Once more in profile, my naked body outlined in the window, I crouched on the bed, my eyes shut, all the better to see what my audience saw. I knew what was happening by the feel of it; the men looking in could see my mouth wrapped around a cock, sucking and licking with slutty relish, enjoying the owner’s hands braced on top of my head to prevent any escape from my oral duties. If they shifted their eyes a little to the right, along my curving spine and around the smooth, well-presented endpoint of my bottom, they could also see the thick stalk of another cock, planted between those cheeks and angled low, so it was clear that my pussy was taking the brunt of its blunt thrusts. Now that I was here, where I had always wanted to be, I felt disconnected from the action, which I could only interpret from the false perspective of the audience. Yes, the hard shaft at my rear felt good, sliding into the slippery slickness created by my previous customer (on which this man commented at length before deigning to dip his wick where wick had been dipped so lately); yes, I was fully engaged in sucking my head-end john into an ecstatic emission. But somehow I was not here. I was above it all, looking down; or in front of it all, looking in. And now, I finally understood the fantasy. What I was doing was exquisitely filthy, but I would not truly experience my desire until I got to watch myself in this condition, utterly debased and whorish, opening my orifices to all and sundry.
The epiphany coincided happily with another climax, first from me and then from the man in my cunt. On his withdrawal, the man I was sucking explained that he needed to finish off inside me, and I obligingly spread myself for my third cock of the night, not even demurring when he stuck an experimental finger in my anus before arriving at his blissful end.
Mindful of getting my money’s worth, I took two more clients – riding on top with my bottom grinding enthusiastically for the pleasure of my windowgazers – before conceding that my pussy was too sore and well-fucked for further incursions. How do the professionals manage, I wondered? Is there a special balm?
Resolutely I drew the curtain on my clapping, wolf-whistling crowd and took my final shower of the night. The clock read 4.12 a.m. That taxi driver may well have still been on shift, but I didn’t think I’d be able to offer him any specialised tip tonight. Even after a lengthy lathery soak in the scented steam, the area between my thighs throbbed and felt raw. It would be a day or so before I could walk without a little reminder of my night on the game.
Once I was dressed again, I wondered whether any of my fans were left outside the caravan. Presumably they would all have drifted off home to their Halls of Residence, or hostels, or open prisons. How were these men recruited exactly? So many questions …
Before I could ponder further, there was a knock at the door.
‘I’m done,’ I shouted cautiously, hoping there was not still a large and unruly queue at the step.
‘It’s me – your … facilitator.’ The man from the café’s voice was unmistakable and distinctive. I let him in, smiling shyly, wondering how much of my performance he actually saw.
‘Well, Miss Miles,’ he said, sitting on the rumpled bed before checking it for stray condoms and tissues. ‘Can I add another satisfied customer to my ledger?’
‘Yes, I’d say so. It was so perfectly prepared and executed … funnily, though, I realised halfway through that I really wanted to be
watching
myself. Lovely as all the sex was. That sounds ungrateful, I suppose.’
‘Not in the least. We have found that, from time to time, as a fantasy plays out, the buyer finds that there are extra dimensions they would like to explore. Often these are followed up in a further session.’
‘I see. I’d better start saving up for next year then.’
He stood, chuckling, and reached up to a corner of the ceiling. Oh! I had not noticed that! He plucked a tiny camera from its bracket and handed it to me.
‘Not necessarily,’ he said. ‘It’s all here. Though, of course, we’d be delighted to see you again.’
‘Wow. A souvenir.’ I turned the tiny metallic eye over and over in my palm.
‘You need to connect it to a computer,’ my host explained. ‘What you do with it after that is up to you. If you wish to release it for public consumption on the internet, please let us know – we’d like our proper credit. We might even pay you for some advertising.’
‘Oh! I don’t think I’ll be letting anyone else see this!’ I exclaimed with conviction. Though I did kind of like the idea … ‘Thank you. I will definitely recommend you. It’s been …’ I could not finish the sentence, shrugging and blushing instead.
The man inclined his head, accepting my inarticulate tribute, before standing to escort me back to the taxi rank.
When I think back to it now, it seems like an elaborate dream – but now, instead of fantasising, I have the film to watch, over and over, finding a new aspect of mortifying pleasure every time.
