My days are a blur of skin and satisfaction. I wake up, not to an alarm, but to the soft weight of a body still in my bed, their breathing a gentle rhythm against my back. It could be anyone. The couple from last night's gallery opening, perhaps. She had sharp, intelligent eyes and a taste for being watched. He was all possessive hands and low, guttural commands. I remember them, dimly, the way they moved together, using my body as the focal point for their own particular brand of passion. I slip out from under the covers, careful not to wake them. My work is done.

My first appointment of the day is always a regular. A judge, a man of stern principles in public, who pays me to degrade him in private. He arrives at nine, sharp, his expensive suit already looking rumpled with anticipation. He doesn't want to fuck me, not really. He wants me to call him names, to make him kneel, to use his expensive tie as a leash. I spit in his mouth and watch the flicker of shame and ecstasy in his eyes. When he's finished, he cleans himself up, buttons his pristine shirt, and leaves a crisp envelope on the table. He never makes eye contact on his way out.

By noon, I'm with the university student. She's young and earnest, all nervous energy and limbs. She's experimenting, she tells me, trying to figure out what she likes. I lay her out on my silk sheets and teach her. I show her how a woman's touch can be different, softer, but no less demanding. I trace the delicate lines of her tattoos and listen to her sighs turn into whimpers and then into sharp cries of release. She leaves smelling of my perfume and her own new-found confidence.

The afternoons are for the anonymous ones. The ones who find me through my discreet website, who want a quick, hard, transactional fuck in the middle of their workday. A bored CEO in a hotel room, his wedding band a cold circle on my hip as he pounds into me from behind, his face buried in my hair to hide his guilt. A young, sculpted gym-goer who wants to be praised for his body, who flexes in the mirror as I ride him, his ego as inflated as his muscles. I am a mirror for their desires, a vessel for their needs. I take what they give me, and I give them what they crave. It's a clean, efficient exchange. I don't kiss them on the mouth. That's a rule.

Evenings are different. That's when I indulge myself. Sometimes, it's a party, a gathering of people like me. We flow from room to room, a river of naked flesh, hands and mouths finding each other in the dark. I'll find a pair of twins, and let them explore me as if I'm a new, fascinating specimen. I'll let a group of men hold me down, their hands gripping my thighs, my wrists, my hair, a symphony of grunts and sweat. In those moments, I'm not a service provider. I'm the epicenter. I am the reason for the celebration of flesh.

Other nights, I hunt. I'll go to a bar, a club, a place pulsing with raw need. I'll choose someone. Or two. Or three. I'll take them home and use them the way I was used during the day. I'll be the one in charge, the one setting the pace, the one drawing out their pleasure until they're begging. I'll take their power, their energy, their very essence, and make it mine.

Then, the cycle repeats. I'll fall into an exhausted sleep, my body a canvas of faint bruises and fading memories, only to wake up next to another stranger, another story, another mark on my soul. My life is a carousel of bodies, and I'm the prize in the middle. It's a beautiful, glittering, empty existence, and I wouldn't trade it for anything.