‘Saffron?’
‘Oh … yes.’
‘They’re waiting for you upstairs.’
She held a door open for me, her face impassive despite my attempt to smile at her. Behind me, one of the men, or maybe a newly-minted woman, sang
I’m just mad about Saffron
in a light tenor.
The stair carpet was fusty and smelly, but I made it to the landing before the timer snapped the light bulb off, and blundered through the only open door I could see. In a tiny sitting room, a tall man in a suit sat cross-legged on a torn leather sofa, briefcase at his side.
‘Miss Miles?’ he asked, in a distinctive, not particularly reassuring, baritone.
It took me a second or two to gather the wit to reply in the affirmative.
‘I must apologise for the setting. The Café is rather noisier than usual. There is a drag club behind the station and I gather it’s Ladies’ Night tonight. Do take a seat.’
I perched on a low leather-covered stool, the type of thing that used to be called a pouffe before people stopped wanting to use that term. From my lowly seating point, the man looked forbiddingly long and looming, but he adjusted his spectacles and smiled, transforming his face at a stroke.
‘Such an inventive and interesting fantasy you sent us,’ he said warmly. ‘I could not resist it. It took a while to find the perfect venue, but I hope you will not be disappointed. I have hired some people from the very best sources – some will participate, others will merely observe. All are clean and discreet, though naturally, sensible precautions will be observed. I wonder if you would be able, at this point, to give me an idea of the number of participants you might like?’
I blinked. He was asking me how many men I wanted to be fucked by. In the nicest possible way.
‘Well … I’m not sure … if I say a number now, would I be able to add to it later … if I still wanted to?’
‘Yes, of course. Conversely, you are, of course, free to stop the action at any time. You understand, however, that I would not be able to offer a refund, should you find the reality less palatable than the fantasy. I am paying for hire of the space, as well as a number of people tonight.’
‘Oh yes, of course, I’m sure you’ve gone to a lot of trouble,’ I assured him, a little in awe of this old-fashioned and stern-looking man. ‘It’s … a very interesting job you’ve got.’
He inclined his head. ‘Interesting, yes. You haven’t answered my question.’
‘Oh! Shall I say … three? To start off with?’
‘Three is a very good number. I have ten at your disposal, depending on how the night proceeds. On one occasion, ten was not enough for the lady in question, and I had to ring out for more.’
I laughed, stunned. At the back of my mind had always been the nagging idea that I was a freak, alone in my disgusting desires. Evidently not.
‘Well … I think ten would be perfectly sufficient! More than enough!’
He smiled, rather charmingly. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Shall we?’
He rose to his feet, offering me an arm.
‘Where are we going?’ I wondered, heading side by side down the creaky stairs and out through the bustling café.
‘Into your deepest desires, of course,’ he replied airily.
My deepest desires, it seemed, lay over the railway bridge and past the piles of container crates stacked up in a yard beyond. Warehouses, of a low-rise corrugated metal build, lay beyond this yard and we walked through the gloom past dozens of depots and storage facilities until we turned a corner, in the heart of the deserted estate, and found ourselves face to face with … ‘Oh!’ I exclaimed loudly.
It was a static caravan, of a type you might find in a holiday park, but the front wall had been removed and replaced completely with toughened glass. I could not see inside, for heavy burgundy velvet drapes had been closed over the window. At the rear of the building, smoking and muttering and rubbing their hands around a brazier, was a group of maybe two dozen men and a couple of women. The performers in tonight’s special feature, I presumed.
My escort disengaged from me, produced a key and stepped up to the caravan door, ushering me inside ahead of him.
I stood, staring around into its red-lit corners, noticing how all the walls and kitchen units had been taken out to provide an enormous space devoted to nothing more than the arts of pleasure. Only the small shower and toilet remained behind a partition door. A heart-shaped mattress took up the centre of the room, surrounded by multitudes of cushions in sumptuous fabrics. Shelves of bottles and lotions and lubricants ran the length and breadth of the caravan, including, in one corner, a supply of sex toys. The prints on the walls were of tacky nudes and highly coloured kama-sutra illustrations. Everything was rose or violet, everything was both dim and lurid beneath the lamp’s red glare. There could be no doubt whatsoever that this was a tart’s boudoir. And I was the tart.
