I don’t know what the hell is going on, but it seems that everyone is in holiday mode. I posted a pic of myself on Insta, and it barely got fifty likes. Even if I say so myself, my black skirt and tank top made me look stunning. That post had only five comments, and it had some losers who posted heart emojis. Ugh, can’t a girl get some quality comments and an abundance of likes?
I mean, seriously. What do I have to do to get some attention?
Last week, I walked around in a low-cut top, my tits wobbling, and I didn’t get a single stare. Not one. Even the average guy with pimples covering his face like pepperoni on a pizza didn’t sneak a peek at my well-developed chest as he walked past me.
At this point, I’ll be grateful for a catcall from a construction crew.
Ugh, the whole thing is so exasperating. I chuckle at my use of the word exasperating. It’s a new word that I learnt, and I’ve used it quite often in the last few weeks.
Scrolling through my friends’ Insta, I close my eyes briefly and inhale a deep breath as I see Liz posing in the Maldives. She’s living the life—travels the world, dines at the finest restaurants and receives lavish gifts.
I wish that a rich man would DM and fly me out to Dubai. That would be awesome. Look at me. It’s a Saturday afternoon, and I’m behind a till, tolerating advances by middle-aged men who make a measly income and have a dad bod. I deserve better.
After my shift, I walk home and swipe on pictures of my friends enjoying themselves at the beach. I grit my teeth and groan, livid that they’re living their best life and I have to work. It’s so unfair.
At home, I scroll through all of my photos and delete the ones that don’t make me look stunning. There aren’t many of them, so I complete the task quickly.
I study the pictures I selected that need improvement. In all of them, my chin is hanging slightly, so I use a filter to lift it.
The pimples on my right cheek vanish as I apply the skin filter.
I look at my waist and wonder how to tighten it. I find a body filter in the App Store and apply it. Oh, wow. These work incredibly well. I look like a perfect ten.
At the end of the week, I received my pay.
I budgeted a hundred dollars for Insta ads. I selected my best photo and boosted it, choosing Dubai and men as my target audience.
A few minutes after the ad started running, I received several DMs. Most of the men who DM’ed me showered me with compliments. I waited for the ones who chose gifts.
Two guys purported to be rich. That’s another word that I learnt—purported. Instead of using catfished, the new word on Insta was purported. Everything on Insta was about image, and people wanted to present themselves as intelligent, so the vocabulary on the platform upgraded.
I checked the profiles of the two supposed rich guys. Both of them posed next to supercars, which were probably rented. One guy took a close-up selfie, wearing a thick, diamond necklace. It was probably fake. I blocked both of them to avoid receiving their messages so that I could easily access messages from the big fish.
Throughout the day, I probably checked my messages more than a hundred times. Much to my delight, my pic received more than a thousand likes, and guys kept posting comments, telling me that I’m a princess and deserve the royalty treatment. Their comments validated my belief.
Just before switching off the bedside lamp, I checked my messages. Ali messaged me and asked me when I could fly out to see him. I smiled, pleasantly surprised at his approach to contact me. He didn’t shower me with compliments or ask how I was. Instead, he got straight to the point.
I always thought that rich men expressed their desires upfront and didn’t waste time with small talk. It seemed that I had found the real deal.
Nobody ever asked me that question, so I didn’t know how to respond. How much time would I need to pack? Who’s going to feed my little dog? Wonder if my manager would give me a few days off. Ugh, who cares about that? I’m going to Dubai and the hell with everything else.
I replied, ‘In two days.’
That would give me enough time to pack, and it wouldn’t make me seem eager to leave.
Ali asked for my full name, address, passport number, email and phone so that he could book a flight for me. I thought that sharing my personal information with a stranger on the internet wasn’t safe, so I checked his profile.
None of his photos were flashy. He showed off his wealth but in a classy way, such as standing next to a Rolls-Royce in the dessert and looking at a camel. That photo seemed more legit than most of the photos I saw on Insta of guys trying to flaunt their wealth.
I needed more time to think about sharing my information with him, so I replied, ‘I’ll contact you tomorrow. It’s late here, and I need to get my docs in order.’
He didn’t reply to that message. That made me more certain he was legit. If he had been a scammer, he would’ve insisted on my info.
When I woke up, I reached for my phone and checked my DMs. Several other men messaged me, but not Ali.
I contemplated the repercussions of sharing my information with him if he were a scammer. Hmmm. What’s the worst that could happen?
I messaged him, ‘Why do you need my home address?’
A few minutes later, he replied, ‘The airlines ask for it when I make a booking.’
