by Nikki Stern
I began to immerse myself in this world of porn, and I wanted to do things as efficiently as possible. I created an index-card file of all our clients and their contact details. In addition, I kept particulars of their sessions: whether they were Watch & Wankers or ‘Pornographers’, how much they’d spent, personal details, including their profession or marital status, and their special interests, such as anal or cum shots. We always made a strong point that we definitely did not cater for paedophilia and bestiality. Any clients who displayed even a skerrick of interest in these unspeakable acts were flagged as ‘sickos’ and rejected; despite my moral corruption, I felt nothing but revulsion for these activities.
We were also doing a number of specialist photo and video shoots, such as rope bondage, golden showers—me peeing in the garden—and sex in public places. We had been contacted by a client with a passion for outdoor sex, and Paul explained to me the popularity of this particular genre. We decided to do something special to satisfy such demand.
I wore a revealing top and miniskirt with no knickers underneath, and we headed out to a nearby Safeway supermarket with our client/cameraman. Stopping off to buy a large cucumber prop, Paul took photos of me flashing in the aisles when the coast was clear. After a number of shots of me sucking Paul in the lift wallpapered with large posters of that day’s specials, we made our way to the roof-top car park. We strategically parked the Volvo on the perimeter so that the back of the station wagon was facing away from the exit.
The client filmed us sucking and fucking in the boot, even managing to capture a passing train and two huge billboards in the background. Paul was amused that one of the billboards featured an ad with grotesquely large images of some well-known TV news presenters, one of whom was a client of Lloyd’s, giving the impression that they were watching us. By the end of the session, we knew we had some of our best shots to date.
Whenever a new batch of photos arrived, I would meticulously label the back of each print with a code using three variables: the client’s initials and the numbers of the roll and negative. The negs in their plastic pockets were filed in date order with lists of the best shots—in case we ever wanted reprints. In this manner, I catalogued our entire collection of photos.
‘Jesus, pet,’ Paul exclaimed, ‘you should be a librarian.’
‘Yeah, actually, I’d love to work in a library,’ I said. ‘They’re my all-time favourite places. You know how I love reading.’
And I loved creating order out of chaos; I found it satisfying to catalogue all our photos. Paul admitted he’d never have had the patience to do it. ‘That’s why we’re such a good match. We’re opposites; we complement each other.’ Indeed, we made a perfect team.
We put in an extra phone line for our clients to contact us on. Paul joked that it was like the American president: when the red phone rings, it’s time to scramble. We recorded what could only be described as a novel answering-machine message. Designed to give the effect that I was mid-fuck, Paul used a squeaking mattress to produce a rusty-spring sound behind my breathless voice—complete with moans and groans. I struggled to record the message without giggling. ‘I’m sorry I can’t come to the phone at the moment . . . (squeak, squeak) . . . as I’m busy (moan) . . . But I’ll get back to you as soon as I can (groan).’
Of course, our clients rarely left a message. But it created a humorous touch, which fostered trust; some clients even told us they rang our number just to get a laugh and were giving it out to mates.
Our financial situation had become very comfortable, although we still weren’t saving anything. We had settled into our roles: Paul as the brains of the outfit, and me as the body. It seemed that what had started as testing the market had now flourished into a profitable business that neither of us could quite make up our minds to forgo, despite its inherent risks.
11
Relations with Dory had stabilised. Shoshanna and I visited her weekly, while Paul refused to even talk to her. When Dory involved me in her life of art and culture, I slipped into obedient-daughter mode. We would discuss the latest exhibitions and plays, books and concerts. I heard news of her celebrity friends, who often came to stay. Occasionally, we would just sit and listen to the radio while eating home-made apfelstrudel—her dial was permanently tuned to 3AR on the ABC and we would enjoy classical music together.
She had all but stopped asking what Paul was doing, perhaps fearing the truth. Reconciling these two parts of my life was always a challenge, as I was never totally comfortable in my sex-worker role. Once, Dory related how a visiting Bodenwieser friend had seen my photo displayed on Dory’s bookshelf, and commented that I was so beautiful I should be in the movies. I could not bear to tell her the truth and hoped she would never find out.
