I.
I had just sold my house at the waterfront and was in the process of moving to a new place near the city center. However, the new place was not yet fully completed

In the meantime, I was renting a small apartment close to the train station. The neighborhood wasn't the best, but it was very convenient and offered the best value for the money. It wasn't a problem for me. I've never been short of money, let me tell you. My family is quite wealthy, I have a good job as a sales director in an international firm, and I made a nice profit when I sold my previous house.

Yes, I've been quite financially successful. I focused intently on my career, building it steadily over time, until I reached the level of an important executive at a Fortune 500 company. Then, I took a look back at my life and realized that I was 46 years old.

I know I'm still considered pretty. I'm a slim woman, with jet black hairs and deep black eyes. I dress conservatively, but I still turn heads. Despite this, I was alone. I tried online dating for a while, but it didn't work out... It was always the same - I could easily get dates, but nothing ever came of them. I just couldn't connect with the men on the app. They were either too shy, too desperate, depressed, or just plain weird. The few guys I liked ended up ghosting me after just a handful of dates. I never really dated much when I was younger, and my lack of experience was holding me back, or maybe my personality is too strong, I don't know. But I was craving companionship. I hoped that my new place would be a fresh start, filled with love and partnership.

These thoughts were running through my mind when coming back to my temporary home when I noticed someone in front of the building. It was a woman I had seen before. A slender blonde with piercing, almost surreal blue eyes. Pale, like me. Dressed lightly despite the chilly evening. I greeted her with a "good evening" and forgot about it. But after a few days, I started to notice her routine. She was a prostitute. She would spend her night outside, waiting for a client. Then, she would take him into a van parked in a secluded back alley that I could see from my bathroom window.

I found myself becoming a bit obsessed with her. Even as the nights grew colder and colder, she would dress provocatively and wait for a man, her breath swaying under the yellow light of the street lamps.  Every time I was in the bathroom, I would glance towards the van. Were the lights on? Was it rocking? What was happening inside?

One particularly harsh winter day, I couldn't resist to offer her an helping hand. I had said "Good evening", like every days for 1 month now. But, this time, it broke my heart. Here I was, going in my comfy heated home, for a hot meal, a hot bath, while she will be waiting all night in the cold, waiting for a client. I stopped in my tracks. Turned back to look at her. She was unaware, gazing down the street, smoking a cigarette, trying to look alluring in her skimpy outfit and towering heels. Poor girl. In a sudden moment of impulse, I turned around and invited her inside.

II.

She clearly struggled with English. She didn't get what I wanted at first but, eventually, followed me in the house.
I began to invit her regularly, until it became a daily occurrence. As soon as I returned home from work, she would follow me into the kitchen where we would share a hot drink together. Seeing her up close under the unforgiving bright light of my kitchen, I realized she wasn't as young as I initially thought. She was actually around my own age.
It felt awkward and challenging to communicate with her, as it was clear the girl struggled a bit with speaking English and wasn't the most engaging conversationalist. She would come home, have a hot drink with me, smoke a cigarette, and then head back out to work.

Something in me was fascinated by her. Maybe I could see a bit of myself, in her relentless will to work, even though we didn't choose the same career path. So naturally, I wanted to help her. But I knew I was lying to myself.
More likely, it was the way she carried herself with such unapologetic confidence, strutting down the street in her slutty clothes and jumping from dick to dick without -seemingly- a care in the world and ease. There was something captivating about her - a grace, and simplicity, an animal nature that was totally inaccessible for me, because years after years, as I became more and more cultured, educated, I tried to distant myself from my natural female instinct, my primordial nature, to mate, to get desired by men.
Or maybe it was simply because she was a sex worker. It has been so long since I was with a man, I forgot a bit about it. How to seduce, how to be desired, how to make the action happen... whereas she routinely saw multiple men per day. What did she know that I didn't? The fact that she was barely talking to me, that she was keeping her secrets, made me obsessed.

I couldn't stop thinking about her. Who was she really? What was her story? How did she end up here, selling her body on the streets? And why did she seem so content, so free, when I felt trapped in my own life?

