Chapter 10

After I lost my job, I suddenly had much more free time on my hands. Strangely, I felt far less stressed because I could finally dress fully as a girl without needing to maintain a double life pretending to be a man. I began referring to myself as Maxine all the time. I even started going to the gym in women’s activewear, right there in the bustling gyms of Causeway Bay. My body frame matched Van’s perfectly, so we shared clothes effortlessly, though her breasts were noticeably larger than my budding ones. I had also mastered makeup by then, turning it into a smooth daily routine without any fuss. After that harrowing gloryhole ordeal in the Mong Kok public toilets, I shed most of my inhibitions about trading sex for money.

To boost my earnings, Van posted ads for my services across platforms like Massage Republic, other escort sites, Locanto, Telegram channels, and Sex141. We arranged boudoir photoshoots, and I looked stunning in them, sultry and irresistible. The old me would have definitely jumped at a chance to fuck the new me. Through Telegram and WeChat, clients started booking me. I hosted them in a budget hotel in Wanchai, charging 2,000 HKD for an hour. I offered the full girlfriend experience, blowjobs, and bareback anal. For safety, Van put me on HIV pre-exposure prophylaxis and scheduled weekly STD screenings at her clinic.

My very first client was a handsome guy in his mid-thirties, fit and charming. He wanted to chat first, so I played the friendly companion, listening attentively. He opened up about his frigid wife and how he was tired of vanilla girls. ‘My friends say trannies are way hornier and up for anything,’ he confessed. I smiled coyly and replied, ‘Why don’t you find out for yourself with me, ah?’ The sex was decent but not explosive; I faked my orgasms convincingly, moaning around his cock as he thrust into my ass, my chastity cage tugging with its urethral plug while my buttplug pressed deep inside. When he left a generous 500 HKD tip, totaling 2,500 HKD for basically an hour’s work, pure ecstasy washed over me. I hustled to book as many clients as possible after that, yet I never neglected my duties as Van’s devoted domestic slave—scrubbing our Mid-Levels flat spotless, whipping up delicious dinners like steamed fish with black bean sauce, and handling all the laundry with meticulous care. The rhythm of it all felt strangely fulfilling, my plugged holes a constant reminder of my place, as I balanced the thrill of the streets with the quiet submission at home.

The transition from a broken husband to a commodity was a blur of flashing lights and digital notifications. Vanessa had taken over my digital existence with a clinical, predatory precision. She didn’t just post ads; she curated a brand. On Massage Republic, Locanto, and various underground Telegram channels, I was no longer Max. I was a sultry, soft-featured creature of desire, my body sculpted by the estrogen regime and dressed in the finest lace and silk. The boudoir photoshoots had been an exercise in exquisite torture; Vanessa had posed me in ways that highlighted my widening hips and the budding sensitivity of my breasts, capturing a look of desperate, wide-eyed longing that drove the clients wild.

The first booking came through a WeChat message. The man, who called himself “Kevin,” seemed different from the usual predators who haunted those forums. His messages were polite, almost tentative. We chatted for an hour, exchanging a few more photos—me in a sheer white slip, posing against the dim light of the bedroom—and he responded with a quiet, breathless admiration. He didn’t ask for “hardcore” acts immediately; he just wanted a “Girlfriend Experience.” He seemed safe, a lonely soul drifting through the neon labyrinth of Hong Kong, looking for a moment of genuine warmth.

I arrived at the budget hotel in Wan Chai early. The air in the district was thick with the smell of exhaust, old cooking oil, and the salty humidity of the harbor. The hotel was a narrow, vertical slice of a building, its corridors smelling of stale cigarettes and cheap detergent. As I entered the room, the sterile white walls and the humming air conditioner felt like a cage. I spent an hour prepping myself, my hands trembling as I applied a light touch of gloss to my lips and ensured my scent was a delicate, inviting floral. I wore a short, silk robe that clung to my softened curves, leaving very little to the imagination.