Meanwhile, we continued with the Watch & Wanks and the client-based porn sessions, slipping into a routine of sorts. We still desperately needed fresh girl-on-girl footage after the Abigail fiasco and clients were continually begging to see me with new people. With all the modelling sessions, we hardly had time to find a new actress, let alone shoot some non-hetero footage.
Paul was still doing occasional work at ACM, which saw us through the lean times over Christmas and New Year, when sales traditionally dropped. We started expanding our advertising into other magazines around the country, and from this we got a substantial new following.
Paul was continually refining the Horny Story that went out with the freebie photos. One day, he showed me his latest version, in which he’d offered my panties for sale.
‘The story sounds great—but you definitely should’ve discussed with me first about selling my knickers. That’s going way too far.’
‘No,’ he said, ‘it’s the personal touch.’
It was true though—I’d had repeated requests for my underwear. The idea disgusted me, but Paul assured me that our clients would like nothing better than to watch my movie with a pair of my fragrant knickers under their nose. He told me lots of women were doing it and it wasn’t such a big deal—if I doubted him, I should take a look in the back pages of Truth newspaper. So I looked and he was right—there were loads of ladies selling their underwear. I thought it all incredibly tacky, and was reluctant at first.
Paul could be practical whenever it suited him. ‘Just think— you’ll never have to wash another pair of undies again.’ His plan was to buy them bulk. I’d wear them for a day; ‘smear them round a bit’, as he said; and then put them in a plastic zip-lock bag. Voilà!
I just couldn’t believe there’d be a big market for that. ‘And what about when I get my period?’
‘Okay, so you’re out of action for a week. But that still leaves twenty-one days in twenty-eight where you can be “preparing” them.’
I laughed. ‘Okay, we’ll try it.’ I could see the funny side.
Paul said he wouldn’t even be surprised if there was a market for used tampons: ‘Somewhere out there is a guy—probably more than one—who’d love to have one of your blood-soaked tampons.’
‘Well, I draw the line at that,’ I said firmly.
The only problem Paul foresaw was finding a supply of cheap lacy G-strings and, indeed, it proved difficult. So I took to making them on my sewing machine. I had always loved needlework, especially patchwork quilting, and this was a chance to immerse myself in a pleasurable activity while furthering the financial goals of Van Eyk Inc., as Paul called our family.
Things also began to improve in other areas: we had the beginnings of a new social life, although I missed my old friends. Paul was seeing Ewan on a regular basis, but I continued to feel awkward around him. Paul had a hare-brained idea for a combination penis enlarger and bong, which he wanted to develop as a joint venture with Ewan. Paul felt sure it would sell on novelty value alone. They spent many long hours perfecting a prototype: a clear perspex cylinder with interchangeable parts. While he was not averse to testing both aspects of his invention, unsurprisingly Paul’s penis never displayed a lasting benefit.
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bsp; Ewan also had an artistic bent and wanted to create some sculptural neon pieces. He made some neon ‘dildos’—or rather, pieces with the glass formed into an elongated U-shape. I directed as Paul took photos of me naked, with the glass tubing entering my vagina. I prayed that the pyrex wouldn’t shatter.
These turned out to be among the most artistically stunning pictures we ever produced. The intense glow of the neon stopped abruptly on entry; a cast of blue light illuminated my skin against a black background. I felt sure they would be worthy of an exhibition.
At around this time, Lloyd let it be known he now desired a special relationship with us. He was constrained in an unhappy marriage and saw us as a way of discreetly indulging his bisexual, transvestite and B& D fantasies. He was stimulating company, and regaled us with anecdotes of celebrities and politicians. We met regularly, dressing him up in Paul’s foundation garments (bodysuits and bras) and a pink tutu—although he drew the line at make-up whenever he knew he would need to return later to his office. On one occasion he received a call from his secretary, and told her he was ‘all tied up at the moment’. And indeed he was—in bondage gear with manacles and leg cuffs.
