Within a week of starting my hooking gigs, a lot of guys at CCNY had my home phone number and I’d arrange many of my transactions through that medium. Sometimes I’d still do it the old-fashioned street prostitute way. I’d lounge around inside the Finley Student Center or just stand outside that building or maybe Wagner Wall, and invariably some dude would approach me.

My first ever customer, that Greg with the big Ford, promised to get the word out about my services and he kept his promise. He had told his friends, who then told their friends, and so it went out along the horny college student grapevine. A girl with dark blonde hair and steel-rimmed glasses named Nora was turning tricks, mostly on the South Campus. I regretted giving Greg my full name, but I was still very naïve when I had met him.

A bit after that, I was doing some of my tricks at my house in Maspeth, Queens. There were both advantages and advantages to doing things there. The place gave us some privacy, which was difficult to obtain at the college. The johns would come up to my room, or we would just do the act in the living room.

The problem was that the house was owned by my uncle, and he lived there too. During the day, he’d be out at his job as a carpenter. But I also had classes to attend, and I only had one day plus an afternoon to be free to pursue my so-called profession. Sometimes I would just cut classes if I had a good deal coming up in Queens. Of course, with all of those distractions, I was attending fewer classes and my grades started to suffer.

Also, Maspeth was a long way from the college, but a surprising number of guys would make the trek out there to see me. Some of them owned cars, but others would take the subway to Queens Plaza and then transfer to a bus.

As I will mention elsewhere, most gigs were completed rapidly because of how fast young guys would come. A few thought that they could then get a free beer from the fridge and hand around the house and maybe listen to records for a while. Some of them probably imagined that, after having a brief, paid sex act with me, I was now their girlfriend or something. I forbade them from staying even an extra ten minutes. I would tell them to get out and go somewhere, anywhere else.  They could get in their car or wait for the bus or take a walk; I didn’t care. I just wanted them out the front door as soon as they got their pants up.

I didn’t care if they protested about the about of travel time that had been required. A hooker has to be very firm if she doesn’t want the customers to take advantage of her. Thus many of them traveled for an hour or more, one way, for about fifteen minutes of sex in total. Yet a few of them did come out there more than once. It was amazing how desperate some of those guys were for a bit of sexual action, no matter how degraded it was.

Dominatrix gigs were one thing that worked best in Maspeth. Usually, those took a bit more time than ordinary tricks, and I had the room to set up the scene correctly. It was difficult to pull that off at the college, especially with the loud sound of male behinds being smacked. I’ll discuss more about dominatrix work later.

One day in October, a guy approached me as I stood in front of Wagner. He had very little money to spend. For that amount, there was only one thing I would do: I’d be in some stage of undress and he could masturbate while looking at my tits or pussy. It was cheap because I didn’t have to be touched by him. It was like a peep show without the glass between us.

He knew just the place to do this; he had the keys to a small room in Cohen Library, right up the road from Wagner. We agreed on how we would work it. I would bend over a desk, lift my skirt, and take my panties off. That way he could have a good view of my underside. He could then sit in on a chair and jerk off while staring at my womanly parts. I figured that I wouldn’t waste the time, so I got my sociology textbook out and read that while swaying my ass back and forth.

It didn’t take him very long. He cried out, “Nora, you’re so beautiful; you’re making me come.” Then I heard a sound like raindrops hitting the pavement. I looked back, and he was putting out several impressive spurts that fell onto the floor.

I was about to leave – I had my money and I had finished the job – when he caught his breath and said, “Please Nora, let me do some more things with you.”

“Do you have more money? Because it’s strictly pay-to-play with me.”

He had no more cash, so I put my panties back on and put the book back into my bag. I walked out while his cock was still hanging out and his semen covered the floor.

******

Another customer had a rather elaborate scenario for me. I was supposed to be a street whore, and he would drive up and engage me while I was standing on Convent Avenue in the evening.

Usually, I was reluctant to get into a man’s car; that first Greg client had parked his vehicle with the engine turned off. But this one was offering a significant amount of money, and he was also giving me more cash to buy some slutty clothes. From his point of view, he probably felt safer with me than with a real street prostitute. I took the job.

