On Demand

by Justine Elyot

  'Now that's wet,' he said, impressed. 'A good fuck is what you need.'

  I couldn't argue with him. The speed, the suddenness, the rudeness, the wrongness of it all was the turn-on of my life. It was dirty and slutty, but I like dirty and slutty, and so, it seems, did he.

  In his haste to mount me, he lost a button from the placket of his trousers, swearing as it pinged into the distance, then he slipped swiftly and efficiently between my knees, levering me up by the bum in order to skewer my dripping centre in one move.

  We groaned in chorus as it stole inside so easily, so satisfyingly, filling the hole in perfect proportion.

  'Do you do this often?' he asked, beginning to thrust.

  'Mmm?' I replied absently, lifting my hips towards his, grabbing his bottom to push him greedily as far in as I could.

  'Pick up strange men in hotels for dirty sex? I bet you do it all the time.'

  It was on the tip of my tongue to protest, to say no, that I'm not that kind of girl, but before I did, my imagination stepped in front of my indignation and I realised that I liked this idea. I imagined him as one of a string of anonymous men, using my body, day after day, week after week, in the hotel bedrooms, the toilets, the car park. I'm not a whore, but I felt like one, letting this man whose name I didn't even know slam his cock up me within quarter of an hour of meeting.

  'Yes,' I said. 'I do.'

  'Thought so.'

  The windows had steamed up now and I had to spare a thought for the expensive upholstery, which was getting the pounding of all time. I pushed my hands down, clutching at his belt, the buckle end of which slapped lightly against my bottom with each forward motion. These were becoming more frantic now, the jingling urgent, his loosened tie flapping over my face until I sank my teeth into it, irritated by the tickling effect. I could feel the quake, shuddering seconds away, and I accidentally kicked the dashboard quite hard, so that he stopped for a second and turned around to assess any damage. Luckily there was none.

  All the same, 'I'll make you pay for that,' he vowed, ratcheting up the force of his thrusts, body-slamming me into a new realm of fierce sensation. The more I pretended to be a hooker, concentrating on servicing my client and avoiding orgasm, the more orgasmic I felt, until the wave crashed and I yelled until I was hoarse.

  For a while, it was as if our bodies had melted together; the sweet glue of our exertions filled the air and stuck us to each other. The car seat was slippery now and my thin summer blouse drenched. He unpeeled himself shortly before I had to pass out, crouching between my sore thighs, which were chafed to bits by that pure new wool I had so admired in his trousers. Thank God they hadn't been made of cheap stuff; I would have been skinned alive.

  'Nothing like a mid-conference knee-trembler,' he opined, taking a wallet from the glove compartment and stuffing a wad of twenty-pound notes into my cleavage. 'Get yourself something pretty. Off you trot then.'

  Eyes on stalks, I removed the money – a hundred pounds – and tried to give it back, but he simply unlocked the car door and opened it, gesturing me away impatiently.

  I straightened myself up in the car park, snapped the elastic tops of my hold-ups back in place, pulled my skirt down and re-buttoned my blouse. I would have to sort out my face and hair in the toilets.

  Before leaving, I threw the money back inside the car. Much as I could have used a hundred quid, it seemed important that I did not accept it. To do so would have been to concede control of the encounter to him, and I did not want that. If I behave like a trollop, it's because I want to; the pretence is an essential part of the excitement.

  Of course, I missed the train.

  The memory of my soliciting solicitor sustained me through some long and lonely nights, replaying the scenes on my darkened ceiling while my fingers wandered beneath the sheets.

  The hotel was not really on my way anywhere, but sometimes I would take detours just to gaze at its gilded splendour, my eyes moving slowly upwards beyond the striped awning to the windows of the rooms, picturing what might be going on behind those heavy white drapes.

  Temptation took a week to lure me back inside.

  Another lunch hour, another conference, but this time I was dressed for the occasion in my highest heels, my tightest skirt, my sharpest jacket over a lacy camisole. My eyes cruised the bar while I slunk over to order a drink. Not a coffee this time; they can sour the breath so – this time I would go for a cocktail. Something fruity.

