Chapter 60: Chapter 60
I shoved up into her one last time, burying myself as deep as I could, before I forced my hands to grip her waist and lift her off. My cock slipped free with a wet pop, glistening with both our juices.
"Quick," she urged, voice sharp.
I grunted, stroking myself fast, my cock angled up toward her stomach as she leaned over me, still straddling my thighs, tits hanging down close enough to drive me insane. My breath broke into ragged gasps, and then I let out a strangled moan as I came hard—thick streams painting across her flat belly, dripping toward her navel.
She chuckled, watching me twitch through it, my cum spread messy over her skin. "There you go. Good boy."
I collapsed back against the couch, chest heaving, cock softening in my hand. She stayed perched on me, smirking down at the sticky mess between us.
"Another round?" she asked lightly, wiping a finger through the cum on her stomach and flicking it at me.
I looked over at the wall clock. Still had half an hour before I needed to leave, but my body felt wrung out. I chuckled, shaking my head. "Nah... gotta go. But I’ll take that offer tomorrow."
"Make sure you make me cum this time," she teased, leaning close to brush her lips against my cheek. "Okay?"
"Yes, ma’am," I breathed, still grinning like an idiot.
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Sexual Activity Completed
Partner: Jasmine MARQUEZ
EXP Gained: +18
Star Rating: 1.1 ★
Reason: Your partner
didn’t climax.
-------------------------
—
I stopped at the entrance of the door, leaning against the frame while the smoke curled out of my lips and vanished into the night. My nerves buzzed, not from the nicotine, but from the thought of what was waiting upstairs. Massaging a damn CEO. A Russian chick with a body built like sin wrapped in money. Never thought I’d be standing on the edge of something like this—but here I was, inches away.
I flicked ash into the ashtray by the door, opened up my menu, and checked my balance.
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SHOP
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• Aphrodisiac Drink (10c)
• Silk Lingerie Set (25c)
• Sensual Massage Oil (15c)
• Mystery Pleasure Toy (30c)
• Flirt Potion (20c)
• Hypnotic Perfume (40c)
• Time Stop (90c)
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Credits: 5 c
Select item to purchase.
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Dirt poor once again. Great. I needed that damn Sensual Massage Oil for tonight, but with five credits left, I’d be better off buying a sandwich. Guess I’d have to grind out more quests tomorrow. Maybe check the daily tasks—if I didn’t crash first.
I swiped into my stats page.
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Name: Evan Marlowe
Age: 21
Height: 179 cm
Weight: 73 kg
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Level: 4
EXP: 126 / 311
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Not bad. A couple more quests and I’d ding level five. And if I scored high in tonight’s "performance," maybe I’d walk away with more than just credits. A higher rating, maybe even a skill point.
I took one last drag, the cherry glowing bright in the dark, then flicked the butt into the ashtray. Time to go play professional.
The second I stepped inside, the receptionist shot out of her chair and stormed straight toward me like I’d set off a fire alarm. For a second, I looked behind me to see if she was aiming at someone else, but nope—her glare was all mine.
"Where were you!" she hissed. "We’ve been waiting. You should’ve been here ages ago."
"I thought it was nine," I said, palms up. "It was—"
"Shut up."
"...Okay."
Before I could even process, she yanked a small bottle out of her pocket and sprayed me in the chest and neck. I flinched back, coughing, until the expensive scent hit me. Perfume. The kind that costs more than my monthly rent.
"Sit there," she barked, jabbing her finger at the reception chair. "I’ll fix your messy hair."
"Fix my hair?"
She didn’t bother answering—just shoved me toward the chair. I sat, and her fingers went straight to work, combing, smoothing, fussing like she was sculpting me out of clay. Shit, when was the last time I ran a comb through it?
"Such a mess," she muttered under her breath. "Stay still."
"Right..." I grumbled, then asked, "This Anotta... she really that important?"
"That’s Anotov for you. Mrs. Anotov. Don’t forget it."
"Right. Mrs. Anotov." I smirked. "She really that important?"
"Oh, I don’t know," she fired back, sarcasm dripping. "She’s got photos with Goodman’s president’s daughter. The president’s wife. The president’s son. And the president himself. What do you think?"
"...Got it."
