Adventures of a London Call Boy (8 page)

Suddenly, I felt a release: she had unhooked the leash, or it had come unhooked, more likely, as she seemed surprised. My weight fell forward onto her, and my cock pushed deep inside her. I felt a rush that was almost the prelude to coming, but I lifted back my head and held on. I fucked hard, almost angrily, clearly to her taste. I could feel her rubbing her clit against me, savouring the sensation, and soon she was coming with noisy screams, many of which included strange abuse, swear words and desperate pleas for more, harder. Soon she was shaking beneath me, but I was not finished. I controlled myself and then doubled my efforts, rubbing hard against her while thrusting quickly and insistently deep inside her. She came again, biting hard into my neck.

As she shook underneath me, something strange happened: I felt the bonds on my wrists come loose. I lost my balance and found myself half falling off her. Without coming, I pulled out of her and then, before she had quite realised what was happening, I spun her round beneath me. I pushed my knees between her legs and grasped her wrist with one hand, and pressed her down, from behind. With the other hand, I separated her lips and guided my cock into her.

Once I was in, I held both her wrists firmly against the bed. My weight on her, I slid deeper inside. She gasped, part in pleasure, part in surprise, and did again as, having grasped both wrists with one hand, I slid a finger between her buttocks, and then further in. Then I released her hands, and with my free hand, I spanked her buttocks, gently at first, then harder. Soon, she came again, calling me a series of filthy names, her sex pulsating around me. I pushed my finger deeper inside her, and then with the harshest of spanks so far gave a final thrust and felt myself ejaculate, hard and for a long time, my balls rising against the clamp.

Once I'd come, I pulled off the blindfold and managed to undo my wrists and balls. She was lying, face down, a catlike grin about her face. I loosened the ankle straps and found some clothes. There was a bathroom en suite, where I picked off the wax and examined myself for any obvious signs of injury. I'd got away more or less unscathed.

Back out in the room, she was sitting back up, her hair wildly ruffled and her dress askew.

‘Cesc, erm, I hope you don't think …'

I cut her off with a gesture.

‘Same time next week?' I said.

A smirk crossed her face. She nodded. I took the money on the table and left.

Chapter Twenty-one

I was sitting in a café in Primrose Hill with Celeste when she noticed the scars: a deep bite mark on my neck and a singe on my face where I suppose that some wax must have gone astray.

‘Whatever have you been getting up to?' she asked.

‘I saw that woman.'

‘Which one?'

‘The one who texted me. The one who got my details from the other one.'

She looked at me quizzically, trying to pick out the identities.

‘Thanks Cesc, that's helpful.'

‘You know. The girl who got my number from the, from the first woman who paid me.'

‘Right,' she said, fiddling with an unlit cigarette. ‘And what? She paid you to let her beat you up.'

‘Sort of. She was into some, well, relatively heavy stuff. And she had quite a lot of kit.'

‘I thought it was men who paid women for that sort of stuff.'

‘Well so did I. But she paid up. She did some quite painful things though. I think I was worth it.'

‘Right. You really are a pervert, Cesc.'

‘That's unfair. This was strictly professional.'

But Celeste, in a way, had a point. Although being singed and having your testicles tied to the ceiling is painful and really rather surprising, I'm fairly sure that I've done other things just as strange for no financial reward. Perhaps not quite as painful. But despite her protestations, I also had my fun. I suspect that she might have been letting me have a little reward, and that our activities could become progressively more extreme.

As my mind wandered, I heard myself asking Celeste, ‘Do you know if sexual injuries are covered by insurance?'

She paused midway through a sip of her coffee.

‘You've gone mad. All that testosterone has wiped your brain. You're the first person ever to be mentally afflicted by excessive sex.'

‘I'm sure neither half of that is true.'

As I thought about it, I did realise the contradiction. The raven-haired woman had paid me a not insignificant sum of money to dish out something that many men would very happily have paid the same if not more to receive. Given all her kit, I even wondered if it might be one of those hobbies that balanced itself out: for every one of me, there was an equivalent client. She was certainly professional in her approach, if you can apply those terms to consensual sexual tortures.

