“No. But enthusiasm. Devotion. Empathy. Passion. This unconditional focusing on my fulfillment that I’ve felt, that made the difference. It meant something to you, right?”
“Yes, of course. You’re my friend. I didn’t want to give you less than my best. That’s what we’re here for, after all.”
“Jo—you are different. You truly live the idea of this house. Others coming here only take. You give. You give it all. Only, watch out that you don’t lose yourself.”
One of the guards—Martin—came in. As usual, he didn’t take special notice of our working gear, that is, he ignored us being naked. Now and then, when there was a client slack, we took the guards up to the rooms. Free of charge and without service fee—they were here for our protection, and it wasn’t good if they were frustrated from the permanent look-but-don’t-touch. “Jo, Lydia, there’s a delivery for you.”
On the screen we could see two young men in overalls. One held—a bicycle!
I wasted no thought on the issue whether these delivery people knew our house’s dress code, appreciated it, or could be offended by it. I ran out and directly approached the man with the bicycle. “Is that for me?”
For a while he stared at my tits and my crotch, before he hesitantly asked, “Johanna?”
“That’s me.”
“The bicycle and this packet are for you. Then I need a signature here, please.”
He got the signature and a kiss on the cheek. Martin brought the packet into the staff room, while I pushed the racing bike along. Lydia held a small parcel in her hand.
Dora joined us. “What do you have there, girls?”
“A parcel from Bob,” Lydia proudly declared and tore the parcel open. The velvet-covered box inside looked classy. She flipped it open and uttered a delighted cry.
Dora reached forward, fetched a silver chain, and fixed it around Lydia’s neck. The seven drop-shaped pendants sparkled in all colors of the rainbow.
Lydia stepped in front of the mirror next to the door and extensively admired herself. “What might that cost?” she quietly asked.
“Twenty-thousand,” Dora commented. “The bill is still in the box. Bob writes, he’s already taken care of taxes and he’ll send the notification later. Girls, what did you do to that man?”
“Nothing,” Lydia replied. “Jo did it to me so good that he came.”
“Bob?” Dora marveled and looked at me. “Jo! That hasn’t happened to Bob for the last ten years.”
I shrugged. “I’ve only tended to Lydia.”
“Indeed,” she chimed in. “Dora, that girl served me the hottest act of my life.”
“You?” Dora shook her head. “Well. What’s in the packet?”
“Don’t know,” I returned and continued to watch the slender frame of the bicycle, which I didn’t want to let go of. It felt very light and rolled almost by itself.
“Then open it.”
With a trace of regret, I leaned the bicycle to a table and turned to the packet. Dora handed me scissors, and I unpacked. “One pair of shoes. Another. Why?”
Dora showed me the first pair’s soles. “For click pedals. The others are normal running shoes.”
Almost normal. The packet contained several sets of microfiber clothes for summer, winter, and the time between, for running and for cycling. Below, I found two white swimsuits, a bicycle lock, lights, a watch with a pulse meter and a coupon for two years bicycle maintenance and repairs. The light summer jerseys and swimsuits were a bit transparent, but I didn’t care.
“Doesn’t look cheap,” Lydia commented.
“No.” Dora had found the bills. “The bicycle alone, as it stands there, costs twelve-thousand Euro. Girl, if you’re worth forty-thousand for a night to Uncle Bob, I have to reconsider your rating.”
“What does that mean?”
“In the future, you’ll be assigned the most exclusive clients. The platinum class.”
Chapter Thirty-One
The platinum class consisted of those clients that had made our founder rich. Business tycoons, foreign potentates, stars—people with lots of money and highest demands with regard to discretion, style, intellect, and artistic skills.
Discretion was no problem for me. Anyone who could sneak into unknown buildings discreetly and inconspicuously without boasting about it could also keep her mouth shut about sex with stars.
Style could be adopted. Even if I rarely wore clothes at home, I only had to amble past the right windows and study the way the presentation was assembled. Instinctively, I avoided certain combinations that hurt the eyes, but in other cases I boldly mixed items. Style meant that only my client knew if I wore panties, but the breasts could well show through a fashionable and expensive top.
Intellect above all meant to be able to talk about money, politics, and culture. I had imagined that to be difficult, but as the main task was to listen to the clients and make one or another smart remark or place a not-too-foolish question, I got along astonishingly well. Either the clients were rich deadheads who weren’t all too smart themselves, or they could talk so excitingly that the discussion was real fun—and I was good at things that were fun.
The same applied to my artistic skills—that is, sex. There was so much more than fucking, blowjobs, anal and oral intercourse, so many special techniques you could learn and try! I was an eager student and a skilled learner, so my repertoire quickly grew.
My fitness helped me with that, too. In the evening, I accompanied my clients, and at night we fucked. During the day, I exercised swimming, cycling, running. Oh, by the way, I didn’t mention that I had to learn cycling first. We’d better draw the curtain of silence over that chapter.
“Hello Jo, how did it go?” Martin, my favorite guard, welcomed me, handed me a glass of water, and took my bicycle. He had let himself be assigned for the late shift especially for me.
“Thanks, Martin. It was strenuous.” I pointed at my sweaty jersey. “I’m all soaked through.”
