by J. Jackson
Later, as they left Blackpool behind, Sandy exclaimed, “Thank you again. This is so great.” The wind mussed her hair and flushed her cheeks. A sense of regret, which, coupled with shame, had been trying to regain purchase of her morality earlier in the morning, was all but blown away. She felt very much alive again. After a while, basking in the freedom of an open cockpit, Sandy asked, “How can I repay you – for the ride?” The question was loaded with innuendo, so she was not surprised by Brandon’s answer.
“From the little I heard from Mikael,” he snickered, a sly smile touching the corners of his mouth, “I’m sure we can work something out.” Sandy expressed her understanding with an open smile which he returned. They were quiet, each in their own thoughts for several miles, then, out of the blue, Brandon asked, “Ever do parties?”
Perplexed at first, Sandy felt her heart suddenly constrict as his meaning dawned on her. As much as she loved the recollections of most her recent experiences – her new-found power – such a question seemed almost too blatant – too raw. “Uh,” she sputtered, at a loss for the instant, but Brandon didn’t seem to notice as he went on to explain.
“I’m helping organize the stag – you know, for the groom – of the wedding I’m going to. One o’ me mates got the room reserved, and I’m trying to arrange some entertainment – a little bump ‘n grind, y’know – a little T ‘n A.” He turned again to admire the cutie seated next to him. “D’ya thnk you might be up for that.”
Sandy studied him. His friendliness and forthright were a little disarming, still, she felt her heart unclench slightly. She mulled over the unexpected prospect. “He looks earnest,” she thought, “and really, I’ve ‘been there, done that’ already.” Turning in her seat, she said aloud, “Well, are they nice guys?” – certainly a pointless question, she realized, once she asked.
The negotiations that followed were simple and friendly. In the end, Brandon agreed to pay for several days’ room in a nice hotel, and assured her that the ‘gratuities’ from the twenty-five or so revelers would be substantial. Excited, Brandon got on his mobile, as soon as the agreement was closed, to give the good news to his cohorts.
Pleased with herself, for her part, Sandy reached deftly over the console to fondle Brandon’s package as they sped toward London on the motorway. Unzipping his pants, she leaned across into his lap and gobbled him up. It was not easy, bobbing her head without stabbing herself on the brake lever or knocking the car out of gear, but as the meat in her mouth swelled and stiffened to impressive proportions, Sandy could hear Brandon’s laboured breath and amazed exultations to his buddies still on the phone. Sandy felt his balls tighten, as, relatively quickly, he reached ignition. Struggling to stay in control of the speeding vehicle, Brandon tucked the still connected cell phone into his breast pocket, and firmly gripping the steering wheel, howled to the wind, as he exploded in ecstasy, shooting volley after volley of cum into the delightfully talented mouth servicing his loins. Sandy tried, with reasonable success, to swallow the copious load so that he wouldn’t get any on his trousers.
“I guess that seals it, eh?” Sandy remarked sardonically, sitting up and wiping her mouth.
Brandon laughed gleefully, eying Sandy, then he concluded his call with, “Got a winner, here, Malcolm. See you later, mate.” And Sandy graced him with a knowing, and rather self-satisfied chuckle of her own.
Brandon delivered Sandy to a nice mid-range hotel in Chelsea. He paid for three nights and carried her bag up to her room. As he put down her pack, she looked at him inquisitively and asked, “And just what will you be expecting of me tomorrow night?”
A little taken aback he shrugged and said, “I don’t know, exactly. Just a bit of a strip tease, I s’pose,” he paused, staring at her appraisingly, “then whatever comes naturally, I guess.”
Sandy smiled, relieved. “Okay,” she chirped. “That’s okay, then.”
Brandon turned to leave, saying, with his hand on the door handle, “So, I’ll pick you up about seven, tomorrow, right?” Then just as he stepped over the threshold he stopped again and turned, a sad, worried look on his face. “You’re not going to bolt on me, are you?”
Sandy felt both insulted at the suggestion and sorry for him having to ask it. “Of course not,” she said comfortingly and reached to give his hand a squeeze. “Don’t worry. See you, tomorrow, at seven.”