What was more: I'd actually really enjoyed myself and was extremely glad I hadn't chosen the vanilla door, or whatever she called it. Sex is about intense sensations, and these were certainly that. There is no pleasure without pain, and in some circumstances, it seemed, raising the pain raised the pleasure. Although I didn't imagine that all my sexual encounters should necessarily be quite so, well, unique.

‘Are you going to see her again?' asked Celeste.

‘Yes. Same time next week.'

‘Is she paying you again?'

‘So it would seem.'

And the curious thing was, I would certainly have gone back for free. Despite the age gap, she was striking, and clearly loved sex, albeit in a fairly novel form. A lot of men would have been put off by having to put themselves in such a vulnerable position, or simply by the pain. It didn't bother me, and the thought of her underneath or towering over me turned me on enormously.

‘What about the other one?' asked Celeste, interrupting my daydreaming.

‘What about her?'

‘Are you seeing her again?'

‘Yes. I think so. It's slightly more complicated, as technically I'm seeking work, and, also technically, she's sort of responsible for supervising that entire aspect of the local economy. But I don't think it will be a problem. I need to get a real job, anyway. I can't keep signing on for ever, it's depressing.'

‘So much so it's accentuated your sex problems,' she said.

‘Thanks. You're all heart. Anyway, if I get many more assignments, I can sign myself off, as I won't need the money.'

‘Won't they get suspicious?'

‘No. I think I can probably claim that some friends of the family are helping me out. Or something like that.'

Celeste nodded.

‘So you've had two clients so far?'

‘Yes.'

‘Both possible regulars?'

‘Christ, you seem to know the terminology. Are you sure there's not something you aren't telling me?'

She said nothing.

‘Yes,' I said, eventually, in the face of her chilly silence. ‘Both may well become regulars.'

She thought for a while.

‘Why,' I asked, after another odd pause.

‘Oh, nothing,' she said.

Celeste seemed to lose her train of thought, and we talked about nothing in particular for a while before ordering some more coffee and then wandering back to the flat. I was lounging around with a book while Celeste dolled herself up for another date, when she poked her semi made-up face, her hair still half in curlers, around the door.

‘Why don't you become a gigolo?' she asked. I sat up and pulled a face.

‘A what?'

‘A gigolo.'

‘Because we're not in the 1970s,' I answered.

‘So?'

It was, after all, my friend Celeste who suggested that I go professional.

‘Seriously. Why don't you become a gigolo?' she continued. ‘You do all the work. You've started charging. You may as well turn it into a profession.'

I was offended at first. But once she'd popped her head back behind the door, and left me to stew on the sofa, it started to make sense.

It was one thing having lots of sex, generally with more or less unknown girls I'd met through a variety of contacts. And it was another accepting money to sleep with people you don't particularly fancy. And it was a step even further to turn this into a profession. But it didn't seem quite as ridiculous as I might have thought a month or so earlier.

By the way, I should make something clear, just so you're not disappointed later: I'm not secretly in love with Celeste. I'm pretty sure she's not secretly in love with me. We take the piss out of each other a lot, and we even flirt, but we are seldom mistaken for a couple, and most of our friends would be absolutely shocked, possibly even appalled, if our flat-share turned into co-habitation. So, I can say now that we are not going to get together.

Part of it, I guess, is that we both know almost exactly where the other one has been. If not knowing can be off-putting, knowing, particularly in the amount of detail we both do, is definitely not conducive to a relationship. And although I only tease her about it, I'm pretty sure she sleeps with guys for money, or at least sleeps with people who can help her out financially and professionally. I imagine she probably does so in the same kind of bored and slightly insouciant fashion that she does everything else. So if we did end up together, it would lead to a strange financial stalemate, or the professional equivalent of a bread sandwich.

Chapter Twenty-two

I saw the raven-haired woman the next week, for another session of what amounted to complicated, occasionally violent and, particularly for me, dangerous sex. In a moment of something like respite, I realised that I did have to ask: what would have happened if I'd chosen the other door.

