Bixby is an eccentric rock star with a reputation for sporting with ladies of the night. When his ‘date’ gets sick, Bixby offers $2,000/hour to college coed January to be his arm candy.
They take a Manhattan nightclub by storm, and to January’s surprise, her devastating combination of looks, talent, and sexual appetite make her the perfect whore. She also didn’t expect such a validating and empowering experience—or that she’d meet such a handsome secret admirer!
“January / Jezebel” is a 20,000 word erotic novella with sub-themes of romance and girl power. It explores exhibitionism, paid affection, and steamy nightclub sex. It is not intended for those uncomfortable with the subject matter or under eighteen.
January lets herself get picked up in the street by Bixby, all for the benefit of the paparazzo…
January walked briskly, which did things to her slutty dress. Each step eased its hemline higher, and sent the gaping v-neck across her chest like a pendulum. The thin, cheap rayon fabric revealed everything. Her ass shook each time her heels hit the ground. Her breasts swung under lose fabric which did nothing to obscure their shape, weight, or resilience.
Hell, she felt naked just walking down the sidewalk. When she passed a pair of businessman going the other way—two older men who were no doubt wonderful, kind people—they gave her an eye-fucking so thorough she almost stumbled into a wrought iron gate.
“Whore can walk,” she muttered through gritted teeth.
Bixby had instructed her to get to the street corner. She found a high-visibility location with relatively level pavement; she was terrified of losing her balance in the stilettos and then tipping into traffic. Still in a haze, she heard honks from the traffic that she suspected were for her.
A hubbub behind her indicated that Bixby was approaching. The swarm of paparazzi arrived at the corner and split open to reveal the rockstar with a huge smile on his face. January didn’t know what it was, but something about being in front of the cameras made Bixby look younger and more vital, even attractive. It was a big change from how he looked at Graves and Hathaway.
January rocked her hips the way prostitutes did in the movies.
“You look just fabulous!”
January put sass into her voice. “It’s my job to look fabulous.”
“So… you’re saying you’re on the job?”
January’s gaze strayed from Bixby’s intense smile and drifted over to the gathered paparazzi. They documented each microsecond of the conversation with a camera flash.
She was categorically on display because she was working. It was socially acceptable for them to leer at her shapely ankles, her braced legs, her cocked hip. Their eyes slid up her hips to her waist, and then her plunging v-neck. The halter was askew, showing more than half of her left breast. They studied her nipples, which poked helpfully through the fabric.
“I’m on the job,” she agreed, and all the paparazzi sighed in unison.
“Then won’t you let me buy you a drink?” Bixby asked.
“I’d love one, but you’ll be on the clock.”
Bixby gave the paparazzi a humored look. “I think I can afford it.”
They all laughed, and January forced a smile.
“Show us those tits, whore!”
January search for the offensive jerk but couldn’t find him. Then she realized yet again that she was a whore. The paparazzo was not trying to be insulting. If anything, he was being precise.
She wanted to be offended but her situation was too absurd. Besides, her breasts turned warm when they were mentioned. They moved with delicious heaviness under the fabric of the dress.
“Go ahead. Give them a show,” Bixby said.
“Give them a show.”
January’s pulse thundered in her ears.
She wasn’t used to being the center of attention, but now she had men of every description with cameras pointed her way, waiting to see her goods. They awaited her decision in a bubble of silence. She saw them breathing and she could feel herself breathing. This was real, wasn’t it?
“Just a show?” She smiled but felt queasy. “Sure!”
The men cheered and closed in. The jockeying for shots began, with some paparazzo blocking the views of other paparazzo or even pushing their cameras aside.
When she thought of herself in the viewfinders of all these cameras, she felt herself get a little wet, and her nipples hardened. When they hardened into points, she imagined that every man was staring at them (which was largely true), and she fell into the nipple feedback loop: Being hard made them stared-at, being stared-at made them hard. She had no way to cover them and let them calm down. Her dress was useless for keeping secrets.
But she wasn’t keeping secrets, was she? She pulled her shoulders back to lift her breasts just a bit more. She wanted them to look good.
Oh God I’m really doing this!