u/BroadlyAbroad7991

[M4F] Cost of Luxury - A Simple College Girl's journey to being an Escort addicted to money and luxury.

The ceiling fan groaned above Monica, its sluggish rotations doing little to stir the thick hostel air. She eyed the peeling paint as her roommates, Riya, Aisha, and Poojapreened before the mirror, their designer perfumes clashing in the confined space. Monica’s fingers brushed the frayed hem of her salwar kameez.

"You always look so... simple," Riya smirked, adjusting her diamond-studded earring.

"Because I am simple," Monica muttered, clutching her secondhand textbook tighter, nervous.

Pooja laughed, tossing her iPhone onto the bed. "Simplicity doesn’t pay for this."

Monica swallowed. "How do you afford it all?"

The room went quiet. Aisha exchanged glances with the others before leaning in. "We have... arrangements."

"Trusted agents give us men who want company. Discreetly."

Monica recoiled. Looking on in shock.

"Don’t be dramatic," Pooja scoffed. "You get fucked for free. We are atleast getting paid for it."

Disgust twisted Monica’s gut. But later, alone, she stared at her cracked Nokia screen—another missed call from Rahul, her loving, simple boyfriend, asking when she’d meet him. Her gaze drifted to Riya’s abandoned Louboutins by the door and the silk Versace scarf draped over the chair.

By Valentine’s night, she was numb. It was their 1st anniversary after all. Rahul’s texts piled up. Where are you? The café’s closing. She silenced her phone, smoothing the borrowed silk saree and sleeveless blouse (Aisha’s "starter kit") as the black sedan weaved through bylanes. The agent, a sleek man in a tailored suit, appraised her. A flower in her hair, bangles as requested and of course, the heels.

As the car merged stopped in front of Hotel Deluxe Inn, a shady 3 star hotel, Monica clenched her fists. She could not believe she was doing this. She was about to earn in a few hours about 5 times the amount of money that Rahul had ever spent on her.

Kept it open ended to discuss what adventures await our protagonist.

[M4F] Cost of Luxury - A Simple College Girl's journey to being an Escort addicted to money and luxury.

The ceiling fan groaned above Monica, its sluggish rotations doing little to stir the thick hostel air. She eyed the peeling paint as her roommates, Riya, Aisha, and Poojapreened before the mirror, their designer perfumes clashing in the confined space. Monica’s fingers brushed the frayed hem of her salwar kameez.

"You always look so... simple," Riya smirked, adjusting her diamond-studded earring.

"Because I am simple," Monica muttered, clutching her secondhand textbook tighter, nervous.

Pooja laughed, tossing her iPhone onto the bed. "Simplicity doesn’t pay for this."

Monica swallowed. "How do you afford it all?"

The room went quiet. Aisha exchanged glances with the others before leaning in. "We have... arrangements."

"Trusted agents give us men who want company. Discreetly."

Monica recoiled. Looking on in shock.

"Don’t be dramatic," Pooja scoffed. "You get fucked for free. We are atleast getting paid for it."

Disgust twisted Monica’s gut. But later, alone, she stared at her cracked Nokia screen—another missed call from Rahul, her loving, simple boyfriend, asking when she’d meet him. Her gaze drifted to Riya’s abandoned Louboutins by the door and the silk Versace scarf draped over the chair.

By Valentine’s night, she was numb. It was their 1st anniversary after all. Rahul’s texts piled up. Where are you? The café’s closing. She silenced her phone, smoothing the borrowed silk saree and sleeveless blouse (Aisha’s "starter kit") as the black sedan weaved through bylanes. The agent, a sleek man in a tailored suit, appraised her. A flower in her hair, bangles as requested and of course, the heels.

As the car merged stopped in front of Hotel Deluxe Inn, a shady 3 star hotel, Monica clenched her fists. She could not believe she was doing this. She was about to earn in a few hours about 5 times the amount of money that Rahul had ever spent on her.

All characters and players in this play are 18+ . Kept it open ended to discuss what adventures await our protagonist.