The underbelly of London was rather easy to find – a few rather circumlocutory inquiries of the cabbies, and voila, they dropped her off in a rather quaint lane lousy with local working girls plying their trade. The surrounding shops, while all a bit tatty, were obviously exactly what she wanted – places where the indigenous sex trade acquired its accoutrements. Sandy thoroughly enjoyed herself throughout the morning, and catching another cab, arrived back at her hotel in the early afternoon. She marveled at how much she had changed in such a short while, thrilled at purchases of exotic clothing she would have, only days ago, considered scandalous. Exchanging the neat jeans and T-shirts of North American traveling innocence for the glitter and borderline sleaze of sexual intent, Sandy felt like she was getting dressed for her debut.
Following a wonderfully invigorating shower, Sandy carefully trimmed her bush, pulled on her black net stockings, and slipped her feet into her new strappy, stiletto-heeled sandals. They had been an extravagance, “But,” she figured, “it’s sort of an investment, I guess,” refusing to pursue that line of thought any further for the moment. Standing naked from the thighs up, she inspected herself in the mirror. They’d been expensive, her spiky shoes, but man they were hot. “Yeah,” she said, addressing her reflection, admiring her flat tummy and thrust out chest, “they could do worse, those boys, a lot worse that you, you harlot.” Her laugh was more than a little nervous, as she turned to don the rest of her outfit: a silvery, low-cut, push-up bra with a front clasp; a matching garter belt to complement her stockings; and the G-string panties, to complete the set; all under a white stretchy top with a plunging vee neck, laced tight across her bare back; and a stretchy leather-look micro-skirt, similar to the one she’d got in Aberdeen, but in black.
Carefully applying her make-up, Sandy strategically overdid her eyes, figuring if she was going to do the deed, she may as well play the part. Notwithstanding, she was sitting, quietly wringing her hands like a forlorn school girl worried about being stood up, when the knock came just before seven.
Brandon’s look, as she opened the door, said all he needed to say. His jaw dropped and his eyes glazed fleetingly as he drew a sudden breath and seemed to hold it. Sandy stood, pleased, waiting for him to finish scanning up and down her dolled up bod. Finally, obviously satisfied with what he saw, he muttered, “You ready?” Grabbing her new clutch purse, which held little more than her key, her lipstick and a bit of cash, Sandy accompanied Brandon through the lobby – and the gauntlet of stares and low whistles – to his car.
The boys erupted into loud cheers and catcalls the moment she entered the private banquet room. Slightly thrown by the tremendous reception, Sandy took only a moment to recover. Accepting a drink, as she determined who the guest of honour was, Sandy strode directly over and laid an electric kiss on the flabbergasted lad. “Well, Damon,” she purred, “last night to cut lose, eh?” With that, she set her glass down and began to dance right in front of him – just for him. Once again Sandy was astounded at how natural it seemed – how natural it was to writhe and twist suggestively in a room full of strangers. The party focused immediately, gathering in a loose circle around her, but she kept her eyes on Damon – focusing fully on his astonished, yet somehow grateful face.
The hoots and whistles faded to appreciative oohs and aahs, as Sandy moved sensuously to the now discernable music. Her understated eroticism gradually gave way to a blatant sexuality that had all eyes riveted. Slowly her suggestiveness became explicit, as she loosened the lace that bound her chest and bared her shoulders with an evocative grace that spoke of carnal delights. When she finally peeled her
top off to reveal her silver encased bust, the sexual tension in the room was palpable. Squirming out of her skirt, Sandy could feel the audience’s temperature rise, so as soon as she had daintily stepped from it, she expertly released the building pressure by kicking it up into the groom’s face.
“How did I know to do that?” she wondered as the laughter of friends grounded everyone momentarily. Pushing her target back into a chair, Sandy straddled him and began to rub her crotch on his leg while threatening his face with her bust. After pushing herself up a few times, to create a deliciously false cleavage, Sandy unclasped her bra, letting the cups fall away, and to the collective gasp of the crowd, she pulled Damon’s cheeks hard against her breasts. Encouraged by the growing cheers, Sandy held him there as she reached between his legs to fondle his throbbing erection.