She had unzipped the hood she'd put over me, leaving my arms still uncomfortably strapped cruciform across the top of the iron frame.

‘Seriously,' I gasped. ‘What would have happened?'

She smiled, looking up from sucking my cock.

‘An hour or so of vanilla sex, and then goodbye.'

‘Right,' I said, leaning back and enjoying her mouth around me. Then, the sensation changed. I felt her grab a handful of my pubic hair, and then pull sharply. I screamed in pain.

‘You're a lucky man,' she added, going back to sucking me.

She became my second regular.

The point was, despite the risk to my own well-being, with her, I would do it for free. It had even crossed my mind to ask whether we could have a session or two on my terms, without the money. But I realised that it would sound ridiculous and unprofessional. She did not want a lover. She wanted a paid partner.

I also thought about the effect of the money. On each occasion, she'd made sure that the matter of payment was sorted out beforehand. I had the option of taking the money and running, if I wanted to. It was clearly an important part of the ceremony to her. I didn't know whether she was rich or not, although the flat suggested that she had both money and good, if rather chilly, taste.

Paying seemed to relax her, in a way. Once that was sorted out, once the terms of the arrangement, including what amounted to any get-out clauses, were sorted, she was able to dedicate herself wholly to pleasure. Paying, in a way, made her able to express herself without worrying about offending or creating the wrong impression. If you asked an unpaid stranger to put on a funnel-shaped gag, they might raise their eyebrows and politely leave, even if they'd given the impression that they were into the same activities as you. But once you were paying, the rules of the game were pretty clear. Anything goes. The money meant that she could do pretty much what she pleased, and she didn't have to ask anyone's permission, or worry about hurting anyone's feelings. My testicles, I'll admit, were another matter altogether.

After another session with the raven-haired woman, my first Jenny – J. – called to arrange another meeting. I agreed, and saw her again, for the same price. The sex was energetic and extremely satisfying. We were both more relaxed than the time before, and although I was just as focused on her pleasure, I already knew a lot of the buttons to push, and so was able to try things out on her. I discovered that she was particularly keen on having sex standing up. We found a position where she sat on my thighs as I stood, with her reaching up to hold the doorframe, legs wrapped round my waist as I massaged her buttocks and sucked on her tits. She came like that, her hair whipping my face, bouncing up and down on my thighs, before we fell panting down to the floor.

Sometime later, once we'd finished, I told J. of my decision.

‘I'm thinking very seriously about making this into a profession. Can you help?'

She laughed.

‘Why? Because I work in HR?'

‘I guess so. Can you?'

She stood up, still naked, and looked for a packet of cigarettes.

‘You smoke?' she asked.

‘Only passively. And quite a lot.'

I thought briefly about mentioning that as this was my place of work, I should ask her not to spark up. But I changed my mind once I realised just how stupid it would sound.

She came back and sat next to me. She lit a cigarette and took a few drags. ‘All the other guys I've paid to be with have been escorts.'

‘Escorts?'

‘Yeah. They're a mix of strippers, bouncers and students, generally, and they get in with an agency. The agency promises them big bucks for sex. They make some money, but as they're doing something that's basically illegal, they get ripped off.'

‘I guess that's always the way with prostitution.'

She nodded.

‘I guess the trick is to be your own boss,' she said.

‘When you say it's illegal …?'

‘Well, it's unlikely that if you accept money for sex you're ever going to go to jail. But if you do anything that could be seen as soliciting, like overtly offering your services, you're in trouble. Or anything that could be a disturbance of the peace, say offering your wares on a street corner.'

‘Right. Hey, I'm glad I asked you.'

‘You're welcome,' she said. ‘If I was in your position, I'd set up as an independent escort. Put out some ads, the women will know the drill. You'll barely have to mention it.'

‘And on the plus side, I may even get some real escort work.'

‘Plus side?' she asked.

‘I take your point. What,' I said, lazily flicking her nipple with a finger, ‘could be better work than this?'

‘Exactly,' she said, sliding her hand up the length of my once-more hard cock.