She gave my head one last pat, stepped back, and nodded. "Done. Go get ready. She’ll be here in ten minutes."
"Alright."
Her eyes narrowed at the bag slung on my shoulder. "What’s in that?"
"Stuff," I said. "Why?"
"Looks cheap. You should’ve at least gotten a brand-name."
"Sure. Let me sell a lung and I’ll get right on that."
She rolled her eyes, sinking back into her chair. "Why are we even letting some average Joe massage her..."
"Because you’ve got no one better," I shot back with a crooked grin.
"Room ten," she snapped. "Go."
"Yep. Thanks."
I adjusted the strap of my bag and headed toward the elevator. The lobby was too bright, too polished. Everything in here screamed money. My sneakers squeaked on the marble tiles as I pressed the call button.
Ding.
The doors slid open, revealing mirrored walls that made me look like a fraud from every angle. I stepped in, hit the button for the second floor, and shoved my hands in my pockets. The hum of the lift filled the silence, my reflection staring back at me with messy confidence painted on like war paint.
Another ding.
The doors opened to a carpeted hallway, footsteps muffled by velvet underfoot. Gold numbers gleamed along the doors. "7... 8... 9..."
Finally, Room 10.
I stopped outside, staring at the polished brass digits. My chest rose and fell with a sharp breath. Showtime.
The door clicked, creaked open, and I stepped inside.
Susan was there, waiting.
Her gaze locked with mine instantly, sharp and evaluating, like she could read every dirty thought running through my skull.
"Wear this," she snapped, not even bothering with a hello. "You are late. LATE!"
"You told me it was nine."
"If I say nine, you should already be here by eight," Susan shot back, her voice biting. "God, no work ethics."
"Look, just—"
"Wear this," she cut me off again, stabbing her finger toward the rack near the door.
I turned my head, and there it was—an expensive-looking masseur suit hanging on a padded hanger. Black fabric, smooth as silk, with crisp lines that screamed money. The jacket was cut slim, tailored for sharp shoulders, and the pants had a polished shine to them. Even the buttons gleamed faintly under the warm light. A suit that belonged in a five-star resort, not on some gas station clerk moonlighting as a fake professional.
"Huh," I muttered, stepping closer. "Okay... looks fancy."
"It is fancy," she snapped. "And worth more than the shit on your back. She’ll be here in ten minutes."
"Yeah, so I’ve been told," I said, rolling my eyes.
She planted her hands on her hips, leaning in close. "Look, she is probably the most important client we have. So don’t mess this up. Our whole image depends on you."
"Jesus. I got it."
"If you fail this, I swear to God—"
"Fine, fine!" I held up my hands. "Just get out of here and let me get ready. Sheesh."
She gave me one last death glare, then brushed past me and slammed the door behind her.
The silence that followed made the room feel twice as big. I exhaled hard, running a hand through my hair as I shrugged my bag onto the table. "What a mess..." Then, under my breath, I grinned. "Can’t wait to fuck her, though..."
I stripped down quick and slipped into the suit. The fabric hugged in all the right places, smooth against my skin, making me look ten times more put together than I actually was. Adjusting the cuffs, I caught my reflection in the wall mirror. Didn’t look half bad. For once, I looked like I belonged in a place like this.
From the bag, I pulled out the bottle of Sensual Massage Oil I’d bought earlier. It was all I had—no perfumes, no fancy tricks—just this little vial that could hopefully tip the scales in my favor. I placed it neatly on the side table near the massage bed, lined up like I knew what I was doing.
I sat on the edge of the bed, letting out a long breath. My leg bounced nervously as I pulled out my phone, scrolling through the folder of photos I’d found.
Anotta Anotov. Only twenty-seven. Silver hair cropped short around her sharp jawline, eyes that could cut glass, and a body sculpted like temptation itself. Tight ass. Big tits, toned but feminine, with a strict posture that said she took no shit from anyone. No smiles in the pictures—always that stern, no-bullshit look on her face. Power in heels, money in flesh.
My cock twitched just looking at her.
Then—footsteps.
I froze. The heavy thud of shoes against the carpet grew louder, closer. My breath caught, chest tightening, and I forced a shaky inhale through my nose.
The door opened.
And there she was.