by Ed Bemand
Once he was truly acquainted with her, he was able to begin his work. She was to be the immortal goddess, womanhood exposed, freed from beneath the concealing veil of skin. She was flensed and her sinews and fleshy remnants treated with miraculous preservatives that would allow her to resist the further taint of death’s corruption and enable her to remain on the cusp of disintegration. Then, she was posed as the centrepiece, provocative and nurturing, the onlookers’ eye attracted to that seat of her being that is provider of life and joy. Posed around her in a circle were her adoring disciples, rapt and attentive to her whims, eager to please her.
The exhibit toured the world and millions saw her. Her father would have been so proud that she had become the focus of such a successful art exhibition and the subject of such controversy and heated discussion amongst the intelligentsia. One critic even went so far as to claim that she was a step towards the ultimate redefinition of what art could mean. Others said she was horrible, but that’s hardly her fault, and one can hardly expect to have fame such as she now possessed without attracting a few detractors.
As for Steve? He was burned in a crematorium and discretely disposed of, but then his parents always knew that Sally would be the successful one.
And what, you may ask, is the moral behind all this, the message we can take away from it? Buggered if I know. Maybe there isn’t one. Real stories don’t tend to have neat little purposes behind them, just as they don’t always have a simple beginning or end. Even if the story is of a single life, its precursors and effects can be felt far away from the petty little existence of the individual. Maybe Sally was lucky. She was spared from the pressures of three-quarters of her life, freed from the burdens of responsibility, spared the sting of failure. She was granted success in spite of herself. Surely that must count as a happy ending for somebody? If only that poor unfortunate had been given the opportunity to appreciate it, but then, after all, the one state surely precludes the other. For her to have that fame, it must require her to have never known about it.
Two: How Juliette found out what she liked
I’m getting ahead of myself. Would it be appropriate for me to introduce myself at this juncture? Perhaps, but as is well known to many people, names give power over things. They ascribe characteristics and limitations to their being. The knowledge of a name in the wrong hands can be dangerous. I've been known by a few different names over the years, ones I've earned and ones I've had forced upon me, but few of them are things that I would still answer to. I'm sure some of them would be familiar, others less so. It doesn't matter really. I am who I am and so shall I remain. I am not foolish enough to want to rush into a position that would grant people any additional power over me.
Next to death, I’d say sex is the thing that people spend the most time worrying about. At least it’s a little bit less self-pitying. A fair amount of it is actually relevant from the whole survival of the species perspective, but evolutionary imperatives don’t have to require nail polish and fast cars. The vast majority of shagging is something that would be completely ruined by any real consideration of the possible reproductive consequences of their actions. If sex was really for breeding, we wouldn’t spend so much time thinking about blowjobs. Did we really have to evolve in such a way that reproduction has to be linked to pleasure? The implication to me is that people wouldn’t bother with breeding if it wasn’t fun, which is a pretty damning indictment of the species. Maybe that’s what’s wrong with giant pandas. Would it help if they stopped worrying about finding ways to develop successful artificial insemination techniques for them and started focussing on Viagra and sex toys? Get Mr. Panda to wear one of those vibrating cock rings that linger strangely in vending machines in service stations and give Mrs. Panda a butt plug and some strawberry lube, then let them get on with it.
It’s no wonder there’s so much confusion and guilt tied up in the whole business when people can’t fully separate the act of procreation and the act of mutually gaining pleasure. I can understand why some religions feel the need to stick their oar in and try and control what people can do in the name of fun and how they can do it. Carelessness can only lead to discord, but I’d still like to imagine that the people that compulsively want to have sex, y’know, adults, have at least an element of self control when it comes to wanting to merge aspects of their anatomy with each other to generate pleasurable friction. Of course, if that was the case, then things would be considerably more boring from my perspective. As a wise man once said, tragedy is when I stub my toe, comedy is when you fall into an open sewer and drown.
Of course there is also love, the desire for that deep and profound connection with another human being that can seem, if but for a moment, to justify all the pain and sorrows of our existence. Is sex the best way to find it? I can but wonder. It seems like the urge found thus is even more likely to be confused. Those ways we best obtain pleasure are not necessarily the ones best suited to those with whom we should reproduce, or with those whom we feel the deepest connection. Perhaps it is but folly to hope to find the satiation of these things simultaneously with but the one person. The woman you want to fuck may not be the one you want to raise your children, or share your deepest emotions with. Perhaps the man who pays women to sate his cravings is the wisest. He knows what he is getting, and tacitly accepts the limitations of the connection, immediately monetised as they are, just as the woman he is paying accepts that an inevitable part of her trade is listening to the filthy little secrets, the guilt, the truths that no man could ever bear to admit to the woman he hopes will still respect him in the morning, whereas with the whore he has nothing to lose. Her general disinterest in his life and his secrets is his greatest protection in that circumstance. Who better to be honest to, than someone who does not care what you are telling them? Of course, this has been known to backfire on many people. If you work for the secret service or military, then you really ought to have a bit of self control and not tell national secrets to random whores, but a whore that tells tales and names names when it comes to the individual predilections of her clients is violating a sacred trust greater even than that of a priest in his confessional.