The circle had closed in tight around the lucky groom as Sandy worked at his fly-front with one hand, stroking his face against her chest with the other. At last she felt his tongue tentatively lap at the sweat running down between her boobs. “Oh, you naughty boy,” she squealed, releasing his head and gliding like liquid down to the floor between his knees. She could her a few expletives whispered in amazement around her. “Fuck, I love this!” she admitted to herself, surprised at the strength of her conviction.
Pulling out the poor fellow’s raging hard-on, she slurped it up in one gulp, pushing herself down until she could feel his pubes against her nose. “Careful now,” Sandy warned herself, “gotta try to make this last at least a bit. We wouldn’t want to embarrass him in front of his friends by having him blow early, would we?” Pushing and retreating, sucking and stroking, swirling and nibbling, Sandy employed all the tricks she didn’t even know she knew, to keep Damon, the hapless groom, right on the edge.
The invitation implicit in raising her ass off her heels while she worked, was not missed, and soon Sandy felt her panty-ties being pulled and the tiny triangle of material being drawn across her wet and puffy labia to vanish behind her. Lips and hands played a while at her cheeks until, at long last, she felt someone spreading them, drawing a finger along her slit to check for lubrication. Without missing a beat on the fevered cock in her mouth, Sandy spread her knees to flare her ass. She didn’t wait long before she felt the investigative probing of the large, spongy end of some anonymous appendage. Pushing abruptly into her, the cocksman paused a moment to allow for the crowd’s favorable response, letting her warm interior form to him like a velvet glove, then, with a slap on her buttock he began to fuck in earnest. The force with which he ploughed her channel, over and over, kept her off balance. Only the sturdy tool still pummeling her mouth saved her from being knocked over. While the hunk behind her churned and stabbed with a fierce expertise, the resulting increase in activity pushed Damon, the innocent groom, irrevocably over the edge. With a feral howl, he seized Sandy’s head and slammed it down against his pubes, letting loose a torrent of semen. Sandy felt his climax erupting and thought she was ready, but the strength of his hold on her head surprised her, and the abundance of his ejaculation, splashing off the back of her throat, threatened to drown her. To make matters worse, she had been fighting to keep her own arousal in check but the ferocity of Damon’s orgasm triggered the release of her own. Snorting and gasping and screaming, writhing out of control and pushing back hard against her back-side intrusion, Sandy felt close to passing out, as she heard, yet another voice bellow in triumph, and felt her womb scalded with his seed.
Collapsing limp onto the lap of the groom, Sandy let his softening dick slip from her lips. Closing her eyes for a sec Sandy sniffed and wiped at the cum that dripped from her nose. Despite the pulsing emptiness left by the withdrawal from her cunt, she remained motionless. But the floodgates had opened, the starting bell rung. The rest of the evening was a blur of sucking and fucking, – anally, orally, vaginally or any combination, breathing new life into wilting soldiers, Sandy worked hard – harder, even, than she had for ‘the team’, for this time she had knew was happening – this time she was in control.
And eventually she had drained them all, most twice, some even more. Damon didn’t yet realize the trouble it was likely to cause in his wedding bed the next night. “Eat lots of oysters,” she whispered in his ear at one point. She didn’t know if it worked, but she had heard about it once, and, after all, she was supposed to be the expert. As Sandy retrieved and donned her clothes, and the event wound down, she watched with interest as the men – “Boys, really,” she decided though they were all older than her – watched as the boys buttoned their trousers and gathered their jackets. They all wished Damon good luck, then, though few actually spoke to her, most of them gave her an almost embarrassed smile and nod, as if they’d been caught doing something they shouldn’t. “I s’pose, in a way they have,” she realized, thinking that the number of wives or girlfriends who would hear about this was probably pretty close to absolute zero.
Sandy stood aside and watched until, after most of the crew had left, Brandon approached her holding a shoe box sized container in his hands. “Ready?” he asked, a sudden weariness slumping his shoulders. When Sandy nodded, he held out the box and added, “This is for you.”
