Smartly dressed and self conscious, he glanced at his Cartier timepiece to avoid the prying gazes of few ladies posted on both sides of the door leading into the lobby of the hotel. As he brushed past them without a word, he fought back a smile, full of admiration. But as he walked over to the receptionist he could hear their arguments, each cussing out the other and calling dibs on him. The smile won. The receptionist, a frail looking middle-aged man who was already balding in the center of his head, gave him the once-over from behind his wooden desk and stood to welcome him with a tight-lipped “Good evening sir, welcome.” Michael acknowledged him with a barely perceptible nod of his Fendi-shrouded head and scanned the price list atop the counter with an air of impatience. “I’ll take the 15k room. I want something upstairs and away from the windows.” A bellboy was extricating folded towels from a pile in a storage wardrobe in the far corner and so far he had been too engrossed in his task to appraise the newcomer. Michael’s impeccable English laced with an unmistakable hybridised North American accent galvanised the bellboy into a sharp turn. Leaving the towels unattended, he rushed eagerly to Michael’s side, a glint in his eyes as he offered to bear his Louis Vuitton crested overnight duffel. Michael would not be separated from his luggage, and dismissed the effort with a wave of his hand. He signed a fake name on an unnecessary form and as he counted out the mint notes from his purse which didn’t need close inspection to reveal that it was a matching set with the carry-on duffel, it was all the onlooking bellboy could do to keep from smacking his lips in glee at the prospects of possibly ending his miserable shift with a more-than-generous tip. Michael paid for two nights and let the overzealous bellboy grab the key card that was stretched towards him. Retrieving his car key from the countertop, he made his way to the stairs, his newfound manservant leading the way. He was used to elevators, not stairs, and fully serviced apartments or five-stars with 150k-per-night bills, not cheap motels with heavy speakers blasting out a flurry of tunes that changed rapidly on the whim of a resident DJ who didn’t know what he was doing. They located the room and as the bellboy pressed the key card against the electronic sensor. There was a small cushion chair in the corner. The queen-sized bed was already laid with fresh bedding and a portable-size TV displayed the energetic exertions of a Premier League match. The bellboy slid the card into its bracket on the wall and skipped like a deer to AC switch. When he had turned it on, he proceeded to lay out the towel, a slim packet of bathing soap and a fresh roll of tissue paper on the bed which Michael regarded with visible disdain but said nothing and proceeded to the wardrobe. He had already packed everything he would need. When he had stowed his bag away, he turned to find the bellboy feet apart, arms tucked behind him, the perfect picture of a lackey at the ready to do his master’s bidding. He opened his purse, extracted five 1000 naira notes and handed them to the bewildered guy who reciprocated with a bow that would have put Her Majesty’s royal guards to shame. The labours of his eye service were yielding bigger fruits than he had envisaged. “You need anything else, boss? You can collect my number for dry cleaning, food, any message.” Michael wasted no time issuing his response. “I need a girl. Fair, beautiful, thick. I don’t want a skinny girl.” The lad grinned from ear to ear, a knowing twinkle in his eyes. “Don’t worry boss, I’ll bring a good one and talk to her for you.” Michael didn’t need him to talk for him. “Just send someone beautiful to me, fair-skinned, thick body but not too big, not fat. If I don’t like the girl, you’re taking her back.” “Trust me, I know the perfect girl for you, lemme go and call her. Just relax boss.” And with those words, his minion disappeared through the door. Michael had waited for what seemed like an eternity before he finally heard a knock on the door. He went over and opened it, hoping the bellboy would have the good sense to come in first and talk to him before bringing whoever had followed him inside. No such luck. He marched right through, prostitute in tow. When Michael had shut the door, he turned to find the lad beaming proudly at his prize, satisfied with himself. One good look at the girl told him his loyal minion had to be rewarded for such a fantastic find. She was beautiful to look at, and she had full breasts. Her ass would not be put to shame either and its size tugged the hem of her short black gown disrespectfully further upward. She was averagely tall, she wasn’t chubby but she had flesh where it counted. Her thighs were a joy to behold. He swallowed. He hadn’t expected this, and started to wonder what would drive a girl who looked like this into prostitution, but cut himself short with a reminder that he had seen centrefold-worthy girls on porn sites. “She’s the one I told you about boss. You’ll like her.” “Good evening,” she said softly with a sheepish smile, twirling the end of her long braids. “Good evening,” he said, and signaled the bellboy over to the door. He asked in a low tone; “What’s your name?” “Shabba,” the bellboy said, offering the nickname in high spirits after a job well done. Michael extended his