Juliette hadn’t intended to become a prostitute, but then very few girls do set their hearts on the trade as little girls. It was just something that she found herself doing, initially justifying it as being an easy way to earn some extra cash, certainly easier than working in a shop, with fewer hours needed to earn more money, and less need to wear polyester polo shirts with corporate branding.
She had found the notice discretely hidden amongst the small ads in the back of the local paper. It said that women of all kinds were needed to work with a select clientele for very attractive pay. At first read it would have been almost possible to convince herself that the work being advertised was something legitimate, but as, with her heart beating fast and her blood pounding in her ears, she started to dial the listed phone number, she knew deep down what she was choosing to put herself forward for.
She had always been a shy girl by disposition, reluctant to express her own needs and desires to her lovers. It confused her at first how drawn she was to the idea of serving men sexually for money, but she couldn’t deny how much the idea appealed to her. It was as if in that moment she had first begun to sense what she had been unwilling to admit before. She had had a few lovers before, and was able to enjoy sex, but it had never seemed the phenomenal experience that she had expected it to be, from what she had heard of others. Maybe she just hadn't found the right man yet.
“Hello.” A female voice answered. She wasn’t sure if that made it easier.
“Hi... I saw an advert.”
“And?” the voice was stern, imperious even. Juliette could imagine being told to do things by that voice, and doing them without hesitation.
“I’m looking for work. I wanted to apply.”
“Do you understand what the work can entail?”
“I think so.”
“Does
that bother you?”
“I don’t think so.”
The woman told her Juliette to meet her at a cafe bar in the town that evening so that they could talk in more detail about the job. She recommended that Juliette make sure to dress nicely for the meeting. Juliette took the suggestion as the command that it really was and spent a long, nervous time selecting her wardrobe and doing her makeup. How did she want to present herself? It wasn’t like she had an array of stunning dresses to choose from. She settled on treating the meeting as if it were a romantic liaison with regard to her décolletage. She didn’t often go on dates, but she was experienced enough to be able to dress in a way that seemed to please men without being too outré.
Despite her best intentions, she was a little late for the meeting. Her nerves nearly failed her as she reached for the door of the cafe to open it. She wanted to flee and forget about this whole idea. Surely working in a shop wouldn’t be that bad? In the end, it was her desire to not disobey the woman she was to meet with that steeled her to open the door and enter the cafe. She crossed the threshold.
It was a dark and chic place, with the smell of rich coffee hanging thick in the air. She was glad that she had taken the time to present herself nicely for the setting, even if she would have looked very out of place had it turned out to be some run-down greasy spoon.
She looked around. There were a few people sat around talking in couples and small groups. She could only see one woman on her own. An older woman dressed in black who was watching her coffee intently as she stirred a spoonful of sugar into it. Juliette walked towards her.
"Hello. I'm Juliette."
She received the slightest hint of a smile in return.
"Please sit down."
"Thank you." Juliette sat down as gracefully as she could. The scrutiny of the other woman made her nervous. She was reluctant to look up and meet her gaze properly.
"I'm Melinda."
"How do you do?"
"You have questions, I trust?"
"No."
"None at all... not about money, or what the job is?"
Juliette blushed. Of course she had questions. She wasn't at all sure about any of it, but where could she begin?
"Perhaps you'd rather I tell you a little about it first."
"Yes, please."
Melinda told her. Juliette had found the courage to look at her, but now found it hard to focus on her words rather than the details of her form. She was a striking woman, middle-aged certainly, but exactly how old Juliette wasn't sure. She was dressed tastefully in black, and had dyed black hair and dark red lipstick and nail polish. Her silk blouse was open just enough that Juliette found herself looking into the gap, wondering if she might glimpse something. She had never been interested in other women sexually, but there was something very compelling about this woman to her. Her proximity stirred an urge in Juliette. She wanted to serve and obey her. The details seemed irrelevant.
By the end of their meeting, Juliette had agreed to come along for a shift two nights later. Melinda ran her business from a modest suburban house. It was purposefully low key, and visits without prior arrangement were strongly discouraged. Juliette gathered that Melinda had plenty of personal experience of the work that she now found herself managing and wondered if she still took an active role in it.
