'Oh, oh, oh.' I lean forward, doubling over, brushing my knees with my hard nipples, bunching my fist against my clit, spearing my cunt, biting my lip, screwing my face, which is Chase's face, above me now while he swarms over my body and only when I start to come do I remember . . . where I am.
I tip my head down and rest it on my thighs, not daring to look up, wanting to just sit here until they go away. Eventually the music clicks off and the door opens. I look up sharply to see tattooed man grinning at me.
'You nearly caused a riot, love,' he says. 'Sensational. Job's yours. In fact, if you want to earn a bit extra, I could set you up upstairs as a cam girl.'
Blearily, I remember what I am here for.
'You keep cam girls upstairs?' Is this what Chase is here for? Somehow I can't make that connection.
'Yeah, a few. They work shifts, four hours at a stretch. It's easy work – just sit on a bed feeling yourself up with a few toys. What do you reckon?'
I shake my head weakly. 'Can I use the lav?'
'Course. You aren't up for it then? Cos you seemed really . . . you know, to really get into your work there.' He leers. 'I thought you'd jump at the chance to show yourself off to thousands of men at a time. That seems to be up your street, love. Isn't it?'
I look at him through tired eyes, tits out, legs still spread, thighs sticky. It's hardly surprising he would make that assumption, and on another day he'd probably be right. But I need to poke around upstairs, now, quickly, before Chase leaves.
'Can I get back to you? And seriously, I need to clean myself up. Please?'
'Sorry. Course you do. It's up the back stairs, first door on the landing.'
I dash up to the loo, readjusting the horrible dress quickly and giving myself a splash of water over my face and between my legs, then I tiptoe up the rest of the staircase. At the fourth floor, something captures my attention through the grimy sash window. It is Chase, clattering down the fire escape. Damn, he is leaving already. I press myself to the wall, wondering if it is worth knocking on any of these blank white doors to investigate. Suddenly one of them opens. A very large, very burly man with a moustache looks me up and down in my gold frock from hell.
'Hey. You come about the job?' he says, but this time I have no desire to broaden my experience of what goes on behind the closed doors of the red-light district. I shake my head. 'Sorry, got lost,' I mumble, and hare back down the stairs to the cupboard where my work clothes are stashed.
'Thanks, I've changed my mind,' I shout hurriedly at the tattooed man, loping through the narrow corridor to daylight, or what passes for it around here.
He half-stands, makes to give chase, then grunts and has sat back down by the time I emerge into the dirty grey streets of the rainy city.
'You're wet, Sophie,' notes Chase, coming out of his office half an hour later. 'Why is that?'
'Had to dash out . . . guest wanted . . . something.' My fabrication skills need honing.
He looms over me from behind and with an impatient hand brushes some of the water that has dripped from the ends of my hair on to the Visitors Book. I watch the blue ink blur. It looks like tears.
'Go to the Ladies' and dry yourself off,' he says, one hand on my damp shoulder, which twitches under his palm. 'And next time you take a prolonged unscheduled desk break, it will be going on your record. Do you understand me?'
Oh, how I wish I did. I look up at him, meaning to apologise, but the combination of wrath and wistful regret in his face silences me.
He lifts his hand and I find the nearest drier. I will pin him down yet.
Staff Training
'Yes, yes, yes!' I put down the phone and tap in the booking with a celebratory flourish. My favourite trade fair of the year, back again for its annual jamboree.
Pleasurama. The name says it all.
For three days, representatives of every flavour of sex shop and erotic outlet, from dingy downtown dives with blacked-out windows to the new breed of female-friendly upmarket fuck boutiques, will descend on the Luxe Noir, with their briefcases full of crotchless lace and silk-lined leather, poppers and crops, collars and cuffs, tethers and feathers.
I have made some splendid purchases at discount prices in the past. The lubricant that smells uncannily like Old Spice. The brown leather arm cuffs linked by a brass chain. The cupless corset, bejewelled and constricting. The vibrator in the shape of a reverse S. The tickly pink feather thing. The satin blindfold. I could go on . . .
I have saved a bit of money this year and I intend to treat myself to something from the top of the range. But how shall I choose? I shall employ the same shopping methods as I always do, of course. I shall try before I buy.
From Reception I can hear a hum of activity in the Exhibition Hall. The fair has been open for an hour, and I have been measurelessly entertained by the constant stream of interesting characters to-ing and fro-ing through the lobby. Alien-looking models in glitter body paint, leopard bikinis and not much else stroll over to the trestle table by the door and pin on their admission badges, followed by a bona fide member of the Dirty Mac Brigade and a chubby lass in head-to-toe black PVC.
Chase materialises at the back of Reception. 'You can go now, Sophie,' he tells me, looking over at the Hall. 'Don't let anyone buy you.'
I turn around and grin from ear to ear. 'They couldn't afford me; don't worry.'
I get the ghost of a flicker of a twitch of a lip in return – a major concession from Chase. It is enough to warm my cockles on the way over to the Exhibition Hall.
