I choose an oyster shade for the basque and thong, having read somewhere that men find this ‘classy’ as opposed to the more obvious red and black stuff. But then, if he is paying for a whore, will he not expect me to dress like one?
I put back the oyster silk and bring out a truly tacky basque with scarlet satin and cheap black PVC panels. The matching knickers are crotchless, shiny and black, with a garishly red strip of lace running along the top. I snap some seamed stockings to the suspenders and pose, hands on hips, looking like a two-bit hooker, not that I understand what ‘two-bit’ means. To which two bits does the phrase refer? If it’s T&A, then I am giving plenty of that. I twirl, impressed by the amount of flesh I flash, surprised as always at how much more naked than actual nudity really bawdy underwear makes you look.
Over this I don the aforementioned pencil skirt with crisp white shirt, pearls and three-inch-heeled black patent pumps. I twist my hair into a chignon and reapply my make-up so it is a little less subtle, the lips redder, the cheeks glowier, the eyelashes thicker and blacker.
Pouting in the mirror, I suddenly realise that I am going to be wining and dining with my purchaser in full view of my staff. While many of them know me of old, and remember the days when I used the hotel bar as my own personal pick-up joint, this is still a strangely squirm-inducing thought.
I have the feeling Lloyd will be partaking of an early evening libation in the cocktail bar, and I am right. As I swan in on my spike heels, I spot him in a corner with two off-duty waiters, drinking bottled beer and playing games on their phones.
I avoid eye contact and instead scan the bar, looking for likely woman-buyers. Almost immediately a man in a dark-blue suit rises from his barstool and nods at me. I walk towards him, taking in the swept back dark hair with its scattering of silver, the expensive tan, the watchful eyes. Between forty and fifty in age, well upwards of 100K in salary.
‘Sophie?’ He puts out a hand.
‘You must be Conrad.’
We shake, like colleagues, business partners. Essentially, that’s what we are. I try to view it as an equal relationship, but his next words undo my optimistic imaginings.
‘Not bad,’ he says, and those two words are like a deluge of cold, dirty water. Not bad? ‘The picture was quite accurate for once.’
‘Good.’
‘I’ll get you a drink, but I know you girls like your money upfront, so let’s get that out of the way first.’
Somewhat to my alarm, he reaches into an inside pocket and pulls out an enormous wad of twenty-pound notes tied up with an elastic band.
‘Oh God! Couldn’t you have paid with a credit card?’
He stares, then sneers. ‘Give my details to your pimp? I think not. Here.’
He hands me the money. I make to put it in my handbag, but he waves his hand and stops me.
‘No, no, Sophie. You’re new to this, aren’t you? You count it. Make sure I’m not trying to fleece you. Here, come and sit at the bar to do your adding up and I’ll get you a drink. What do you want?’
‘Mineral water.’ I snap off the elastic band and begin riffling through the notes. The barman is watching me from the corner of his eye. I shoot him an evil glare and he goes back to filling the glass washer. ‘It’s all there. Thanks.’
Again I reach for my bag, and again I am stopped, this time by Conrad’s hand on my elbow.
‘No. I have something I like my girls to do with that.’
My girls. I am one of many, a disposable cunt. I feel a little wet, perversely relishing the exquisite humiliation of my situation.
‘With the money?’
‘Yes. I want you to go to the ladies’ room and stuff it into your underwear. Bra, knickers, stocking tops – I want them filled with notes. Go on then.’
I am mute for a moment, considering his outlandish request, but something about it appeals to me and I obey without question.
In the stall, I put the lid down on the toilet, fearful of flushing away a considerable sum, unbutton my shirt, take five twenties and arrange them, fan-shaped, in the left cup of my basque. The paper corners catch on my nipple, the notes being new and crisp, as if fresh from the mint. Was it good manners on his part to give me unused notes to put next to my most intimate areas? Perhaps I should take it as an act of consideration. Another hundred adorns my right breast. Five more to dispose of.
