As we landed in Sydney, the tension between Eric and me was thick. The vibrant cityscape outside the airport seemed at odds with the anxious energy buzzing between us. Eric's apprehension was almost tangible, a cloud that hung over our every interaction. I felt it too, a gnawing uncertainty that threatened to overwhelm me. All day we had been like a powder keg, ready to explode if the other made a wrong move. 

The idea of working in a brothel—of willingly objectifying myself and selling my body—clashed violently with my core beliefs. But there was also a strange allure to it, a curiosity that piqued my interest. Outside of Eric, I'd only been with four guys. The brothel offered an opportunity to explore my sexuality in a way I'd never imagined. If Eric was the one, I was worried I might not get to explore my sexuality further. 

We checked into our modest hotel, the room's sparse simplicity reflecting our uncertainty about what lay ahead. As I packed my small backpack with lingerie and makeup, the weight of the upcoming interview loomed over me. I didn’t know what to expect, or what I would have to do. Madam Jade didn’t give me many details, and I was too nervous to ask. 

Eric sat on the edge of the bed, watching me with a mixture of concern and resignation. He cleared his throat, breaking the silence. "Are you going to have to... You know… Fuck someone as part of the interview?"

I paused, the question I'd been avoiding now out in the open. I shrugged, trying to play it off, but the uncertainty gnawed at me. "I don't know," I admitted, my voice softer than I'd intended. "It's a job in a brothel, so it would make sense." I avoided his gaze, afraid to see the look in his eyes. Instead, I was focusing on folding the last piece of lingerie and placing it carefully in the bag. His silence was deafening, so I peeked over to see if he was okay.

Eric's face fell, and I could see the discomfort in his eyes. The thought of me with someone else, even hypothetically, seemed to twist something inside him. I looked up from my packing, meeting his troubled gaze from across the room. "Eric," I said, my voice steady, "It's not too late. If this is going to upset you, you need to speak up now." I took a deep breath, trying to convey the gravity of the situation. "Otherwise, you need to be okay with the possibility of me having sex at the interview."

He looked down, his hands fidgeting in his lap. I could see the internal struggle, the war between his love for me and the discomfort with the idea of sharing me with someone else, even temporarily. After a long pause, he reluctantly nodded. "You're right," he said, barely above a whisper. "I'm okay with whatever happens." His voice lacked conviction, but the words were there.

I finished packing, zipping up the bag with a finality that seemed to echo in the small hotel room. Crossing the room, I wrapped my arms around him, pulling him into a tight, reassuring hug. He held me close, his grip just shy of desperate. I pulled back slightly and kissed him deeply, trying to pour all my love and reassurance into that single gesture.

As we broke the kiss, I looked into his eyes and smiled softly. "I'll see you soon," I whispered, trying to keep the mood light. With a final squeeze of his hand, I picked up my bag and walked out the door. The uncertainty of what lay ahead weighed on me, but I knew that whatever happened, we'd face it together—one way or another.

The walk to the Golden Garden Brothel felt longer than it probably was. As I approached, the building stood out, a narrow three-story structure nestled between two taller, more modern buildings. Its exterior didn't inspire confidence; it looked sketchy and uninviting. The concrete exterior was stained with the grime that comes with years of neglect. I hesitated at the entrance, cold feet threatening to turn me around. But I'd come this far, I might as well see what this was about.

Inside, the smell of bleach poorly masked the scent of musk and sweat. I was greeted by a large bouncer and a middle-aged woman in a short cocktail dress. The woman eyed me, trying to figure out why I was there, her gaze traveling over my jeans and tank top. I cleared my throat, feeling my face flush. "I'm here for an interview with Madam Jade," I managed to say. The woman's expression narrowed, but she picked up the phone and made a quick call. After a brief exchange, she hung up and gave me a look. It felt like part disappointment that I had reached this moment in my life, and part questioning if I had what it took to work here.

A moment later, Madam Jade appeared. She was fashionably dressed, and not at all what I expected the owner of a brothel to look like. She was poised and professional, her demeanor a stark contrast to the unease I felt. She shook my hand warmly and welcomed me to the Golden Garden Brothel, her voice smooth and inviting. She led me through a door into a dimly lit lounge area. The room had a sultry, almost intoxicating atmosphere. A few girls lounged at the bar, dressed in lingerie and kimonos, their eyes assessing me as I walked in. I felt their judgment like a physical weight and did my best to force a nervous smile in return.

"This is the lounge," Madam Jade explained. "This is where clients come to choose the women they want to spend time with." She described the process happening one of two ways. Either the guy could hang out and get to know the girl, or approach and ask to go back to her room. Some guys didn’t like the chase and could ask for a lineup. The girls would line up, allowing the client to look them over, talk to them briefly, and decide who he wanted. 

The idea of being on display, judged and selected like merchandise, made my stomach twist. But I nodded along, trying to absorb everything. In the back of my head I was constantly assessing if I could handle working there.

We continued through a small door and up a narrow flight of stairs. The hallway on the second floor had four rooms on each side, each door identical except for the occasional "do not disturb" sign. Madam Jade pointed out that these rooms were where the actual sessions took place. She opened the door to an unoccupied room, and we stepped inside. It was sparse, with a king bed at the center, a small closet at one end, and a tiny bathroom with just enough space for a toilet, sink, and stand-up shower.

