‘No, Master.’
‘No, indeed. Well, let’s order food and then we can see to that. Bryant!’
Bryant awoke with a splutter and a few incoherent words.
‘Wassup?’
‘Sustenance is required. We can’t leave the job half-done, can we?’
‘Oh … no, no, we can’t. Matter of pride.’
‘Quite. So what will you have to eat?’
Twenty minutes later, the receptionist appeared with the trolley – she liked to do these kind of discreet services personally. Bryant, seated at the table in a robe, thanked her for his steak. Collins, who had settled for a club sandwich and a dozen oysters, waved at her to place them on the occasional table beside his armchair. And as for Charlotte’s smoked salmon omelette … well, that was placed on the floor, by Collins’s feet, cut up into squares.
Charlotte’s eyes were tight shut, her face buried in Collins’s shins. She knew the receptionist would be casting an eye over her compliant back and displayed bottom, legs splayed wide and everything between on show.
‘Are you enjoying your stay?’ she heard, in a perky, complicit tone.
‘Very much. Aren’t we, Charlotte? Well?’
Charlotte mmmed, and earned a slap to her bottom for her ambivalence.
‘Lift your head, Charlotte, and answer the lady.’
Charlotte craned her neck and regarded the receptionist from beneath sulky lashes. ‘Yes, we are having a very good time,’ she whispered.
‘Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to improve your Luxe Noir experience,’ smiled the girl before turning smartly on her heel and leaving them to it.
Charlotte was reaching down for her last square of omelette, wondering how bad for the digestion eating in this position actually was, when she noticed Bryant push his plate aside and grin broadly at Collins. She tried to twist her neck back, to see what the reason for this signal of complicity might be, but the first clue she got was the shocking splash of cold gel between the cheeks of her backside.
‘Oh!’ She tried to rear up, pushing her palms on the floor, but Collins replaced her with a firm hand on her spine.
‘You knew this was coming,’ he accused. ‘Don’t make a show of fighting it. We know it’s what you want. Don’t we?’
Charlotte’s hesitation earned her another pink palm-print on her posterior.
‘Y-yes, Master,’ she muttered reluctantly.
‘I suppose you like to pretend you are being forced into it,’ surmised Collins, working the lubricant in tight circles, greasing her rear entry with fanatical thoroughness. ‘Makes it easier to deal with, perhaps. You aren’t the dirty girl, eh? It’s the nasty man who makes you do the dirty things? Is that right?’
‘Per…haps,’ admitted Charlotte, holding her breath as one finger slipped in to the knuckle, remembering just in time to add, ‘Master.’
‘But you’ve done this often enough, I’m sure. I think you must enjoy it. I think you should take responsibility for the fact that you enjoy having your arse filled with a big, hard cock, Charlotte. I think you should admit it. Go on.’
Two fingers were working their way up the passage now, demanding to be yielded to. Meanwhile, Collins plugged her pussy with a lazy thumb, giving her a foretaste of things to come.
‘Oh,’ moaned Charlotte, beginning to experience a ferocious rush of blood to the head. ‘I admit it. I … I …’ She broke off as Collins popped the two fingers out, relubricated them, and added a third to the tally. She knew she was dripping the evidence of her excitement all over his other hand, she knew this shamed her, but she knew also that it thrilled her beyond measure.
‘Go on.’ His left hand pushed and shoved at her pussy while his right continued its attentions to her widening arsehole. Bryant stood up, smiling encouragingly, and made his way over.
‘We need to hear it, Charlotte,’ he said.
‘I want you to fuck me,’ she said tremulously. ‘Fuck my arse. Fill it up. I love it. Master.’
‘Good, that’s very good,’ approved Collins. ‘Well, you’re ready, I think.’
His hands, coated with lubricant and intimate juices, slid out of their hidey holes and braced beneath her ribcage, pulling her upright to her knees. At the underhang of her bottom cheeks, Charlotte could feel the damp tip of his baton, prodding the soft flesh insistently.
‘Sit down,’ he invited, placing his cock strategically mid-cheeks. ‘Sit on my lap, Charlotte.’
