The Happiest Ending - Chapter 2
Chapter 2: The First Client
This is a sequel to ‘The Happiest Ending - Chapter 1: The Cost of Release’
The door opened with a soft click.
Warm light spilled across the hallway floor, and I blinked as my heels crossed the threshold. The room inside was small and quiet—low golden light, a faint scent of jasmine in the air, and a man sitting comfortably on the massage table, fully dressed, scrolling his phone.
Not Jake.
Definitely not Jake.
He looked up and smiled. Casual. Familiar. As if this were all completely normal.
I stopped.
Behind me, the masseuse—my "trainer"—gave me a gentle push on the lower back.
“Go on, sweetheart,” she whispered, too close to my ear. “He’s been waiting.”
The door shut softly behind us.
The man was already lying face-down on the massage table—bare except for the white towel draped across his hips. His broad back rose and fell slowly with each breath. He didn’t look up.
My heart sank. This wasn’t a prank. No one undresses for a practical joke.
My legs were locked in place by the heels and the panic. The tight pink teddy clung to my hips. The corset cinched me cruelly, high and firm. I couldn’t even remember how to stand naturally anymore. Everything about me was painted, perfumed, polished.
What if Jake really did set this up? What if there’s a camera? What if…
No. This isn’t a joke. There’s a naked man on the table. This is real.
I’m really going to have to touch him.
He’s going to expect me to make him cum.
I swallowed hard.
My trainer walked past me, grabbed a small bottle of massage oil, and handed it to me.
“Start with the shoulders. You’ll ease into it,” she said. “And remember… you’re here to please.”
I stepped forward, hesitant. My hands shook as I poured a little oil into my palm. It was warm—how was it already warm?—and smelled faintly of orange blossom and something deeper, muskier.
I placed my hands on his back.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t comment. Just let out a long, low sigh of contentment.
Just touch. It’s just a massage. You can do this.
I rubbed slowly, awkwardly, sliding oil over his skin. I tried to remember what she did to me, circles at the shoulders, long downward strokes along the spine, but everything felt unnatural. My fingers were tense. I was hyper-aware of my body, of the teddy sliding between my cheeks, of the stockings pulling at the garter belt with every step I shifted.
“Relax your wrists,” my trainer murmured. She was behind me again. “Let your hands glide. Make him melt.”
I nodded stiffly.
After a minute or two, the man rolled onto his back. The towel stayed in place… for now.
His eyes met mine. He smirked.
“She’s nervous,” he said to my trainer.
“Of course she is. She’s new,” she purred. “But she’s eager.”
I tried to look anywhere but his face. Or the towel. I stared at the wall, the candles, the floor.
This has to be the worst dream I’ve ever had.
Except I’m hard again. God, why am I hard again?
My trainer came up beside me. She reached out and gently pulled the towel down.
He was already half hard. Thick. Heavy. My throat tightened.
“Go on,” she said. “He tipped ahead. He’s expecting full service.”
I shook my head slightly, my voice barely above a whisper. “I… I don’t know how.”
She smiled. Not kindly.
“That’s why I’m here.”
She reached for my hand, coated it in a bit more oil, and wrapped my fingers around his shaft.
It pulsed in my palm.
“Not so tight,” she said, adjusting my grip. “Stroke him—gently. Like he’s made of silk.”
I did as I was told. My motions were stiff. Hesitant.
She moved behind me, guiding my arm, sliding her hand over mine.
“Now your thumb—just there. Yes, like that.”
He groaned softly. My stomach twisted.
“Now cup the balls. One hand strokes, one plays. Mmm, good girl.”
Her voice was practically in my ear now, breathy and hot. Her free hand slid around my waist, her nails scraping lightly over the corset’s lacing.
“See? You’re getting it.”
I kept stroking. I couldn’t stop now. My cheeks were burning. My chest was tight. My cock throbbed behind the lace, aching and untouched.
His hips jerked once.
Then again.
And then he came.
Thick warmth spilled over my fingers. Onto my hand. Onto his stomach. I froze.
My trainer calmly reached for a towel and handed it to me. I wiped him clean. I wiped myself. I didn’t know what else to do.
He stood, stretched, and dropped something folded on the table beside me.
“Lovely,” he said. “She’s going to be popular.”
And just like that, he was gone.
Clocking Out
I stood there for a moment, clutching the towel in one trembling hand.
The room was quiet now. The candles flickered. The air smelled faintly of oil and something... shameful. My hand still felt sticky, no matter how many times I wiped it on the cloth.
It’s over, I told myself. You did it. Just go get dressed. Walk out of here and forget this ever happened.
I turned toward the door, hoping to slip away, but my trainer was already there—smiling, blocking the exit like she’d been waiting.
“Not quite done, sweetheart,” she said. “Come on.”
I followed. What else could I do?
She led me back down the hallway, past the receptionist who didn’t even look up. I was half-expecting her to say “thank you” or “that’ll do” or even “you can go now.”