The plan was that we would pick me up at a pre-arranged spot. Then we’d drive off and we’d play this John-whore game. He would take me someplace and I would give him a blowjob; then he would drive me back to the campus. He had a pretty roomy car too, a 1971 Chevelle sedan. 

On the appointed evening, I was wearing a tan raincoat to hide my costume, and I waited in the entrance of Wingate Hall. It was just getting dark when he drove up and lowered the passenger side window. “Hey honey, are you working tonight?” I rolled my eyes at his ridiculous line.

I went to the passenger-side window and pretended to negotiate with him. “Yeah, I’m working. How much have you got to spend?” Actually, he had paid me in advance, which simplified things. I got in the back seat so I could tease him when I took my raincoat off. Everything underneath that garment was black. As we drove off, I removed my coat and revealed myself to him

My outfit was well-coordinated, a version of a dominatrix look, and I knew I could use it during future encounters. From top to bottom I had: a bustier (a sort of brassiere-blouse combination), elbow-high gloves, a micro-miniskirt, a tiny black thong, a garter, and straps to hold up my fishnet stockings. To finish it off, I was wearing knee-high leather boots.

He was extremely impressed with my attire and he had a difficult time driving while trying to look back at me. “Come on, baby, sit up in the front with me.”

“Oh, no, I’m going to flaunt myself to you first.” Actually, I had planned to stay back there until we reached wherever the blowjob location was. I knew if I sat in the front he would put his hands all over me. It may seem strange for a hooker, but I tried to minimize the amount of touching the customers did on my body. Yes, it felt creepy to have men pay to put their hands on me.

I gave him a good show, however. I spread my legs and pulled my thong aside. Then I fondled my pussy as we drove along. I was giving myself some real pleasure rubbing the cloth of the glove on my clitoris.

Our destination was not far away; it was under the Riverside Drive viaduct around 130th Street. He already had his cock out when I got in the front with him. I held him with my gloved-covered hand and I put my red-lipsticked mouth around him. As I expected, he came in about six or seven minutes. He had paid to ejaculate into my mouth. However, I had an improvised surprise for him. I leaned over, opened the door, and spit his semen into the street.

He was shocked. “Why did you have to do that?”

“Because, sweetie, that’s what street whores do.” I had read about such incidents somewhere, like maybe in The Village Voice or perhaps Screw Magazine. “I mean, you were done with your cum and so was I.”

I thought he would argue about not getting his money’s worth, but he meekly accepted the situation. In return, I gave him a freebie on the return trip. I was in the back again, and I took off a glove and began a masturbation session that was more intense than the one on the outbound trip. It seemed that I could finger-fuck myself better than most of those inept guys could do it.

When we were back on Convent Avenue, I hadn’t finished yet but I was very close. I didn’t have to fake anything as I cried out in my sexual release. He had been watching intently from his position behind the wheel. As I was catching my breath, he said, “How about watching me jerk-off now? I know I can put out another really big load for you.”

I thought I had done enough, so I started putting my raincoat back on. “Baby, that was a free one. If you want me to do more – like watching you work on yourself – that will be an extra charge.”

He did make one attempt at an argument. “Please, I know you’ll be impressed by how much I can shoot out.”

“You think I haven’t seen lots of guys come before? I’m running a business here, not a charity for horny dudes.” With that, I pushed the door open and got out. I thought he might follow me, but I only heard the click of my boots on the sidewalk. When I turned the corner onto 141st Street, I felt safer. I was heading to Amsterdam Avenue to catch a cab. As I took my glasses out of my purse and put them on, a human thought came to me. Nora, you’ve only been at this for two months, and you’re already turning into a hardened, very cold strumpet-bitch.

I couldn’t face the truth, so instead, I thought about the ample amount of money I had earned that night. It was already at home, hidden with my other cash in a chest of drawers in my room. As I mentioned before, my uncle eventually found it but he didn’t seize it. Instead, he made me open bank accounts.

