The Life of a Show Boy By Chelsea Maya Victory Johnson

Chapter Six

The money sat on the bedside table, a thick, promising stack under the morning sun, but by the time the clock on the wall ticked toward 9:00 AM, those naira notes felt like a curse. We had been at it since 6:00 AM. For three solid hours, the dark-skinned man had used his athletic frame and unnatural, bitters-fueled stamina to push my body completely past its limits. He was unyielding, moving with a relentless force that showed absolutely no signs of slowing down.

My body was screaming. The friction was becoming unbearable, and a sharp, burning sensation radiated through my lower back and thighs. I realized with a wave of panic that despite everything, his breathing hadn't even broken into a desperate rhythm - he still hadn't reached his climax.

Summoning a sudden burst of frantic adrenaline, I forcefully pushed his heavy chest away from me. I scrambled backward across the mattress, hauling the rough white bedspread over my body, wrapping it tightly around myself like a shield as I stood up immediately from the bed.

He sat up instantly, his dark brow furrowed in confusion and irritation as he looked at me standing by the wall. "What is it now?" he demanded, his voice dropping into a harsh rumble. "Why did you push me away?"

"Look at the time!" I cried out, my voice cracking with pure exhaustion as I pointed a trembling finger at the wall clock. "It is already 9:00 AM! Since 6 o'clock this morning, you are still going, and you still have not cum! Oga, I am human being, I am not a machine!"

He stood up from the bed, his muscular physique towering in the small room, his eyes still dark with an unsatisfied hunger. He made it clear he needed more, stepping closer as if the transaction gave him total ownership of my endurance.

"I can't continue anymore," I pleaded, tears of frustration stinging the corners of my eyes. "Please. If I stay on this bed for one more minute, I will die here. My strength is completely gone."

The man stopped, crossing his massive arms, and looked at me with a cold, transactional detachment. "If you cannot satisfy a customer the way he wants, then what is the essence of you being a sex worker?" he asked bluntly, his words cutting through the quiet room. "Is this not your job? You took my money to satisfy me. I paid you extra for a reason."

His words hit me like a physical blow, stripping away whatever dignity I had left after a long night at the junction. I swallowed the lump in my throat, forcing myself to look him straight in the eyes, begging him to find a shred of pity and sympathy inside himself.

"I beg you in the name of God, have mercy on me," I whispered, my hands shaking beneath the bedspread. "Just imagine if it was your own brother or your own sister that a customer was treating this way in a hotel room. Would you be happy? Would you like it?"

He scoffed, his expression tightening into a proud, defensive sneer. "My brother or sister will never be sex workers," he stated coldly.

The words felt like a slap in the face. A deep, heavy sadness washed over me, a reminders of the invisible wall that always stood between people like him and people like me who had to hustle at Enerhe Junction just to survive. I looked away, unable to hold his gaze.

Seeing the raw hurt on my face, the tension in his broad shoulders suddenly broke. He let out a long sigh and rubbed his face with his hands. "Look, I am sorry," he said, his tone softening into something genuinely remorseful. "I was rude and harsh to you. I shouldn't have said that."

He stepped closer, his demeanor changing completely from a demanding client to a desperate man begging for a favor. He looked at me with pleading eyes. "Please," he urged, his voice low. "Just one last time. I promise you, this is the very last time. Just help me finish."

I stood there, completely torn. I felt like I was at death's door; the previous hours had already drained the very last of the strength I had used earlier. My butt was aching, burning on fire from the sheer intensity of the prolonged friction. But looking at the extra money on the table, and knowing I just wanted this grueling morning to end, I finally nodded my head.

I walked over to the small table and grabbed the tube of personal lubricant. My hands shook as I kept applying a generous amount, desperately trying to coat the area to make myself comfortable against the searing pains. I had already swallowed an ibuprofen painkiller a short while ago, but the deep, throbbing ache didn't even decrease in the slightest; the medication was completely useless against this level of physical trauma.

Bracing myself, I let the bedspread drop and returned to the white sheets for the final stretch.

I gave it every single ounce of performative energy I had left, enduring the burning discomfort while focusing entirely on bringing him to the edge. Driven by my compliance and the fresh lubricant, his rhythm finally broke. His movements became heavy, frantic, and disorganized until, with a loud, guttural groan that echoed off the hotel walls, he finally released his hold and collapsed heavily onto the pillows, completely satisfied.

The room fell into a profound, exhausted silence. I immediately rolled away, breathing heavily, feeling a massive wave of relief wash over me now that the ordeal was finally over.

As he lay there catching his breath, the dark-skinned man turned his head to look at me, a completely new expression of respect and admiration in his eyes. He reached out for his phone on the bedside table.

"You are something else, Chelsea," he said, his voice genuinely impressed as he looked at my white-tinted hair. "I need your phone number. I want to be calling you directly whenever I am in town, so you can satisfy me more and more. I will pay you heavily, anytime."

I lay there against the mattress, my body bruised and aching, staring at the ceiling as I contemplated whether my phone number was a price I was willing to sell next.

To be continued...