phone to him and as he typed in his number, Michael fished through his purse. Feeling generous and grateful for his luck, he bestowed his faithful servant with another five thousand. Another overzealous bow later, Shabba was gone. Michael turned and was surprised to find the girl still standing. He went back to the bed and beckoned her over. “Come sit by me.” Her ears perked up at his accent and her eyes twinkled as she walked over to the bed and sat beside him. “What’s your name?” “Benita.” He detected a slight trace of an Ibo accent and smiled. He wasn’t tribalistic but being with a girl from the same tribe made him feel somewhat comfortable. “How much for you to stay the night?” He steeled himself for her response. He figured Shabba must have told her he was rich, and her body language since she had laid eyes on him told him she believed it. She would no doubt try to exploit him. But he had come prepared to be exploited, as long as he left a happy man. She paused for a bit, trying to determine how far she could go without overreaching. Finally, she said “15k.” Michael almost choked. “15k?” She saw his puzzled look and instantly backtracked, thinking she had overreached. “Okay how much do you want to pay?” Michael looked at her and almost felt a twinge of sadness. If she had asked for fifty, he would have gladly paid it and for someone who looked like her, he thought fifty was still grossly underpriced. And here she was, ready to give herself entirely to him tonight for a price that didn’t come anywhere close to paying for the shirt on his back, and scared enough of losing him to settle for even less. “No worries, I like you, 15k is good.” He had already determined to give her a hundred. But for now, he would play the game. For her, 15k was already a good score. She usually did it for ten. She just hoped she wouldn’t have to work extra hard for it tonight, even though she wanted to reward him by fucking him senseless. A beautiful smile materialised. She wasn’t lying when she said “I like you too.” Benita wasted no time ridding herself of her clothes. There wasn’t much fabric to be rid of anyway. The black gown was so short it almost didn’t exist. She wore no panties and no bra either. Michael had also simply extricated himself from the robe he had donned after his shower and her appreciation of his chiseled body and long dick did not go unnoticed, fueling his confidence immensely. Her unclothedness exposed a stomach that wasn’t flat but the little tummy flab added to her appeal rather than turn him off. Her pussy was completely shorn just like the bald nether regions of the centre fold girls who had graced the pages of the sexual magazines that first caught his interest as a young boy, but the darker patch on her lower pelvis indicated that she favoured shaving over waxing. He hadn’t expected her to be waxed anyway. She was a tad surprised when he gently pulled her to himself and put his lips on hers. She hadn’t pegged him for a romantic. He had the detached demeanour of an impatient man who only saw her as a means to relieve himself and would rather be anywhere else attending to things of importance that deserved his time. His response when she had tested the waters by “overcharging” him had also further proved that he was no fool despite his obvious affluence and disconnect from the lifestyle of the average hustler; the very same which had ultimately led her into the proclaimed oldest profession known to mankind. She also wasn’t in the business of kissing her customers, but there was something so gentle, so loving about it that she hadn’t felt since taking her first stranger to bed for money, and it stirred something within her. This was going to take her whole night anyway, she might as well treat herself to the pleasures of her trade too. She surrendered to his warmth and kissed him back passionately, her hands roaming his bare back as they explored each other. When he broke the kiss and looked at her, she squeezed her legs shut to tame the fires that had started in her pussy before they raged out of control so early into their sensual contact. She had had so much meaningless sex that it had become routine to her. She couldn’t remember when last she actually craved sex and enjoyed it. Michael was reminding her that she could. She was starting to wonder who the prostitute really was, between them. She had to earn her keep. She lay on her back quickly and spread her legs apart, waiting for him to put on the condom he had just grabbed off the tabletop. Instead, he flipped over and lay between her legs, his head hovering above her pussy. She stared at him incredulously, as though he had gone mad. Her eyes danced with disbelief, curiosity, and anticipation. She refused to let herself believe he would do it. A lot of men she knew wouldn’t do it to their wives. Her personal hygiene was impeccable but just based off the general stigma that came with her line of work, how many men would of their own accord actually tongue-kiss a kitty that had known so many lovers, so many strangers? But a part of her wanted so badly for him to do it. A moist, soft, pink, velvety part of her. And a feminine part of her she didn’t know she still had. The woman in her that was somehow still alive despite the eternity she had spent giving herself to be treated like less in exchange for her survival. He did it. Oh Bleep! He was doing it.