And I’m saving up for next year all the same.
C
HARLOTTE HAD FOUND
a new way to deal with the drone and drear of the weekly office meeting. Instead of doodling on her desk blotter and ticking off the number of times her manager used the phrases ‘ball park figure’, ‘ducks in a row’ or ‘corporate vision’, she drifted off into her mind, imagining the ineffectual chinless man to be Collins or Bryant instead, preparing to call her in for a very personal performance review.
Office life with those two in charge would be quite a different proposition. The appearance of the trolley-lady would no longer be the highlight of the working day. They would make her wear bizarre and skimpy outfits. They would call her in for staff exercises, which would be of the pelvic-floor-strengthening type. And the penalties for poor performance … ah, well, they would involve bending over the desk, for sure.
‘Did you get that, Charlotte? Is it minuted?’ She jerked back to reality, her inner self responding with a sulky
What if it isn’t?
, even as her outer one understood that Jim Bennett – not
Mr
Bennett, not even James, nothing to command respect, just plain man-of-the-people Jim B – would only have responded with a knitted brow and a puzzled shake of the head, and perhaps a little gathering of perspiration on his upper lip. Mr Collins, on the other hand, would have ordered her into his office – perhaps even lifted her roughly by the upper arm and dragged her – perhaps he wouldn’t even do it in the office – perhaps he would make a public example of her … oh, how quickly could she get to the bathroom?
‘Yeah,’ she said to Jim, daring a shrug.
‘Good, jolly good,’ he said nervously, eyeing her as if she were an unidentified beast who might bite. ‘That’s all, folks.’ He said it in imitation of Bugs Bunny at the end of a Looney Tunes programme. Charlotte felt her will to live draining away. Then she jumped as the phone rang – just once, signifying an internal call.
She picked up the receiver and dutifully trotted out the Litany of the Department: ‘Hello, this is Charlotte Steele, Human Resources, how may I help you?’
‘Oh, hello.’ The regal received pronunciation immediately identified the caller as Merle from reception. ‘This is Reception. I have a visitor at the desk for you.’
Before Charlotte could enquire further the dial tone kicked back in. She was not expecting anyone. Perhaps a union representative unhappy about something or other? Perhaps somebody handing in an application form in person? Whatever it was, it was bound to be dull.
Except it wasn’t. When Charlotte arrived in reception after five flights of stairs and a maze of corridors, her visitor was standing at the far end of the lobby they shared with the Crown Court, reading a poster about some fundraising event or other. He had broad shoulders and a blue suit and perfectly cut hair. He was … surely it was …
‘Charlotte.’ He turned and smiled and she almost screamed aloud.
After an age during which her jaw seemed wired in an unattractive gawping mode, she managed to utter the words, ‘Mr Bryant.’
‘Thank you for coming down,’ he said smoothly, advancing towards the desk where Merle sat arranging papers and pretending not to watch. ‘I wonder if I could steal you for the rest of the afternoon … Miss Steele?’
‘Oh.’ She put a hand to her mouth, suddenly filled with wild and wicked merriment. ‘I can’t flex off till four … it’s only quarter past three now …’ She wished she had worn anything but this dreary grey skirt suit with black polo-neck and ballet flats. She looked ten years older than twenty-four. She wondered if Bryant remembered her as he had last seen her – rumpled and exhausted, sticky and sweaty, dazed and confused and thoroughly used.
‘I’m sure I could arrange something. What’s your boss’s extension?’ His hand hovered over Merle’s telephone, to her blatant annoyance.
‘Four-three-three-seven. Oh, you can’t!’
But he had punched it in and stood with the receiver against his ear, smiling benignly at both members of his female audience.
‘Ah, hello, yes, I need a fairly urgent conference with Miss Steele from your office – I’m from Bryant and Collins and she has been in dealings with us regarding some personnel issues …’
Charlotte snorted. Personnel? Personal, more like. Intimate, indeed.
‘… Oh no, I’m afraid it can’t be conducted over the phone. “Face time,” as you say, is essential. I would be most awfully obliged to you … well, that’s thoroughly decent of you. Thank you very much. I’ll tell her she can go home after our meeting, shall I? Splendid.’
He replaced the receiver with the air of a man who had the world at his fingertips.