Charlotte had only tried this entry method once before – it was more difficult and more painful than the traditional all-fours version, but she was intent on pleasing her masters and herself, and she put her hands on the arms of the chair and moved her legs to a crouching position, slipping her feet down between Collins’s loins and the edges of the cushion.
‘Play with her tits, Bryant,’ commanded Collins, and the subordinate Dominant obeyed, stepping between Collins’s feet and taking both breasts in hand.
Charlotte shut her eyes, surfing the wave of sensation that emanated from her nipples, and took the first brave move backwards, settling Collins’s cockhead right at the aperture that led to her darkest pleasure. She had to wriggle a little, and a few times she began the decisive move only to lose confidence and tauten the muscles once more, but eventually she made a stabbing downward motion and the portal was breached. Almost immediately, her disobedient body tried to clench, but Bryant’s attentions to her nipples led her to relax quite quickly, and she edged back and further back, drawing Collins’s engorged rod inside her innermost recess, grimacing with the discomfort and alienness of it but grateful that he had lubricated her sufficiently to minimise pain.
‘All the way.’ Collins’s voice was hypnotically low. ‘All the way in, Charlotte. How it stretches and fills you – do you feel it?’
‘Ah, yes, I do, Master,’ she gasped, finally unable to reverse any more, her buttocks resting at the top of Collins’s thighs.
‘Sit there and stretch your legs out, Charlotte.’
She unbent and put her full weight down to bear on Collins’s pelvis, stuffed almost to bursting behind now. Bryant had leaned down to suck on her nipples, and she hooked her feet behind his knees, laying her head on Collins’s shoulders and revelling in the lewdness of it all. Collins’s hands were on her pussy now; he spread his own legs wide and prised her thighs apart to mimic him, so that they were stacked on top of each other like moulded chairs.
‘Your arse is full and your pussy spread wide,’ he lapped into her ear. ‘You are utterly and completely open.’ He lifted his lips. ‘Bryant, don’t you want to fuck her? Be my guest.’
Bryant grazed his teeth against a nipple then stood up, peering down at the chasm that offered itself to him. How temptingly, juicily red it was, and how much more tantalising the glimpse of thick male root disappearing into her behind made it.
He shed his robe, hooked his elbows beneath her knees and plunged in.
Charlotte, held in an almost impossibly gymnastic position, gave herself up to the pounding in front and the pulsing behind, marvelling at how the two cocks that occupied her seemed to work together to overwhelm her entire body. It was only a few minutes before she had to ask permission for another orgasm, for the presence of Collins at her rear seemed to hasten her passage to heaven like a jetpack of climactic power. She came twice more before Bryant emptied into her, leaving them both exhausted, chests heaving.
But Collins had his own end in sight, and he stood, still connected to her by his cock, turned around and pushed her down on all fours, kneeling with her tits squashed into the chair cushion. Now he was free to pump and thrust and he did so with abandon, using Charlotte’s bottom to the fullest extent, reaching down to scrabble at her clit, for it was a matter of pride to him that she should be made to come one last time.
She did so in a hissing, sobbing homage to his mastery of her body, begging him for mercy she knew he would not show, and that was what it took to send his seed flying, washing and coating her, marking her most private place as his.
All three of them shared the bath this time, sleepily soaping each other, with kissing and stroking to boot.
‘Would you do this again?’ Bryant asked Charlotte, his fingers releasing the tension in her scalp with magical efficacy.
‘Oh, I might need a week off work to recover, but yes, definitely.’ She looked at Collins, who smiled, a real smile.
‘The Number gave us all what we wanted?’ he suggested.
‘It did. The magic number.’
Collins took her hand and kissed the bubbles off it. ‘My lucky number,’ he said.
I
T POPS BACK INTO
my head every so often, usually in that hazy, heavy time between waking and sleeping, and when it does, I gorge on the scene, lingering over every detail until it is perfectly fixed in my mind. Only then can my hand creep down between my legs and turn the image into a story.
