by Ed Bemand
“Yes please.”
She moaned softly, out of all proportion with the stimulus she was apparently applying to her nipples. She could hear him groan in response.
“You like that do you?”
“Yes...”
“Well, no need to rush. It’s nicer if you take your time, don’t you think?”
“Okay.”
“What do you like doing best with that lovely cock of yours?”
Silence.
“Go on, don’t be shy.”
Silence.
“Ok then... let me guess. I bet you’re the kind of boy that loves having it inside a nice, wet pussy, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I thought so. You know what?”
“What?”
“My pussy is very wet right now from thinking about your cock. Do you think you’d like to put it inside it?”
“Yes.”
She moaned softly as if he’d said something profoundly erotic.
“Maybe I should touch it. Would you like that?”
“Yes please.”
“Okay. I’ll touch it, if you can tell me something...”
“What?”
“I want you to guess. Do you think I’ve got a smooth pussy, or a hairy pussy?”
“Hairy.”
“Good guess. Do you like hairy pussies?”
“Yes I do.”
“What do you like to do with them?”
“Feel them... touch them, and then...”
“And then...?”
“Put my willy inside them.”
“Naughty boy. Shall I touch my lovely hairy pussy then?”
“Yes please.”
“Okay. Are you still playing with your cock for me?”
“Yes.”
“Okay... well you keep doing that, while I gently run my hand down inside my silky red panties, just lightly touching my hair, getting closer to my soft, wet pussy...”
There was a choked moaning sound and the line went dead. Cassie, also known as Sharon, hung up the phone and shrugged. Guys like that never said goodbye. They just came and went, as she liked to joke to herself. Oh well, he was on the line for a good few minutes. She’ll have got a couple of quid out of it at least. She took a swig of her rapidly cooling cup of tea, lit a cigarette, adjusted the waistband of her tracksuit trousers over the bulge of her six month’s gone pregnancy and got on with the ironing. As Clive often reminded her, her earning a few quid here and there was all very well but he still needed clean shirts if he was going to go out and earn the real money.
Hollow the experiences might be, but at least Jamie could get a hint of what he needed, even if he would have been better off figuring out how to approach real women rather than spending a fortune on phone sex lines. You shouldn’t judge him too harshly, he was only young after all. Doubtless he’ll learn in time as long as he forces himself to try and doesn’t rush towards the easy chance for relief at every opportunity. Sometimes it’s best to avoid the low-hanging fruit. Reach for them too often and you’ll forget it’s possible to try for anything else.
Nine: When Jack tried to get what he wanted
Speaking of low-hanging fruit, perhaps it is a subject that deserves further consideration, for are we not all guilty of this on occasion, settling for less than we ought to? It’s an understandable underachievement. Striving for more can lead to failure, disappointment and despair. Even those that are lucky enough to reach that elusive something may find themselves disappointed when that which they are able to grab for a moment proves impossible to keep hold of and escapes them, making its loss all the worse because they have tasted it.
Jack didn’t like to settle for anything. As far as he was concerned, anything other than the best was a failure. His judgements about what constituted the best in any given arena were typically guided by the opinions of other people. He didn’t have the taste to decide for himself but what he lacked for in discernment he was amply provided for with aggression and determination.
If in doubt when choosing between the purchase of two things, be it suits, cars, houses or drinks, he opted for the more expensive, rationalising that the mere detail of increased cost guaranteed the thing would be better. It was a perilous attitude, but one which his fortunes were able to support in the moment.
By employment he worked in finance, juggling the possible concept of goods and representative pieces of companies between different financial markets and shaving off profitable excesses to justify his labours to his paymasters. Despite and even sometimes because of his overall indifference towards what any of what he was doing actually meant in the practical scheme of things, he was very profitable, and thus very successful. After all, what benefit could there possibly be to him in realising that his juggling different futures options meant that a large amount of coffee growers in Kenya went rather hungry that year when their counterparts in Colombia were much better off than usual. Any awareness of the human angle of his work would have been an impediment to his success.
By thirty, he was exceptionally well-funded and forced to admit despite all attempts at bravado of his indestructibility, that he was tiring. He worked long hours to make obscene amounts of money and his principle leisure activities revolved around the careless disposal of substantial portions of his earnings on consumerist baubles. It didn’t bother him how little time he had left to appreciate this fruits of his labours. His excessively expensive super-car remained in its garage for most of the time. The city he lived and worked in was particularly unfriendly towards private cars, so it was greatly preferable to use taxis to get everywhere. His top-notch designer wardrobe was possibly unnecessarily refined attire for the office, but he wore it every day, considering it tantamount to becoming a tramp that he might be obliged to wear the same luxuriously well-tailored shirt more than half a dozen times.
