IT 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.
‘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.’
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.