It starts with a window, a large, rectangular frame with its base at street level, ten feet high and about six wide. Beyond the glass can be seen a dressing table with sprays and lotions ranged around, a nest of cushions, some abstract pictures on the walls. All of these items look red in the subdued light of the overhead lamp and you have to adjust your eyes to pick out the smaller features, like the patterns in the prints and the labels on the bottles. But most of the many passers-by have no interest in these finer points of the scene, because in the foreground, sucking every iota of attention out of your mind and into her, is a nearly-nude woman.
Realistically, she can only be about five foot five, but somehow the frame, together with her state of undress, makes her seem enormous, a louche giantess wandering around beneath the red bulb, brushing her hair for the fiftieth time, shaking and uncapping a bottle, looking supremely indifferent to her status as an exhibit in a kind of human zoo. She is, of course, a prostitute, so the zoo is more interactive than most. She lounges in her powder blue silky scanties, flesh spilling from the cups of her bra and the hem of her boyshorts, but it is not her body that fascinates me – it is her face. More particularly, the blankness of it.
Don’t you care?
I used to wonder.
Doesn’t it bother you that everyone who sees you knows what you are and what you will spend your evening doing? That anyone could point a finger at you and say ‘Look at her – she fucks strangers for money. By dawn, she will have had cocks in her mouth, her cunt, up her arse, between her tits, lots of cocks, lots of different ones, maybe as many as ten in the one night. She is a whore.’
I spent a long time trying to figure out why the thought of this made me wet. It wasn’t the prostitution angle – the haggard girls hanging around by the industrial estate, while not much more discreet, did nothing for my libido. It was, I realised, something to do with the glass. It was the concept of being exhibited, shown to the world, framed within your little rectangle of reference and held there, until such time as a man decided he wanted to fuck you.
In my imaginings, obviously it is me behind the glass in that Amsterdam street brothel, separated from the lunging hands and lustful tongues of the passing men only by that clear, thin pane, but fully exposed to their hungry eyes. There is a madam there, behind the scenes, who has told me that I must make sure I get a lot of customers tonight; she will be checking up on me to see that I am doing enough of the come hither – rubbing lotion into the crests of my tits, bending over to brush out my long hair so that my buttocks tighten, sitting back on the cushions with my legs tantalisingly spread, licking my lips, putting a hand on the waistband of my knickers as if I am going to slip it inside …
My underwear is flimsy, and I only remember I am wearing any when it flutters against my skin. Sometimes the bras are demi-cups, or peepholes with my nipples peeking through. I have to apply a special cream to keep them erect, because it’s important that the customers think I am a horny little tramp who can’t keep her knickers on even when cash is out of the equation. Sometimes I wear French knickers, the curve of my bum peeking cheekily out from under the lace, but more often a thong, displaying the two soft rounds that anyone can handle for a fistful of Euros. My legs might be bare, or they might be stockinged, highlighting my pale thighs and the triangle of promise at their end point. Perhaps, as in one version of the scene, the tiny scrap of material calling itself a pair of knickers will have a dollar sign embroidered on the front, or the words ‘For Hire’.
The furniture is not always the same as the Amsterdam tart had in her boudoir. If I am in a certain mood, there will be feather ticklers and jewelled masks and all the trappings of luxury. Another mood might fill the room with tethers and ties, ornamental riding crops hanging from the wall. My underwear might be silk, or another day it might be rubber. The fantasy is infinitely mutable, susceptible to my every whim.
Especially when it comes to what happens next.
Perhaps (at vulnerable times) a rich foreign prince will fall in love with me and whisk me away. More likely, I will be worked hard, in every orifice, in every position, until I am racked with exhaustion, my muscles unravelling like overextended elastic. I might even be tied up, or spanked, or blindfolded, or gagged, if I’m feeling especially tense.
This is where my fantasy diverges most seriously from the reality of my Window Girl – because, in my fantasy, all the fucking happens in that room, in the full view of the citizens and tourists of the city. They stop and take photographs, they clap and cheer, they leer and offer the thumbs-up. They form a queue at the window, and I can see straight away what lies in my immediate future. A group of boozed-up solicitors on a rugby tour, a sleazy businessman, an attractive sadist. I do not have permission to refuse any of them – nobody’s money is any better or worse than anyone else’s. If they’ve got the funds, they get the fuck. Simple.