His attitude carried over to women and his approach to getting them was substantially influenced by his excess of funding and profound lack of time. Not for him the whores that would have sated his need for sexual gratification in the space of stolen moments in a parked car for enough to buy a hit of their favoured poison. He had been assured by the hostess who arranged the service that the girls that he was paying so very much to be entertained by were only available to the most discerning (which he understood to mean rich) of men.
Most of the time, he would call and arrange an appointment, trusting the hostess to understand what he needed and then book a taxi to drop by the house where the pleasures waited for him. The money was frankly incidental. The quality of the pleasure he could take in the moment was more important. He didn’t particularly want any of these girls to visit him at the luxuriously appointed penthouse that he had inhabited for the last few years. He preferred to keep his home undisturbed by such disruptive influences.
His needs were simple enough. He wanted a woman that would understand what he needed and not talk too much. He wasn’t paying for their companionship. He was paying for their sexual stimulation. If he wanted to cum on their face, then it was their job to make that happen as effectively as possible. Their opinions were of course irrelevant in this regard. The age old dictum should be maintained. The customer is always right.
By nature he didn’t consider himself to be especially dominant. He had no desire to inflict pain or humiliation. He just wanted his needs met. A girl that protested was in no way an erotic benefit to him. She just had to do what she was told, and if she did so, she would be well remunerated for the privilege. He was not particularly cruel and had no specific interest in causing pain. If sating his desires caused the girl of the moment pain, then that was simply her burden. She knew what she was doing.
On those occasions when propriety forced him to attend a social event, primarily those motivated by business obligations, he would explain the criteria to the madam and she would arrange that when his limo came to collect him some singularly delectable beauty would be sat in the back seat, resplendent in designer couture that woul
d be charged to his account and ready to adorn his arm for the proceedings. The presentation of himself as a successful and complete entity for these outings was essential, and how could any man be deemed complete without a suitably gorgeous woman attached to him at a social event? It would be like not wearing shoes. The advantage of paying the premium that he chose to was that he didn’t have to care overmuch about their interest of happiness with the proceedings. They were paid enough that they could just smile politely and look good regardless of what was happening. Of course, sex wasn’t exactly his prime consideration on those occasions. He was there to make an impression and be remembered well by the people that mattered.
One such an occasion was the centenary of his firm, an auspicious occasion his enjoyment of which was diluted somewhat by the realisation that it wasn’t just the important and successful people that were invited to attend. Apparently any old riffraff from the firm would be allowed to mingle. In his normal working life he had nothing to do with the banal ancillary stuff that he understood were somehow responsible behind the scenes for doing all the stuff that he needed. As far as he was concerned, he did the big stuff and the little stuff just happened. Why should he have to care who emptied his bin or made his coffee or filed his accounts? He had bigger things to worry about.
He expected this night to be very significant in terms of the real people that would be available for him to network with. By all accounts the son of one of the company founders was supposed to be making an appearance. As far as Jack was concerned, he’d be some out of touch old fart, but the augurs were encouraging that if he was in attendance then lots of the people with power who were much more directly connected to the state of things as they were now would be there too, and that could only bode well for an ambitious young buck like him. He just had to make sure that he made the perfect appearance. His suit was impeccable. His tailor had told him so and the size of the bill he had received for it had reassured Jack of that fact. As for the accoutrements to his appearance, he had emphasised the importance of his arm-candy for the evening being the most delectable and exclusive that they had available. She had to be perfect, seductively desirable to all that she met, but unobtainable by any but him. She must be the absolute pinnacle. The madam had told him that she had the perfect specimen. A rare and singular beauty who was still remarkably pure and uncorrupted. She described the girl in such glowing terms to him that the emphasis she placed on the engagement being purely for her company socially, with all other services being strictly verboten didn't bother him. He accepted the terms of the arrangement cheerfully.
The evening had started out as a dull enough affair. The food was mediocre at best and the inevitable speeches tedious to the extreme. His hopes for networking later in the evening were stymied by the murder of one of their senior partners. Apparently, if the gossip that circulated in the office after the event was to be trusted, he had retreated to a suite in the hotel where the event was held in the latter part of the evening for a discrete liaison with one of his companions, when some minor drone from the accountancy department had bludgeoned him to death with a fire extinguisher. It was suggested that the crime had been motivated by his dissatisfaction over the terms of employ, encouraged by the substantial amount of alcohol he had consumed at the company’s expense during the evening. As far as Jack was concerned, it was a source of great irritation that all his efforts to make the perfect appearance had been spoiled by some wanker picking that night to enact his ridiculous attempt at revenge. And it had all been going so well. The girl had been perfect, lingering upon that most beautiful of crests between true girlhood and maturity, slender but shapely enough to display her evening gown in a way that was guaranteed to elicit attention from everyone that she saw. She also had the self control to stay by his side, and the tact to never question him, just agree compellingly and aid the facilitation of whatever he was doing in each encounter. What more could any man want?