Lloyd introduced us to a fascinating character, Neil. What exactly Neil did was never clear, although he had worked as a scriptwriter for TV dramas. He also intimated that he was an ASIO operative, a fact confirmed by both Lloyd and Ken. Occasionally he would disappear, remaining uncontactable for weeks at a time.
I was dubious about Neil’s spook connections, until one Christmas Day when we had a problematic client who was pirating our movie. With no more than a fake name and PO box to go on, Neil got back to Paul within the hour with detailed personal information about our client. Paul called this man’s home number and in a thoroughly menacing voice told him we knew who he was and he should leave us alone. We never had any trouble with him after that.
As time went on, Paul became convinced that Neil was trying to recruit us into ASIO. While Paul was fascinated with the world of espionage, I made it clear I wasn’t interested at all. Paul and Neil also discussed the possibility of a contact magazine—another joint venture—with Neil to bankroll the operation. They chose the name Who?, which Paul promptly registered.
One of our clients, who worked at Hallmark Cards, told us about a desktop publishing seminar and Paul immediately decided we should attend. He spent the day inspired by the possibilities of self-publishing. He sneered at the old-style printers, who were resisting the inevitable computer dominance of their industry, and branded them luddites and dinosaurs.
In what was a case of bad timing, Paul was sacked from his job at ACM. Apparently, the publisher, Peter Torney, thought him too clever and became suspicious that he was out to set up his own magazine, which of course he was.
That same evening, we were chatting while cooking dinner together. We agreed: one could hardly blame Peter, but now we had a cashflow problem until Paul could cobble together another movie. ‘We’ll just have to diversify. I think we should get into B& D—you’d make a great mistress.’
‘No, I wouldn’t,’ I objected. ‘I’m not dominant at all—in fact, quite the opposite.’ I knew my own personality: submissive and acquiescent. I felt sure it came from being adopted. It was probably tied in with my fear of rejection—I always tried to please, that was my nature. ‘I don’t think I could do that.’
‘I’ll teach you.’ He said it was easy—I just had to figure out what they wanted. ‘I know we can charge an absolute fortune for this stuff. We’ll call you Mistress Nikki.’
‘And what about my safety?’ I didn’t feel comfortable being alone with these men. It wouldn’t be like the Watch & Wanks or porn, where they wanted both of us.
‘They’re pussy cats,’ said Paul, explaining that the whole point was that they wanted me to dominate them. But, anyway, he had an idea as to how he could secure my safety: I would carry a bug with me on my dominating assignments.
In the days that followed, I rented the cult classic Eating Raoul from the video library to give me some insights and inspiration, and Paul researched his latest idea: a bug. Neil gave Paul the specifications he needed and put him in touch with a contact at an electronics shop who would build a listening device for us, albeit at a hefty price. All that would be required was a battery-operated transistor radio tuned to a pre-determined frequency and a pair of headphones.
A visit to the atelier of renowned couturier Laurie Lane was organised. In his crowded workshop off Chapel Street, the smell of leather permeated the premises while opera music drowned out the traffic noise. We commissioned Laurie to design a chic leather shoulder bag in which we could hide the bug. While he catered mainly to the gay leather scene, he was not averse to turning his hand to our project. The resulting satchel hid the bug beautifully, with perforated leather, necessary to allow the transmission of soundwaves, cleverly incorporated into the design.
In addition, we commissioned Laurie to design a dominatrix outfit he called the Bitch Goddess From Hell. All black leather, it comprised a torsolette, suspenders, long gloves and wraparound skirt. A small pillbox hat with metal spikes completed the outfit—a masterpiece of design and artistry.
‘So, you’ve got no excuse now not to be a dom,’ Paul said. He reminded me how many clients were begging me to do it.
But it still didn’t feel right. ‘You’d be better at it than me,’ I said.