******

If guys wanted me to swallow during a blowjob, that was an extra charge. Otherwise, they’d have to pull out and shoot it elsewhere. Sometimes their aim was off, and they would get some on my clothes. That was extremely annoying, and they had to pay for that too. It didn’t matter if the garment was wash-and-wear or not. With prostitutes, every little detail adds to the cost. Working girls can’t afford to miss those opportunities.

Some of them liked to shoot into my mouth from an inch or two out. That let them see their own ejaculation entering the girl they had just rented. It was truly a money shot because that cost more too. Usually, they managed to get some on my face; thus the higher price.

A few only wanted to come into my face and hair. That was expensive for them because it was hard to clean up the mess that made.

The first time I did anal, it was in the office of The Campus with one of the editors. I got up on my hands and knees on their couch for that. He lubed up pretty well, so it wasn’t that difficult to do. He also promised to fondle my pussy during the act, but he quickly forgot and concentrated on his own thrusting.

It didn’t matter much, because he came pretty quickly too. In fact, almost all of my customers were pretty fast with their orgasms regardless of what they were doing. That’s just the nature of revved-up college-age guys. The majority of them were premature ejaculators no matter how much they tried to think of baseball or whatever. Perhaps they were excited by the novelty of having a new girl, despite the fact that they were paying for her.

The only exceptions were those who paid for another go-round. These two-timers usually had more stamina for the second act.

For the others, I didn’t know why they bothered getting a hooker. Rarely was the time from pulling their cocks out to having an orgasm more than ten or fifteen minutes. It was usually about the same for oral, manual, or anal stimulation. (As I mentioned, I wouldn't allow vaginal penetration for any price, with or without a rubber.) For frottage or “fluffing” (rubbing my bare ass against their crotches) it might be slightly longer. They climaxed as they gripped my hips and shot off all over my back and behind.

No matter what we were doing, I had minimal or no foreplay with them. If they needed help getting hard, then they could do it for themselves. Absolutely no kissing was allowed; almost all prostitutes have that rule. What did they think, that I was their girlfriend? If they did, then they were very mistaken.

A couple of them paid me to do foreplay on myself – in other words, for me to masturbate while they watched. Sometimes they would beat off too at the same time which, no surprise, cost more. They would usually come first, but I often used a dildo in my pussy and then I would come too. It was fun in a way, but I didn’t prolong it. I never had to fake my climax; I’ve always been a very orgasmic lady.

Many of these customers came so quickly that I wondered why they just didn’t get some porn magazine and masturbate as much as they wanted to with one of those publications. Well, yeah, they did have brief contact with my tongue or hands but otherwise, I was sort of a 3D porn magazine that talked – although I rarely said more than I had to. They usually failed to see that the “sex” they thought they were having was mostly an illusion.

*****

I mentioned before how dominatrix gigs worked better in Maspeth because we had the time and space to set up the scene properly. Almost every guy who paid for those things was suffering from guilt about his own sexuality. I was convinced of that because that’s what almost all of them told me about themselves.

Female domination was strange and contradictory in a way because the customers were paying me to take control over what happened to them. Yet, like all Johns, they had the ultimate power because they were offering the money.

Thus I had to do what they asked for while making a pretense of being the judgmental big auntie-teacher-professor-manager doling out the deserved discipline. Yet I’m sure they all went home and masturbated about the session they had just endured. It was a kind of feedback loop that kept them coming back for more.

I’ll give an example that will illustrate what dominatrix work was like. One guy came out to Maspeth and he was sitting in the living room complaining about he couldn’t stop masturbating. It really bothered him, and I was sitting there in my gray suit, nylons, and heels listening to him go on about it. I already knew what he wanted because we had talked about it over the phone. He was paying me to go over my lap and get a hard bare-ass spanking. I also was sure he wasn’t going to change his behavior, but that wasn’t the point of the exercise.

Thus I went through the usual jive with him. “You’ve been a very bad boy, and now you’re going to pay the price. You’ve been acting shamefully and thinking of women only as objects for your twisted fantasies.” Sometimes I would amaze myself with the bullshit I could make up for these customers.