I guess it won’t hurt to share my address with him. I mean, it’s not like he’s going to fly all the way from Dubai to knock on my door. Who knows, maybe he will? I’m worth the trip.
After typing the address, I took a deep breath and then pressed send.
The following day, Ali sent me an email containing my flight information. I smiled and jumped, exclaiming, “Yipee, I’m going to Dubai.”
As I paced around my room, wondering what I would pack, I realised that I was just as beautiful as Liz. Maybe even more beautiful than her. Well, with perfect settings on the filters.
I packed all of my best outfits, make-up and lingerie. Let me not kid myself. Ali didn’t buy me a ticket to just talk. I knew he wanted action, and he would get it if he spoilt me enough. He would need to buy me jewellery, take me on a ride in a Bugatti and dine me at the finest restaurants.
I’m high-class, and a classy lady such as myself deserves top-tier pampering.
Ali emailed and asked me to send him a few pictures of myself. I positioned the lighting and turned to show my good side. Of course, I smiled. That automatically accentuated my beauty. Accentuated—there’s another word that I learnt and have been meaning to use. Aren’t I just so bright?
The lucky guy who makes me his wife is going to have a woman who is well-travelled, experienced, smart and knows what she wants from life and the expectations she has from her man.
The following day, I told my manager that I needed a week off. He wasn’t happy with my request, but he granted it because he knew that it would be difficult to replace me. Young people my age didn’t want to work in retail for minimum wage. Soon, I wouldn’t have to do that job, either.
I hoped that I would develop a serious relationship with Ali, who would give me everything I desired. Then, I’d look back on these days and wonder how it was possible that a beautiful woman such as myself worked a dead-end job. A millionaire should have snapped me up years ago.
Dubai was hot at this time of the year, and I knew that Ali would take me to the beach or a pool at a penthouse. Being in a bikini was inevitable, so I wore one and weighed myself.
I cringed, seeing 180 lbs on the scale. I thought I was a bit lighter, but evidently, I had gained a few pounds in the last four weeks. Oopsie, my bad.
Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to lose weight, so I opted for not eating until I got to Dubai. I was convinced that I would lose, at least, five pounds by skipping three meals.
On the plane, it took every ounce of restraint I had to turn down the beef and mashed potatoes when the air hostess offered them.
I was starving when I got off the plane, and I couldn’t wait for Ali to pick me up and take me to a restaurant.
A taxi driver in a Prius pulled up next to me and asked, “Excuse me, are you Shannon Wilson?”
“Yes, I am.”
“I am your taxi driver. Ali sent me.”
“Oh, okay.” I frowned, expecting a chauffeur to pick me up in a Rolls-Royce. Alas. Ali would have to make this up to me with a big, juicy steak at the most expensive restaurant in Dubai.
The driver remained silent during the drive, and I had several questions. But I wasn’t certain that he knew the answers. He didn’t look very intelligent. Then again, only a few people in the world were blessed with that gift, like me.
My stomach rumbled, and I saw the driver look at me in the rear-view mirror. I smiled awkwardly and rolled my eyes, looking out of the window and wondering how quickly a chef could grill me a big steak.
The driver pulled up to a regular house. I frowned, leaning towards the window and looking at the surrounding houses. The neighbourhood was upper-middle class, at best. What is this? Where am I? I thought that Ali would have a villa.
“Sir, where are we?”
“This is the place. Ali told me to bring you here.”
A second disappointment. This Ali guy better be a prankster who has some dark humour and will eventually reveal that he is extremely wealthy or else.
The black gate opened as I stepped towards it.
I walked up the long driveway, and I heard the front door open.
A man wearing a traditional Middle Eastern outfit stepped out and frowned at me. That’s no way to react when looking at a beautiful woman.
“What thee hell is this?” he asked.
I frowned and looked behind me, thinking he was referring to something other than me.
I walked towards him, thinking that he was highly rude and inhospitable.
“Excuse me? What are you talking about?”
“You. You’re fat.”
I stared at him, my mouth agape. How dare he?
“I beg your pardon, sir.”
“No, don’t beg for my pardon. Beg for a diet and exercise plan.”
Staring at him with my wide eyes and my slacked jaw, I hoped that my premonition of him being a prankster would come true.
But it didn’t. He kept looking at me in disgust.
“I take good care of myself, thank you very much.”
“A little too well. Maybe try smaller portions and more workout time.”
“I can’t believe that you’re talking to me like this.”
“And I can’t believe that you tricked me.”
“I did not trick you.”
“Yes, you did. You look nothing like your photos. I want that person as my wife, not Miss Piggy.”
I gasped. “How dare you?”
