Prostitute and a Business Man- I'm only in town for a few days while I oversee a corporate merger. I'm tired, and lonely, getting ready to head back to my hotel for the night, when a coworker gives me a card, saying to call it if I need a companion. I head back to my suite, and sit on the edge of my bed, contemplating, for a moment, if I'm ready to take this leap. Finally, I take a deep breath, pull out my phone and send a text to the number. "Are you free tonight?" (so who are you? A high-end escort that likes to be wind and dined? A cheap thrill on the corner and a sparkling dress? A leather strapped dominatrix, putting men in their place for cash? Open to ideas for what kind of prostitute you are. )

A Hard Deal to Refuse- I park my car out front, and sat in the drivers seat for a second as I admire the estate. I'm still getting used to being around all this money. I let out a sigh and grab the bottle of wine on the passenger seat. I don't want to be here. I have better offers, and more exciting invitations, but my COO encouraged me, told me that it would be worth my time. It better be. I walk up the steps to the large double doors. They open before I can knock. There he is. He looks older than I expected. Not old, just older. He shakes my hand, invites me in, thanks me for the wine. Dinner's this way, but first, he wants me to meet his wife. My heart seizes in my chest when you walk in. You are stunning. Much more attractive than your husband in a sleek dress with a high slit on the leg. It's hard to focus on much else once you walk in. Your husband doesn't like doing business on an empty stomach, so we eat first. You sit next to me, and he serves the wine I brought, It's ok. Not nearly as exciting as you. At one point, you drop your napkin in my lap, and I could swear your hand lingered... But no. time for business. You say you'll meet us in the study in a minute. You want to freshen up. I'm sad to see you go, but can't help but sneak a peak as you walk away. I'm so distracted I don't notice your husband's smile. In the study, we chat some, then your husband offers me some whisky. It's better than the wine. I take a sip, and he finally gets down to the reason we're here. "I know you have better offers than my original proposal." he says. "That's why I'd like to offer a little more. Make ours more competitive." The door opens. "But money is only part of the equation. Someone will always be able to offer more money. It will be never ending. A night mare." You walk in, my mouth goes dry. You're no longer in the dress, now wearing an equally elegant, strappy lingerie body suit. What is happening. "I'm not one for nightmares." he says, you stand in front of my chair, your hand on my knee, tracing up toward my knee as you get down on your knees. "I much prefer to make the good dreams come true." Your fingers are feather light, a tease, grazing, just enough to send a shiver up my spine as you reach for my belt buckle. How can I say no?

Interns- At some point in their life, almost every boy imagines working at a porn studio. Usually it's just a passing thought. Not for me. For me, it was the dream. So imagine my excitement when I finally got the internship of my dreams. Every day at work was a dream come true. it didn't matter what my task was, shredding documents, grabbing coffee, laundry, I was just happy to be involved. The boys were all cool, and the girls were all nice to me, every day felt like sunshine. My boss must have noticed my enthusiasm, because one day, he gave me a pitch. The studio wants to do a new series, where they film the interns fucking, and they want me in the pilot episode. My heart pounds in my chest, my voice catches in my throat. I can't believe it. I say yes before he's finished asking. Now the day is here. I'm sitting on the set, a generic looking bedroom, with a small crew, just the camera man and the director. "Are you ready?" he asks me. Of course I am. This is a dream come true. (It's up to you if you' want to be a pornstar or another intern).

High End Real Estate- You've always been the best at whatever you do. It doesn't matter what it is, running in the park, tests in college, hell, even fucking, you always worked your ass off to be the best. So when you decided to go into real estate, you weren't looking for the flexible hours or the joy of finding someone their perfect home, you did it because you knew you could do it better than anyone else. And you were right. It wasn't long before you were selling to top end clients, making multi-million dollar sales. You weren't connecting people to homes, but businesses to sky scrapers, or billionaires to estates. You were the best, and you knew it. Today you were showing a young tech mogul around a pent house in the city. His company was opening an office down town and he wanted a place to spend the night when here was here. He's charming and handsome, giving off the effortless charm of someone who knows what they're worth. You give him the tour, showing him the state of the art appliances and world-class view. "Now, you're not the first person I've shown this too," you tell him, "And there's already a small bidding war going on, so if you want to make an offer, you'll have to come in over asking." He smiles. Not a problem. Then he puts a hand on your waist. "How much to get the apartment, AND you?" You've heard these things before, usually as sexist little jokes from older billionaires, but this is different. He's not joking, he's asking. You get 5% of every sale you make. Everyone has a price. He's asking you to name yours.