Stalker

So, it's done. It's official. I am now a prostitute. If it's what separates a moral woman from a depraved one, then yes, money has changed hands. Or more like, money has passed from a grubby, hairy hand over to the smooth, polished surface of the hotel bed's nightstand. As odd as it may seem, it wasn't the actual sex that made me feel like I was selling my body to a stranger. It wasn't the sex that made me feel tainted, either. No. It was that swift deposit of the neatly stacked banknotes next to the half-finished, lipstick-stained glass of flat champagne that screamed "Wh*re!" at me. It�s so much easier than I thought� Or at least it is until I meet the one client that is going to turn my whole life around. He threatens to ruin it for no obvious reason. Who is he? Why is he there with every step I take, lurking in the shadows, always too close, always just a bit further than my grasp? And, above all, why is he haunting not only my every waking minute, but also my dreams?