Loading...‘I was sure he had a good view down the Mall to the palace. And I was sure he was saluting’
How do I find them? Well, it’s not a science. It’s hit and miss, good luck and bad. Friends, business colleagues tell me about theirs. I ask them questions, nothing obvious, but little things slip out that give me clues.
And I look through the Yellow Pages listings — for an interesting name or angle in their ads. And they’ve got websites now. Some of them put their photographs on the sites. I can get clues from those. I look at their eyes, their lips. I look at how they smile, or don’t smile. It’s the non-smilers who interest me most.
Some people might think it’s expensive: I’ve kept a record: of twenty-six sessions so far at, say, about £150 a time, seven have been successful. We all — well, most of us — have our weaknesses: gambling, booze, drugs, porn. This is mine. And when I find them, the repeat sessions don’t cost me anything. I go back to them until I get bored and want somebody new. Until I want to find a new body to try out. Anyway, they’d pay me. They have in fact. One of them — Number Three — gave me a car and a holiday in St Lucia. I was beginning to tire of him by then; that I had to spend two weeks in the Caribbean with him was the downside. I insisted on having my own room, which he was permitted to visit only when I invited him. His wife was away in Cambodia researching a vegan cookbook. Number Five gave me an apartment in Chelsea, which I sold without bothering to move in. I prefer Hampstead.
It takes only a few minutes to know if I’ve found one. There’s usually something — something in the way they look at me — that gives them away. I have a uniform for the appointments. All these guys love a girl in uniform. It’s a sober business suit in black or gray: a tight jacket, a white linen blouse buttoned at a lace collar, and a flared just-short-of-knee-length skirt that cuts a teasing line up my thigh when I sit in their leather armchairs and cross my legs. I see how they look at me when I cross my legs, and then I usually know how it’ll turn out.
Most of them in their Georgian sitting rooms have you sit in armchairs now; only a few fuddy-duddy Freudians stick with the sofa scene. They sit across from you in their armchair, trying not to let me see that they’re looking up my legs and wondering what my breasts are like. If I’ve figured them right, they’ll get a rough idea before the end of the fifty minutes. I never take my bra off on first dates.
The sessions don’t turn out identically — how could they? — but I’ll tell you about one of them: my first fifty minutes with Number Five — the one who bought me the £959,000 apartment, which I sold for £1.2 million — was typical. I had to fill out a questionnaire before the appointment so he had all the basics, or the basics I chose to tell him. I had relationship issues, I’d written. He began by explaining how he worked, which was by asking me questions. He said some people found answering them honestly very painful. Then he said pain was vital to the self-discovery of inner truths and shifting to patterns of assertive and liberating behaviour.
‘My job is to ask, yours is to talk. That’s how we’ll work together on a journey you’ll end as a free woman — the mistress, if you like, of your own destiny. Is that OK?’
I’d heard all this bullshit before, so I re-crossed my legs, lifted my skirt a little and in the cute girlie, gushy voice I knew he’d fall for, replied: ‘Mistress of my own destiny. Yes, I do like that. That’s OK.’
‘Great,’ he said, smiling timidly. Schumensky was his name, Kurt Schumensky. English, despite the euro-name. Forty-ish, medium-build, straight black hair, pale, clothes from Gap, glasses and kind eyes.
‘You said on your form that you had problems with relationships. What sort of problems are they?’
‘They don’t last — a week, sometimes a month or two, never longer than that.’
‘Are they with men or women — or both?’
I answered this with my girlie voice. ‘Oh, only men. Not the other. I couldn’t bear that.’ I was lying, of course; I’m as happy with a woman in my bed as I am with a man slobbering over my breasts and labouring between my thighs — sometimes more so.
‘Is the breakdown, do you think, always the same issue, or have they been different, would you say?’
‘The same, I think; every time. It seems to be about control.’ I uncrossed my legs and let them open just a little — then a little more until his gaze settled on the dark tunnel under my skirt as surely as a heat-seeking missile locks on to its target. ‘The last break-up was terrible. He accused me of being a castrating man-hater. He threw things at me. I think he wanted to hit me.’
‘And how did you feel about that?’
‘I felt small and disgusting, a failure.’
‘So when you assert yourself, you are repelled? Is that it?’
‘Something like that,’ I said, opening my legs wider until I was sure he could glimpse my crotch, which was wrapped in white silk undies. He took his notepad from the table at the side of the chair and put it on his lap. I was sure he had a good view down the Mall to Buckingham Palace. And I was sure he was saluting.
‘Can you be specific?’ he asked, trying to concentrate on my troubled love life instead of my channel of love. ‘How, er, I mean, in what way do you want to bring your personality to bear on your relationships, these relationships, with men?’
‘Well, these men, none of them want to recognize my needs, my desires. It’s been all ‘me, me, me’ for them. And when I say, ‘hang on, what about me, me, me’ it falls apart. They can’t stand it.’