“You’re getting wet anyway. What about swimming?”
“Acceptable. The first kilometer was the worst, because of the shoving. Then the crowd had spread out.” The water did me good. “That helped me to drive myself clear during bicycling.”
Martin grinned. “How did the spectators react?”
“A lot of whistles and applause.” Uncle Bob’s jersey was great—it dried faster than most other functional fabrics on the market, reduced the sweaty smell, and was comfortable to wear. However, the cream-white fabric also became entirely transparent when wet—like while swimming—which above all let my black pussy become prominent. “Most of all during the third leg.”
“How did you score now? What was your time?”
Dora joined us, curious, too. “Hi, Jo.”
“Hello, Dora. Nine hours, twenty-six minutes, seventeen seconds. Rank six.”
“Six?” Martin echoed. “You do an Ironman for the first time and score sixth rank? Of how many participants?”
“About three-hundred.”
“Wow.”
Dora peeked past me. “Good evening,” she welcomed a young man, seemingly a new client, as he was glancing around searchingly.
“I am looking for some sophisticated entertainment,” he began. “Preferably something more impassioned.”
“Then you came to the right place,” I observed.
Dora spread her arms. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but all our girls are already busy.”
Yes, correct. I had seen the roster. Thanks to the event, many of the girls were accompanying regular clients out of the house. Moreover we had a few all night appointments—Dora had called our part-time love attendants in, and still we were completely booked. Almost.
“I’m free,” I said.
“You?” Dora and the client asked almost simultaneously.
“Sure. I only need a shower first. Or would you like to help me with that?”
He eyed me. “Gladly. You’ve participated a bit today? The running part?”
“The entire event,” I objected. “Rank six among the women.”
“Whoa. And you’re working here?”
“Every day.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
The young man wasn’t the last client on this evening, but the most kind. He helped me out of the sweaty jersey, soaped my body under the shower, then rubbed me dry and felt my muscles. “Tense?” he then asked.
“Yes, somewhat.”
“Then lie down on your belly. I’ll massage that out.”
Which he did thoroughly. He first massaged my tense shoulders, my strained buttock and leg muscles, thereafter he tended to my breasts and my pubes with the same devotion, only much gentler. Only when I began to toss myself back and forth like a cat in heat, he penetrated me and massaged my wet channel with his member. He patiently restrained himself until I was ready, and only then came into his rubber. Niiice!
With that one act he was happy. I brought him to Dora, then I refreshed myself again and fetched myself more to drink.
The next client coming in through the door clearly didn’t belong to our preferred clientele. He looked like a quick fuck from the start. Dora came backstage and gave me a questioning glance. I shrugged, drank another glass and accompanied her outside. After the gentle and extended act before, I was just in the right mood for a quickie.
The guy’s eyes almost popped out when he saw me approaching naked. He’d probably have taken me right in the entrance hall, but I determinedly guided him to a room. It went exactly as we normally didn’t want to have it—pants down, rubber on, stoop, shag. Today I liked it.
“How was it” Dora asked afterward.
“Satisfactory.”
“Well then.”
Very late, when I was about to go to sleep, an older man arrived. He looked very well-groomed, as if he’d dressed up for his visit to us. That made me curious.
Dora didn’t even ask. I came out and welcomed him, meanwhile wrapped in a cuddly bathrobe. “Good evening. What can I do for you?”
He paused and examined me. “Good evening, young lady. I’ve just returned from a longer business travel, and I’m in search of cultivated, charming conversation. Did I interrupt you in an inconvenient situation?”
Oh. That one was formal! It required a formal reply. “No, sir, you didn’t. In our house, comfortable clothing is common during late hours, especially as most of our guests prefer to examine our staff first to make sure we please your eye. Do you want to make your own judgment?”
“What I see is entirely sufficient, but are you otherwise able to fulfill my requirements, too?”
“No, sir.”
He paused again.
“Your question implies that I should already be aware of your requirements. As I do not command the skills of a clairvoyant, I’ve failed to take the first hurdle.”
The older man erupted in laughter. “May the devil have me, you’re right. But as quick-witted as you are, I’m sure we will get along well.” He reached out his hand. “You can call me Hermann. I would prefer to remain incognito.”
I took and shook his hand. “I’m Johanna. You can call me by my first name, that’s usual here.”
“Johanna. Fine. That seems to be appropriate. Well, should we clarify the commercial part first?”
“As you like.”
“Fine. I have a letter here”—he presented a plain envelope— “with an appropriate sum. For this I would like to resort to your hospitality for the remainder of the night. Is that possible?”
I took the envelope and peeked inside. It contained a thick pile of five-hundred-Euro notes. “This is more than sufficient.” With the necessary respect, I placed the valuable envelope on the counter and nodded at Martin. Then I led Hermann to our best suite.
Chapter Thirty-Three
The couch set was perfectly suitable for sophisticated conversation. Moreover, the couch table was low enough to not cover the view on my crotch. For the start, I held my knees decently together, though. Hermann didn’t look like he planned a quick conquest.