[M4F] Working Woman's Downfall into substance use, addiction and degrading cheating sex. Corruption

"Hold still, corporate bitch," the stranger growls, his calloused hands gripping your hips as the smell of cheap weed and cheaper cologne fills your nostrils. Your forehead presses against rusted balcony bars in between your grip on either side. Your wet panties stuffed into your mouth, your wedding ring grating against the balcony bar. The Bengaluru skyline blurring beneath the both of you, just like your life did this week.

It started with ambition. A promotion dangled like ripe fruit, "Nidhi, you’re so close," your boss crooned, fingers brushing yours a second too long. The late nights at the office bled into later nights at the bar, vodka sodas dissolving your wedding ring’s weight. Then came Rahul, not your husband. A client with a smirk and a knack for "networking" in backseat Ubers. His texts were a game: "You deserve to unwind. Let me show you how."

By Wednesday, You were snorting lines off a bathroom sink, Rahul’s laughter echoing as you gasped, "Fuck, I haven’t done this since college.", you thought. The high was electric, but the crash left you shaking. That’s when you met him. Some street vendor turned dealer with hooded eyes and rough language. "Rich girls always taste MUCH sweeter," he mused, offering a blunt like it was salvation.

Now here you were, panties stuffed in your mouth to muffle screaming moans as he pounds into you, your corporate linen blouse clung to you with sweat. The thrill isn’t just the sex. It’s the freefall. No spreadsheets, no polite lies. Just filth and the glorious, gutting truth: You wanted to ruin yourself. As the man made light work of your tight cunt, your phone buzzed away in your purse, discarded near the couch. Your husband reaching out.

As his teeth sink into your shoulder, you wonder if your husband’s still waiting up, dinner cold on the table. Or if he already knows, like you do, that the woman who left Monday isn’t coming back.

-------

DM to discuss or change things. A wild story about the willing downfall of a happy woman in a happy marriage. The dark allure of slumming it, substance abuse and finding pleasure in being fucked silly.

The video call flickers. Swami Ji's stern face fills the screen, his saffron robes bright against the dimly lit temple behind him. His voice booms, "The evil eye is upon this family, Amudha. Only purity of sacrifice can lift it." her hands tremble. First, the warehouse fire. Then, her brother's car crash. Finally the crops failing. I watched everything unfold with a practiced, grave face. It was all my plan.

The fire was an accident. The accident was unlucky. But the Swami on screen was just a jobless actor I hired to sell the idea of the curse to her. And crops drying up were just a chemical reaction I had bribed a feckless farmhand to cause. A cure was in the horizon, I told her. But it would require great sacrifice.

-The First Ritual - Visha Mukti-

The temple incense clung to my skin as Swami Ji’s voice crackled through the laptop screen. "She must perform Visha Mukti: the poison purification. His seed in her mouth by midnight, or the curse takes another life." I almost laughed. My aunt-in-law Amudha’s face, pale under the flickering oil lamp, was priceless. Her trembling fingers clutched the edge of her sari, the gold threads catching the light as she stared at me. In my mind, I placed together the picture of her face when she told my wife that she shouldnt marry me. That I was just after her money. My sworn vengeance from then was finally here.

I lowered my voice, squeezing her shoulder. "Auntie, I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t life or death." Lies tasted sweeter when wrapped in concern. She hesitated. Of course she did. The same woman who’d called me a classless misfit at my wedding now had to kneel between my legs. The irony was delicious. "Swami Ji," she pleaded, "surely there’s another-"

"Enough!" The old man’s fist hit the desk.

"Would you let your family starve like your brother’s crops did last season?" Her breath hitched. The hook was set. That night, I guided her shaking hands to my belt. "All of this is to lift the curse, Auntie," I murmured, watching her lips purse around me. Her gagging vibrated up my body. When she tried to pull away, I fisted her oiled hair. "Swallow, or the curse stays." She obeyed, tears streaking her kohl as she choked down every drop.

-The Second Ritual - Agni Shuddhi

Five days later, I cornered her in the puja room. "Swami Ji says the fire cleansing requires that I clean you using this oil." It was an aphrodisiac that I had imported from Thailand. She did not need to know that. All she needed to know that the statues in the puja room would witness me covering her exposed navel, her sindhoor clad forehead. Her armpits over her blouse and her mangalsutra laden chest.