And then the sirens started and the police arrived. The partner’s companion had raised the alarm. Apparently she had been preparing herself for the inevitable in the bathroom of the suite and, her toilet complete, she had emerged to find his corpse spread across the carpet next to the door.
How the hell was he supposed to make the best and most lasting of impression on these people when such a crucial member of their number had just been brutally murdered? The bastard. Why couldn’t he have expressed whatever petty motivations had driven him to it on some other occasion, somewhere that it didn’t matter?
The night started to fade away quickly after the discovery of the body. Apparently the party mood wasn’t convicted enough to survive the disruption. Jack battled to appear urbane and suave against the developing irritation that he was feeling. Why should he let one guy’s death screw up this night? Didn’t people realise just how much money he had spent on making sure that he was perfect for it?
His date didn’t seem to care about his annoyance, but why would she? She was getting paid amply regardless. All she had to do was smile politely and take the money. Shit, someone like her could easily live off that for a couple of months. No wonder she was happy. He looked at his watch. There wasn't much left here. All the important people had buggered off and left the dregs. He had paid for her company for another four hours, expecting this party to stay good 'til much later than this.
"Come on." He muttered, tugging her arm. There had to be somewhere more interesting than this that they could spend the rest of the night. He had spent too much to call it a night just because of this nonsense.
"Where?" She followed him, not able to easily keep up with his hurried pace as he picked a path through the debris scattered around the banquet hall.
"That doesn't matter. We're leaving."
She wasn't smiling so much now.
"I'm here to do this party with you. That's it." She tried to stop walking. He tugged on her arm but she wouldn't budge.
"You're here to accompany me for the night, so accompany me."
"That's not how it works." She pulled her arm free of him and stood there, watching him cautiously.
"What are you saying?" All he wanted to do was go to some club. Why was she giving him this attitude? He wasn't used to women saying no to him, especially not ones like her.
"If you want to leave, fine, we leave, then I go my way and you go yours. That's it."
"No it fucking isn't. The amount of money you've had for tonight, I say we go somewhere else while you're still on the clock, then we fucking go there."
"No chance. Maybe you should go home and call it a night."
"Only if you agree to come with me and suck my dick for the next four hours until your time's up." He found her refusals peculiarly arousing but there was only so much of it he could take.
"I don't know what you think I'm here for, but that really isn't it." She turned and started to walk away from him. Her stylishly precipitous heels and tight fitting evening gown making it hard for her to stride as purposefully as she clearly wanted to. Jack’s hands formed themselves into fists without his needing to wish it. Who the hell did she think she was, talking to him like that, especially in front of people? He wanted to follow her, drag her back to him, get what he wanted from her, and why not?
He took a step towards her, reaching forwards to grab her arm. His nails caught her skin, pinching her flesh as she tried to pull away from him. He lunged again and got a grip on her, holding her tightly to stop her from moving. With her other hand she grabbed an empty champagne bottle from the nearest table and swung it round, clubbing him on the side of the head. It broke his grip on her arm and sent him sprawling to the ground.
“I said no. I’ll be letting the hostess know about this. She doesn’t like it when boys like you try to play rough without permission.”
He was left dazed by the blow. Some random close by tried to offer him a hand up but he waved it away. By the time he had got to his feet the girl was gone. Shit. People were watching him. They looked like they want
ed to laugh. That bitch, how could she embarrass him like this?
He left the room, heading for the entrance to the hotel, hoping to find her before she left the building. He didn’t catch her. He was left standing on the pavement, feeling lost and angry. This night had been a total fuckup. He dug out his phone and called the number for the agency that had supplied her.
“That girl you sent…”
“She has already been in contact with us, Mr. Daniels.”
“Did she tell you she hit me with a bottle?”
“She said that she was forced to defend herself when you attempted to take liberties.”
“That fucking bitch…”
“I should warn you, Mr. Daniels, that we are already being forced to consider taking further action against you in this matter.”
“How dare you, don’t you realise just how much money I’ve spent with you?”
“I’m well aware of that detail, but it does not entitle you to break the terms of an arrangement. The fee you paid did not entitle you to molest the lady in question, or manhandle her. You account with us has been terminated. Please don’t call again. Good evening, Mr. Daniels.”
The line died as she hung-up.
He found a bar that was still serving and started on whiskey. He was too angry to think clearly. Drunken oblivion seemed like the best plan. Scoring some tart to take his frustrations out on wouldn’t hurt either.
Is it a surprise that the rest of the night went wrong? After a few drinks, the bartender became reluctant to serve Jack because of his obvious extreme intoxication, so Jack threw his empty glass at him. He told a girl to come home with him and she refused so he hit her. Her friends objected to this. He ended up dumped in the gutter, battered and bleeding.
We can but hope that the evening was enough to teach Jack the importance of understanding that sometimes no really does mean no and that all the money in the world can’t change that.
Ten: How Svetlana found work in the city