‘There,’ he said, nodding at Charlotte and extending a hand. ‘All squared.’
‘But didn’t Jim say …?’
‘I find, Miss Steele,’ he said, taking her by the wrist and exerting just the smallest pressure to jump-start her in his preferred direction, ‘that an authoritative manner goes a long way with a public servant.’
‘I think you’re right,’ she replied fervently, casting a brief backward glance to Merle, whose half-moon glasses rested severely on the bridge of her nose as she followed their figures to the doorway and out to the steps of Colliton Town Hall.
‘So you got my email?’ she asked nervously, allowing him to lead the way down and past the library, towards the town centre.
‘Yes, we did.’ He squeezed her wrist, which he was still handling, then laced his fingers with hers and smiled down. ‘We were so pleased to hear from you.’
‘Were you? Even though I said … you know. I can’t afford to do it again.’
‘That’s what I’m here to see you about. I have a proposition for you. Business.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘With perhaps a bit of pleasure thrown in.’
Charlotte’s chest tightened and she gulped down air, almost jumping when they stopped abruptly at the car park entrance and Bryant pointed a key fob at a sleek silver-blue Bentley.
‘Why don’t you come for a drive with me and I’ll explain it all to you?’
Get in a car with a strange man? But he wasn’t a stranger … exactly … All the same, she knew very little about him, except that he had a taste for filthy kinky sex. As did she. He was no dodgier than she was, then, she supposed. He had told Jim Bennett the name of his business – they could check if she didn’t show up at work the next day.
Bryant seemed to read her face; his eyes crinkled kindly and he stooped down a little, to level with her.
‘I’m not going to hurt you, Charlotte. Not without your consent. You have your mobile? Good. You can text a friend if you like – let her know where you are. Tell her I’ll have you back for supper.’
Charlotte smiled and slid past the door Bryant was holding open for her.
The upholstery was divinely comfortable, smelling of luxury, and when Bryant started up the engine, the car barely registered the movement, gliding into an easy purr and pulling out on to the road as if propelled on a cushion of air.
‘Where are we going?’ asked Charlotte as Bryant switched off the Vivaldi CD he had been listening to earlier, presumably.
‘Some lovely spots around here, Charlotte. Good places for walks. I envy you. It’s so very far from that dirty, crazy city I have to operate in.’
‘Oh, I like the city. I would love to live there.’
Bryant turned his head, his expression satisfied. ‘Good. I was hoping you might say that.’
‘Why?’
‘Collins and I … we have been discussing you. After your little performance the other week on the train and at the hotel … well, let’s say we were impressed. And not just with the action. With the way you conveyed your fantasy to us. With your enthusiasm and articulacy. With your quick grasp of what our operation entails. And we liked you as a person as well. So we thought … maybe you might like to work for us.’
Charlotte gripped the edges of the leather seat, trying to calm the wave that had rocked through her.
‘What? Work for you? For The Number?’
‘Well, yes. Given that our client base is overwhelmingly female, it seems wrong somehow that we don’t have a woman on board. We thought you’d fit the bill. Female fantasy consultant. What do you think? Could you see yourself in that role?’
Charlotte could not speak for a moment, staring ahead blindly at the narrowing roads and disappearing street lamps as they reached the outskirts of the small market town. The word ‘role’ made her think of the part she had played in the hotel – but that had not been so much a role as a hidden part of herself, let out to play for once.
‘It would mean living in the City.’
‘Well, yes. Collins has a little flat he would be happy to rent you.’
‘Really?’
‘Very close to the office. You would be involved in research and development. Some marketing. And … a little road testing, I would imagine.’
‘Road testing?’
‘Seeing if some of our client’s fantasy expectations can be met. Logistics … risk assessments …’
‘With you? And Collins?’
‘You could always expect our full support. And we’d take care of you. We’d see that you were never endangered or compromised.’
Charlotte watched Bryant drive. He was assured and steady, handling the steering wheel confidently, his feet playing the pedals without undue hurry. They were driving past fields now, and heading towards some of the forest that had been left behind when the new bypass had hacked through it. She felt safe with him, even driving through these overhanging branches in the gloom.
She did not even lose her head when he turned the car down a narrow single-lane track, having to put on his headlights. A lay-by appeared from the murk and he brought the car to a skilful stop before turning to Charlotte and asking, ‘Well? Are you interested?’
