The Life of a Show Boy By Chelsea Maya Victory Johnson

Chapter Seven

The stack of cash on the table was the only reason I didn't completely lose my mind, but my mind was already racing with a desperate prayer. As he held out his phone, waiting for my digits, I mentally begged the universe to never let our paths cross again. That man was a human wrecking ball, and my body had paid the price.

"Type it here," he said, gesturing with his screen.

I couldn't even rise from the bed. My whole legs were paining me so intensely that moving even an inch sent a sharp, shooting ache from my thighs straight down to my calves. My muscles felt like overstretched rubber bands ready to snap. Remaining flat on my back, I managed to reach out, take the phone from his hand, and slowly punched in my number.

He took the device back, glanced at the screen, and saved it right away. A amused smirk spread across his face. "Chelsea," he muttered aloud, looking up at me with an arched eyebrow. "O boy, you must be a die-hard Chelsea fan to take this kind of name for the street."

I let out a weak, dry chuckle, my head sinking deeper into the pillow. "I am a Manchester United fan," I corrected him flatly.

He paused, looking genuinely shocked. "Manchester United? Why then are you answering Chelsea?"

"That is the name my parents named me," I told him, my voice serious.

His eyes widened in surprise. He stared at me for a few seconds, processing the information. "Wow. I only know girls answering that name," he confessed, shaking his head. "I have never seen a guy with it before. But honestly? The name soothes you so well. It fits you."

Without wasting time, he pressed the dial button. A second later, my phone vibrated loudly in my small waist pouch on the table. "He called my line immediately," he noted, letting it ring twice before hanging up. "That’s me. I am Jude. Save it."

Jude didn't linger. He walked over to his bag and pulled out his outfit for the day - a crisp, pristine set of all-white traditional clothes. The contrast was striking; the blinding white fabric against his extremely black, athletic skin made him look completely different from the sweaty, relentless client from a few minutes ago. He looked clean, respectable, like a man who hadn't just spent the last three hours draining the life out of someone in a cheap Hausa Quarters hotel room.

Once he was fully dressed, he walked over to the edge of the bed. He leaned down, his shadow falling over me, and gently gave me a soft kiss on my forehead. It was an unexpectedly tender gesture, a sharp contrast to the aggressive performance from earlier. "Take care of yourself, Chelsea," he murmured, before turning on his heel and leaving the room, the heavy wooden door clicking shut behind him.

For me, I remained in the room. I didn't even attempt to stand because I physically could not move. The absolute chaos of the night was laid bare all around me. On the floor, the aftermath of our session was everywhere - strewn across the linoleum were multiple used condoms, heavy with the man-yogurt from his intense cum shots, discarded carelessly during the frantic transitions. The bottles of Action Bitters and energy drinks were scattered near the plastic chair, and the room smelled heavily of sweat, latex, and cheap air freshener.

The bedspread itself had been ripped off during our struggle and lay strewn on the floor like a discarded rag.

After what felt like an eternity of staring at the ceiling, I finally gathered the strength to shift my weight. The moment I lifted myself up a bit to check my body, my heart dropped. Right beneath me, on the bare mattress, was a small, unmistakable patch of fresh blood stained directly onto the fabric - a painful receipt of the damage done to my anus from his relentless, unyielding stamina.

Before I could even process the sight or figure out how to clean it, a loud, sharp knock rattled the door frame.

"Room service!" a voice called out from the corridor. "We want to clean the room, please!"

I froze, the throbbing pain in my lower body intensifying as the reality of the morning rushed back in, leaving me trapped in the wreckage of Room 104.

To be continued...