He changed tack a bit, asking me about my childhood and wanting to know if I’d experienced sexual abuse. I told him I had.
‘Can you tell me about it? I know it must be painful.’
‘I was 15. He was the son of our next-door neighbours, who used our swimming pool. He was 17. I came home from school one day and found him asleep on a sunbed. He was wearing tight swimming trunks. Speedos they were, briefs, and I wanted to see what was inside them. It didn’t look as if it was very much. He looked small. Anyway, I was curious. Well, why not? Scarcely a day passed at school when boys didn’t offer me money or cigarettes to pull my knickers down for them.’
‘And how did you feel about that?’
‘I felt sorry for them. I took their money and ran, but it didn’t stop them asking me.’
‘Go on, tell me about the boy, the abuse. Don’t hold anything back.’
I said I wouldn’t. I’d tell him everything.
‘He seemed to be in quite a deep sleep. It was a hot afternoon, and there were two empty beer cans by the sun-bed. I said ‘Hi Benny’ and tussled his hair, but he didn’t wake up. I knelt down and pushed his thighs apart just slightly, but that didn’t wake him either. I pressed a finger onto his balls through the briefs; still nothing.
‘I lifted the front of the briefs out and pulled them down a bit to uncover his little penis — it seemed small to me, given that he was quite a big lad. My kid brother’s was much . . .’
‘Your brother? He didn’t . . .’
‘No. That’s disgusting. I just saw him once, when he was changing by the pool. What do you take me for?’
‘I don’t take you for anything. My role isn’t a judgemental one. My role is to help you explain yourself to . . .’
‘Yes, to myself. I know that.’
I stopped his bullshit and carried on telling him about Benny.
‘I hooked my fingers into the waistband at his hips and inched them down so that they were stretched across his thighs. I gazed at him for a long time. I was entranced, I guess, by my power over him. I wanted to see what I could do with it. I wanted to try out the magic power I knew I had. He looked sweet, this big, defenceless, naked boy and his sleeping penis curled up in its bed of brown hair. I began stroking it, very gently, with one finger, then two, and quite soon it was waking up. It straightened out, then got thicker and longer. Before too long, it’s size was impressively employable. I palmed his balls and wrapped my thumb and forefinger around his by now very stiff shaft. I rubbed it up and down oh so slowly and softly until he came, his sperm jetting out over my arm. I pushed his penis back, so the last spurts fell on his tummy, and . . .’
Dr Kurt interrupted. ‘So you weren’t the vict…’
‘. . . No, of course not; he was. But I’m not sure victim is the right word. I like to think that when he woke up — which, luckily for him, he did before my parents came home — he recalled an exciting dream, a very wet dream. Anyway, I left him there; still sleeping, with dribbles of sperm on his stomach, his sticky penis shrinking and his pants pulled down his legs.’
I could see Kurt was hot and bothered — and, of course, fascinated. I knew I had him.
‘Did you do this again, with this boy?’
‘With him? Oh yes, there was one more time. His parents were having a party. They wanted his bedroom for guests who were staying over, so we put him up for the night. My parents had gone to bed, but I kept him up late, talking and drinking in the kitchen. I made sure he had a lot to drink. I went into his bedroom at dawn, when I knew he’d be knocked out. I pulled back the cover and was amused to see he was wearing pyjamas. Very prim; I’ve always slept naked. I unbuttoned the jacket, pulled the cord on the bottoms and opened the flap. Sitting there on the side of the bed in the dawn’s early light I studied his dozing penis for a while, imagining how much my touch would change it; what I could make it do. I wrapped my fingers around it, made it swell and stroked him to a climax. I didn’t want his stuff on my hand this time, so when I felt that he was about come I pushed it back, making him spurt on his chest and belly. It was very quick — a minute or so I guess. Gave him another exciting dream, I hope.’
Dr Kurt seemed very uncomfortable. He was fidgeting, crossing and uncrossing his legs all the time and almost sinking into his armchair. But he carried on bravely. He wanted to know more.
‘Did this pattern of behaviour continue . . . er, did you carry on doing, er, it, as you grew older?’
‘Sure. I like it. It excites me. ‘
‘Like. Excites. That’s the present tense. You mean you’re still . . .’
‘Yes, and it’s even more exciting when the guy’s awake. I mean, then they can see what’s happening. They can see what I’m doing; what I’m making them do, and they can’t do anything to stop me. Well, they could, but they don’t.’
‘These men, how do you meet them?’
‘At parties, business things, a reception, a dinner. And hotel bars. Swimming pools are good. And gyms, of course. He comes back to your place. You go to his if he’s living on his own — or if his woman is away.’
‘And how does it start? I mean, how does what you do start? How do you know it’s what they want?’
I slid down into my armchair and opened my legs as far as they’d go. He stared at my panties; perhaps he could see the damp spot I knew was there. I hoped he could.
‘I look into their eyes. Their eyes tell me what they want. If we’re sitting like this, opposite each other in armchairs, like we are now, I just say: stand up, will you?’
