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I'm sure this opening is getting familiar by now: I'm in an unfamiliar room, surrounded by unfamiliar men, with a wad of money tucked safely away in exchange for the sex and fetish acts I'm about to perform.
The twist this time, if you can call it that, is that I've been paid in dollar bills rather than my usual pound notes - $800 in crisp twenties, to be precise. Oh, I'm not here in New York just for what I'm about to do - $800 wouldn't even cover the cost of my flights here and home, not at today's prices - but my presence here, my participation, was agreed upon before I committed to this trip. I'm in town for a week, and on every other day, on every other night, I'm simply a tourist; it just so happens that tonight, I'm a tourist who's been paid eight hundred dollars to be in New York and eat American shit.
I certainly don't look like a tourist right now; in my black jacket and knee-length skirt, my white blouse, my dark, sheer stockings, my onyx stud earrings, I could have stepped right out of a business meeting just moments ago. The only part of my outfit that doesn't immediately present itself as the couture of some attorney, lawyer, or other professional is my footwear: black vinyl boots, side-zipping that come up just above my knees, with tall stiletto heels and pointed toes. And underneath... ah, but you'll see. Later.
The suit, blouse, and stockings are mine; my good office wear. Dimly I wonder just how much of my $800 will go towards replacing them; they'll certainly be ruined after tonight. The boots, though, and... other things, they're a gift from the organisers of tonight's little party. I've been told I'm free to keep them, and I just might, if they're not as ruined as the rest of what I'm wearing.
I'm escorted out from a waiting room into the main venue for the night's festivities, apparently a function room at a club that regularly caters to fetish parties, BDSM munches, and the like. Longer than it is wide, with the majority of the night's participants gathered towards the far end, a laptop computer and digital projector on a small table positioned to illuminate the white screen that occupies the upper half of the nearest short end. What's about to displayed is a new element for me, but after having it explained to me, I just couldn't say no to it. It's going to be delicious.
My escort leaves me beneath that screen and moves to attend the laptop computer. At his direction, his nod, I step forward and begin to speak. As I do, the projector blinks into light and a slideshow begins to play out on the screen above.
"Good evening. My name is Elaine Morris, but usually I go by Ellie. I'm twenty-nine years old." My voice is the only sound in the room apart from the faint whine of cooling fans in the projector and computer, a light Scottish burr colouring my words. My accent isn't especially strong; my own countrymen are as likely to take me for English as Scottish. But here, in a foreign country, even an English-speaking one, it's distinctive. One might even call it exotic, not that I've ever thought it so myself.
The first slide above me bears this out; my British passport and driver's licence have been scanned side-to-side, my personal details displayed to the room in large and unmistakably legible letters. Surname/Nom (1): MORRIS; Given names/Prenoms (2): ELAINE CLAIRE; Nationality/Nationalite (3): BRITISH CITIZEN; Date of birth/Date de naissance (4): 21 AUG/AOUT 1981; and so on, and so forth. Part of me feels ridiculously reckless, sharing my personal information like this, inviting its abuse, the theft of my identity.
But really, it's that recklessness that makes it thrilling, no mask or anonimity to hide behind, no stage name to disguise my perversions, the complete attachment, even just before the eyes of the participants, of what I'm about to do with my real and complete identity, the complete embracing of what I am and what I love. Besides, I'm alone in a room full of strange men, about to perform acts of almost unspeakable depravity; really, what's identity theft compared to the possibilities I've opened myself up to simply by being here?
Without missing a beat, I continue. "I live in Edinburgh, Scotland. I'm here in New York on holiday, and I'm being paid eight hundred dollars to be here tonight." The first slide lingers just long enough for my audience to take it in before it's replaced by the second: another window into my life, another stripping-away of my privacy, a screenshot of my Facebook page, my status updated to the utterly euphemistic 'Gone to a party!' I draw a breath before I continue; I can't help but love the sound of what I'm to say next, it feels so good to admit it. "I'm being paid eight hundred dollars to eat your shit."
The third slide in the show appears: a screenshot of my personal profile on my British employer's intranet page, explaining my job, my education, my experience. "I'm not here because I've been pressured. I don't need the money. I could have come to New York without being here tonight or taking your eight hundred dollars. I'm here..." a pause while I swallow and the fourth slide comes into view: a simple photograph, taken in my hotel room, of me, dressed as I am now, holding a fan of dollar bills - my payment for tonight. "I'm here because I want to be. I'm here because I love being p-paid to... to eat shit." I'm not sure if they perceive that tremble in my voice as nervousness, or as the excitement it truly is.
The fifth and final slide is projected. My hotel room, once again, but I'm naked, lying on the bed with my legs spread, shaven pussy to the camera, the previously neatly-fanned dollar bills not scattered across my nude form, the bedsheets, my face, visual confirmation of what I know and my audience know: my body is bought and paid for.
The slideshow enters a slow, endless cycle, lingering on each slide for forty seconds before proceeding to the next, the five aspects of my identity parading slowly past everyone present. As it does, I begin to undress, first unbuttoning my jacket, then my blouse, untucking the hem of the latter from the waistband of my skirt. Beneath it, I'm wearing the 'gift' provided to me by the party's organiser: a black vinyl corset, its upper edge cut low across the bottom of my ribcage, allowing the breasts of a bustier girl to swell free of the constricting material, although my 30As, visible as they are, don't really make the same impression.
Reaching down, I grasp the fabric of my skirt, hiking it higher, up my slender thighs, past the tops of my stockings, eventually letting it bunch around my waist, showing off my suspenders, attaching the bottom of my corset to the tops of my stockings, and my bare, pantiless and hairless crotch.
My knees tremble a little as I complete the act of exposing myself, not having actually shed a single article of clothing, yet baring my breasts and pussy to a crowded room full of strangers. I'm exceptionally aware of the pallor of my skin, the black scrawl of my tattoos, the steel glinting at my nipples, the sterling silver celtic cross on a delicate chain around my throat. And this is far from the lewdest thing I'll be doing tonight.
I lie back, feeling the cold floor beneath my buttocks, my elbows - that coolness, at least, is familiar - and shrug my jacket and blouse from my shoulders. I don't let them slide all the way off, letting them hang just above my elbows, a layer of fabric between my lower back and the floor even as my shoulder blades settle against that cold surface, restrictive in the way that the hold my arms close to my sides even as my upper torso is left utterly exposed. My breathing quickens; as I lie down, the audience - participants, customers, I think to myself - gathers around me, over me. It'll happen soon, I know it. The opening of the floodgates, the breaking of the dam, the first drop that heralds the onrushing torrent of disgusting depravity I so desire to lose myself in.
I spread my legs, knees high, stiletto heels on the cold floor, feeling the movement of cool air currents across my hard nipples and the pink slit of my cunt. With my arms at my sides, I can't reach between my legs, can't masturbate, can't spend the evening coaxing myself to climax after climax until my customers are quite done with me... but I know at this point, I don't need to touch myself or be touched to orgasm while doing this. Other sensations, smell, taste, simply the nature of what I'm about to do, they're enough to get me off. Although I do hope there'll come a point tonight when my hands are free.
There's a brief, magic moment as I lie there, panting already, far from naked but utterly exposed, cold floor beneath me, male bodies above and around me. The anticipation is overwhelming; I feel about ready to explode. If I don't get it soon, what I need, what I crave...
Comments for Paid to Eat Shit IV, Part I
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Location: A Bar | Roleplay: Other
Fulfillment: Act on it | Nature: Humiliating