“Thanks.” Sitting silently next to him, she held the carton primly on her lap the whole way back to her hotel.
As they pulled up, Brandon looked at her and remarked, “It’s late.” Sandy blushed, suddenly aware of what a mess she must be. “I’ll ring for the clerk,” he said rushing ahead to the door. Sandy extricated herself from the car, and moved to stand with quiet dignity, holding her box, as a man finally appeared, shuffling into the lobby. Seeing him coming, Brandon turned to her and said, “Thanks.” He smiled awkwardly, then added, “You were great!” Nipping in to kiss her quickly on the cheek, he fled back to his car as the nightman indicated through the glass that he needed to see Sandy’s key, before he would open the door.
Safely locked in her room, her costume discarded on the bathroom floor, Sandy considered whether to bathe first, or open the box. She opened the box. Eight hundred and fourteen pounds! She couldn’t believe it.
The next morning, waking from a sound sleep, Sandy pulled the soft covers around her as she tentatively let consciousness take hold. Suddenly the recollection of the previous night jolted her into alertness. Sitting up and staring at the non-descript box on the table, Sandy felt herself fill with emotion, but she wasn’t sure if it was despair or regret or joy. How could she reconcile the last few days with the person she had always thought she was? Was she depraved or entrepreneurial? She knew what her friends and family would say. No, on second thought, she couldn’t imagine what her friends and family would say. What could they say? Here she was, sweet, young Sandy Masters, erotic dancer – and slut. No, even she didn’t like slut, “and the erotic dancing,” she argued, “let’s face it, was just incidental. Prostitute, maybe – an old and venerable profession – yeah, prostitute, or maybe all-girl, but not hooker or whore.”
She discussed her position with herself all morning, sometimes silently, sometimes aloud – over the light breakfast room service brought, or pacing the room. It was terrifically confusing. But, in the final analysis, she just liked it – she really liked it. She liked the sex; she liked the power; she liked the money; and she liked the prospect of freedom she expected the money would buy.
Sandy decided, there, in that hotel room in Chelsea, that she could, at least, finance the rest of her British stay with sex. And having made that decision, she went out to the shops to buy a few nice clothes.
Later, descending to the lounge after a light supper in her room, Sandy looked like elegance personified. She moved into the smoky room with a confidence she’d previously been unaware of. Heads turned as she made her way to the bar. “This is good,” she said to herself.
“A paid sex toy?” she mused, sipping thoughtfully on her wine and inspecting the recollections of the previous evening’s events once more. “A sexual therapist? Erotic entertainer? Geisha?” Even
a careful examination of her own feelings revealed little more that she could grasp onto.
Sandy could now see, these five years later, that the gnawing uncertainty about choices made and not made during those few days would probably never completely go away, and while all those early experiences didn’t exactly scar her, they certainly altered her social perceptions and interactions. That being said, in the intervening years, she had often thought it “a very fortunate happenstance,” swirling the term around her head like a familiar fine wine.
But then and there, sitting in the lounge of a respectable hotel in Chelsea, swirling her wine around her glass, she asked herself, “What on earth do you think you’re doing?”
Before she could answer herself, a well-dressed gentleman of maybe thirty-five or forty rose from his table and moved onto the stool next to Sandy. “Hi there, gorgeous,” he said in a strong New York accent. “I couldn’t help hearing your accent, or lack of, when you ordered your drink. It’s nice to meet a fellow American.”
“I’m Canadian, actually.”
“Is that right?” he countered, and launched smoothly into a friendly, if somewhat probing conversation. Sandy suspected that it was the prelude to a pick up, but – or maybe, so – she accepted his pleasant patter, being only slightly evasive as necessary. Eventually, after buying her a couple of drinks, he leaned over conspiratorially and asked, in a voice heavy with desire, “How much would it cost me to buy your company for the night?”
“Two hundred and fifty pounds,” Sandy replied without missing a beat – basically pulling the figure out of the air. She held his gaze, interested in his reaction; careful not to reveal her inexperience.
