The Intimate Adventures of a London Call Girl (2 page)

The sound of couples talking in the narrow rooms mingled with the burbling background music. Everyone

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looked possibly older than me, definitely better off. A few might have just come from work; others had clearly been home to refresh. The door, each time it opened, let in a blast of chilly autumn air and the smell of dry leaves.

The couple arrived. We were seated at a table in the corner well away from the attention of the staff; I was tucked between them. He looked down the front of my jumper while she talked about art galleries and sport. As I felt his hand creep onto my right knee, her stockinged foot started to slide up the inside leg of my trousers.

Ah. That's what they're after, I thought, and hadn't I known it all along? They were older, libertine, gorgeous. There was no good reason not to fuck or be fucked by them. I followed their lead in ordering: rich, buttery dishes. A mushroom risotto so thick it could barely be torn away from the shallow bowl, so glutinous the only way to dislodge it from the spoon was with teeth. Fish with the head still attached and its heat‐glazed eyes staring up at us.

She licked her fingers and I had the feeling this was a purposeful gesture rather than a lapse in manners. My hand slid over her skintight trousers to her crotch, and she clamped her legs together around my knuckles. At that particular moment the waitress decided our table needed more attention. She brought over a sampler of tiny pastries and chocolate treats, and the man fed his girlfriend with one hand, gripping my hand in the other, while my fingers crawled in her lap. She came easily, almost silently. I brushed her neck with my lips.

'Excellent,' he murmured. 'Now do it again.'

So I did. After the meal we left the restaurant. He asked me to strip to the waist and sit in the front passenger seat while she drove. From the back seat he grabbed my breasts and pinched my nipples as we travelled the short distance to her house. I walked from the car to the door topless and, once inside, was ordered on my knees. She disappeared into

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the bedroom as he put me through a few basic obedience lessons: holding uncomfortable positions; holding heavy things in uncomfortable positions; holding heavy things in uncomfortable positions with his cock in my mouth.

She returned with candles and whips. While I have had both hot wax and the business end of a riding crop applied to my flesh before, it was a new experience to have it done with my legs in the air and lit candles plunged into me, dripping over my torso. After two hours, he entered her and, using his cock like the domme in my fantasy, drove her face‐first into my pussy.

We dressed, she showered. He walked me out to find a black cab. His arm threaded through mine. Father and daughter, any passing stranger might have thought. We looked a comfortable pair.

'Quite a woman you have there,' I said.

'Whatever it takes to keep her happy,' he said.

I nodded. He waved down a taxi and gave the driver instructions. As I stepped into the back, he handed me a roll of money and said I was welcome any time. I was halfway home before I unfolded the wad of notes and saw it was at least three times as much as the cab fare would cost.

My mind made the calculations ‐ rent due, the number of days in a month, the net profit from the night out. I thought I should feel a pang of regret or surprise at being used and paid for.

But it was nothing like that. They'd enjoyed themselves and to a wealthy couple the expense of dinner and a taxi was nothing at all.

And, truth be told, I hadn't exactly found it a chore.

I asked the driver to stop a few streets from my flat. The staccato sound of my heels echoed off the pavement. It was early autumn, but still quite warm at night, and the red candle‐wax marks under my clothes glowed with sympathetic heat.

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The idea of selling sex festered; it grew. But for a while I buried my curiosity about prostitution. I borrowed money off friends and started seeing a young man seriously. This was pleasantly distracting until the first overdraft statement from my building society arrived, suggesting I see them about a loan. The festering whispered and itched with every job application rejection and failed interview. I couldn't stop thinking how it felt, swept away in the back of a black cab in the middle of the night. I could do it. I had to see.

And it wasn't too long after deciding to do it that I started keeping a diary . . .

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Novembre

7

A - C

A is for Agencies

An agency in London typically takes one‐third of the fee, excluding travel and tips. The man is expected to pay for travel expenses on an outcall and this can add another £30 to £40.

Agency commission covers advertising, arranging and confirming appointments, as well as security when needed. Some agencies deduct photography costs from a girl's first appointments or ask her to pay up front.

The agency I am registered with did not; photos and building a profile were free.

With luck, contact with the agency will be minimal. The last time I saw my manager she criticised my lipliner. So much for feminine solidarity.

B is for Bad Hair

Sometimes the lead‐up to an appointment leaves no time for the three‐act fluffing and primping in a girl's regime. The hair is usually the first to suffer.

If I hurry, it tends to come out limp and a touch on the greasy side. There's an emergency one‐time, one‐hour only trick a girl at uni taught me: shake a light dusting of talc through the hair, then comb lightly. It'll look good enough for long enough. Avoid moisture, though, or you risk gluing your head to the wall.

C is for Cash Only

I don't take cards. Where would I put the swipe machine?

C is also for Chatter

Keeping up your own end of the conversation is not only useful, but probably the most relevant skill for the job. Pretend to be interested in everything. Be vague about political tendencies and other potentially inflammatory opinions. In other words, lie your head off. Think of it as proving ground for a future political career.

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samedi, le 1 novembre

A client was latched on my nipples. 'Careful there, pre-menstrual,' I said, gently guiding his hands elsewhere.

'Tell me something you fantasise about,' he said.

'I'm abducted by four men, stripped and tied up in the back of a car. They park the car and get out and masturbate on me through the open windows.'

'Are there horses nearby?'

'There are a lot of horses nearby. We're in the middle of the country. We're on a farm. They're farmers.'

'Can you smell the horses?'

'I can smell the horses, they're making noises in their stalls and getting very excited. Horses have giant cocks, don't they?'

'Oh yes. Yes, they do.'

'When the farmers are finished, they take me to the stables.'