Oh, I sometimes think – disjointedly, fingers or vibrator on clit – if only I could really do that. If only there was a pocket of space, away from my life and reality, where I could be the whore for hire, parading in public, giving a show for anyone passing. But of course, I know the hard facts. Prostitution isn’t fun, isn’t safe, isn’t a good choice of hobby for a respected member of the community like me. Even if I went wild and rented one of those windows for a day, it would be just my luck to have some representatives from the charity I work for take a fact-finding mission to Amsterdam for the weekend, strolling through the red light district in search of lost souls to save. The idea of them reeling and double-taking at my semi-clad figure always makes me giggle. And besides, even in Amsterdam, I wouldn’t be allowed to enact the second half of my fantasy – the public sex.
Or so I thought.
I had the application form up on screen in front of me, but I kept deleting the information. Then re-inserting. Then deleting. This couldn’t be on the level, could it? A bespoke service, providing the fulfilment of carefully tailored sexual fantasies, was the stuff of erotic fiction. But it had been recommended to me, by a real person (or at least, a real person I ‘know’ from a chat forum), so I supposed it wasn’t a scam. I wasn’t sure whether to celebrate or regret that one glass of wine too many, late at night on the Rude Girls site, that inveigled me into revealing my perennial fantasy. Shortly thereafter ‘BoyToy1982’ direct-messaged me, asking if I knew about The Number. It was, she explained after I replied in the negative, an invitation-only service. Expensive, but worth every penny, as she could attest, having spent the previous weekend trussed up like a chicken in the basement of a Soho sex shop. If I was that hung up on my Amsterdam fantasy, I should contact them. I had chatted with BoyToy1982 many times over the last two years, about subjects as diverse as herbal remedies for period pains and the introduction of identity cards, and had no reason to believe that she was not a real person. The website she introduced me to was classy and understated – no orgasmic, rolling-eyed females writhing on cushions, no crimson and purple, just plain text on the home page, some fascinating testimonial stories and an application page.
I sighed and began the process anew. I was going to do this, if it was doable. I wanted – no, needed – to know how it really felt. I had this odd presentiment that, if I finally ticked this box, I would be able to relax enough to accept that date with Joe from the office.
NAME: Saffron Miles.
FANTASY NAME (if applicable): n/a
I continued diligently, furnishing them with mobile phone number, email address for any queries, availability (weekends) and sexual orientation (heterosexual). There was a long list of fantasy type boxes to tick. I clicked on ‘exhibitionism’, ‘prostitution’ and hovered over some of the BDSM categories before deciding that I’d better not add too many constituents to the mix on this first occasion. Then I spent an hour outlining the ingredients of the fantasy, editing and refining it before I was content to press ‘send’.
I pressed it! I actually applied to The Number. Immediately I took my mobile phone out of my pocket and stared at it, as if expecting it to ring or bleep immediately. Of course, nothing happened and I logged off the computer for the night, not even daring to check my email for a confirmation.
Confirmation arrived the next morning, along with a pre-payment request. It wasn’t cheap, as BoyToy had warned, but there was a reassuring professionalism to the communication, as well as an understanding of what I was asking for, so I took a deep, deep breath, answered the extra questions I had been asked, and gave them my credit card number.
The number could send instructions at any time, I was told, so it was essential that I let them know in advance any dates or times that were out of the question.
Any time
. The idea sent a little fluting thrill through me.
Expect the unexpected.
The next few weeks were piquant and exciting – I could not leave my flat without looking around for a dark car or a mysterious figure on the other side of the road. Every time my phone rang, I jumped a mile in the air –
is this it?
And then, at ten o’clock on a Saturday night in the spring, it came.
‘
Put on your trashiest underwear. Get dressed. Meet at Railway Café in Docklands.
’ Beneath the message was The Number. Yes. It was time.
