Authors: Gillian Jones
Copyright © 2016 Gillian Jones
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Gillian Jones is in no way affiliated with any brands, songs, musicians or artists mentioned in this book.
First eBook edition: 2016
Edited by Quoth the Raven Writing Co.
Cover design © Book Covers by Ashbee Designs
Formatting by Paul Salvette
Some know me as Chanel69.
But to my friends and family, I’m simply Ellie Hughes.
A university student who’s in desperate need of money. A lot of money, and fast.
I’m about to start a new job.
Three nights a week, I’ll be the star of your late night fantasies, bringing your fetishes and fucked up scenarios to life.
You’ll listen to my voice while you get off on your dirtiest desires.
Truth be told…this job makes me nervous. Regardless of the money, I don’t know if I can do it.
But when he calls, I feel an instant connection.
Over time, he becomes my regular, my friend, and my confidant.
The problem is…he seems familiar…I think I know who he is.
And if I’m right, how will he react when he discovers that I’m Chanel69?
deals with the lighter side of the sex trade industry, it is important to note that this story is fictitious.
portrays this situation as humorous, sexy, and sometimes fun, however, this is not always the case. As readers, we need to realize that this novel does not show the entire truth or depth of the issues that occur within the sex trade industry, or the negative experiences that many sex trade workers encounter.
In the story, Ellie Hughes is of legal age—which in Canada is eighteen—making her older than many of the workers that are forced into this trade. Ellie’s age of twenty-four and ability to make her own decisions makes it somewhat more palatable for her to be working in an environment such as Breathless Whispers, where Ellie is employed.
does not depict the often dangerous and degrading environments in which many sex trade workers find themselves. In general, most of those running this industry in the real world do not care about fair wages, working conditions, or employee health and safety, the way the owners of Breathless Whispers—the Conrads—do in this fictional account.
The sex trade industry operates worldwide, and within North America despite our opportunities, freedoms, and laws. Sexual exploitation and human trafficking are a serious problem and it is important that we all work together to raise awareness and overcome this issue so vulnerable persons are not exploited.
For more information, here are a couple of websites, which include statistics and ways you can help:
There is no emotion, there is peace.
There is no ignorance, there is knowledge.
There is no passion, there is serenity.
There is no chaos, there is harmony.
There is no death, there is the Force.
“I write movies about mavericks, about people who break rules, and I don’t like movies about people who are pulverized for being mavericks.”
—Quentin Tarantino, director
“Phone sex isn’t brain surgery. It takes a few times before you get good at it, but you’ll be a Phone Sex Superhero in no time! You just have to allow yourself to play a little, too, sometimes.”
—Greta, Breathless Whispers
To my beta readers, thank you.
For the late night reads, my crazy messages, the words of encouragement you each give me, your time, and—most of all—for giving me a chance.
This one’s for you!
(Can be found on Spotify)
Four years ago…
my mom, Silvie, yelling from the hallway of our bungalow.
“Ellie. Ellie, honey! It’s here, the mail. I see it. It’s a
“Okay. Oh my God. It’s thick? Are you sure?” I call back, tugging my hoodie over my head while trying to pull my arms through the holes at the same time. It’s wintertime in St. Albert, Alberta, where we live, so layering is key, especially when getting out of a warm bed.
“Yes! It’s definitely got to be good news.”
I’ve been waiting for this envelope for months. I didn’t get early acceptance like my friend Courtney, but it looks like I’ve been accepted, and that’s all that matters.
Racing down the stairs of our small home, I run right into my mom’s open arms. Looking over her shoulder out the living room window, I think I can see snow falling off the tree branches at the sound of our happy screams.
“I’m going to miss my girl all the way out there in Toronto. The house is going to feel so empty with just me here,” she says, tears forming in the corners of her eyes.
“I’ll visit and you’ll visit,” I say, although I know we won’t be able to afford that. “It’s only four years, and it’ll go by fast. That’s if I’ve even received the sports scholarship. We already know we can’t afford for me to go all that way without it.” I give her a squeeze.
“I know, honey. I’m just being a mom. I’m so proud of you. I have a good feeling, Ellie. Open it. You’ll be in and you’ll get that scholarship. You’re an excellent runner. You’ve been accepted to all of the other six universities you applied to, with athletic scholarships. There’s no way the University of Toronto will let you pass them by. They’ll want you.”
She smiles tearfully, and hands me the heavy envelope.
f you’re a
movie buff like me, you’ll know the intense emotions films elicit from you as you chomp handfuls of buttery popcorn, anxiously waiting to see what’s going to happen next. You’ll then be able to relate to how I’m feeling during this little film clip of my life.
Think back to the last tearjerker or drama you watched. Remember when the heroine was about to be delivered life-altering news? The kind of news that would change the course of her life forever? Information which would act as a catalyst for helping Hollywood to create two hours of cinematic genius? Yeah, that movie. The one you watched with bated breath while it flickered away with conflict, tears but also triumphs, and, finally, the happily ever after you needed the star to have.
Well, I kind of feel like I’m starring in my own version of
movie as I sit here waiting for my doctor to seal my fate. Only I’m hoping to avoid all the drama, wanting to fast forward straight to the end for the “aw, yay!” moment known by all movie fans.
Hoping like crazy that I’ll get my happy ending.
But unlike some famous actress starring in a soon-to-be blockbuster, sure to make millions, sitting calmly while a narrator explains what’s going on in an audio dub, I’m fidgeting, stressed out, and annoyed, trying my best to channel not only my inner strength but also my inner Yoda.
’Cause, unfortunately, for me this isn’t a movie.
It’s the rest of my life.
Tick tock, tick tock…
And that right there is why I need to be a Yoda. The incessant
of the damn clock is driving me out of my mind. I mean, isn’t it nerve-wracking enough to be sitting in a stuffy, overly-sterile room waiting to see a doctor? Did they really need to add the loudest clock ever? One which is taunting me, as I see it’s now fifteen minutes past my appointment?
God, I hate waiting. What ever happened to punctuality?
Tick tock, tick tock…
“Use the Force, Ellie,” I mutter, closing my eyes and praying for Master Yoda to hear me, for him to gift me with a one-time Jedi pass. I close my eyes tight, trying my damnedest to use the Force. I need it, to make the clock crash to its demise. I’m positive there’s enough distance between it and the floor that a fall would smash it into a million tiny pieces.