Adventures of a London Call Boy (12 page)

‘Briefly. Unsuccessfully,' I said.

‘Good.' She pushed a stray hair out of her face and wiped some mascara that had run in streaks down her face. ‘Yes. It's a word we use; depravity, and sensory deprivation. Depravation. Clever, eh?'

‘Yes. Erm, can I ask you why you like doing it that way? Isn't it a bit of a risk? What if I was a psychopath?'

‘But you aren't. Although you cut it a bit fine towards the end.'

‘Exactly. Don't you worry about putting yourself in those sorts of situations, for pleasure?'

‘I own an insurance firm. I like to be able to control lack of control. To make risk safe.'

I obviously didn't look convinced.

‘Did you see the fisheye?' she asked.

I looked around: like most hotel rooms, there was a fisheye.

‘No,' I said. I stood up and tried to look through it. I could see nothing.

‘It doesn't work,' I said.

‘It's for looking in,' she said. ‘If anything went wrong, if you did anything that exceeded or distorted my wishes, you would have lasted no more than a few seconds.'

I tried to avoid gulping. ‘Right. We were being, what, monitored? There was someone at the door?'

‘Yes. And someone else watching via CCTV, of course.'

I looked around and saw the camera for the first time. I can be very unobservant at times.

‘So this is totally controlled?' I said, not knowing whether to feel frightened or relieved.

‘There are people here I can trust,' she continued. ‘I'm glad you're one of them.'

Julia, unlike her Raven-haired friend, never went in for vanilla sex. And she became a regular.

Although she was a generous employer and there was something satisfying about the power she pretended to allow me to exercise over her, I never became wholly comfortable with the set-up, particularly being watched by bouncers. And I wasn't sure I liked being made to act the torturer, even if the so-called ‘torture' always ended in massive mutual orgasms.

Still, I said nothing. She was a woman who knew what she wanted, and knew how to get it. Call guys really can't go about calling their clients perverts, after all.

Chapter Twenty-seven

Julia's requests were quite particular, but not the strangest things I got asked.

I'd had a couple of assignments with a professional girl in her mid thirties. I think she worked in a bank near Oxford Street. Let's call her Z. She was tall and slim, with a body used to exercise; she had long, light brown hair which she normally tied conservatively back, but her suits always sexily hugged her figure and she wore sharp stilettos with little ankle straps like J.'s.

It started out as an escort job, in fact, as she hired me for a work do, where I was my smart and charming best before we parted with a chaste kiss. I must have made the right impression, because she hired me for a second, bedroom assignment, and then our third encounter was an evening meet, starting with drinks in town. We met in an old theatrical pub near Chinatown. It was a fairly quiet, midweek night, and we chatted quite amiably about not much.

After a couple of drinks we were getting quite cosy, and I suggested we could either go for dinner or, perhaps, have one for the road and then she might like to come back to my place, for the business end of the date. She agreed, and I bought her another G&T, after which she seemed at least tipsy.

We sat close to each other in the taxi, and soon her hand had fallen on my knee. I held it, and after a moment, we kissed. There was something like anger in her passion, and I almost had to hold her back from mounting me there and then. I'm no prude. I just think taxi drivers have enough of a job paying attention to what's going on without the distraction of seeing rampant professionals fucking in the rear-view mirror.

Back at mine, Celeste was out, and so I showed Z. through to the main room. She sat, her legs crossed, her foot moving back and forth. As I poured drinks, I could see her stocking tops up the slit of her skirt.

We had barely touched the drinks before we were making out again. Soon we were intertwined, her small but pert breasts revealed after I unbuttoned her blouse and slipped off her bra. She hitched her skirt up to reveal a pair of tiny, lace trim knickers over her suspenders. I slid my hand up her thigh and worked my finger towards her clit. She was hot and wet, and as I stroked her sex and toyed with her nipples, she moaned and began to bite my neck.

She came quickly, her juices running onto my fingers, which I put to her lips for her to taste. Then she reached down and freed my cock, before bending over to mouth it. She had fantastic technique, running her tongue up and down the length while sucking it deep into her mouth and using her lips to pleasure me.

I held off from coming and scrabbled around for a condom.

I should make a brief digression here: I always use condoms. It's a rule. If I don't mention a condom, just assume I'm using one. I don't know where my clients have been and, more to the point, I know where I have. OK. Back to it.

She looked up.

‘I want you in me,' she said.

Once I had the condom, I gently pushed her back up.

‘OK. Very happy to oblige,' I said, tearing the wrapper.

‘It's OK,' she said. ‘You don't need that.'

‘Erm, yes we do,' I said, trying as best as I could not to start an argument.