'Name?' asks the clipboard-wielder.
'Sophie Martin.' I look over his shoulder at the list. 'Look, there I am. Demonstration model for the Sweet As Sin boutique.'
'Right you are.' He pins the badge to my lapel, hands me a map of the stall layout and waves me through.
Sweet As Sin occupies a corner plot, in keeping with its high-tone luxury brand identity. Chintzy Victorian curtains swathe the stall; on closer inspection it becomes clear that the swirly patterns are actually tiny pornographic images gleaned from ye olde smut such as The Pearl. Inside, old-fashioned mannequin busts sport corsets and basques, while sex toys that could double as exotic ornaments, formed of crystal, jade and obsidian, line the shelves.
I am inspecting a range of clear glass dildoes when Lura appears from the back of the shop, dressed in an antique black velvet riding habit, complete with veiled titfer.
'Sophie,' she exclaims in that cracked voice, so suggestive of perfumed cigarettes smoked in ornamental holders. She kisses both my cheeks and stands back, her sharp black eyes assessing how best she can use me in her display. 'You're looking stunning as ever, darling,' she says theatrically.
'I'm just admiring some of your new products,' I tell her. 'There's an awful lot for my wish list here.'
'Oh, yes, we have some fabulous new designers this year. You are in for a treat. Now, I think I have the very thing to dress you up in, to begin with. Come backstage and I'll prepare you.'
Behind the stall, away from the prying eyes to which I will soon be exposed, lies a mountain of frills, ribbons and laces. Lura begins picking up and discarding items, explaining her vision for me as she sifts. 'I am going to turn you into a present. An exquisite gift, to be unwrapped and unpackaged. At three, I have scheduled an auction. The highest bidder in each round gets to unwrap a layer. Each of the winners will be invited to a private demonstration of some of our newer models. We earn a little revenue and hopefully make some sales. I know you are not shy, Sophie – do you think you can help me with this?'
'Do you think it'll draw a crowd?' I ask, thrilling at the idea of performing such an intimate show for a throng of avid strangers. It will be like a safe, regulated, classier version of my peep show experience.
'I hope so.' Lura smiles coldly. 'But why are you still dressed, Sophie? Off with your clothes, dear.'
The skirt, shirt, jacket and pedestrian underwear are soon neatly folded on a chair, while I stand naked in front of my doyenn
e of the lascivious. She trails a burgundy nail down my torso, weighs my breasts and checks that I am fully waxed, even spreading my buttocks in her exploratory zeal.
'You are always so well groomed, Sophie,' she approves, turning me back round to face her. She takes a pot of some heavenly perfumed unguent and begins to smear it indiscriminately and heavily until my entire body shimmers with a pearlescent sheen, missing no crevice or crease, from the hollows behind my ears to the arches of my feet. I am placed on a chair, legs akimbo, to have rouge rubbed into my nipples and labia, then the same rouge is applied to my lips and cheeks, part of a whorish mask of maquillage.
Coverage achieved, I twirl for Lura's verdict in my lewd base coat.
'I wish you were mine,' she says.
Twenty minutes later I am standing on the small stage at the front of Sweet As Sin, strapped into high heels and wrapped in a floor-length diaphanous black robe. Over the PA system, Lura announces the imminent start of the auction and the trickle of passers-by is augmented, minute by minute, until it reaches flood proportions. A sea of faces, eager, upturned, bearded, lipsticked, pink-haired, peroxided, and all with their eyes pointing at me. Amongst the crowd I spot a friendly face – Neil, the chief buyer for the Desirez chain. Not my sex emporium of choice, being a bit on the utilitarian side, but Neil is always happy to throw a free demonstration model my way in return for a . . . free demonstration.
He winks at me and I crack my kabuki mask of foundation in return, and then Lura is up in front of the crowd, slashing her antique riding crop through the air to establish order.
'Ladies and gentlemen,' she opens. 'Welcome to Sweet As Sin.' She yarns on for a while about their market positioning and appeal to the connoisseur before explaining the way the auction will work. All at once, those eyes grow greedy; tongues emerge and lick nervous lips; some of the men finger their collars, unbuttoning, while the women frown at their handbills. Many of the mouths broaden into salacious grins and a few fingers from the front brush against the hem of my robe.
I give them a twirl, leaving them to imagine what might lie beneath, and then the bidding begins. At first it is desultory, the audience still a little bemused by Lura's plan, but then Neil and another gentleman enter into a bidding competition, which Neil eventually wins. He steps forward, grins down at me, and pulls the ribbon tie of my robe, which whispers down to my stilettoed feet.
There are gasps from the crowd, who take in my jet-beaded corset and tiny frilled skirt, under which my knickers are tantalisingly almost visible. The suspender straps emerge beneath the pleats, snapped on to the sheerest of silken stockings. From my wrists to my elbows run gauntlets of exquisitely tooled soft black leather, cut out to form latticework patterns. A single silver ring glints from the wrist of each, hinting at possibilities of erotic restraint. Around my neck is a matching collar.
