I feel like a Whore… After Having the Best Sex of My Life

There I was in Minorca, trying to destress after months of work. My plan was pretty basic: soak up the sun, chill at the beach, and drink way too many cocktails. But clearly, the universe had different plans for me.

Everything changed one night while sitting at the hotel bar. In walked the tall, darkly handsome hunk straight outta a Spanish movie with a smile that killed me.

Girl, red flag alert!

We started talking. He said he was a civil engineer, not married (at least according to him), and had a voice so smooth it could make reading the phone book sound sexy and I would still have been turned on.

Focus, girl! You came here to unwind, remember?

But who was I fooling? The sparks between us were stronger than the margaritas I had been downing all week. And then, he dropped a bomb. He made his proposal.

I was expecting an invitation to his room. Let’s be honest. I am not innocent, and the idea of spending the night with a hot local didn’t sound awful.

But no. He talked about paying me 10,000 euros for being his luxury companion for a week.

Wait, what now?

I laughed. I thought he was joking. I even looked around for hidden cameras. But he was dead serious. He said he was hosting clients, wanted someone “beautiful and elegant” by his side, and I “fit the image perfectly.”

Part of me was insulted. Part of me was intrigued. And a part of me, the one tired of always playing it safe, was very tempted.

I didn’t answer that night. I went back to my room, spun in circles of guilt, curiosity, and fantasy. It wasn’t just about the money. It was about the power, the attention, the wildness of doing something completely out of character.

The next day, I said yes.

For the next week, I wore silk, drank champagne, and stayed in a villa that made my Airbnb look like a garden shed. I played the role: polite smiles at business dinners, soft laughs at his jokes, endless eye contact.

But in private?

Let’s just say the sex was nothing short of electric. Raw. Deep. It wasn’t just physical—it felt like we were creating a secret language with every touch. I forgot who I was supposed to be. I was only his—and I wanted to be.

Then, the week ended.

He wired the money without blinking. No awkwardness. No “let’s keep in touch.” Just a soft kiss, a smile, and a “thank you for everything.” Like it was a business transaction. Because, well, it was.

I stared at the number in my bank account and felt… dirty. Confused. Like I had sold a part of myself I didn’t even know was up for sale.

I had the best sex of my life… and I felt like a whore.

Was I?

Or was I just a woman who made a choice—bold, maybe reckless—but mine?

I don’t regret it. But I don’t feel proud either. It’s like standing in a mirror that reflects more than just your face—it shows the corners of your soul you didn’t want to admit existed.

I went to Minorca to escape.

Instead, I found a version of myself I didn’t know was hiding beneath the routines, the rules, and the expectations.

And maybe, just maybe, she needed to be seen—even if it came at a price.