I kinda regret going out dressed so sexy. It’s getting too cold to be dressed like a whore, but my boyfriend loved my outfit.
So, we had sex at his house, but I couldn’t spend the night. Then, when I got home, my dad wouldn’t open the door to let me in. He just held it by the chain, and yelled at me for being a “Slut.” I wasn’t a slut, not yet, I just had a boyfriend. Just one, and I never cheated on him.
Not yet…
So, I bundled up as best I could in my jacket, but it wasn’t long enough to cover my legs. The dress wasn’t much longer, barely covering my underwear, and the fishnets weren’t very warm. The heels hurt my feet, too. I started shivering before I found a corner to curl up in, and eventually my body heat warmed it up enough that I could stop shivering.
I just crossed my arms, across my knees, and put my head down, until I finally got a little sleep. We’d been fooling around since summer, and my boyfriend has a thing for hookers. Of course, they’re sexy, and they dress sexy. Not high class call girls, or even strippers. Street walkers, and I guess that’s what I was thinking about when I finally slipped off to sleep.
To dream about him driving up, and rolling down his window. Walking up, and asking him if he wanted a date. My boyfriend, but playing a stranger, and standing by the alley with the ladies of the night. Honestly, I have no idea how they do it. It’s not even that cold yet, surprisingly, but imagine waiting for Johns all night, with snow on the ground, and slush in the gutters to splash up and hit their bare legs when cars drive past, but don’t stop for a good time.
“Huh?” Finally, the baker showed up. His headlights shown right in the doorway, then cut out when he turned off the engine. I got up, rubbing my eyes, and checked the time.
It was almost exactly 4:30 AM. “Hey, um. I’ll get out of your way, but. Is that coffee?” He had one of those big plastic insulated cups, with a sippy cap. He pulled it off, but he had a mask on, and I could see his breath blowing through it. “Mh,” sure enough, it was warm, with milk, cream, or half and half, but way too much sugar. I didn’t care, I don’t even like coffee, let alone with all that stuff, but it was warm.
He unlocked the door, and held his hand up, when I tried to give it back. “Why don’t you finish it? I just have to preheat the ovens, I’ll be right back.”
So, coffee. Noted, it not only helps keep you warm, when you’re this underdressed, but also the caffeine probably helps them stay up all night to make money. Why don’t they just use Craigslist, or something? Because they’re not call girls, they’re probably homeless, and just hooking for money to get a hotel room, or something.
I’m guessing a lot of them got kicked out, or ran away from their cock blocking fathers. Or maybe they’re gay, but they still have sex for money, because it’s better than freezing to death, living on the streets. It’s sure not a glamorous life, but considering my grades. This might be my life, in a couple few years. I better get used to it, just in case. It’s not like I can afford college, or get a job, let alone work, and stay in school.
I don’t want to be a dropout, but let’s face facts. I’m probably not going to make it, my boyfriend isn’t doing much better, and he likes the idea of going out with a hooker so much?
There were bells on the door, so I heard him open up. “You better come in, and get warm.” He took his cup, “I made a pot of coffee, but the Baristas won’t be here for a couple more hours.”
That’s why I picked the Cafe Bakery. It was the first place in the neighborhood that I knew would open up. “Um,” I pulled the $20.00 my boyfriend gave me out of the hem of my fishnets. He gave me a pat on the ass on the way out too, but I pulled the minidress back down over the garter belt. I should probably get those knee high hooker boots I’ve been looking at. They’ve got to be a little warmer. “So, you can’t run the register?”
He rolled a big rack of pans out, where I could see him. “We’ve got some day-olds, I could ring you up. Never mind.” He pulled a basket out from behind the counter, and dropped it on the empty case. “Take whatever you want.”
He was so nice to me, and not the kind of man, I’m normally attracted to. Okay, my mom said “Never trust a skinny chef,” but they had some croissants that weren’t stuck to the plastic wrap. So, I went over, and poured a cup out of the French Press. I guess that goes double for bakers, but I can’t help it.
He’s a nice guy, but he could be a dirty old man. Cheating on his wife, with teenage hookers, and I was starting to warm up to the idea. Literally, the coffee helped, and the heat coming out of the bakery too, but he saw how I was dressed. He probably saw the crotch of my sexy underwear when I had my knees up. He didn’t see my garter belt when I got the money out, but as long as I’m dressed as a hooker.
I could probably do it with a man like that, if the money was right. What other career choices do I have? I could work in a place like this, they have a Help Wanted sign out front, and I kinda know how to bake. Yeah, cookies, and stuff. Muffins, and cakes from a mix, I could probably learn how to do it from scratch. Maybe not croissants right away, but it’s better than walking the streets, right?