He had taken off his jacket before getting in the car, and Charlotte concentrated intently on the creases at the elbow of his starched white shirt, thinking.
‘Yes,’ she said at last. ‘I think I am. As long as I have enough to live on …’
‘You will. More than enough. Limitless earnings potential, if the site really takes off.’
‘Then yes.’ She laughed, feeling weightless and free. No more mind-numbing meetings. No more hateful college course. No more reading
Psychology in the Workplace
on the train. ‘I’ll work for you.’
Bryant clapped in delight. ‘Wonderful! Excuse me, I must just email Collins.’
He tapped away on his netbook while Charlotte took the opportunity to text her flatmate. As soon as the communications were sent on their way, Bryant turned back to Charlotte, seeming immediately intent on some dark purpose.
‘You won’t be dressing like that in our office,’ he opened forebodingly.
‘Oh … really?’ Charlotte fluttered, scrunching up her toes inside the soft leather ballet flats.
‘Really. Knee-length skirts? Flat shoes? And … are those … tights?’
He reached out a hand and patted Charlotte’s opaque black knee.
‘Yes. But if I’d known …’
‘No excuse, Charlotte. You should always be prepared. You never know when a masterful man is going to come and make demands of you. You of all people should be bearing that in mind. Shouldn’t you?’
‘Yes. sir.’ Charlotte’s body tensed in excited anticipation. Her thighs jammed together, the opaque tights feeling thick and damp. He was right – they would have to go.
‘Never mind. A reminder might be in order, though, before we proceed with contractual matters. Get those tights off, please.’
Charlotte knew better than to quibble. She lifted her skirt delicately at the hem and wriggled out of the offending garment, placing it in Bryant’s waiting hand once her legs were bare.
‘Hmm, you’ll have to put those shoes back on, I suppose. For now,’ he sniffed, stretching the lengths of heavy-duty nylon and wrapping them around his fingers experimentally. ‘Actually, I could find a use for these,’ he noted. ‘Right, take off your jacket and get out of the car. We’re going for a nice walk in the countryside.’
Charlotte obeyed the instruction, stepping out on to crackling twigs and uneven tracks in the dried mud. It was not cold, but nonetheless the air breathed goose-bumps on to her bare legs and her nipples tightened beneath the serviceable polo neck and cotton bra. Bryant came around behind her and nudged her forward with a hand at the small of her back, taking her off the track and into the wood-scented depths of the forest.
‘Collins and I like heels. So you’ll be wearing them. Maybe knee-high boots on occasion … patent leather perhaps. And stockings – always stockings. No trousers, of course, and keep the skirts no longer than mid-thigh. We don’t want you to look like a tart, necessarily … but we do want you to look sexy and available. A few shirt buttons undone, lots of lip gloss, the suggestion of wantonness. I’m sure you know what I mean, Charlotte. Do you ever dress like that for a lover?’
Charlotte thought back to her personnel course, to the sub-module on appropriate dress codes. How surreal it all was.
‘For a lover, maybe. For work though …’
‘Work is play. For you, Charlotte, from now on. Work is what you make of it. Are you wearing knickers?’
‘Of course!’
‘Take them off.’
Charlotte stopped, peering through the ferny half-light to make sure no rogue dog-walkers or birdwatchers were in attendance. Then she reached under her skirt and squatted to pull down the plain white knickers she wore for the office.
‘I’ll have those if you don’t mind,’ said Bryant peremptorily, and they joined her tights in a bulging trouser pocket. At least, she thought it was a trouser pocket …
They walked on, and Charlotte’s attention was focused less on the dry scrunch of leaves underfoot and more on the breezes that ventilated the interior of her staid grey skirt, whispering around her crotch while her bottom rubbed against the cool nylon lining. The overhanging trees meant that the warmth of the early autumn sun could not penetrate here, and Charlotte shivered, as much from cold as anticipation.
‘A bit chilly, my dear?’ enquired Bryant mildly. ‘We should do something about that. Warm you up. Your little lesson about the tights could serve a dual purpose. What do you think?’
He put an arm around her shoulder, drawing her close to him – an affectionate gesture even as he discussed the matter of punishment.