He was contrite or pretended to be. “Yes, Miss Meara, I will submit to whatever you think is best to solve my problem.” More bullshit, but it was from him that time.

Also, “Miss Meara” was the moniker that I would call myself during these sessions. Maybe it seemed more egalitarian than being called “Mistress.” It wasn’t like I was running their lives as my slaves. I was a professional lady doing the proper actions to get these misbehaving guys into line.

“All right, young man, stand up and come over here. I’m going to tan your naughty bottom but good.” That was kind of funny because he was about two years older than I was. It was also very trite dialogue, but that was to be expected.

I already knew he didn’t want a warm-up over his clothes, but he did want me to take his pants down for him as he stood there. Then I said, “Now, I’m not going to take your drawers down until you are face-down on my lap. I don’t want to see your vile penis.” I think that surprised him because I had just made it up on the spot. However, he complied. And I did have a great view of his ass and balls, which was oddly pleasing.

Then when he was in position, I began a slow but steady and hard whacking of his exposed butt. He yelped each time I brought my hand down his bare behind, and he wasn’t faking that.

We hadn’t agreed on a time limit, so I would decide when his ass was red enough for me to stop. “Now, I think you’re beginning to learn your lesson now, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Miss Meara, give me more, if you please.” I actually liked leaving my handprints on their bare flesh. It gave me a sense of power, albeit that was illusory too I suppose. But using a hairbrush or a paddle had advantages too, such as sparing my own hand from becoming hot and sore.

Then I suddenly noticed what he was doing on my lap. His hips were moving back and forth across my thighs, and I could feel his cock rubbing against my skirt. I understood what he was doing. Jesus, talk about masturbation; this guy is doing it right on my lap.

I didn’t try to stop him, however. I wanted to see if he could bring himself to a conclusion. And damn, he did it, quite dramatically, in fact. He raised himself up and yelled something. Now I could see his cock, and he was ejaculating big spurts of cum. Some of it went right over me and landed on the floor, but some of it also got onto my clothes.

I was impressed that I had such an effect on him. But I pretended to be angry. “Look what you’ve done, you little pervert. You got your disgusting splooge all over my clothes.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Meara, I couldn’t help myself.”

“I know; I see that my attempts to instill self-control in you have failed. I’ll have to have you come back here for another round of spanking.”  That was good; a repeat customer was always welcome. “Now go by the wall and stand there with your hands of your head.”

I didn’t want to prolong that segment, so I got up and stood next to him. He was afraid to look at me. “Now someone is going to have to pay the dry cleaning bill, and it’s not going to be me.”

“Yes, Miss Meara, I’ll take care of it.”

“Then get your pants up and give me the cash right now.” After he had complied, I said, “All right, we’re done. Please leave the premises immediately.”

“Yes, and thank you Miss Meara for your patience with me.”

I suspected what he was really thanking me for managing to give him a better orgasm than he could give to himself. When he was gone, I looked down at this semen glistening on my skirt. I had seen a lot of guys come before, but that one impressed me with the sheer volume he had put out.

I went upstairs and took off my skirt and put on another one. It didn’t match my jacket but I didn’t care. Then I went downstairs to make a vodka and tonic. My uncle wouldn’t be home for another two hours, so I relaxed in the living room for a while.

It was a rationalization, of course, but the thought came to me: if one has to be a hooker, then doing domination is a pretty good course to take.

But there was a truth that I couldn't face during my freshman year. I had money, yes, but I was wasting part of my life doing that, let’s face it, degrading job. And I was so young then! I was only eighteen, nineteen years old.

I find the term “sex worker” to be amusing. It gives the impression that I was on par with people on an auto assembly line perhaps. Yet I had no excuse beyond sheer greed, I suppose. I know now how foolish I had been.

######

As seen in “Nora Considers Domination,” she goes back for a stint as a part-time dominatrix in her senior year. She admits that she got caught up with the lure of money again.