The truth was, I envied her. I envied her confidence, her sexual freedom, her ability to live in the moment without worrying about the future or what others thought of her. She had something I lacked - a sense of purpose, of belonging, of being desired.

Soon, I invited her to use the bathroom to clean between clients. I would stay up, watch her go out in the night, then come back to clean up and go out again. I stayed awake until 2 or 3 o clock, watching her go man after man in the mysterious van, wondering what was going on inside, what was she doing, how come I couldn't do it. Then she would come back and knock for me to open my door to use the bathroom, sometime take a quick shower and go back again with only a slight smile instead of a proper "thank you".

And as I watched her night after night, servicing client after client, I wondered... what would it be like to be her? 

Then, one day, I prepared the spare bedroom for her. I told her it was "better than the van". Gave her a spare key. Encouraged her to bring her clients in.
And I filmed everything.

III.

I planted several old phones in the guest bedroom that would capture everything that was going on during the night.
I seldom went out of my own bedroom now. Most of my apartment had become her domain. I didn't mind. I spent my evenings on my computer, captivated by what my devices where uploading in the cloud. I sat, transfixed, to examine how she would interact with each guy in the bedroom after they exchanged money, hoping to uncover clues about what I might be doing wrong in my own attempts to attract romantic partners.

First thing I noticed is how little she would talk. When I'm myself with a guy, I would talk A LOT. But she didn't. She would make them sit on the bed next to her, encourage them to talk, keeping eye contact at all time with an  enigmatic, slightly suggestive smile. Sure, some guy didn't want to talk and went straight for the action. But most of the time, the guys were shy, hesitant, and she had to take take the lead. Keeping eye contact, encouraging her clients to speak with a smile or a head nod. Speaking with a soft, sexy voice. Giggling a bit. She would brush their arms, or rub their knees, or casually undress, or take their hand and place it on her chest.

I watched these interactions unfold with rapt fascination, alone in my bedroom. I mimicked her every move, practicing the art of seduction in front of my computer screen, desperate to unravel her secrets.

Eventually, she would get on her knees and suck the guy off, or have sex with him, or one after the other. It didn't last long, maybe because she was VERY vocal, filling the apartment of high pitched scream begging to be fucked like a slut, telling how much she loved it and how she wanted his cum. It drove most men crazy. I took notes. Sometime, the guy would stay a bit to talk afterward, but most of the time they would leave quickly. Yes, sometime, it took longer, some guys couldn't perform, some just talked and cuddled, but all in all, I was amazed to see it took in average 15-20 minutes. Sometime, she would have 10 clients in a single a night. And I watched every. one. of. them.

I remember the first time I tried this moves on a guy. It was a casual date in a bar. Usually, I would talk about my career, trying to impress the guy, trying to show off, trying to make him understand that I was a strong, independent woman. What a mistake! Speaking softly, looking at him intensely, nodding at everything he said, was one hundred times more effective and easy. I felt like I was playing a role that wasn't mine, dressed in my shortest skirt and highest heels, something I hadn't worn in ten years. My makeup was also a lot bolder than usual and I stole my "roomate" a pair of one of those blue contact lenses that gave me a deep, piercing gaze. It was amazing. I felt like I was bestowed some hidden super powers that made men putty in my hands.

He walked me back to my car, then talked a bit more while I was leaning against the car door. At one point, he ran out of things to say. Time seemed to stop for a moment, then he leaned over to kiss me. AT LEAST! I brought him home that night. We kissed passionately again as soon as we were inside. Then, in the bedroom, I had a sudden impulse.

"Do you have any money?", I asked, heart beating fast. I explained it was a fantasy of mine - having someone pay me for sex. A little role-play, where he eagerly played along. I took the fifty-dollar bill and encouraged him to grope roughly, kiss me in the neck, remove my clothes, feeling his rugged beard on my sensitive skin. He struggled a  bit with my bra some I removed it myself, grabbed his head, moving it towards my already erect nipple eager for his kisses... He removed my knickers, move my skirt on my waist and pushed me on my back on the bed, as I opened my legs, high heels in the air, moaning like in the videos I studied.