A circle of queens peer over the top of my left stocking top, while I reverse the notes on the right side and give five Michael Faradays a view of my skirt lining. The stripperish look this gives me is somehow satisfying.
I still have three hundred pounds to distribute. They will have to go in my knickers. That is what the money is going on, ultimately, after all.
I put five notes in the front elastic, the dry paper crackling over my shaved pubic triangle. The penultimate hundred flaps over my buttocks, the central twenty creasing into the crack of my arse.
There is only one fitting destination for the final hundred. I weave it inside the gaping PVC split, creating a kind of DIY money gusset. I will have to make sure none of it works its way back out and falls between my feet, but the initial feeling is that the notes are secure, covering my pussy lips like prissy purple guardians of my virtue. I think this will please Conrad, and I know it will enhance the effect he wants – of my never, for one minute, being able to forget that he has bought me.
Between the front, back and bottom nests of money inside my knickers, my entire sex is papered with filthy lucre. Now I feel like a whore.
While the room is still empty, I emerge from the stall, walking carefully, rustling with each step, tiny prickly darts from the bill corners piercing my skin every time I move. I feel the notes inside my knickers shift, rubbing against my labia and my clit, while my nipples grow harder, pushing against the sharp edges.
The door bangs open and I hurriedly make a show of washing my hands, bending low over the sink, trying hard not to look turned on.
When the new arrival disappears into a stall, I put back my shoulders and prepare for my return to the bar.
Conrad watches me walk over, approving of my extra-careful sashay. If my thighs get too close, the notes rub together and threaten to pull each other out of their stocking-top cradle. I mustn’t hold them too far apart, though, because that will threaten the delicate set-up in the crotchless part of my knickers. As for my breasts, their purple-stamped covering almost shows through the light silk of my shirt.
With a leafy shushing sound, I mount my bar stool, sitting down squarely on a couple of hundred quid.
Conrad smiles. ‘Where did you put it?’
‘Two hundred in my bra. Two hundred in my stockings. The rest in my knickers.’
‘Nice. How does it feel?’
‘Stiff, papery, dry. The corners are a little bit sharp.’
‘Good. What about the money in your knickers? Do you have any inside, or is it all around the waistband?’
‘Mostly around the waistband.’ I pause. ‘A hundred interleaved around the crotch. Because my knickers don’t have one.’
He raises his eyebrows. When he speaks, his voice is very low. ‘You’re wearing crotchless panties?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Why did you choose those?’
‘They seemed appropriate.’
‘Why? I’m paying for an escort, Sophie. For the company of an attractive woman. You seem to imply that I’m paying you for sex. If that’s what you think, why don’t you work in a brothel?’
‘What do you think this place is?’ But I feel deflated even as I make the wisecrack. He is playing mind games with me, determined to make me feel as trashy and low as possible.
‘Maybe, Sophie, I should swap you for a sophisticated lady. I’ll hand you over to those sweaty-looking boys in the corner. They look as if they could use a good rummage in a willing cunt. What do you say?’
He indicates Lloyd and the waiters.
For that moment, I’m enormously tempted to say, ‘Go on the
n. Give me to them.’ Then I can disappear with Lloyd and fuck him raw while this entitled tosser talks bonuses and braggadocio with a real working girl.
Lloyd’s half-smile when I look at him gives me nerve though.
‘Who says I’m wearing them for you? I just happen to like a bit of fresh air, that’s all.’
Conrad likes this answer. He laughs. There is a telltale lump at his crotch.
‘Are you ready for some sophisticated dining then?’ I wave a hand towards the Michelin-starred restaurant.
‘Yes, I think I am. And I’m ready to start getting what I’ve paid for, Sophie. In full. Are you ready to start giving it?’
‘Absolutely. Just say the word.’
He proffers an arm and we glide out of the bar, causing everyone we pass to look after us and mutter curiously about what’s making that strange rustling noise.
In the restaurant, I sit with my knees half a foot apart, trying as hard as I can to minimise the noise of commerce emanating from my groin.