The living room of the house was used as a reception area for the guests. There were several comfortable settees and the lighting was kept low at all times. Visitors were brought in here until their choice of girl was available for them and they would be led upstairs to one of the four bedrooms. Most of the time the girls who weren't otherwise engaged tended to hang-out in the kitchen together and chat.
On her first shift, Melinda introduced Juliette to the two other girls that were working that night, Anna and Sofia. They were friendly enough but her's wasn't the first language for either of them and they seemed happier to maintain their conversation in their native tongue. Both seemed very much at ease in this environment, lounging around in a harshly lit kitchen, drinking tea and wearing dressing-gowns over the skimpy lingerie that was their default attire when working. Juliette was both nervous and fully dressed. Melinda hadn't specified what she should wear tonight and neither of the girls had said anything to her about it.
Usually, it was Melinda that answered the door to visitors and led them into the reception. If they had visited before and had already requested a specific girl, then Melinda would come for her in the kitchen, and leave the two of them to head upstairs. If it was a new client or a regular looking for a change, then the girls in the kitchen were summoned to the living room for him to choose.
Juliette had been sat in the kitchen for about half an hour when Melinda walked in and summoned them. The girls both took a hurried sip of their tea, then slipped off their dressing gowns, exposing ample amounts of soft, naked flesh and headed to the reception, pausing only for a brief glance in the mirror on the wall to check that everything was as it should be.
"Come on Juliette." Melinda encouraged her. Juliette smiled nervously and got up. She was still holding her coat and handbag. She was dressed attractively but demurely.
When Juliette entered the reception, she saw a man in a dark suit sat on one settee, reclining comfortably and looking thoroughly relaxed.
"Anna, Sofia, Juliette. All lovely girls." Melinda pointed to them each in turn.
"Yes. I can see that they are." He took his time looking them over, each in turn. Juliette wanted to hide when she saw him looking at her. She held her coat and bag tightly in front of her, trying to shield herself from him.
He gestured for Melinda to come closer, then leaned towards her to whisper something to her. She nodded and smiled thinly and he beamed. Melinda turned and indicated to Juliette.
"You can leave you coat and bag down here." Melinda pointed at the door leading to the kitchen.
"Absolutely not. They complete her assemblage delightfully." The man laughed. Melinda repeated her professional smile, masking her irritation. She pointed Juliette towards the stairs. Juliette nodded and walked over to them. The man drew himself up from the settee and followed her up the stairs. She opened the door of the first bedroom and walked inside. As with all the rooms, it was kept prepared and dimly lit at all times. She put her coat and bag down on a chair and turned to face the man.
"I'm supposed to take the money now..." she began uncertainly. That much at least she remembered from what Melinda had told her.
"Of course. How much?" The man smiled broadly and drew his wallet out from his jacket pocket.
"I..." she wasn't sure. Of course Melinda had told her but she couldn't remember.
"It's okay. I made arrangements with the lady downstairs." He held a folded cluster of currency towards her. She took it and turned to leave the room, then stopped and reached for her bag.
"Don't worry. Your things will be safe here."
"She went back downstairs to give Melinda the money. When she re-entered the bedroom, he was sat on the edge of the bed. He had removed his jacket and tie and placed them neatly on the chair next to her things.
"How should we start?" She asked. She wasn't sure what to do.
"Turn around, let me look at you."
She did so, her gaze aimed at her feet.
"Such a pretty dress, such a pretty girl. Much better than those other sluts."
"He told her to bend over and rest her palms on the foot of the bed, then walked around behind her, delicately lifting the bottom of her dress with his fingers, then raising it to reveal the pale globes of her bottom, bisected by the lacy fabric of her underwear. The first sharp impact of his hand against her soft skin shocked her and she cried out, but he hushed her, his fingers stroking her cheek lightly and tangling in her hair. The second impact was sharper and made her jolt forwards. The idea of telling him to stop didn't even enter her mind.
Until that night, she had never realised that she could become so aroused from being spanked, or that the feel of her
nipples being gripped and twisted sharply could send such delicious shivers through her. He appeared to gain most of his pleasure vicariously through inflicting sensation upon her. Was she even supposed to enjoy what was happening like this?
He did fuck her, but it was almost incidental against the backdrop of feelings that he exposed her to. He came with a series of grunts and moans and he could feel his cock twitching and writing inside her as his cum jetted against the latex confines of the condom he wore. He left her gasping breathlessly on the bed, her dress pulled high up above her waist and her underwear discarded in a ball on the floor. She felt sore, but wonderfully so and spent a few minutes massaging her tender flesh to greater delights before she rearranged her clothes and returned to the kitchen.