‘Unfortunately, they don’t want a male, so it’s gotta be you.’ He assured me he’d help: all I had to do was take control and be bossy. ‘Just pretend you’re shitty with me. That should be easy.’ And so Paul coached me in the art of domination. With his help, I compiled a mental list of key commands and insults like: ‘Lick my boots!’, ‘Down on your knees!’ and ‘You wicked little wimp!’ Instinctively he knew what to say and, although antithetical to my nature, after a few weeks I was able to become the Bitch Goddess From Hell.
Nevertheless, I felt like a fraud taking clients’ money for what I saw as my sub-standard service. Thankfully, I thought, I wasn’t expected to fuck anybody. Getting into character wasn’t easy and I had to curb my natural tendency to giggle. Before one session, Paul helped me practise cracking my whip in the garden—I wondered what the neighbours would have thought if they’d seen me. Meanwhile, we had worked out a way whereby we could squeeze the bondage horse into the Volvo and cart it round to our sessions. I hadn’t a clue what we’d say if the police ever pulled us over.
When we arrived at an appointment, I would strategically place the bug bag, as I called it, with the microphone pointing towards me. Paul would ask if there was a spare room where he could wait. There, while reading a book, he would listen via headphones to the crystal-clear conversation. Later he would give me notes, fine-tuning my performance in his didactic style. Thankfully, there was never any occasion when he needed to intervene and not a single john ever suspected they were being monitored.
Each client seemed to have their own fetishes, to which I would try to cater.
There was Hector, who came prepared with two jam tarts, a doughnut and a packet of brown cigarettes. I was to verbally humiliate him while smoking cigarettes and butting them out in the pastry. Using my riding crop and long stockwhip as props, I struggled through my repertoire with phrases such as ‘You’re not a man—you’re a grovelling little turd,’ and ‘What you need is a dominant woman you can follow round like a puppy dog.’ He filmed me while I spent the entire hour insulting him—one of the most difficult sessions I’d ever done, because he was mute throughout. At the conclusion, he went in for a close up of the plate—a sickening mess of ash, butts, jam and pastry. He was a sensitive, and not unattractive, young man with a pleasant disposition; I wondered what caused him to seek sexual gratification in this manner. My psychology training taught me to question behaviour, but I knew that this was well beyond my understanding.
Then there was submissive Donald, a softly spoken, bespectacled gentleman who liked being dressed in baby attire and disciplin
ed with whips and paddles. He became a regular and I agreed to allow him to visit our home. He’d recently returned from the UK and brought with him his own baby apparel. Like a child at Show and Tell, he brought out his goodies. ‘This shop I visited in London—it’s totally devoted to adult baby gear,’ he said excitedly. For him it was paradise: apparently there were giant cots and highchairs and he’d ordered some nappies. ‘Look, I’ve got an adult-sized dummy and bib to match my little sailor top.’
Wearing my bitch goddess outfit and in my fiercest dom voice, I commanded him to take off his business suit and put on his gear, so we could get started. ‘Forget about the dummy, though, so I can gag you . . . And you’ll need an extra whipping because you’ve turned up late to your appointment.’ So I manacled him spread-eagled to the bondage horse, praying that Paul’s carpentry competence could withstand the weight of this slightly tubby middle-aged man.
I ordered him to be quiet while I put on his gag and blindfold. I always insisted on a blindfold to give me some leeway if I started to crack up laughing and had to stifle it. Obediently he complied as I donned my surgical gloves in preparation for giving him an enema. Donald relished enemas, and I was about to administer his when there was an unexpected knock at the door.
‘Hang on a minute,’ I yelled out, panicking slightly. I called to Paul, who was listening in via his headphones in the spare room, to quickly go answer the door.
He came running in. ‘But what about Donald?’ he asked.
I didn’t know what we were going to do. Whoever was there would see Donald as soon as the front door was opened—unfortunately, he was in plain sight. Ironically, the open floor plan that had originally attracted us to this Robin Boyd design was now creating an unforeseen hitch.