‘Tell me about your other clients,’ Conrad requests, though it’s not really a request, more a sort of command. ‘What was your last one like?’
I have to think. Before Lloyd, there were so many men. Which should I choose?
‘My last one? My last two, I should say. A pair of clients. Professional footballers.’
‘Misers. Couldn’t they splash out on one each?’
‘They weren’t Premiership. Pretty low down the league, I think.’
Conrad puffs up his chest. ‘I could afford a much more expensive girl,’ he hisses, as if I have implied that he’s poor. ‘But value for money is what I’m all about. It’s how I make my cash and it’s how I keep hold of it. So, your two footballers? How did that play out?’
‘They were strong, powerful men, but not very bright. They made me talk about The X Factor and other TV shows I don’t really have time to watch. Frankly, it was a relief to get to the bedroom.’
‘And when you got there?’
‘You want the full post-match report, or the highlights?’
‘Highlights will be fine.’
‘Champagne, Jacuzzi, then they took turns. Oral, straight sex, bit of sixty-nine.’
‘No double penetration?’
‘There was some talk of it, but they were both too drunk to get it up again.’
‘I love the way you talk about it. As if it’s just another boring night down at the local. I could listen to whores talk shop forever. It turns me on.’
‘What expectations do you have for tonight?’
The waiter appears, pours a good wine and takes our orders. Once he leaves the table, Conrad leans forwards. ‘I expect to fuck you. Tell me now, are your nipples hard?’
‘Yes.’
‘And your pussy – is it wet?’
‘A bit.’
‘Are you creaming all over those twenty-pound notes? They were pristine when I gave them to you. Bet they aren’t now.’
‘Can I ask you about the other girls you’ve paid?’ I feel a need to turn the tables on him. Does he expect his girls to desire him? Does he think my wetness is for him? I want to tell him that it isn’t – it’s for the situation, purely and simply.
‘No. But you can tell me what you like doing in the bedroom.’
‘Aren’t we supposed to be making light conversation? Dinner table chitchat?’
‘I’m calling the shots, Sophie, or had you forgotten? He who pays the piper …’
How is getting fucked for money the same as taking requests for a tune? But I don’t challenge it.
‘You name it, Conrad, and I’ll do it. If it’s legal and won’t result in illness or injury, I’m probably up for it.’
‘That’s good to know. Sometimes I can be a little … unusual in my tastes.’
‘What are your tastes? Costumes? Kink? Role-play?’
‘I think I’ll wait until we get to the bedroom, if you don’t mind.’
‘It doesn’t matter if I do mind, does it?’
‘No.’
I finish my wine and make to pour myself another, but he puts a hand over my glass, shaking his head.
‘Can’t have you getting tipsy, Sophie,’ he says lightly. ‘That’s not what I’m paying you for, now, is it?’
So what is he paying me for? If it isn’t for sex, or companionship, or pleasure? What is it?
***
In the bedroom, I am ready to find out.
Lloyd is next door. I am not in any danger. I repeat this to myself when Conrad sits himself on the bed and makes me stand in front of him. He stares at me for so long that I feel distinctly spooked.
‘Still nice,’ he says to himself. ‘Very. Take off your shirt, Sophie.’
I unbutton it and pull it from my waistband, shrugging it over my shoulders until it falls on the floor. The garish basque with its topping of twenties is revealed.
‘Nice, I like the way you’ve arranged the money. I like it even better when I make the girls crumple it up and stuff it in like that. The last girl’s tits looked huge and there was a big spare-tyre effect where her knickers were full of balled-up paper. She was so embarrassed.’ He laughs. ‘Some of them went right up her cunt. Take off your skirt.’
The pencil skirt slips down. Black PVC, scarlet satin and purple paper clash together over my pale skin.
‘I like that. And you put it in your crotch, you say? Come over here and show me.’
I move closer. He motions me around so I turn my back to him then bend over, exposing the money-patched split to his view.
