'Mmm, thanks very much, Lincoln,' purred Kitty and Kat, taking a breather on the exercise mats, sated and satisfied in every possible way.
'Please!' he wailed, trying to direct their eyes to his poor untended cock while he lay in bondage on the weight bench. 'You can't leave me like this. I need to come so bad, babes.'
'Put him out of his misery, Kitty,' said Kat. Kitty looked a little stunned for a second, then she giggled when Kat handed her the crumpled sweatband. She hopped up and stuffed it back in Lincoln's dry, pussy-flavoured mouth. 'Shower?'
The two women headed for Lincoln's former favourite seduction bunker, laughing all the way.
Apparently, it was Chase who found him there. Kat messaged him, so Lincoln faced the unutterable nightmare of being found, ankles and wrists bound, mouth gagged and redolent of cunnilingus, cock at full mast, by the hotel manager. I thought Kat went a little too far there, but it certainly seemed to have an effect. For about half a day, he raged about going to the tabloids, but they made it up to him that evening with champagne, muffins and the kind of threesome he had had in mind, and eventually he conceded that he ought to start treating women with a bit more respect.
So it's a new improved Lincoln we lust after in the gym these days. A humble and mannerly Lincoln, a considerate and gracious Lincoln. He still seduces girls, but he's nice to them the next day too. And until he settles down – which is more of a possibility than it ever was before – he has a guaranteed ménage-à-trois every time Kitty and Kat are in town.
The Manager #3 (Chasing Chase)
There are no photographs on his desk.
I never have to transfer non-business calls to him.
He has never asked me to pop out in my lunch hour and buy flowers or chocolates. He has never asked me to cover for him in any way.
To all intents and purposes, Chase appears to be a man with no private life. His public persona is who he is - the urbane, efficient, diplomatic and charismatic manager of the Hotel Luxe Noir. Sometimes I try a bit of fishing. I might ask him about his annual week of holiday - the only leave he takes. He will tell me where he is going, but never with whom, if anyone. I offer to book flights, but he always has everything in hand. He is a man who has everything in hand; that is who he is. That is what I like about him.
When he works late, late hours, I sometimes wonder aloud if his dinner will be burnt. He smiles politely and doubts it.
Further canvassing of staff opinion confirms that not one of us knows a thing about him beyond his managerial capabilities. We know he has rooms in the hotel, but we don't know where they are - any crisis is referred to him via the Reception Desk, and he arrives at the scene minutes later, as elegantly groomed as ever regardless of the hour. I have tried to locate his suite, but it is difficult to follow Chase without him realising it. He has a sixth sense and eyes in the back of his head. He is a phenomenon. He is the sexiest phenomenon in the world.
I wrestle with his utter enigma until I can no longer stand it. I have to know something about this man who pays me and directs me and engages me and obsesses me, beyond what brand of suit he favours and whether he prefers sushi to sashimi for a working lunch. I decide that a touch of espionage is in order. And when better to start than the mysterious monthly Wednesday assignation he never fails to attend.
Is it a dangerous liaison? A twelve-step programme of some kind? Access visits to a child? My brain works double-overtime; it is clear that, unless I find out, I will end up in some obscure retreat for the terminally lovelorn. Half of me is hoping I will uncover something that will prove his inaccessibility to me – a gay lover, a crack habit, membership of a terrorist cell. The other half rather fervently hopes not. I want it to end, but I never want it to end. Oh, my head hurts.
Jade is already at my station behind the desk when he leaves the building. He gives us a glance of reproof, assuming that we are wasting time with idle gossip, then his tall, impeccably dressed frame disappears through the revolving glass.
'OK then,' whispers Jade complicitly. I have told her that I am going to a secret audition for The X Factor. That girl will believe any old rhubarb. I wink at her and race across the shining tiles in my only pair of flat-soled shoes, primed for pursuit. Through the glass I can see him on the pavement, frowning at an iron-grey sky before putting up an umbrella. Oh! He means to walk. I banish exciting 'follow that cab' scenarios from my disappointed imagination and wait until he has set off towards the park gates at the end of the street before slipping out in his wake.
The pavement is helpfully crowded, although it is still easy to make out the back of Chase's perfectly groomed head as he cuts a swathe through the masses. His stride is swift and long-legged, and I have to half-jog to keep him in sight, weaving between charity muggers and school groups until I make it to the park.
Will he meet someone here? Is it that simple? Will he take a girl out on the lake in a pedalo? Or is it more of a behind-the-bushes affair?
Neither, it seems, for he skirts the neat flowerbeds and fountains until he has reached the opposite side, whose exit feeds directly into the seedy fleshpots of town.
It is raining steadily by the time I leave the innocent freshness of the park and head into the narrow neon-lit streets. The lowering sky makes the green and red fluoresce all the brighter, reflected in the puddles on the uneven tarmac. I splash a foot in a backwards-flickering 'GIRLS! GIRLS! GIRLS!', wishing I had a little leisure time to inspect more thoroughly the dark doorways and blanked-out shop windows of this district.