Neil whistles and takes a seat at the end of a line beside the stage – winners' row, as Lura calls it. He will be the first member of the audience for my private show.
The auction continues apace. The next winner removes my skirt, revealing sheer black knickers with an extravagant ribbon bow at the back. Now my thighs are bare and Lura makes me stand with one foot on a stepstool so that prying eyes can zoom into the region between my legs, X-raying through the black mesh to glimpse the outline of my pussy lips. A woman is next, very tall, one of the other models, and she relieves me of my corset with relish, whipping it away so that I am left in a quarter-cup bra with sparkling pastes on my nipples. The model seems fascinated by my fuller breasts and she reaches to touch them, but Lura almost slaps her hand away. 'Look,' she admonishes, 'but don't touch. Not yet.' She smiles complicity; the model understands and retires to winners' row. The bidding is rapid and frantic now, handbills waving in the air, the shouts almost drowning out Lura's commentary on the underwear.
My bra is removed and then it is time for the coup de grâce – the shedding of the knickers. I am made to turn my back for this last round, so I do not see who wins. I can only wait for them to mount the stage and then pull, gently but firmly, on the ribbon that furls and flounces over the curves of my bottom. Once undone, the fabric slips away, falling over my nude rear cheeks and floating slowly down to the floor. Now I am naked but for the collar, gauntlets, stockings, suspenders and heels. All my hidden parts are on display, while the clothing that remains accentuates my nudity, reminding me that I am simply female livestock, to be gawped and leered at, to be desired and lusted after.
'Bend over, Sophie,' orders Lura. The crowd clap and cheer when I grab my ankles; I can see them, upside-down but quite distinctly, swarming closer to get a really good look at my open lips and spread buttocks. 'Is she wet?' one of them asks another. 'Can you see?'
'I think so. Damn, I wish I'd brought more cash now. Ah well. It was a good show.'
I straighten again and present my front perspective to their view; they nod and grin at my Brazilian, while a few girls begin to argue over their preferred intimate topiary styles. Lura thanks them all for their interest and hands out catalogues, which is their signal to drift away. The five denizens of winners' row – four men and a woman – are shepherded backstage, to the same black-draped corner I used for my transformation from desk girl to fucktoy.
Lura seats me on a red-plush armchair while the winners sit in a semicircle facing me.
'I have some lovely new toys to demonstrate today, and I hope my lucky winners will be able to help me with the show,' she says, smiling. She lays a large case out on a low table between me and the audience and opens it up. 'Take a good look at what is inside,' she invites. 'Choose your favourites and then, when we are ready, you can try them out on Sophie here. Please don't be shy to do whatever you wish to her. I am paying Sophie to do as she is told, and she will get to choose and keep her own favourites after the show. For the next hour, no part of Sophie is off-limits – you may use her tits, her pussy, her arse, exactly as you please.' They look sidelong at me, curious and ravenous at once. Furiously flushed, I stare down at the lacy tops of my stockings, drinking in the shame and transfiguring it to a strong gush of need between my thighs. 'But of course,' Lura finishes, wagging a bony finger, 'you may only use the products. No flesh is to meet flesh, please. This is a high-class establishment, not a brothel, and Sophie is here to demonstrate, not to service you.'
'Not yet,' mutters Neil and I aim a killer glare at him. He winks back at me, then the group bow their heads over the suitcase, picking things up and inspecting them, sometimes looking over at me as if speculating on the effect they might have on me.
I see long columns of smooth metal, precious mineral rings, acres of discreetly hued silicone, pots and bottles and horsehair and silk.
'Has everybody chosen?' asks Lura. 'Who would like to begin?'
The female model steps forward, holding up a glass vial. 'I'd like to try some of this on her,' she says. 'I've heard good things about it.'
'Be my guest.' Lura nods and the model smiles widely at me, opens her vial and dabs the stopper on my temples, then she peels off the sparkling pastes and treats my nipples. There is a moment of sting and a dizzying aphrodisiac aroma once my skin absorbs the contents. I take a deep breath, noticing how my nipples are an even darker red now, throbbing lightly and begging to be touched.
'How does that feel, Sophie?' asks the model.
'It's . . . heightening my senses . . . and it smells gorgeous,' I say, gasping as she grabs hold of a calf, hoiks it over the velvet arm of the chair and then glides the stopper along my labia majora, once, twice, three times, until the potency and intensity of it have caused my clit to expand and emerge from its hood. I see all eyes upon it, eyebrows raised, chins stroked. I think some sales may have been made, but I am too unfocused and needful of more touch to think of much else. I wriggle my bare bottom against the plushy pile and bring my hands up to my nipples, which seem to explode into spangles, oh, God, it's almost enough to make me come already. How long have I been here? Five minutes? I signed up f
or an hour.
On Demand Page 18