‘That’s superb.’ He reaches out and runs his fingertips over the paper, pressing it against my hidden clit. ‘I’m going to ask you to get on all fours on the bed, just like that. No, keep the heels on, they’re fine.’
I watch Conrad through my arms and legs as he picks up his briefcase and opens it. He doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to undress. Is he not going to fuck me?
From a fabric pocket in the case lid he withdraws a long thick dildo. He did ask about double penetration – it seems that must be an interest of his. I tighten my sphincter in anticipation. Should I charge more to be fucked by two cocks, even if one of them isn’t real?
Lloyd’s question: How much should I have charged?
As Conrad approaches, dildo in hand, I notice that the bulge in his trousers has flattened somewhat. Where is his erection? Why am I posing here with my arse up and money stuffed down my knickers if it doesn’t even give him the horn?
He reaches over and removes the money from my crotch, exposing my pussy to his gaze. I wait for a finger to touch me or pinch my clit or penetrate my vagina, but that doesn’t happen.
I look over my shoulder, curious to know what he is doing.
He is wrapping the money around the dildo, securing each note with the next one, until the entire implement is plastered with purple and images of the Queen’s head. Then he takes a condom and slides it over the top, holding the money tight in place, keeping it clearly visible through the transparent latex.
‘Head down,’ he growls, noticing my interest. ‘Bum up. Thighs wide.’
He joins me on the bed, introducing the tip of the dildo to my widespread labia, rubbing it around in my juices, lubing it up ready for the long journey into inner space.
I want to talk, very badly, to make some remark about this being the ultimate metaphor for capitalism, but something tells me he doesn’t want to hear my opinion. I take it in silence when the broad rubber-clothed invader is shoved none too gently up inside me.
‘This is what I like, whore,’ he says in a low hypnotic voice, sending his thick hard representative up to the hilt. ‘I like to watch your cunt used for money. By money. Watch you getting fucked with the dirty cash you’re going to take from me. You won’t be able to spend it without thinking of what it did to you.’
He thrusts hard and I start to pant. I can’t work out whether or not it feels good. At the moment, it feels so strange, so disconnected, that I don’t think my nerve
endings have worked out whether they’re meant to be experiencing pleasure or discomfort.
‘Touch yourself.’
My nerve endings know how to play when I put a finger on my clit. They veer happily over to the pleasure side of the street. While I flick, Conrad speaks again.
‘This is the only thing that gets me hard these days. To buy, to pay, to watch my money fucking a whore. To have, to own, to take, to possess. Do you know how that feels, Sophie? Of course you don’t. You’re a whore. You get had, owned, taken, possessed. You’re the item on the shelf. I choose to take you or leave you. Choice is such a turn-on, Sophie. Choice, power. You’ll never know how sweet it can be.’
His dildo slides over and over my G-spot, pushing me beyond the capacity for speech. If I could speak, what would I say? Fuck you is all that springs to mind. Perhaps it’s just as well I’m mute at the bottom of my familiar path to orgasm.
Fuck you, asshole, tattoos through my mind as the combination of clit-strumming and dildo-fucking does its damnable work. And then I realise that there is something I can do to take some power away from him. An easy thing, a passive thing, a thing he won’t even know about, but will make me feel happier.
I can fake it.
‘I’m going to keep doing this, Sophie,’ he says, ‘until you come. You’re going to come, right there, full of a wad of my money, come all over it. Dirty, dirty whore.’
I shout, then sigh in a creditable imitation of how I sound when I’m coming on all fours with a dildo in my cunt. I have a large bank of memories from which to draw.
‘Ooh, hard, fuck me hard, you banker.’
I hold my breath for a moment. Too much? Will he cotton on to my dramatics?
No. He chuckles, obviously pleased with himself. ‘Think of that when you’re handing a twenty over at the bar later. Think of what else it bought. I love watching whores come with my money inside them. Love it more than anything. Get up and suck me.’
Game Page 10
