They’ll chase quick fucks and stretch their dollars to the max. What they lose is the woman who knows their body better than they do, and bites only when they’ve earned it ”

Another week has  gone by and Saturday is here again, my so-called day off, though in this world the line between on and off never stays neat. This week was good to me: a couple of familiar faces, and two brand-new ones. All of them easy, generous, the kind of men who remind me exactly why I love this work. They give without grabbing, they take without testing, and in return I give back happily. They keep the pace of my week steady. I don’t take it for granted.

But every smooth week makes me remember the others the ones I don’t see anymore. The men who poke, grab, and test just to see if I’d bend. They’ve  slipped out of my calendar, and my life is quieter for it.

Their absence says enough: the ones who last are the ones who understand that the real currency isn’t money, it’s how you handle someone’s time, body, and boundaries.

Once, I had a line in all my ads:

“Eager To Please”

And I was, mouth open, knees bent, the whole deal. Too eager. Back then I thought eagerness was half the job. I see the same line now in the ads of newcomers, bright-eyed, filtered, hustling to pay bills, still learning that eagerness doesn’t bend, it snaps. I should know.

I bent until something in me finally snapped back. That girl smiled through irritation and swallowed it whole. She’s not gone, but she’s had her teeth sharpened.

Because there are types.

The Marathon Texters. The ones who have already seen me, but still send twenty messages for what takes one to confirm, ballooning a simple booking into a slow-motion ping-pong match. Darling, I’ve posted my rates, my menu,  my words, my address, you have seen my face and naked body in the previous sessions, what else do you need? My Bazi chart?

The Clock Teaser : The ones that booked 4pm., sharp, then texted at 3:57pm saying:

“I am still in Chatswood, just finished my beer, see you in 10 minutes”

Ten kilometres away. I was standing by the intercom in heels and lingerie, perfume already settled, patience evaporating. They drifted in at 4:45, smug, while I had burned through half my scent and most of my goodwill. I used to wait with a knot in my chest, convincing myself patience was part of the job.

The Boundary Testers. The ones who think a booking means an open menu. The condom slips, the requests multiply, the lines blur. It starts as Vanilla, but halfway through they want Ropes and A Gag.

And when their finale flops, after edging like Olympians competing to finish last, somehow it’s my fault, as if I can manually override what they’ve already broken.

I used to accommodate all of these. Smiled through it. Made it work.

Now I cut it differently. Sometimes sharp and clean: “That’s not on the menu you ordered.” Other times softer, a smirk, a tease, a warning wrapped in a smile. If you’re lucky, I make the no sound like foreplay, breathy, teasing, the kind that makes you harder. If you’re not, the temperature drops 10 degrees and you suddenly remember who’s naked and who’s holding the leash.

Of course I lose clients this way. The ones who want dolls instead of humans, toys instead of touch, have already left the room.

And I know they’re still out there chasing newcomers who haven’t learned to say no yet. I can see those girls slamming the door after, still wearing a fake smile until it clicks shut, then letting loose every profanity they swallowed for the last hour.

Let it out, sisters. I’ve been there. The difference is, I grew teeth, and you will too. They were never mine to keep, and neither are yours, ladies. Some lessons only sink in after the first goodbye.

The ones who come back after hearing NO return lighter, sharper, ready to enjoy instead of test. And the heat burns hotter when both people know exactly where the lines are.

So I don’t bite without cause. The men who treat me well only ever taste the sweetness. But the ones who test learn that teeth can teach.

Every mark means something, a warning, a souvenir, or a reward. It depends how you ask for it, how deep you beg for it, and whether I think you can handle it.

Sometimes it’s neither.

Sometimes it’s just because you beg for it, because you want it enough to cum on it .