"This is where the magic happens," Madam Jade said with a small, knowing smile. She walked me through the procedure: after a client chooses a woman, they come to the room, discuss the price, and the client pays. Then, they shower together if the woman chooses, inspecting for any visible sores or wounds before proceeding. The mention of condoms and inspections made my head spin. It sounded so mechanical and impersonal compared to how I had previously thought about sex. The reality of the situation hit me hard, and I could almost see myself in this very room, negotiating with a stranger.

Madam Jade continued, explaining that after each session, the woman should take a few minutes to clean up but shouldn't linger in the room. The work was fast-paced, and the clients expected efficiency. As she spoke, the weight of my decision settled heavily on my shoulders. The glamor I might have imagined was absent; this was a job, plain and simple, with all its gritty realities.

Madam Jade looked at me expectantly. "Do you have any questions?" she asked, her tone professional but with a hint of curiosity. I glanced around the room, taking in the sparse decor and the reality of where I was beginning to sink in. My nerves were building, making it hard to focus, but I managed to muster the courage to ask, "How many clients does a woman get in a night?"

Madam Jade shrugged nonchalantly, as if the question were about something mundane. "It depends on the day," she explained. "On a slow day, it might be five, but on a busy day, some girls can see up to twenty."

Twenty?!

The numbers hit me like a punch to the gut. Twenty strangers in one day? My stomach churned at the thought. I tried to keep my expression neutral, but the discomfort must have shown on my face. Madam Jade, noticing my reaction, asked, "Do you think you can handle this kind of work?"

I forced a smile, trying to appear confident and unbothered. "Yeah, I think so," I lied, nodding my head as if it were no big deal. Inside, though, I felt a growing sense of dread.

Madam Jade seemed satisfied with my response and led me up another flight of stairs. "This is the staff area," she explained, pointing to a closed door. "That's the supply closet." We continued down the hallway until we reached another room. As we stepped inside, I noticed a wall of metal lockers, a round table with some beat-up chairs around it, a small refrigerator unit, and a few makeup vanities. 

"This is the staff lounge," Madam Jade continued. "This is where the women go for a break. Some of the girls pack lunch or dinner and keep it in the refrigerator." She gestured to the metal lockers. "When you arrive, you can change out of your street clothes and lock up your valuables in a locker. You can also do your makeup here before heading downstairs. And when you're ready to go home, you can come up here to change back into your street clothes."

I nodded, taking in the details. The room felt like a stark contrast to the luxurious image I had imagined. It was functional, not glamorous.

Madam Jade gestured towards a door marked 'Changing Rooms,' explaining that I could use one to change into the lingerie I brought with me. I clenched my backpack nervously and nodded, feeling my heart rate quicken.

As I walked into the changing room, I found it stark and bare, with only a tall mirror on one side. I set my bag down and took a deep breath, contemplating my options. I hadn't brought much lingerie on our trip around the world, so my choices were limited. I pulled out my favorite set: a lacy black thong and a matching silk camisole. My other option was a pair of boyshorts with lace across the butt and a simple black bra with some lacy features. After a moment's hesitation, I decided on the thong and camisole.

I stripped out of my clothes, feeling exposed under the harsh lighting, it was like I was already working there. Like there was some stranger waiting for him to present my body so he could use it to pleasure himself. I slipped into the delicate lingerie. The fabric felt strange against my skin, adding to the surrealness of the moment. Once dressed, I packed my jeans and tank top into my backpack, took a deep breath, and stepped out of the changing room.

I didn’t know what to expect when I stepped out of the changing room. Would she have a man waiting for her there? Would I have to go into one of the rooms and let him fuck me? 

Am I even ready for this?

Relieved, Madam Jade was waiting alone, her eyes scanning me with a discerning gaze. "Turn around," she instructed, her voice calm and authoritative. I did as she said, facing away from her. "Bend over the table," she continued. My heart pounded in my chest as I bent over, feeling vulnerable. I could feel the lips of my pussy peeking out past the thin fabric of my thong. 

I heard Madam Jade step forward and her hand grip my ass. Her hand was firm and confident, like she had done this plenty of times before. Then she let go, and to my surprise, felt her hand cup my pussy from behind. My heart raced as she gently squeezed, then let go and traced her finger along the fabric of my thong. 

"Stand up," she ordered. I complied, and Madam Jade walked around me, her eyes never leaving my body. She stopped to face me and she reached out to my breasts, cupping them and giving them a soft squeeze. The intimate contact made me tense, a rush of heat spreading through me. “Hm.” she said, leaving me wondering what she was thinking.

Just when I thought the inspection was over, Madam Jade reached into the front of my panties. I gasped softly, caught off guard by the sudden intrusion. Her fingers brushed against my pubic hair, and she made a comment about it—something about its neatness or texture, I couldn't quite register. It was the first time a girl had touched me like this since my junior year of college, during a brief and exploratory fling I had with Sophia Rivera. Sophia and I had slept together once, a curious encounter to see what it was like to be with a woman.

Madam Jade's touch was clinical and detached, yet it brought back memories of that night with Sophia. The sensation was different, less emotional and more businesslike. It felt strange, but I knew it was part of the process. I reminded myself why I was here and steeled myself for whatever else the day might bring. This was just the beginning, and I had to stay strong.