‘It's OK,' she said, pulling me towards her. Her dripping pussy was hard to resist, but some rules aren't worth breaking.

‘Look. I don't mean to insist, but you don't know where I've been. And it's playing with fire.'

‘It's OK,' she said, again. ‘I'm on the pill.'

‘My dear,' I said, ‘I don't care if you're on all the pills in the world. We're using a condom or I'm going for an ice bath.'

She gave me a stern pout, but after a second seemed to soften. She took the condom and slid it down me, and I slowly moved forward taking us both down towards the sofa, before I eased my cock very slowly between her pussy lips. For a few minutes she seemed disappointed, almost disinterested. I leant back and pulled her up, so she was riding me, and in that position I shifted deep inside her, while playing with her clit. Even when she was coming, her eyes closed and teeth gritted hard, she seemed pissed off.

She stayed the night, and we had a second session, this time without disagreements about contraception. She left early, without much ceremony, and I assumed I wouldn't see her again.

But I was wrong. A week or so later, she called, and we agreed to meet again. I was in two minds, but figured that it was unlikely she would take the trouble to call and meet someone who she was still pissed off with.

We met in a different bar. She was perhaps even smarter and sexier than before. We sat in a booth and I bought drinks.

‘Cesc,' she said, taking a sip. ‘I wanted to see you again to apologise.'

‘What for?' I said.

‘The, you know. The condom thing.'

‘Oh. Right. That's OK.'

‘No. It's not. It was irresponsible. I don't know what came over me.'

I stifled a pun.

‘It's OK. It's nothing. People say all sorts of strange things during, well, in intimate moments.'

‘Yes. But it's not just that. I was trying to get you to get me pregnant.'

I coughed messily into my beer.

‘What? Pregnant? Really?'

‘Yes,' she said, with an embarrassed smile.

‘Why me?'

‘No offence meant, but it was nothing to do with you. Well, not really. I thought you'd be a good enough candidate. I don't know what came over me. It just happens sometimes. I just have an urge.'

‘But aren't you worried that prostitution might be genetic?'

She sniggered. ‘Cesc. What a silly thing to say.'

‘Well … And what about frequenting prostitutes? That could be too. Can you imagine the crises that kid would have? And it would put a terrible squeeze on the profit margin. I wouldn't want to have to compete with my own offspring.'

‘Maybe. But I'm seeing someone about it, you know. I'm just glad it was with someone who's responsible. A lot of men would have just taken advantage of the situation.'

‘Well, that's probably a bit unfair on us as a sex.'

She raised her eyebrows.

‘Anyway. Can I make it up to you?' she said, with a look that was half expectant, half seductive. And she did, too.

This time we went back to her place, a neat, modern flat near the river. She poured drinks and dimmed the lights. I sipped my whisky on the sofa while she disappeared into another room. She returned, with a shimmy that accentuated her lithe shape. Without music, she slowly stripped for me. In only her knickers and high heels, she clicked over the floor towards me and then knelt in front of me. She took a sip of whisky, and then, without swallowing, unzipped me and took me in her mouth. The whisky stung against my penis, but it aroused me more. I leant back, enjoying her technique again, while trying to hold myself back.

Then, she drew back, swallowed the whisky, and took a cube of ice in her mouth. The cold against the head of my cock sent shards of icy pleasure through my body. Meanwhile, I took a cube of my own. I sucked its edges off as she carried on her chilly blow job and then pushed her back. I reached down and slid the smooth ice into her pussy. She quivered with surprise and pleasure. Still sitting, I turned her round. I took another, smaller cube, and gently slid it into her, before quickly putting on a condom and lowering her buttocks until her pussy was on my cock. As I entered her, we both moaned with the intense sensation of cold and pleasure. She played with her clit while I pulled hard on her nipples, and soon she was coming noisily, her head back, her long ponytail flailing around in my face.

Then we went down onto all fours; her next orgasm was even noisier, as I slid deep in and out of her, a combination of her coming and the ice cubes gushing down her thighs. Soon I could no longer hold back, and her final orgasm coincided with me pulsating deep inside her.

‘Does that make up for the other night?' she asked.

‘I think you can worry too much about these things,' I said, rolling away from her. ‘But yes, at least,' I said, fearing I might have pissed her off again. But the great thing about people who are sensitive about offending you is the lengths they'll go to make it up.

Being used as some sort of walking sperm bank didn't worry me so much that I stopped working for her, but it was clear that I was a stopgap until someone who was not just able but also willing to make some babies came along, and preferably wasn't a male prostitute. For a few weeks, we both got something that we wanted, although in her case not
the
thing. But I found out not long after she stopped calling me that she'd found an older guy and family life was the order of the day.

