He’s married. He has three children. His wife has no idea he’s currently sitting in a fancy ass overpriced hotel, waiting for a high class hooker to arrive at his door.

It’s immoral, cheating on his innocent wife with a hooker, but he needed it. He was too stressed to be dealing with his wife — she just made everything ten times more difficult.

All he wants is some quick relief.

There he was, laying on his hotel bed, his disheveled hair sticking to his forehead, his skin glistening with sweat, wearing a satin button up shirt, the last few buttons only buttoned up, his whole chest almost on show, wearing tailored black pants — he’d just come back from an awards show. The tie and blazer had been long forgotten somewhere in the hotel room.

On the bedside table next to him, sat bottles of whiskey and vodka, two glasses beside them too. And also…a small bag full of coke. Which he’d already snorted a line from.

He waited patiently for the hooker to knock the door, and she finally did. He immediately got up, walking towards the hotel room door, then opening it.

He’d paid a lot of fucking money for her — like a ridiculous amount. She had to be amazing, right?