"Yes, yes!" I said enthusiastically, feeling his hard manhood finding its way between my thighs. He was soon fucking me like a slut, grunting in response to my  high pitched encouragements.

IV.

It's been two weeks since I last saw her. The van was gone.

She left a lot of her things at home. I kept using her blue lenses, but also started to wear some of her clothes and also used her hair dye. Under this facade, under this new persona, I was a lot more daring, adventurous. I could stop being the stuck up businesswoman and become a seductress of the night.

I was now going out every night to bring back back a guy. Often, i would go back to the bar after the deed was done, to find another guy.

At this point, I would ask for money before leaving the bar with a guy. Some would refuse, most would accept, take me home, fuck me, bring me back to the bar and I would find another guy.

All this night activities affected my work. I was rarely in the office before 11h and I also left early. It got worse after I became blonde. I don't know why. Maybe because I was always in this new persona that i created for me. I didn't work much, only passing the workload to my subordinates. My supervisor told me I looked distracted all the time. That was true. In fact, I didn't care at all anymore. Meetings didn't interest me.  I didn't care about my supervisors, about my subordinates, about my reaching my targets. I stopped reading my emails. I stopped listening. Whenever a coworker tried to speak with me, to me it was just some noises I pretended to pay attention to.

I stopped going to work entirely. I was making as much money as a prostitute anyway. Yes. That was what I was now. The bar caught up, banned me, saying they didn't want a prostitute there. I started to walk the streets, like she did once. Brought guys home, let them talk to me, nodding along, smiling, half understanding what they were saying. Fucked them for money. I loved it. No worries. Just pleasure. No need to think. Just dress sexy. Get out. Get fuck. Then again. And again.

The van came back. Nobody was inside. It was quite dirty, an old moldy smell, a mattress, some clothes, some condoms... I couldn't resist. I was too far in already. So I was started fucking my clients in the van. I even slept there now.

Dressed in a green crop top, pink miniskirt and red high heels, waiting for my first John of the night. The night was still young, I was a bit early but it was getting colder and colder so I didn't want to start working too late and I had a quota to reach. People living in the building were still coming home from work, ignoring me. Except this thin, sad brunette woman who looked to be in her mid-40s. I think she said "Good evening" to me or something.

I stood there on the corner, shivering slightly in the cold night air, my high heels digging painfully into my soles. As I shifted my weight from foot to foot, trying to ease the ache, I curiously found my thoughts drifting back to my previous life. Something I never did before. Because, something about that woman was... was... I lost my train of thoughts as I saw a car slowing down next to me.

My heart skipped a beat. I straightened my shoulders, flipped my long blonde hair over my shoulder, and plastered a sultry smile on my face as I walked, unsteady on my heels, towards the passenger door. Another John, another hundred dollars, another 20min of blissful oblivion.

V.
I am having a hard time understanding what people are saying now. Maybe I can catch 2 or 3 words in a sentence.
For instance, at one point, the "good evening" woman asked me to come with her. I didn't get it immediately. I think my English is becoming quite bad. 

Anyway, she ended up inviting me over for tea, which was nice of her. After that, I started using her bathroom whenever I needed to freshen up between Johns. Then I moved into working out of her spare bedroom. She was so weird. Always looking at me from the corner of her eye like she was trying to figure something out. Whatever, I took advantage of it. At one point she became a recluse, leaving her whole apartment for me and staying in her bedroom. I think she gets off listening to me fucking my clients. I'm pretty vocal.

One day, Alexey showed up to collect his cut of the money I'd been making. It's good to hear someone speak my native tongue again. He told me I needed to switch neighborhoods urgently, set up shop somewhere else. I guess business would be better there or maybe there is another turf war. Whatever. Couldn't even get back my things from inside her house.

Never went back to this house, never saw that woman again.

But something tell me she'll find what she was looking for.