Chapter Twenty-eight

Julia and Z., like most of the clients who came to me because of the cards, did so because they were both very specific sorts of fantasists, who wanted a very specific sort of pleasure or service. I'm not sure whether it was anything to do with the cards themselves, or simply coincidence, but that tended to be the way. Friends of Celeste and passing trade came for more standard types of enjoyment, but the connoisseurs often came brandishing a business card.

I've told you about the girl with the strap-ons, right? Well the other, really quite strange fantasist was an elderly lady with a food sex fetish. I never quite identified how this particular interest of hers had developed, or really got much time to discuss it with her. And it was possibly the strangest assignment that I had.

The woman was an artist, living in a curious flat on the way towards the Heath. She'd made a lot of money buying and selling art in the Eighties, and had retired to muck about with paintings and entertain a series of gentlemen friends. I wasn't entirely sure what my role was going to be when she called up and invited me to visit. I'm not ageist, and I was perfectly ready to perform to the best of my abilities, regardless of an age gap of at least thirty years.

I wandered in to find a room that was part studio, part study and part bomb site. There were half-finished oil paintings in easels, piles of books on the rickety wooden floor and strange bits of experimental sculpture on makeshift plinths. Even stranger was that she offered me tea. I accepted.

‘Now, I understand that you're a professional.'

‘You understand correctly.' I struggled for a second for what to call her: Madam might well be a turn-off, while going straight to first-name terms seemed just rude.

‘Please, call me Agnes,' she said. I nodded.

She continued. ‘You see, I was thinking of just using one of my models for this. But you can't always guarantee discretion. And some of them might run a mile. I even used to have a chap who did this for me, you know, just for fun. But he's gone away now. So that's why I've got you here.'

‘Of course. What is it you want?'

‘Well I hope you don't think this is strange. I mean, really, it's very simple, you see. I'm going to eat off you. And then you're going to, you know, screw me.'

I nodded. ‘I can do that. Believe me, it's not that strange,' I lied.

I noticed that there was a long, mahogany table, about a foot lower than a normal dining table.

‘Up there?' I asked.

‘Yes.'

I stripped, slowly, and then climbed up. I lay on my back, and she left the room. As I lay, the sheer oddness of it seemed to turn me on. By the time she was back, I had a prominent hard-on.

‘Already?' she said, laughing to herself.

Luckily, I thought to myself, as she laid out a selection of cold meats, asparagus and tomatoes across my naked body, there was no soup course. With her lips and tongue, she carefully ate the first course, before disappearing again and reappearing with what smelt and looked like a pasta dish. She spread the food over my chest, my stomach and around my penis, which stuck out of the dinner like an unexpected meat course. This time she used a knife and fork, twirling the pasta, running it against my nipples and groin. I was surprised to find myself turned on even more.

After the main course, she used a rough cloth to clean down her ‘plate'. Then returned with what appeared to be a sticky cake. This was smeared on, rather than placed, and soon she was licking my stomach and groin, and then my balls and cock. I rose up in pleasure, pushing my cock into her mouth.

‘Naughty. Tables don't move, you know,' she said, lifting her head away. ‘But I think it's time for real dessert.'

She licked off the last of the cake before slipping out of her long house dress. She was naked underneath, and despite her age still firm bodied. I helped her up onto the table and then entered her from behind. She was excited and wet, and I was ready to enjoy myself. I leant back and closed my eyes, enjoying the sensation of sex combined with the sticky tightness of the remnants of her meal. It's my turn to eat, I thought to myself.

The food had clearly done its aphrodisiac duty, and soon she was coming in long, breathy shakes. I pushed the tip of my tongue to the roof on my mouth, tensed my cock inside her and then continued. Her second orgasm was bigger than the first, and her shaking almost had me come again. But I held off, and pulled out of her. I lay her back down, removed the condom and wanked over her naked body. She opened her mouth wide, and I spurted hot stripes of semen onto her tongue and down her throat, saving a few last drips to shoot onto her chin. Then I kissed her, savouring the taste of chocolate, saliva and my own orgasm.

‘You're not the only gastronome here,' I said, as I finished.

She sat up, licking her lips.

‘Yes. I quite liked that. You can come here again,' she said.

Agnes became another regular, and every month she treated herself to a special meal. Like I said, I never quite worked out where this particular desire of hers came from. The evidence of her flat-cum-studio was of an eccentric, rather than a dedicated sexual adventurer like some of my other clients. I knew she was a gastronome – the menu changed for every session – and from the number of male nudes on the walls it was clear that she had a great appreciation of the male form. But unless my clients want to tell me, I don't start asking questions. I'm a call guy, not a private detective, and you can construct any pun you like out of that sentence.