“How dare you come here looking like this? My father paid top dollar to bring you here so I could introduce you to him. Now he’s going to want to know where you are?”
“I’m right here.”
“You are not coming into the house looking like that. I don’t want my family to be embarrassed of me.”
I kept looking at him, completely stunned. Not in my worst nightmares did I imagine he would react like this. Nobody ever had. Then again, nobody had bought me a plane ticket to Dubai.
Ali slammed the door shut, and my heart dropped. The reality of being in a foreign country, having very little money and no return ticket had sunk in. I was alone and had to fend for myself.
I had the urge to bang on his door until it annoyed him so much that he opened it. But then what? It’s not like he would have compassion for me and try to help me. He was disgusted with me and didn’t even want to look at me.
Fortunately, I had money for a taxi, so I went to the city centre. I figured that the opportunities there would help me get home.
Dragging my bag behind me for half an hour hurt my wrist. I had roamed around the city, hoping that somebody would save me. But nobody came to my rescue.
Tired, despondent and hurt, I walked into a hotel and sat in the lobby. I watched happy couples stroll past, gazing into each other’s eyes. It wasn’t their love that I envied. I wanted to have the money they had to have complete freedom. Or, right now, I want enough money to get home. I just wanted to go back to my old life. The influencer lifestyle wasn’t for me.
An hour after I sat in the lobby, my stomach rumbled. I had forgotten about hunger in the midst of the barrage of insults. I wanted to eat and then go back home. And I was prepared to do anything for both.
A man with a thick beard and glasses approached me. He was probably in his fifties and smartly dressed.
“Hello, young lady. How are you?” he asked.
“Not so great.”
“What is the matter?”
“It’s a long story, but I need to get back home and I don’t have the means.”
“I see. Maybe I can help. I’m Hussan.”
“Shannon. How could you possibly help me?”
“Why don’t we talk about it in the restaurant?”
Hussan watched me gorge on the steak and the veggies. He asked if I wanted dessert, and I nodded like an excited puppy who was about to get a treat.
I drank a milkshake while Hussan sipped on tea.
“I’ve got a proposal for you,” he said.
“Okay. I’m all ears.”
“You seem like a wonderful young lady with an open mind. Correct?”
“Suuure. It depends how open you mean.”
“I can buy you a ticket home and give you, let’s say, five hundred dollars for the trip to buy yourself something nice.”
“And what would I need to do to get that?”
“You take care of my friends, and they will take care of you.”
I frowned. “How many friends?”
“Three.”
“Huh. I see. And what do these friends want me to do?”
“Satisfy them, of course.”
“And by that, you mean?”
He sneered. “You know us, men, darling. We have some needs that need to be taken care of, but my friends are very generous. They tip well. The more you satisfy them, the bigger their generosity.”
“Okay. Where are your friends?”
“Upstairs.”
“Here in the hotel?”
“Yes.”
I looked at the floor, pondering my options. Maybe this was the opportunity I had hoped for. Who else could help me? I had no money to pay for a room, and even if I did, what would change tomorrow?
“Okay, fine. I’ll meet your friends.”
He smiled. “Wonderful.” He stood up and gestured towards the elevator. “After you, my lady.”
I walked into a penthouse overlooking Dubai. Three men were on the couch, and they looked at me as I walked in.
One of them stood up and shook my hand while the other two admired me.
In the bedroom, I got on my hands and knees. One of them lay on the bed, and I blew him while one guy crouched over me on the bed and stuck his dick into my ass while the third one pounded my pussy doggystyle.
They rotated every fifteen minutes or so. Then, I got on my knees on the floor, and they stood around me as I blew them.
Two of the guys peed on me. Yuck. I squeezed my eyes shut and grimaced. After they finished, the third guy lay on the bed and opened his legs wide, then told me to lick his anus.
Oh, my goodness. The things I did to get back home.
His ass was hairy, but I was glad that his anus was clean. While I licked his anus, he farted in my face. The other two guys burst out into laughter, and he followed suit. I didn’t think it was funny.
One guy straddled the sofa and told me to suck his big toe. Yuck. Even his toe had a few hairs on it. But I did as he requested.
After I pleased him, the other two guys said that I should get on my knees. They stood beside me and stroked their dicks. I looked ahead and felt their dicks brushing my ears. Then, I felt their semen inside my ears. What in the actual hell? Who gets off on that?
They asked me if I wanted another round. I said, “Maybe tomorrow. I’m tired now. If you don’t mind paying me so I can go and get some rest.”
They paid me two thousand dollars and said that they would double it if I returned the following day. The hell I was. I just wanted to go home.
I went to the airport and bought a ticket home, with no desire to return to Dubai.