Confessions of an Escort：The Dark Hobbies of the Wealthy - Chapter 8: Chapter 8
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The red badge changed everything. Money flowed in ways I'd never dreamed possible.
I stood out among the other girls—more striking, more desired. Clients requested me by name.
It started with hands. Then breasts. Then mouths.
Each time I crossed a line, I told myself it would be the last.
But less than two months after switching badges, a man pinned me down.
He took what he wanted. Ten thousand dollars sat on the nightstand, crisp and untouched.
I stared at the money, hollow inside.
After that final line vanished, so did the guilt.
Clients came in waves.
The other girls seethed with envy. Even Sophia Evans stopped speaking to me.
Their hushed complaints to the manager turned into open sneers.
"Jessica," he said one day, voice soft, "let's raise your rates. Fewer clients."
"You're burning out. This isn't sustainable."
I nodded silently.
So he doubled my price—top tier.
The crowd thinned. The exhaustion faded.
But so did the clients I preferred.
Gone were the toned, younger men.
Now it was balding, paunchy middle-aged guys who barely lasted five minutes.
At the end of the month, I counted my earnings.
Eighty grand. The thick wad of cash in my hands felt unreal.
For the first time in forever, excitement surged through me.
That apartment—the one with the sprawling balcony—was no longer a fantasy.
It was within reach. Just a little more, and I could have it.
But soon, even that wasn't enough.
My eyes drifted to another listing—a 120-square-meter unit in the next building.
Three bedrooms. Open-concept living room. A fourth-gen luxury residence with a balcony big enough for a garden.
The price was staggering. Even with my income, the down payment alone would take over a year.
And a mortgage wasn't an option.
No credit. No records. No paper trail.
I needed the full amount.
But I didn't want anything else.
That apartment became my obsession—my ruin.
I stood out among the other girls—more striking, more desired. Clients requested me by name.
It started with hands. Then breasts. Then mouths.
Each time I crossed a line, I told myself it would be the last.
But less than two months after switching badges, a man pinned me down.
He took what he wanted. Ten thousand dollars sat on the nightstand, crisp and untouched.
I stared at the money, hollow inside.
After that final line vanished, so did the guilt.
Clients came in waves.
The other girls seethed with envy. Even Sophia Evans stopped speaking to me.
Their hushed complaints to the manager turned into open sneers.
"Jessica," he said one day, voice soft, "let's raise your rates. Fewer clients."
"You're burning out. This isn't sustainable."
I nodded silently.
So he doubled my price—top tier.
The crowd thinned. The exhaustion faded.
But so did the clients I preferred.
Gone were the toned, younger men.
Now it was balding, paunchy middle-aged guys who barely lasted five minutes.
At the end of the month, I counted my earnings.
Eighty grand. The thick wad of cash in my hands felt unreal.
For the first time in forever, excitement surged through me.
That apartment—the one with the sprawling balcony—was no longer a fantasy.
It was within reach. Just a little more, and I could have it.
But soon, even that wasn't enough.
My eyes drifted to another listing—a 120-square-meter unit in the next building.
Three bedrooms. Open-concept living room. A fourth-gen luxury residence with a balcony big enough for a garden.
The price was staggering. Even with my income, the down payment alone would take over a year.
And a mortgage wasn't an option.
No credit. No records. No paper trail.
I needed the full amount.
But I didn't want anything else.
That apartment became my obsession—my ruin.
End of Confessions of an Escort：The Dark Hobbies of the Wealthy Chapter 8. Continue reading Chapter 9 or return to Confessions of an Escort：The Dark Hobbies of the Wealthy book page.