give me that look. I'm not throwing you to the wolves yet. You need some practice first.”

“Practice?” I thought I practiced enough.

He nods, patting his navy-blue slacks. “Come, sit on my lap.”

I scoff. “You're joking, right?”

“I'm not,” my father says, “I need to make sure you can do this right.”

“But Daddy—“

Daddy raises a finger. “Ah, I'm your handler.”

“No, not now. It's just you and me. There's no one to be professional for.” I both slink my shoulders and breathe a sigh of relief. I don't know which one I prefer: the relief that I don't have to go through with this—just yet—or the defeat that Daddy tricked me into thinking I was about to have my first client.

“True, just you and me. But I want you to pretend with me. Like roleplaying. Your first time shouldn't be with a stranger.”

“But, Daddy, this is weird.”

He chuckles, “Not as weird as letting you be a call girl in the first place.” He pats his lap again, motioning me over.

“Yeah, but you didn't force me Daddy. I wanted to be one.”

“I know, babygirl, I just want to look out for you.” There's a hint of sadness in his eyes, and I'm left feeling sort of bad for him.

I twist my lips but eventually make my way to Daddy's seat, turning and sitting on his lap. The warmth of his body is refreshing against the draft constantly running up my dress.

I never said the dress was comfortable.

Daddy's hand goes around my lower back, which makes me stretch out as a soothing sensation flows through me. It's not what you'd expect trying to make money off of horny guys, but then again, this isn't just any guy.

This is the man who went against his own wishes to make me happy.

The man who said it was okay to pursue my dreams.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

I nod, placing my hands on my crossed knees. “What's there to practice, Daddy?”

“Your pitch,” he says.

I laugh. “What's there to pitch? It shouldn't be that hard.”

“It's all a craft, babygirl. You need to know what to say to men to get them to spend their money. You might be here, but not everyone's willing to let their bills go.”

“What should I do?” I ask.

“Guide the conversation. I'm not a thug, not some bum off the streets. I'm a wealthy man, let's say, and I can be both dominant and curious at a woman's resistance.”


“Playfulness, let's say.”

“So let me start.” Daddy clears his throat before continuing, “You are one beautiful woman,” he says, his tone taking on a more masculine edge.

“Thank you, Daddy.”

He chuckles, but then his eyes look past me. “I like that,” he says. “Maybe you should call your clients Daddy.”

“Are you serious?” I ask, furrowing my brow. I don't know if I can do that. Daddy's Daddy, but other guys? Have they earned it?

“Oh, the things I want to do to you.”

I turn away, biting my lip and blushing. I don't think it's because any man could say these things to me; I think it's because Daddy's the one saying them. It's so strange, and oddly erotic. But if he wants to play this game, then we can. I'll show him I know what it takes to sell.

“Ah, ah,” I warn. “Things done to me cost money.”

“What about things done to me?” he asks.

“Like what?” I play, innocently.

“Like sucking my dick.”

“Daddy!” I laugh, while a burst of energy flows down my stomach to the mound above my pussy. The suggestion is so sexy it throws me off-guard.

“No laughing, babygirl. How do you respond to a man being aggressive? It's important.”

I lick my lips. “Things like that... they also cost money. Do you want me to suck your dick?”

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