I felt quite exhausted. On the other hand, a considerable amount of adrenaline prevented me from relaxing. If I couldn’t sleep anyway, I could as well enjoy a little entertainment.
“What’s happened in town today?” Hermann introduced the conversation. “What are people talking about?”
“Today was the Ironman,” I explained and earned a large question mark. “That’s a sports event, a triathlon. It starts with three point eight kilometers swimming. Next come one-hundred-and-eighty kilometers on bicycle, and in the end the athletes run a marathon.”
“So this event covers several days?”
“No, that’s all in one. From the water to the bicycle, and right next comes the running.”
“Oh. That must be very strenuous. Surely there are only a few men able to stand such a strain.”
“Oh, quite some. But women participate, too. There were more than three-hundred this time.”
“I won’t dare to imagine how such a woman might look like.”
Thereupon I rose and opened my bathrobe. “You don’t have to imagine. Have a look. Here appears a woman who finished sixth.”
He indeed had a closer look—not the lecherous stare of a voyeur, but the scrutiny of a doctor or artist. “Impressive. Your body is in an excellent shape, and formed extremely esthetically. You want to sit down again?”
I don’t remember all the topics we talked about. Culture, politics, sport, economy—all in all, the profound knowledge he commanded in all these areas and how well he could explain it was fascinating. Meanwhile, he remained entirely indifferent with regard to my female appeal—of which I was so proud—and thus gave me a false sense of security. He played the kind uncle role perfectly.
Finally, he said, “I believe we’ve talked enough, haven’t we?”
“Yes,” I agreed with relief. “What are your ideas?”
“I’d like to have it just a bit extravagant. Do you have handcuffs?”
This moment, my inner alarm bells should have rung. The house rule was—bondage never without supervision of a second girl, and never without advance notice to the counter. But I knew no second girl was available, and I believed if it only was about handcuffs, I could control the situation.
That’s nonsense. Cuffed at wrists and ankles and fettered to the solid bed frame, you control nothing. If at all, you must draw the line before and say “No.”
I yet had to learn that. So I fetched the soft-cushioned handcuffs from the cupboard and let myself innocently be bound to the bed spread-eagle. In the same cupboard, Hermann also found a matching gag, which he applied matter-of-factly while he said, “That simply belongs with the play, wouldn’t you say?”
It’s just sex. Next he’ll undress and find his pleasure in brutally penetrating me. I looked forward to a wild, hot act and felt my own arousal.
Hermann only took off his jacket and fetched a thin etui from a pocket.
“I assume you know about the common practices. Whips, hard fetters that sometimes brutally squeeze the female breast’s connective tissue, pinching clamps at nipples and labia, stretching, uncomfortable cages—those are all tools for dilettantes. Moreover it would be a sacrilege to mutilate a body as beautiful as yours, wouldn’t it?”
I nodded eagerly, as I couldn’t speak, owing to the gag.
“Have you heard of acupuncture before? Traditional Chinese medicine? It can cure a lot of ailments and even numb severe pain, while the hair-fine needles leave practically no wound. However, rarely recognized is the fact that these needles—used in the right place—can also create wonderful, exciting agony. And I have to admit very immodestly that I’m an absolute master in this art. You may consider it a great honor to be allowed participation in such an event!”
Fuck yourself, I thought, and desperately shook my head. That guy was completely cracked! If I only could have given a signal downstairs—but he had effectively prevented that.
Admittedly, he started
his event very subtly. The first needles that he took from sterile blister packs only tingled a bit. Of course it didn’t remain that way. Foot soles, earlobes, elbows or under the fingernails—unerringly he found the spots that caused me ever increasing pain. I couldn’t cry, I wriggled on my bed, tore at my fetters, wheezed and moaned, pleaded for mercy with my eyes, but he wouldn’t be misled. With an astonishingly firm grip he each time ensured that the spot he was aiming at couldn’t move.
The worse it became, the more I longed for relieving unconsciousness, but he commanded his art too well for that. I was forced to experience all his ideas with full consciousness, and he reveled in my reaction.
All the time, I waited for him to finally unpack his cock to penetrate my gaping hole. But the only thing penetrating me—yes, there, too—were his cursed needles!
His supply seemed to be endless, but finally he made his last sting.
I felt like a needle cushion. A tiny relief for me was the fact that most of the needles didn’t send repeating new waves of pain once they stuck in place, but only caused an even level of pain, to which I might become used someday.
“You command an extraordinarily high level of pain tolerance,” Hermann observed. “Never before has one of my models held out to the end.”
What happened to them, I wanted to ask. No chance with the gag in my mouth. Instead I only rolled my eyes.
“Which is terribly sad,” my tormentor explained. “Because, what comes now actually is the best part.”
Having said that, he began to pluck out one needle after the other. There’s this saying, It feels good when the pain stops—whoever says that has no clue. First the needle’s removal causes another wave of agony, against which all endorphin in the human body is helpless. Only at the very end, when the last needle is pulled, the last pain has faded, and the body’s own drugs circle the body alone and without task, the true, inebriant delight follows.
I didn’t notice when he left. A while later Dora came upstairs to look after me and change the sheets and found me with my gag and my handcuffs, absently staring at the ceiling.
Loser Page 8