Instead, she reached into a drawer and pulled out a little notepad.
“That earned you forty,” she said flatly, flipping a page. “Your total’s still ninety-two.”
I blinked. “But… but that was…”
“Bare minimum,” she said. “And tips get split, honey. You don’t think you get to keep it all, do you? That girl practically had to move your hand for you.”
She clicked her pen. “You’ve got two more shifts ahead of you, minimum.”
My heart dropped.
Shifts.
She said shifts.
I opened my mouth, but the trainer touched my wrist gently.
“Let’s clean you up,” she said, her tone too sweet to be comforting. “You can’t go back out looking like a mess, baby.”
The “clean-up room” was small and mirrored. Soft lighting. Perfumed air. Too many bottles and brushes and drawers full of lingerie.
They stripped me down quickly—two of them now. My trainer, and a girl I hadn’t seen before. This one had cherry-red lips and a tight white babydoll with feathers at the trim. She looked like someone who could ruin a man’s ego in five words or less.
They wiped me down with warm towels, giggling as I squirmed.
“He’s so jumpy.”
“Look at that little thing—shame he’s already leaking.”
“It’s cute though. Like, ‘just started hormones’ cute.”
I bit my lip and stared at the wall.
Then came the outfit.
It was more feminine than the last. Not just pink—baby pink. A sheer teddy with a plunging neckline, delicate lace cups, and a high thong back that disappeared the moment they slid it over my hips. Matching garter belt. White lace-topped nylons. This time, the corset was tighter. Boned. Meant to shape me.
“Breathe in,” the red-lipped girl whispered, yanking the laces tight. “Good girl.”
Platform heels. Five inches. Glittering.
They reattached my wig, brushed it out, and started applying fresh makeup. Glossy lips. Heavy lashes. A touch of glitter on the cheekbones.
“You’re prettier like this,” one of them said softly.
“Prettier than most of us,” the other added, snorting. “And he doesn’t even try.”
When they were finished, they spun me to face the mirror.
I didn’t recognize myself.
Big eyes. Glossy mouth. Lace clinging to every inch of me. The tightness of the corset made my chest look almost curved. My legs looked long, lean, barely mine.
I hated how I looked.
I hated how I looked.
I looked good.
Training Time
The next room was dim and strangely clinical. No candles here. Just a table, a chair, and a mirror mounted low on the wall.
My trainer stood beside it, smiling as she pulled something out of a drawer.
A dildo.
Pink. Thick. Veined. Mounted to a padded surface like it had a job to do.
“Time to learn the rhythm,” she said, tapping it lightly. “You need to make it feel good. Lotion, not oil.”
She handed me the bottle and positioned me on my knees.
“You stroke like this,” she demonstrated, wrapping her own hand around it. “And don’t forget the balls. Use both hands. Slow and teasing.”
She made it look effortless.
Then she made me do it.
She corrected my grip. Mocked how stiff my wrist was. Made me stroke the toy over and over, praising me when I got it right, tapping my thigh when I got it wrong.
Other girls passed by the doorway.
One peeked in and cooed, “Aww, are we training a new toy?”
Another just giggled and said, “That shade of pink is so you.”
I kept stroking. Silent. Humiliated.
The toy pulsed beneath my grip with no real heat, but the weight of it, the slickness, the rhythm—they all felt real. My wrist began to ache. My arm felt like rubber. My grip kept slipping.
“You’re stiff again,” my trainer scolded gently. “Like a robot. No one wants to cum from a nervous handshake.”
I groaned, adjusting my grip.
She leaned down behind me, whispering against my ear.
“It’s okay, sugar. Maybe your hands just aren’t your strength.”
“Lucky for you…”
“You’ve got such pretty lips.”
I froze.
She stood and walked behind the dildo, smirking, tapping it with two fingers.
“Come on, dollface. Time to learn what most of your tips will be made from.”
I blinked. “I—I don’t—”
“Don’t make me call the receptionist in here,” she said, still teasing. “She’ll bring a chart.”
The other girl—red lips, feathered babydoll—walked back in holding a hair clip.
“Let’s get that wig out of your mouth while you practice.”
She swept my hair back neatly, clipped it in place, and winked.
“You’re lucky. I had to learn on real clients.”
They both laughed.
I should say no.
I should get up. Leave. Run.
But I stayed on my knees.
The trainer tilted the base of the toy toward me.
“Start with your tongue. Slow licks, baby. Like it’s melting ice cream.”
I leaned forward. My hands trembled as I rested them on the padded bench. My tongue touched the tip, barely flicking it.
“Mmm. That’s it. Cute and shy. Now do it again. Slower.”
I licked. Again. Again. My cheeks burned.
“Now open up. Wrap your lips around it.”
She guided my chin with two fingers.
“Don’t forget to use your hand at the base—yes, like that. Stroke while you suck.”
“You’ve watched porn, haven’t you? Be the girl you wanted to see.”