The gripping massage was bound to swell up her clit. Her moans confirmed that for me.

-The Third Ritual - Dhana Vriddh-

My phone recorded her writhing on the Persian rug, bought with her dowry money. "Beg," I ordered, circling her with the camera. "P-please," she whimpered, arching as I teased her with the tip of my cock.

"I need—" The oil making her taut skin shine in the yellow light. Her Mangalsutra stained with cum and sweat from the day before. "What do you need?" I zoomed in on her flushed face.

"Your… your blessing," she gasped, the euphemism bitter on her tongue. I rewarded her by finger fucking her to 5 orgasms in a row, in her marital bed. She was barely breathing by the end of it.

-The Final Ritual - Bandhanam Moksham-

On day thirty, I shackled her wrists to the bedpost with her own mangalsutra. She had 10 used condoms tied on a thread around her waist. A waist chain made of used condoms. The seed belonged to various men she had serviced on my orders. Strangers who were all too happy to fuck a bitch like this for 100 ruppees.

And yet, she served them with abandon. Around her neck she wore garland of 100 and 50 ruppee notes. Like an achievement. "The bond-breaking requires surrender," I lied, spreading her legs wider. She didn’t resist. She seemed eager. When Swami Ji’s call came, I muted it. I didnt need him anymore. I went in raw. Her whimper was the sweetest prasadam I’d ever tasted.

Her first three orgasms had her wet the bed entirely. I didnt stop. I had planned my ultimate revenge. I cummed in her 5 times that night.

-Epilogue-

Now, when family visits, she serves me first, eyes downcast, neck bruised with hickeys under her dupatta. Her stomach bulging. A miraculous pregnancy so many years after her marriage. Last week, my wife giggled, "You’ve made Auntie so devoted!" I smiled to myself.

Devoted. Ruined. Owned. It was all the same.

------

All characters in this plot are 18+. Open to discussions. DM to play! Open to changes also. Wide range of Kinks, very few limits.

With a visual communications degree from 10 years ago that is as good as nothing in this job market, Bhavya was employment prospects were limited to say the least. She had a penchant for the performing arts but a strict family upbringing and a lack of supportive friends or relationships meant that her dreams were dashed. She always felt so restricted at home and that feeling only compounded when she had to get married. Her community found a match for her. A harmless man named Vivek. She soon found a job as an office assistant at a TV network. Now she was a writer who doubled up as an assistant on a TV Serial that was entering its second season. Underpaid, and overworked, Bhavya never complained though, as it was the closest she would ever be to the limelight. However all of that changed in a matter of three months.

Vivek, who worked as a Business Development Manager lost his job due ti downsizing. The job market was merciless and their finances were ruined by month two. But all was not lost. The new season of the TV serial meant that their monthly payments would be covered with some basic amenities. It would be a struggle but this too would pass. Her producer, Sam, was supportive and promised to pay her salary earlier than everyone else's. He ran the team of creatives in their early twenties with sharp efficiency. In fact, Bhavya was the oldest in the permanent crew, at 36.

Day one of the shoot, they were launching the season with a dramatic tease of the villainess. Varsha, the talented actress who was signed on was uncharacteristically late. The entire crew was set up and waiting when Sam got the news. Varsha had signed a movie and the production would have to be scrapped. The loss would kill the serial. There was no time to find anyone reputed for the shoot. That was when Sam had an idea. He always had an eye on Bhavya and he confidently took this opportunity.

He approached Bhavya and told her the predicament. His solution was rather simple. All they needed was a body double. Just for a few weeks until a more reputed actress could be found. Someone to be shot in silhouettes in those glamorized ethnic outfits. Her salary would be immediately tripled. No one would know it was Bhavya in those risque shots. Unless she wanted them to.

Our story begins here and has a wide variety of routes to go in. I prefer darker outcomes involving a pipeline to escorting.

--------

Open to meaningful discussions and changes to the setting.

2