Which underwear was the trashiest? I had plenty to choose from. Should I go for leopard-print? Scarlet and black, with peephole bra? Vinyl basque with stretch lace panels? My Amsterdam fantasy had influenced these purchases and I liked to wear them when I was daydreaming in front of the mirror, practising my sleaziest poses, licking a lollipop or deep-throating a banana.
I went with the scarlet and black – the black parts are wet-look fabric with lurid red lace frilling around the peepholes in the bra, and forming a dramatic arrow down the front of the knickers in rude emphasis of what lies at the point. It is trashy in the extreme and I felt suitably whorish, pulling the thong up and looking over my shoulder at the reflection of my exposed bottom in the mirror. I buttoned an easy shirt dress over the hookerwear and added strappy sandals before applying more make-up than I have ever slapped on in my entire life. A whole Juicy Tube on my pillar-box red lips, false lashes, thick eyeliner, blusher that stopped only slightly short of clownish. Then I grabbed my coat and bag and rushed outside to meet my taxi.
‘Railway Café. Docklands, please,’ I said, stopping to catch a breath when the cabdriver sneaked a knowing peek at me in the rear-view mirror.
He thinks I’m a prostitute!
That part of town is a haunt of the local working girls, and the Café is where they congregate for a cup of tea to keep out the cold on long nights. I was going to be in appropriate company then.
‘Going anywhere nice?’ he asked, and there was a trace of contempt in his voice I couldn’t fail to pick up on. It emboldened me, perhaps it made me rash, but somehow it transported me into the dark heart of my fantasy.
‘Just the usual,’ I said, mock-evasively. ‘Work.’
‘Oh yeah? Working girl. Well, it’s a good night for it. Weather wise, I mean.’
True, it was a mild night, low cloud hanging overhead, muffling the seasonal chill.
‘Oh, I work indoors,’ I told him.
‘Indoors? Do you? Didn’t know there was a massage parlour down there.’
‘There isn’t,’ I said mysteriously.
‘Oh. I’m sorry. Must have got the wrong idea,’ he said, suddenly red-faced with confusion.
‘Maybe. Or maybe you didn’t.’ The taxi pulled up at the station forecourt, at one edge of which I could see the café, drab light spilling from its frontage on to the tarmac. Squint as I might, I couldn’t make out any faces among the shapeless forms inside. ‘Tell you what,’ I said, handing over the fare. ‘If you’re still on shift in the morning, why don’t you pick me up and I’ll be able to give you an answer to that.’
He turned around to face me, making an elaborate show of counting out the money I had given him. His bulbous eyes travelled from my pancaked face to my varnished toenails, taking me in with a sweaty, animalistic greed I had only seen before in my dream. ‘Might just do that, love,’ he leered. ‘Ask for Dave.’
‘Dave.’ I smiled sweetly and stepped out of the cab. The little charade had been keeping my nervousness at bay, I realised as soon as my spike heels stabbed the pavement. I was here. It was real. Something I had asked for was about to be given to me – would I regret my request? Might The Number, depraved as it already was, be a front for something truly evil? No, no, no, I consoled myself with the measured words of BoyToy1982. She had her head screwed on. She would not lead me into danger.
With renewed purpose, I strolled up to the Café. As I came closer, I made out more details behind the condensation-steamed window. The shapes were of gorgeous, mythical goddesses – pneumatic and amazonian, with great pompadours of hair – wigs I supposed. Curious to see these creatures at close quarters, I stepped through the door less self-consciously than I might have done, and looked about me.
‘All right, darling?’ enquired one of the goddesses, and I smiled so beatifically that they must have mistaken me for some kind of idiot. Of course. They were men.
Not all of them – some women, relatively dowdy and hatchet-faced, lurked at the counter drinking tea – but the main grouping, laughing and bitching around a large formica table, were transsexuals, transvestites and drag artists. They conferred glamour on to the shabby café, filling the air with their extravagant perfumes, which mixed oddly with the grease from behind the counter. Drawn to their insouciance, I took a tentative step in their direction, but I was interrupted by the harsh tones of the waitress, a faded brass in carpet slippers and a 1960s beehive.