The words hit something deep in me.
I took more into my mouth. My jaw strained, my lips parting wider. I felt the stretch, the shame, the tension in my core as the plastic pressed against my tongue.
She watched me carefully.
“Swirl your tongue. Let it slip just past your lips. Make it wet. Men love that.”
She crouched beside me now, correcting my speed, running a hand lightly over my nylon-clad thigh.
“You’re so soft down here,” she whispered. “Almost passable. We’ll get you ready, don’t worry.”
I blinked. “Ready?”
“Some of the VIPs… they don’t want hands or mouths,” she said. “They like something a little tighter.”
I pulled back from the toy slightly. “I—no. I’m not—”
She cut me off with a shushing sound, brushing a thumb across my lip.
“Not yet, sugar. But we’ll stretch you out soon. A finger here, a toy there. Just a little training prep.”
“You don’t want to disappoint a premium client, do you?”
Another girl peeked in. This one younger, barely twenty, chewing bubblegum.
“Is she practicing again?”
“Mmhmm. She’s got such an eager mouth.”
“Aww. You look so cute like that,” the girl said to me. “You should stay down there permanently.”
I tried not to whimper. Tried not to get hard again.
I was still leaking behind the lace, untouched, pulsing every time they praised me like that.
The trainer stood up, smoothed her skirt, and tilted my chin toward the mirror beside me.
“Look at yourself.”
I did.
Mascaraed eyes. Wet lips. Wig slightly mussed. Kneeling obediently with a fake cock in my mouth.
“You’re a natural,” she said.
“Smile for me.”
I smiled.
“Now say thank you.”
“…Thank you.”
“Good girl.”
End of Shift
After the mirror. After the blowjob lessons. After the laughter from passing girls.
I followed my trainer in silence, my heels clicking on the hallway tile. I could still taste the gloss on my lips, feel the tension in my jaw from all the practicing. My thighs ached from kneeling. The corset dug in with every breath.
Just one shift left. That’s what she said. Maybe two.
We turned a corner into a new room. Larger. Dim. It smelled faintly of lavender and old wood. Along one wall stood a gleaming brass rack, and on it—a row of glistening uniforms.
But these weren’t uniforms in the practical sense.
Lace teddies in every pastel shade imaginable. Sheer babydolls with open cups. Corsets dripping in pearls. Vinyl harnesses. Skirts so short they looked like belts. Each item had a delicate pink tag attached, written in curling black ink.
The Brat.
The Pillow Princess.
The Suburban Slut.
The Candy Cane.
The VIP Treat.
My trainer grinned. “This is where the girls pick their look for the day.” She motioned for me to come closer. “Tomorrow’s your first shift, so you get to make a little debut.”
“I—I have to wear one of these?”
She laughed. “You get to.”
Another girl—someone I hadn’t seen before, tall with plaits and glossy lips—walked by, eyeing the rack.
“Put her in the VIP Treat,” she called. “That one’s always a hit with the regulars.”
My trainer ignored her. “Go on. Pick.”
I reached hesitantly and touched The Brat. It was a lavender harness-lace mix with no back and matching striped thigh-highs. I let go immediately. My fingers burned just from contact.
“Something modest?” my trainer teased. “Try Suburban Slut. It’s got a little apron.”
I wanted to say no. To say I wouldn’t be back tomorrow. That I’d find a way to pay them and be done.
Instead I whispered, “What time should I be here?”
She blinked. Then smiled wide.
“Oh, sweetie. You’re not going home. You ARE home.”
I thought she was joking.
Until she led me down the next hallway—this one quieter, carpeted, warm. At the very end, she opened a door.
The room was small. Cozy. One twin bed with satin pink sheets. A little vanity. A floor-length mirror. A soft throw rug.
And a lock—on the outside of the door.
I turned. “I can’t stay here.”
She was already opening a drawer.
“You’ll be fine, sugar. All our new girls sleep on-site until their first review.”
“House policy.”
She handed me something soft and slinky.
A baby-pink babydoll nightie with fluffy feather trim and matching lace panties.
“You’ve earned something comfortable. No corset tonight. Just something sweet.”
I stared at it. “I don’t want to—”
She tilted her head. “Would you rather sleep in your work clothes?”
I didn’t answer.
She placed something else on the bed: a large pink dildo. Smooth. Girthy. Its base was shaped like a heart.
“Just in case,” she said with a wink. “Never too early to… expand your training.”
My knees felt weak.
She stepped out into the hallway, blew me a kiss, and closed the door.
Click.
I was alone.
I sat down on the bed, holding the babydoll in my lap. The room was quiet. Warm. Smelling faintly of roses and shame.
The dildo lay beside me on the pillow.
Two more shifts.
Just two.
Chapter two was your final free taste. If you want to see if he will take his training into his own hands or see if he be able to make enough in two shifts to be done with his servitude, you will need to join the VIP list.
Find out how her first full shift goes in Chapter Three.