Chase seems, for a panicky moment, to have disappeared, before I too happen on the tiny alleyway he has turned into. On the corner, a loud and bustling café in the style of a 1950s American diner stands invitingly, but beyond it things get substantially murkier. The first doorway leads into a tiny, cobwebby shop packed with dog-eared paperbacks. The display in the grimy window is of titles like Lord Fotherington's Folly and Lashes for Lucinda. The kind of thing I would read myself, lent a sinister air by the setting. The second doorway frames a surly-looking girl in fishnets and some kind of dress made from shiny plasticky stuff. She snaps her chewing gum as I go past and prods the door jamb with one enormous platform sole. The buzzing sign above the third doorway promises a burlesque show. Or rather, a buleque shw, since three of the letters fail to light.
None of these doorways are Chase's final destination. No, he leaves the alleyway, passes the back of a terrace of buildings, finally finding the one he wants, and ascends a rickety fire escape to the top floor. I stand in the shadows, watch him knock, watch him being admitted – without seeing who did it – and watch the door close behind him. The prospect of climbing the fire escape myself and possibly being caught peeking on it and thence tossed to my death does not really appeal. Instead, I try to find a way to the front of the building, to see if there is an alternative entrance.
It takes a while, but I soon find myself staring up at the façades of the line of long, lean five-storey buildings. A hostel, a sex shop, a jazz bar, another hostel and . . . this was the one. A peep show. Oh, God, I can't go in there. Can I?
Presumably Chase is not actually here for the peep show, but it seems a fairly safe bet that the rest of the building is in use as a brothel. I feel a little sick. My antics in the hotel bar are one thing, but who knows whether the girls walled up inside this gloomy tenement have any say in who they fuck or how they do it. Do they cater to a specialist taste? I do not want to even think about this.
Can I just turn and leave and never know? Can I sit at the Reception Desk every fourth Wednesday afternoon for evermore, wondering where he is, what or whom he is doing? No. I can't. There is nothing for it.
A narrow corridor, fustily decorated in ancient textured wallpaper, leads to a blank-eyed tattooed man, sitting at a table with a cash register on it.
'You here about the job, love?' he asks, obviously thinking I'm a little smartly dressed for a peep show.
That's an in. I'm here about the job. Presumably I'll be taken
somewhere, to talk to somebody. Maybe I can ask to use the loo and find a way to sneak upstairs to the top floor. Maybe I'll find out that Chase is into dungeon sex. Maybe I'll be knifed by a gang boss. What the fuck am I doing?
'Yes,' I say. 'I am.'
The man shifts himself reluctantly, leading me around a corner, where a row of booths are found. The pungent smell of stale semen and sweat hangs over the place. Three of the five booths are occupied and we walk past the overcoated backs of the peepers, most of whom seem rather elderly. I suppose this might be a dying 'art form' – the young men all go to Spearmint Rhino now.
'We'll wait until Sonia there has finished her set, and then you can show us what you can do,' the man tells me, to my barely concealed horror. 'What? Did you think you were going to have a formal interview?' He laughs. 'This is an audition, love. Under Job Description, it says, ''Being sexy, so that the punters jack off and come back for more''. You don't need no business qualifications for this game, sweetheart.' He laughs again, uproariously, and I pretend to join in.
'I know that!' I lie.
'Good. Get your kit off then, and put this on instead.'
He flings a hideous skimpy gold lamé minidress with matching thong at me and shuts me in a cupboard to change. It occurs to me that I may well not be the first girl to wear the knickers, and I decide against putting them on. Am I really going to go through with this? Can't I tell the man it's a mistake, that I got the wrong address? I work at calming down and gathering my thoughts. It's not that bad. Dancing around in next to nothing for five or ten minutes. I've done it for lovers; why not for strangers? Anyway, I can ask to use the loo before I go on and escape upstairs. Or should I wait until after the show? I probably should wait; he won't care what I'm doing or how long I take once I've performed.
OK. Deep breath. I unbutton my blouse, unzip my skirt, unfasten my suspender clips and get naked in the cupboard, which has a bare light bulb, a flyblown mirror and a faded pink velvet vanity stool in the way of furnishings. I fold my clothes neatly on the stool and struggle into the ugly gold dress. It has a halter neck and the top half barely covers my tits – just two diagonal lengths of fabric that skim my nipples and then meet around a large metal ring which is all my midriff gets in the way of cladding. A tiny stretchy skirt, skimming the cheeks of my bottom, makes up the rest of the outfit. Just as well I had a wax this morning; a less than impeccable bikini-line would be blatantly evident in this outfit. I frown at my legs – summer's tan is long gone and I could use a can of spray-on, but I will have to do. A horrid pair of knackered gold high heels, like something you'd find in a child's dressing-up box, completes the outfit. One of the heels needs mending, so I have to practise walking around the cramped space before I emerge.
'Very nice.' The tattooed man leers, his eyes zeroing in on my breasts. I would disagree, but there seems little point. 'Give us a twirl then.'