Dr Kurt’s notepad dropped to the floor as he stood up. What was that old Rolling Stones number? ‘I said, my my my, like a spider to a fly – jump right ahead in my web!’
He started to walk towards me when I stood up to take my jacket off, but I stopped him. ‘No, stay where you are. Stand there until I ask you to move.’ I looked at my watch. We were half way through the session. I had to speed things up. I unzipped my skirt, pushed it down, kicked it off, sat back in the chair and unbuttoned my blouse. I wanted him to see my breasts in my pretty white bra.
‘Is your receptionist likely to come in?’
‘No. Only if I press the emergency button.’
‘And will you press your emergency button?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Think?’
‘No, I won’t. I won’t press it.’
‘Good. I like a man who knows his own mind. I want you to start undressing — jacket, trousers, socks, shirt, in that order — and I want you to stop when I ask you to. Oh, and look at me while you’re doing it.’ And that’s what he did. He took his clothes off — far too slowly; we were more than half way through the session and we hadn’t really started — and looked at me as I fiddled with the lacy frills on my bra and stroked the insides of my open thighs.
I stopped him as he was about to take his underpants off. White they were; the tight, brief type that projects the outline so vividly. But his shape was funny; there was no room in them to let his erection reach its manly angle.
‘Come here. Stand in front of me.’
He stood a few inches in front of my face. I looked at the hairs climbing up from his underpants. I could smell him: Givenchy and lust.
‘That must be uncomfortable. Lift it up. Free it for me.’
He put his hand inside the briefs, and his penis sprang skywards. I tugged the waistband down, wrapped one arm his thigh and with my other hand palmed the head of his drizzling prick. Letting the elastic snap back against him, I pressed my hand against its rigid stretch. It was a fair length, with a good girth.
‘I want us to start from scratch, so you’ll have to get rid of this,’ I said, squeezing his prick. ‘But not in the obvious way. Don’t you dare do that. Go into your bathroom and douse it with water, anything. Think about the pros and cons of the Common Fisheries Policy. Get back in here when you’re soft, but don’t hang about. We’re running out of time.’
A few minutes later he was back, clearly sans erection. I was standing by his big desk, which by then was sans everything; I’d swept his papers, books and pens onto the floor. ‘Come over here and turn around. Stand with your back to me.’
‘Let me check.’ Wrapping my arms around him I caressed his chest, rubbed his belly and slipped a hand down into his underpants. He’d done as I’d asked, but the touch of my fingers on his skin, the press of my breasts against his back, my perfume and, perhaps, the excitement created by my intimate examination, had him stirring and swelling again — not much, but it was obviously the start of something big. I couldn’t blame him; he’s only a man. ‘Good. Get on the desk.’
He started to take his briefs off, but I stopped him. ‘No, not yet. Just get on the desk; on your back, please. Stretch out.’
I sat by his side on the desk and stroked his lips before tracing a finger along his body. I opened and stroked his thighs, kissed his cheeks and pulled his head up into my breasts. He groaned.
‘What do you want to do, Kurt?’
‘Can I kiss your breasts?”
‘No, sorry,’ I told him, pressing my hand down on his penis. ‘Not on a first date. Just open your thighs as wide as they’ll go.’
It can take a while to find out how a man likes to be held, touched, the way he does it himself — stroking, rubbing, pumping, cupping, one finger, two or five; whatever it takes to fire his rocket. But I had only a few minutes left. Stretching out alongside him and propped up on my elbow, I kissed his forehead and whispered sweet nothings; ‘You’re going to come for me, Kurt’, ‘You’re going to come in my hand very soon’, things like that. I rested my head on his chest, ran my hand down the centre of his body, pushed his pants down, encircled his penis with my thumb and forefinger, and listening to his pounding heart stroked him lightly and slowly. It had reached its full stretch quickly. It felt like a rod of the hardest rubber wrapped tightly in the thinnest silk. As I was wondering, but not for too long, how it would feel inside me, out they seeped; silvery viscous threads from the penis of this man, spellbound and powerless in my embrace.
I coated his prick with the goo, spreading it down and around the shaft and rubbing it into the hair on his balls. He couldn’t hold it back — and I didn’t want him to; my fifty minutes were up. I had to give him ten minutes to clean himself, get dressed — and perhaps write up his notes. I pressed my palm down on him, he groaned and as his back arched a little I could almost feel the stuff shooting up inside him. It was a good gush; not glorious, but praiseworthy.
‘Stay there,’ I told him as I climbed down from the desk. ‘Watch me dress and wipe yourself with these.’ I took my panties off and dropped them on his sticky stomach. I told him he could keep them if he wanted to. I think he did. They all do.
When I got to the door and turned to him, stretched out naked with my panties in his hand.
‘Two things: I’ll be back next week, but I’ll want a double session. Wear boxers; I prefer them. . . . And, oh yes, how did you feel about that?’
He started to say something, but I left. I didn’t care what he felt about it.