My heart races as I enter through the STAFF ONLY door of The Glory Hole. With a full face of makeup, and my pitch-black hair freshly washed and loose, I slip through the dark, neon-lit halls to find a free booth. It’s my first night working, and I couldn’t be more anxious. My skin prickles with electricity, practically vibrating with nervous energy. I never imagined I’d end up in the sex industry, just another piece of meat in the grinder … but here we are.

Truth be told, I have no other options. I can’t stand facing people. Even just doing my shopping and getting from one place to the next consumes all my mental fortitude. There is no way I could deal with your run-of-the-mill customer service jobs, be it cashier, waitress, or telemarketer. Since my ex isolated me, breaking me down piece by piece until he shattered my expressive and once bold soul, I’ve become low-level agoraphobic. If I’m outside of my safe space for too long, or around crowds of people, I put myself at risk of suffering a panic attack.

The brutality of my ex-boyfriend’s particular brand of love still haunts me. The pain he caused remains as clear on my flesh as it does in my heart. Abusive piece of shit. He lured me into the BDSM scene with his smoking hot good looks, knee-weakening charm, and natural dominance.

Like a hapless moth entranced by a glowing flame, I eventually ventured too close to his fire—and I got burned. What started out as a consensual Dom/sub relationship soon turned ugly. There were no limits, safewords, or respect. I became his collared property. And I wasn’t his precious pet, or his beloved submissive … he treated me like I was worthless. He made me feel like I should be grateful he even allowed me to breathe.

He stole my heart when I was at my most vulnerable and took advantage, asserting his power over me in the most violent and toxic ways imaginable. I grew to fear him, trembling at his touch in genuine terror for my life. And then I learned I wasn’t the first. I was just another dumb bitch in a long line of used up, abused, and discarded women. I wasn’t special. And he wasn’t just losing control. I was simply nothing to him, and he never really loved me. He wasn’t worthy of the excuses I was making for him. He really was just a monster.

So, I ran as far I could and hitched the rest of the way when my legs would no longer carry me. And now I have nothing to call my own in this world. No family, no savings, no friends to fall back on. There’s just what I am—a body. A body that can enter into service of the oldest profession known to mankind. I can sell my tomb of flesh by the hour, but at least this time it’s on my terms. I know what I’m getting myself into. Everything is upfront, literally written in black and white, and signed on the dotted line. With my prior experience in the BDSM lifestyle, and my utter lack of self-esteem, this seemed like the next logical step in rebuilding my life. I love sex. I just hate my fucking ex. I’m going to earn a wage to survive on, and reclaim my sexuality at the same time.

My job here at The Glory Hole is to be one of many anonymous fucks—with three holes and two hands to be used for the pleasure of others for as long as they desire, until my shift ends. But instead of death threats, black eyes, bruises, bloody lips, and hours of painful, emotional rejection, I get to leave each night with a fat paycheck for my efforts. And if I’m lucky, I might just enjoy some of it and begin to heal the damage of my past. I mean, it’s sex minus the violence. It’s a start, and some of it is bound to feel good, right?

At the end of the day, what matters most is that I’m finally safe from that bastard who so selfishly carved his name onto my heart with his cruelty. I have a chance to start over. I might be crawling up from rock bottom, but I refuse to lay down and die. And it’s not like I can fall any further. I’ll suck cock for as long as it takes to claw my way to true freedom and independence. And thankfully, until I can afford a place of my own, I can rent a room above the club. The security here is second to none, and the club takes care of its girls. We may be commodities, but here at least we’re valued. And if I get to bliss out to an orgasm or two as my clients get their rocks off? Awesome. I can think of worse jobs.

The booth is clean but small, and covered with artistic street graffiti, setting the mood. This may not be a high-class establishment, but it’s one of the oldest and well-known in New York City. You’re just as likely to find an undercover celebrity frequenting the glory holes to satisfy his carnal lust as the crackhead that deals drugs down glass-strewn, dark alleys.

The Glory Hole rejects no one who can afford to be here, assuming you check out physically. Whether you’ve got old money, a steady blue-collar job, or you just hawked everything you own to get in the door, one man’s paper is as good as any other’s.

Licking my glossy black lips, I sit down and strap on my matching black heels. Here, my name is Raven. Gothic, exotic, and tantalizing—I’d like to think I offer something a little less vanilla than most are used to. Dabbing some perfume on my pulse points, I freshen up and take a deep swig of liquid courage from the flask in my handbag. We’re not allowed to be inebriated on the job, but they’re not going to begrudge a new girl a little bit of comfort on her first night.

Slipping off my skirt and G-string, I let them fall to the floor. Then sucking in a steadying breath, I perch my ass on the padded leather bench that’s to be my fuck bed. Laying down, I slip my legs through the curtain made of soft leather strips that match the bench. Wiggling down until the strips tickle my hips, I’m painfully aware that my waxed cunt and voluptuous butt are now on display to anyone who might be on the other side of the glory hole.

I reach for the wall-mounted pump of lube, and squirt some into my hand, before reaching down cautiously beyond the curtain. My fingers graze my clit as I make both my holes slick, readying myself for my first customer until I naturally have time to get warmed up. I shiver as my long black nails play across my delicate folds, before sliding up my stomach to disappear from view once more.

Unable to see anything beyond my own navel, I stare up at the ceiling and bite my lower lip. This is it, I realize with a scintillating thrill. From this moment on, I’m officially a whore.