‘May I leave you to it?’ enquired the man politely. ‘I think you should be able to engineer things from here. This rope here –,’ he tugged at a length of intertwined golden strands, ‘– will open the curtains. When you’re ready. Oh, and the wastepaper basket is by the door. The gentlemen will dispose of the necessaries when they leave. Do you need anything?’
I shook my head, dazed. “The necessaries.” The tissues, the condoms. The reality. The man from The Number bowed slightly and took his leave.
I almost followed him. Almost. Then I took a deep breath, took another look at my lascivious lair and removed my coat. The full-length mirror behind the bed showed a shapely woman with too much make-up on. ‘Whore,’ I mouthed to my reflection. ‘Trollop.’ Then I unbuttoned my shirt dress, revealing the cheap scarlet and black underwear, and there I was – in the zone. Ready. Raring to go.
I shimmied my hips, shrugging the shirt sleeves along my arms and dropping the unnecessary clothing to the floor. This was what I was tonight. A sex-mad hooker, gasping for a fuck as badly as some crave a cigarette or a hit of their favourite narcotic. I laughed out loud, sticking a hand down my knickers and posing, porn-star style. Then I turned and pulled on the curtain cord. Showtime.
As if summoned by a bell, a knot of men appeared at the window, pretending to glance casually in, then stopping to chat among themselves, all the while looking over their shoulders at me. I dropped to my knees in the window and put my hands either side of my breasts, squeezing them together, running my thumbs over the protuberant nipples, licking my lips. Oh, I was wet already; I could feel the moisture seeping down to the lacy crotch of my thong, and I parted my thighs a little, to give my audience a clue what might be happening down there. Now two of the men drifted out of their conversation and were clearly watching me, nudging their friends. I swivelled my hips, then wetted my fingertips with a saucy tongue and pushed my hand down inside the knickers. All the men were watching now, watching me plant my fingers between my slick lips and rub, and I was trying very hard not to individualise them, not to pick out faces or hairstyles, but to keep them in role as everymen connected by the sharp gleam of lust for me in their eyes.
I lurched to my feet again and twirled around, bending over and pretending to fiddle with my shoe strap. I could feel that thong applying pressure to the crack of my behind, slipping inside my cheeks and straining over my pussy.
A knock at the door. My first punter.
I pulled it aside, registering only maleness, of a younger kind – if I were looking at him with the eyes of Saffron the person rather than Saffron the commodity, I might find him fanciable. But he was here to fuck me for money, and there was no point getting interested in him.
‘Hellooo,’ I said, trying to sound like Marilyn Monroe.
‘How much?’ he asked brusquely. ‘For a straight fuck, like.’
His refusal to beat around the bush, as it were, was aphrodisiacal in the extreme. Rubbing my thighs together to try and quell the itch at their apex, I said, ‘How much do you have? I don’t mind.’
‘You want it that bad, do you, love?’ he asked crudely, putting a big hand on my hip. ‘Well, I think the going rate is a bit higher, but you look to be about a fiver’s worth.’
My eyes rolled into the back of my head with extreme delight. Yes, make me cheap, make me the cheapest fuck in town.
‘Deal,’ I whispered brokenly, drawing him on to the stage.
‘Right,’ he said, pausing to give his mates the thumbs-up and a wink in response to their fulsome applause. ‘What do I get for that, then?’
‘The lot. Whatever you want.’
‘Whatever I want? Knickers off, then, and sit on the bed with your legs spread.’
I couldn’t get them off fast enough, almost tripping in my haste to show all I had. I fell back on the heart-shaped bed, splaying out my knees in the process, lying luxuriously and wickedly spread, watching my john remove his jacket and T-shirt.
‘No, no, no,’ he said reprovingly. ‘Your public want to see your face as well as your snatch. Sit up and face them.’
I wriggled upright, taking care not to hide any of the personal areas he had ordered me to keep visible, and decided I might as well unhook my bra too. Thus naked, I faced the world, or rather the small portion of it represented by the squashed up noses and hot breathy mouths pressed against the window.
‘While I’m getting ready,’ the man said, unbuckling his belt, ‘why don’t you have a little play with yourself? Get in the mood? I want you nice and wet when I fuck you.’
Obediently, I licked the fingers of one hand and began to strum at my already-juicy clit, using my spare digits to pinch my nipples and pluck at the wobbling flesh of my breasts.