I rotate a slow three-sixty, worrying that the hemline will give him a flash of my snatch, but I'm not sure why that would worry me. Where has that shred of modesty come from? I have to abandon it in the next few seconds when he says, 'Bend over.' There is no way I can do that without exposing my privates. I lean forwards, my arms hanging down to my ankles, feeling the skirt ride up the cheeks of my bum, above the point where my shaved lips and vulva will be visible. He takes his time, gets a good long look, then growls, 'Oh yes. That'll do. Stand up then.'
'Do I keep the dress on?' I ask him, trying to be as casual and businesslike as possible.
'Depends. We give each punter a notebook and pen. They get to put their requests up in the booth windows. You just do what they ask.'
'Everything they ask?'
'Yeah, unless it involves something dangerous or illegal. You'll get the odd chancer who will ask if you can let him in the room, or meet him outside for a blow job, but you just ignore those. It's usually standard stuff. Bend over, spread your legs, feel your tits up, type of thing.' He shrugs, as if he has just recited a mundane shopping list. 'Ten minutes, and, if everyone's happy, you get a short break before the next lot. If someone hasn't come yet, he might pay for another five minutes. You'll be told if that happens.'
I swallow. 'Right.' Suddenly, I am weirdly turned on by the whole idea. I've decided to ignore their faces and pretend they are all hot men. Chase and a group of his friends. That's the way to get through this.
The door to the peep show room clicks open and a girl wearing nipple tassels, chain-mail bikini briefs and a fuchsia feather boa ambles out, yawning.
'All right, Sonia? This is Sophie. We're trying her out. You can take a half-hour break if you want.'
'Good, these tassels pinch like bastards,' she remarks, sidling into the cupboard-room without so much as a glance in my direction.
'Right, you'd better get in there. I'll go and take the money. You start when you hear the music. Yeah?'
'Fine,' I say briskly, then I totter into the peep show room. It is a long rectangular box, wallpapered in black, with black rubber tiles on the floor. Along one wall are five perspex letterbox windows, narrow enough that I won't have to see the punters' faces, but wide enough to place a readable message against. One armless chair rests in a corner, but other than that, there is no furniture. I go and sit on the chair until it is time to do my 'act', staring up at the spotlights on the ceiling, which are red.
I'm a sex worker, I think to myself. After years of being a sex player, now I'm finally a sex worker. I'm getting paid to be lewd. He hasn't told me what the remuneration is, I realise. What is the going rate for this kind of thing? And where is Chase? What is he doing right now? Is he buggering some young man, dressed in a corset and high heels? Is a tweedy lady whipping his bum with a riding crop?
My speculation is interrupted by some saxophony elevator music crackling through the ancient wall-mounted speakers. Five sets of eyes gleam at me from the wall. I rise to my wobbly feet and begin to gyrate slowly, wiggling my hips, rubbing a hand up and down one thigh, licking my lips. That's sexy, isn't it? I'm not sure. Within a couple of minutes, I spot a message, in fluorescent felt tip, at window number three. 'I want to see your nips,' it says.
It is almost a pleasure to push aside the scratchy gold cloth and expose the throbbing nubs. I take my spindly heels over to window three and thrust my nipples towards him, holding my heavy tits upright with my hands. It is Chase, and when I finish dancing, he will lick them and suck them until they are like shiny wet cherries. But first there is a request in window number four to attend to.
'BEND OVER AND WIGGLE YOUR ARSE.' Capital letters, so he must be serious. Picturing Chase's pupils in a state of dilation behind his desk, I turn my back to the window and reach down again for my ankles, feeling the rough hemline move up above the spot where bottom meets thigh. I shake my hips, feeling my rear cheeks jiggle, then I stroke my hands up from the backs of my knees to my lower bottom, rubbing the rotating globes provocatively. Is that enough? I straighten up again and see two more messages at each side of the booth.
'Pinch your nipples,' says the first, while the other reads, 'Lift up your skirt.' I can do these simultaneously, I decide, so one hand hikes the cheap rag up, up to the top of my thighs so that my smooth mons peeks out while the other pinches and tweaks my nipples.
Three out of five windows now carry variations on the instruction 'Frig yourself.' One of the others goes for the more controversial 'Fuck yourself with a shoe.' I go with the popular vote and fetch the chair from the corner before sitting widely astride it, skirt around my waist and thighs splayed. I pretend to ride it like a horse along to the rhythm for a while, then I press my fingertips into the soft pink flesh. I am playing with myself at Chase's suggestion; he wants to watch me make myself come so that he knows the way I like it. As I push a finger into the yielding slot, he is crouching between my legs, watching with a frown of concentration.
Are you tight there, Sophie? Do you ever use a vibrator? Should I touch your clit while I'm fucking you?
His ghost ques
tions urge me on so that I begin to buck hard on the chair, its front legs lifting every now and then. The paper messages have ceased; all five of my voyeurs appear to be transfixed by my performance, until window number two warns me 'U'd better not be fakin it girl.' I shut my eyes, shut them out, lock Chase in. It is his fingers now, not mine, probing singly and then doubly and then triply in my warm slickness. His thumbs keep my lips well spread and his tongue bathes my clitoris.
On Demand Page 17
