The Creation of Vicky: A Journey of Power, Vulnerability, and the Woman Behind the Mask (2)

Although Vicky was a character I created, she carried parts of me that were undeniably attractive to men. She wasn’t just an act; through her, I discovered my real superpower—how to make men lose themselves in lust with nothing more than a glance at my petite frame or into my big, dark brown eyes. Vicky taught me how to command attention, how to make them crave me without ever needing to say a word.

She also sharpened my ability to read people. I quickly learned how to evaluate someone almost instantly reading the subtle shifts in their demeanor, sensing the energy they carried. My empathic nature, something I had long struggled with, became a powerful tool. In my personal life, I never had the courage to fully embrace this side of myself, but with Vicky, it felt natural.

Vicky became a blend of acting and raw truth. She embodied a part of me I had never let out before—a young, innocent, and undeniably sexy woman, with a smile that could light up a room, or in this case, a thousand suns. Seductive, but still true to herself, Vicky was a paradox: bold yet soft, alluring yet innocent. She was the part of me that I had always kept locked away, and now, she was in control.

Seeing eight to ten clients a day, mostly in-calls at my father’s house, was a routine I had come to accept. Each encounter was recorded on camera by him, which was disturbing, but it also gave me a twisted sense of security. As invasive as it was, I knew that, in some way, I was being watched, and if anything went wrong, help was just on the other side of the screen. Yet, despite all this, I still felt powerless. I wasn’t in full control of the situation or myself—I was simply playing a role, while the real me remained hidden.

Out-calls to hotels were a different story. The stress of walking into an unknown environment was almost unbearable. Unlike the controlled setting of my father’s house, hotel rooms carried an eerie sense of unpredictability. I never knew what I was walking into, and there were no cameras to watch over me. In those rooms, I felt truly vulnerable. Every time I entered, a knot of anxiety formed in my stomach, because anything could happen behind those closed doors.

What struck me most about these out-calls was the men I met. Many of them were highly successful professionals—doctors, actuaries, pilots, businessmen from all over the world. They were polished, well-spoken, and seemed to have their lives together. Our conversations were often surprisingly enriching; their stories of travel, work, and life experiences fascinated me. I found myself wondering why men like them needed to pay for my time. They could probably have any woman they wanted, yet they were paying me—Vicky—for a few fleeting hours of intimacy.

It left me conflicted. On one hand, I was grateful for the distraction, for the sense of purpose these encounters brought. On the other, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was still missing something essential—something about myself that even Vicky couldn’t fully grasp.

One thing I was extremely grateful for was that I could provide well for my children, ensuring they could attend school and have a stable life, at least on the surface. However, time was something I rarely had. Living by the hour meant that every minute I wasn't working was a minute of lost income. Some days were slow, but when business picked up, I had no choice but to work, no matter how long it lasted. There were days when I saw a new client every hour, from 8 a.m. one morning until 3 a.m. the next. The demands were relentless, but the need to provide for my children drove me to push through, sacrificing time and rest in exchange for their security.

Vicky had built quite the client base, attracting a steady flow of regulars while welcoming new clients almost daily. In a strange way, I felt a sense of pride in the power I held—being able to make these men feel like they were the center of my world, if only for an hour. It wasn’t just about the physical act; it was the ability to create an experience that kept them coming back, sometimes twice a week.

Most of them were married, with children of their own, leading seemingly perfect lives outside of the world we shared. Yet, they returned to Vicky, drawn by the escape, the attention, and the illusion of intimacy I provided. I learned to wield that power carefully, mastering the art of making them feel desired, important, and understood in ways they didn’t experience elsewhere. It was a peculiar source of pride, knowing I had created a space that they sought, even if it was built on temporary moments of illusion and control.

As Vicky grew in character, becoming more dominant in my life—almost 16 hours a day—the real me started to fade. I began to hate the constant dishonesty, the need to fabricate stories about why I was doing this work. Eventually, mirrors became my enemy. They were no longer reflections of who I truly was, but tools to make Vicky look appealing. I stopped looking into my own eyes because every time I did, they filled with tears and hatred for the person staring back. The part of me that once believed everything would be okay again was slipping away.

It became clear that Vicky was here to stay. My father took more and more of my income, controlling the little that was left for me. The illusion of freedom, the facade of choice—it was all a lie. Like a spider’s web, the more I tried to break free, the more entangled I became in this world that seemed impossible to escape. No one would believe it, even if I tried to tell them. This hidden world, full of control, deception, and powerlessness, was a reality that no one could imagine unless they lived it. And I was trapped in it, losing myself more with each passing day.