Let’s face it, we’re talking about minimum wage here. $7.25 an hour, when I could make almost 15 times that, in less than an hour if he finishes early. The John, I bet most of them don’t even last 5 minutes, let alone a full hour, and honestly? I like the idea of being a whore. I know, that’s supposed to be a bad word, and my dad uses it as an insult. No daughter of mine is going out dressed like a whore. My boyfriend is into it, and now I could see myself actually doing it with an old fat guy, like the baker.
Realistically, if they all looked like Richard Gere, and had penthouses, and supercars like Pretty Woman. They’d have high class call girls, they wouldn’t bother with dirty back alley hookers popping a squat behind some dumpster. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I can actually see myself like that, and not even feel bad about it. A lot easier than getting dressed up, and going to the Kentucky Derby. Socializing with the rich, and famous, partying with Paris, and Nicole. The Kardashians.
I’m just not that kind of girl, I’m a whore. I was born a whore, I just had to wait until I was old enough to walk the streets, and get the attention of desperate men with money. My dad might as well have called me Destiny.
Finally, my sugar daddy got finished washing his big ass coffee cup, and came out for the rest of the coffee. He brought heavy whipping cream in a quart carton, poured a bunch of sugar in, and mixed it up with an ice tea spoon. You know what? I never noticed how good a man looks in an apron. Even one with such a curvy body, I bet he was warm, and soft, and cuddly under there. I wonder if he’s got a big fat dick?
“So, what’s your story?” He brought it over to the booth, and sat across from me.
“Huh! Not much to tell. I was out late last night, and my dad wouldn’t let me in, so I found the first place that would be open, and here I am.” I pretty much just held the paper cup to keep my hands warm, I never even took a sip.
“Oh, I’m sorry, but I thought you might be homeless.”
“Or a prostitute. I know, I dressed up like this for my boyfriend. He’s into hookers, so I like to play hooker for him.”
“Oh, I didn’t want to say anything, but you’re not even a little jealous of him, using pros?”
“Pros?” I laughed, “Short for prostitute, I guessed.” I like the sound of that, I’m not a hooker, I’m a pro. “No, not real hookers. He just likes the idea, but I just play hooker games to get him in the mood. He doesn’t really know any street walkers. Honestly, is that still a thing?”
“Well, I don’t know. Maybe in the bigger cities like New York, or LA. Most of the ones around are online.”
“Exactly. He doesn’t like call girls, hookers. I like to hang out in an alley, for him to pick me up. So, he can play the John, and I can walk up to the window. I can’t believe I’m telling you all this, but you’re a great listener.” I looked over at his ring finger. “You’re not married? Or you take it off to kneed the dough.”
“No,” he pulled it out of his baker’s jacket. White, and double breasted under the apron, he had his wedding ring on a silver chain around his neck, with a cross, and some tiny saint’s medallion. “Divorced, but I don’t wear it any more.”
“Oh, too bad.” It would be even hotter if he was married.
He shrugged, “After the kids left, my wife.” He tucked it back in his collar. “Ex wife, she went insane with grief. She acted like they were dead, when they were just away at college, and we tried to have another kid, but it didn’t work out. Empty Nest Syndrome, the doctors call it. She finally found another man that could give her kids.”
…
It took me a while to think of something to say to that. Now, I think I understand why some women don’t like talkers. He’s almost not like a stranger any more. Even though I don’t know his name. I guess it’s hotter if it’s anonymous, or he acts like a stranger, like my boyfriend. I wonder if he’d like to play Pimp?
“Um,” I twisted back to look at the window. “It says you’re hiring? I’m not a baker, but I could learn.”
“I’m actually the pastry chef. We just need a dish washer, and busser.”
“Well, I can wash dishes. I need a job, but most places won’t hire me, because I don’t have experience.”
“Okay, you’re hired. You’re going to have to change into something, a little more appropriate for work, but when can you start?”
“Well, I’ll see when I can get back in, to take a shower.”
He looked down, at my open jacket, low neck line, and the exposed sides of my bra cups. I pulled up my dress, but I bet he was imagining me naked, in the shower. Maybe coming out in a towel to take off, when I see him waiting for me in the bed. Better make it a hotel room bed.
“Thanks,” I pushed the $20.00 across the table, and grabbed my purse.
“Keep it, you need it more than me, so just call it a free meal. Your first day at work.”
“Thanks again,” I put my heel up on the bench seat, and tucked it back in my garter belt. “I’ll be right back.”
“Do you have some non-slip shoes? It gets a little slippery back there, especially around the dish pit.”
I just shook my head, and bundled up my half exposed B cups. The bell rang on my way out, but it was muffled when I shut the door.
He’s not a baker, he’s a Pastry Chef. Just like I’m not a real prostitute.
Not yet, but he could be my Sugar Daddy, if he wants…
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