‘Look at them while you’re doing it.’
I could see them, hands on crotches, hard bulges threatening to dent the heavy-duty perspex of the window. They were cheering and punching fists in the air, lifting me up on a wave of delirious debasement; the rougher and readier their response to me, the faster I flicked at the swollen bud, bending my neck to lap at a nipple with my tongue.
‘Very nice.’ The john stood at the side of the bed, a condom already applied to his solid, curving cock. ‘Now get on your back and get those legs in the air. No, sideways on – I don’t want that lot getting an eyeful of my arse. It’s you they want to watch.’
I shuffled my bottom ninety degrees and lay flat, imagining the picture I made in that window, the rise and fall of my breasts, the way my arse curved and my thigh flexed. I gripped the undersides of my knees with each hand, holding myself strenuously open, watching the john as he took the base of his cock in his hand and dropped to his knees before me.
Ragged cries from outside filtered into my brain. ‘Go on, my son!’ ‘Give her one for me!’ ‘Fuck her brains out, mate!’
‘I know what your kind wants,’ he said to me roughly, rubbing the tip of his cock against my lubricated entrance. ‘No kissing. No affection. Just a good, hard shafting. Am I right?’
‘You’re right,’ I fluttered.
He shoved himself in, with wonderful unceremony. I let out an ‘ah!’ of delirious contentment, in awe at his perfect reading of my fantasy and his unforgiving steeliness. Filled and fucked, and in public too. This was better than I had imagined it, by a factor of about a thousand. Fists banged on the glass, in dull rhythmic accompaniment to the john’s merciless thrusts; I turned my head to watch my audience through blurred eyes and when I saw the atavistic lust of their expressions, I came, while my punter held me down and continued to fuck through my climax.
‘She’s loving it!’ ‘Get in there, my son!’ ‘Give it to her!’
He gave it to me, with interest, pounding me long and hard while the bedcover rumpled into the crack of my bum and my head began to hang over the edge of the outlined heart. I wondered if I would come again, and realised that – of course! – the john was screwing me with no regard for my pleasure, only his, so if I wanted another orgasm, I would have to fix myself one. I frigged myself again, much to the appreciation of the crowd, and brought myself off just as the punter spurted into the rubber teat stuffed far inside my cunt. The crowd went wild – they thought it was all over and, well, it was.
‘Thanks, love,’ he panted, puffing into my face for a few minutes prior to pulling out. ‘You’re a great fuck. Wish I could have shot my load inside you, but modern times being what they are …’ He broke off and half-chuckled. His face was beet red and shiny with exertion, and it occurred to me for the first time that he was quite a handsome man in a rough, amateur boxer-ish kind of way, sandy-blond and freckled with a big broad mouth and gym-schooled body.
‘It’s me who should be thanking you,’ I pointed out, lounging on the bed, limbs akimbo, past caring about the men outside. ‘You’ve made this a brilliant experience. Or, at least, a brilliant start to it.’
He grinned, pulling on his pants and jeans then smoothing fingers through his hair in front of the mirror. ‘Any time, love,’ he said with a wink. ‘I suppose you ought to freshen up for the next one. They’re lining up out there.’ He half-waved, a little awkwardly, and high-tailed it out of the caravan.
Yes. Freshen up. Try to find some reserves of energy. A real prostitute would not have used up so much on one fuck. I needed to remember to lie back and think of … well, just think of what’s happening to me. But in a passive way, sparing my muscles.
Mindful of my waiting queue, I slipped into the tiny bathroom and sponged myself down, applying scented lotion and perfume before putting my knickers back on – I really didn’t think there was much point wrestling with the bra. Out in front of my crowd once more, I brushed my hair and touched up my make-up, taking it slowly and ostentatiously, sticking out my bum, letting my tits jiggle with every move, waiting for the whites of their eyes to show.
Once I had teased them enough, I flung open the caravan door once more and stood in its backlight, hands on hips, shivering at the blast of cold air that met me.
‘Who’s next, boys?’
An eager young man in a hoody and loose jeans stepped up.
‘I want a blow job!’ he demanded urgently. ‘And my mate here wants to fuck you. Can you do both of us?’
I smiled. ‘I don’t see why not. It’s specials night tonight. Two for the price of one. Come on in.’