'Don't fuck the horse.'

'Oh no, I don't even get close. It's too big! And the horse . . . the stallion ... is out of control, too excited. I think it's far too big. It sounds like it's going to break down the stall door.'

'Urrrrrrrrr . . .'

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dimanche, le 2 novembre

A few things I have learned on the job:

In a world of twelve‐year‐olds in sexy boots and nans in sparkly mini‐dresses, the surest way to tell the prostitute walking into a hotel at Heathrow is to look for the lady in the designer suit. Fact.

The build‐up to an appointment is almost always the same. The clients contact the agency after seeing the website. Then they ring, the manager rings me, she re‐confirms with them, then they wait. I usually need two hours' notice. One hour of plucking, showering, making up and hair; one to call a minicab and get to the meeting point.

The make‐up sits apart from the rest of my toiletries on its own shelf. I stand in front of a full‐length mirror as the layers go on: powder and cologne; knickers, bra and stockings; dress, shoes, make‐up and hair. Three outfits in the rotation: a modest but slinky grey jersey dress, a white‐on‐white checked suit, a tailored black linen dress with smart jacket. An infinite choice of underwear and shoes.

The last three seconds before entering the hotel are vital. Are their doors glass? If so, scan quickly for the lifts. Don't go in and just stop, don't ask the staff for directions. Sweep through, acknowledge them with a slight nod. If the lifts or toilets aren't obvious, go for the nearest hallway then get your bearings. If you leave an impression at all, it should be of a well‐dressed lady. You are a businesswoman.

Not strictly untrue.

Lifts are useful. Time to dig through the bag for a phone, text the agency ‐ they'll want to know you arrived on time. If you've been running late they'll let the client know to expect you.

Freshen lipgloss if needed; arrange clothing. Never be sweating or looking rushed. Find the door and

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knock briefly, firmly. 'Darling, hello, pleased to meet you,' you say on entering the room. 'Sorry to keep you waiting.' Whether late or not. Even if you make it bang on time, the customer will have been counting the minutes. If anyone in the room is nervous it mustn't be you. Coat off, sit down. The client usually offers a drink. Never say no. If nothing else have a sparkling water.

Collect the money before anything starts. One time I forgot to do this. The client laughed. 'You must be new to this,' he said, and when I went in the toilet to clean up afterwards, he stuck the notes in the toaster in his flat. Don't count it in front of him; there'll be time later if you're suspicious. Leave on time. If he wants you to stay longer, he has to ring the manager, arrange the price, and pay you right then. On leaving, a quick kiss. 'An absolute pleasure. I hope to see you again.' Out the front, nod to the staff, as quickly gone as you arrived. Text or ring the agency once out of the hotel. If the manager can't get through she'll ring the client, then the hotel, her own security if they're nearby, then the police. She knows. She's been in your shoes too.

My manager is sweet, an absolute doll. When she asks how it went, I always reply that the client was lovely, a gentleman, even if it's stretching the truth. I wouldn't want her to worry.

And sometimes it doesn't go off quite right ‐ like the time I inadvertently waved goodbye to an under‐endowed client by waggling my index finger. Cringe. That's okay, perhaps he didn't notice, and there's always next time.

lundi, le 3 novembre

The traffic close to the city centre is unpredictable, and it's better to be early to work than late. I had a meeting 11

yesterday near Leicester Square. Arrived half an hour early and went into a record store to kill time.

I like record stores; I like music. This was a chain store, though, its lower level full of DVDs and books about music. The few racks of actual albums were heavy with chart‐toppers and low price deals. I stole upstairs to the jazz and blues section.

Most of the other customers were kids killing time just like me, though not caked in quite so much make‐up. Would the client be at the appointed meeting place, I wondered, or was he out, too?

Perhaps he was even in here? I looked round. There was one man, blond and thin, leaning over the end rack. Attractive in a sort of corruptible young lecturer way. I sauntered by and glanced over his shoulder.

His slender fingers played with the corner of an Isaac Hayes disc. 'Good choice,' I murmured, and he almost dropped it in surprise. I must have looked a sight, overdressed, bulging coat and face like a fright mask of make‐up. Idiot, idiot, idiot. I made for the ground level, shoes clattering on the stairs.

When I met the client he was, of course, not the man from the shop.

It was an overnight job: staying until sunrise. The manager has received such positive feedback about my skills as a disciplinarian that she lists it prominently in the website portfolio. I'm not naturally dominant, but I don't mind doing it. Now it seems all clients want the treatment.

He: 'There's nothing quite like the buzz from fucking strangers.'

Me: 'Can I quote you on that?'

'Yes,' pauses, 'what are you doing with your hands?'

My fingers were tented, bearing my weight above him. 'I don't want to knock the paintings off the wall.' I gritted my teeth.

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'Good idea. Try not to, then.' Cripes, mate, it's not as if it's your own house. Hmph. Pretty demanding for a submissive, I thought.

Later still . . .

He: 'You're a class act, my dear.'

Me: 'I didn't know anyone actually said that, outside the movies.'

'Have to get my lines from somewhere.'

N met me outside the hotel just before sunrise. He's a close friend, we used to date, he knows what I do, and can double for George Clooney in the right light. As in, pitch black. N was smirking. 'Have fun in there?' I opened my coat to show him two whips tied to the inside lining. 'You brought The Persuaders. So you were having fun.'

'Sort of. Yes. He couldn't stay hard so we drank the minibar and watched Channel Five for the last hour.' We got into N's car, which was parked on the pavement. 'And he gave me a silver bubble‐blower.' I took the gift out of my bag. It was in a wooden box wrapped with gold and black ribbons, and shaped like a tiny champagne bottle.