  I leant over the counter, wiggling my bum out at the rest of the room. The stuttery waiter was lurking in the background stacking glasses in the washer and he smirked at the barman, a sleazy-looking character, when he swaggered up to ask me if he could help.

  'Oh, I'm sure you can,' I said, releasing the inner vixen in full effect. 'What I really fancy just now is a Sloe Comfortable Screw.'

  The barman double-took; I had to have a stern word with myself to stifle the unvampish giggle struggling to escape my Bitch Red lips. Then his lip flipped up at an Elvis-like angle, his eyes glazed over slightly and he leant right down.

  'I'm sure that can be arranged,' he smarmed. Creepy as he was, there was something primitively attractive about him, though he severely overestimated his own charms. 'Or maybe a Screaming Orgasm?'

  Much as I enjoy repetition of this beach-holiday-classic conversation, I was not after shagging the man, so I toned down my performance for his benefit.

  'Oh no, I don't think so,' I said primly. 'But I do want an umbrella and a sparkler. The full tarty works, if you can manage that.'

  His eyes narrowed and he began shaking ice with venomous purpose. I took advantage of his preoccupation to scope out the room again. Knots of business people in twos and threes were drifting in, beginning to line the counter. Some of them tried to catch my eye; even more so when I took a seat on a high bar stool and sipped at my glass of neon-orange slapper juice. Stocking tops in sight, I unbuttoned and removed my jacket, leaving my shoulders bare and my bra visible beneath the fluttery scrap of camisole. I took a straw from a dispenser on the counter top and began to suck the drink up, pouting my lips.

  The barman was barely able to serve the other customers, such was his distraction. I was watching him fumble with a bowl of complimentary olives when a voice behind me caused me to spin around.

  'How much for half an hour?'

  He was not my type. Shortish, balding, the beginnings of a paunch. But, perversely, the idea of being available to the first bidder was exciting enough to overcome my personal tastes.

  I looked him up and down and smiled. 'I don't charge,' I said.

  He raised his eyebrows. 'I'm sorry, I got the wrong idea,' he said apologetically, holding up his hands and backing away.

  'No, no,' I whispered, beckoning him back. 'I mean, if you can persuade me it will be worth my while, I'll give you a freebie.'

  He was motionless for a while, staring at my cleavage consideringly.

  'I'm not sure I understand,' he said at last. 'Come and sit with me and tell me what you mean.'

  I followed him to an alcove and plonked myself on the cream leather banquette beside him.

  'So you aren't a working girl?' he opened, taking a draught of his lager and regarding me enquiringly.

  'Oh, I am a working girl,' I contradicted him, deciding to get into character. 'But I'm off-duty at the moment. It was a long night.'

  'Oh.' The man chuckled with relief. 'I thought I might have offended you there. So . . . you aren't available then?'

  'I'm available to the right client,' I told him. 'Although I had a few earlier on, none of them were up to much. Definitely a case of business rather than pleasure.'

  'Really?' The man puffed up his chest a little, clearly preparing to convince me of his Real Man status. 'So you . . . you enjoy your work?'

  'Oh, yes, I love it,' I told him, sucking on my straw again. 'Do you? Are you here for the conference?'

  'Yes.' He shook his head. 'I like my work, but I hate these dos. Bloody icebreakers,
meetings about meetings and all that. I'm dreading this afternoon – role-playing, would you believe?'

  'Oh, I like role-playing,' I protested. 'How about we do a little one now, just to get you in the mood?'

  'You're quite something, you know,' he said, almost nervously. The power of knowing that this man wanted me, feared rejection from me, would probably go to some lengths to have me, was intoxicating. I felt like Cleopatra.

  'Thank you. So are you up for it?'

  'Depends what ''it'' is. What's my brief?'

  'You're a wealthy businessman. I'm a prostitute.'

  'Well, that's not far from the truth,' he said, brow furrowed.

  'Good. It'll be all the more convincing then. Come on, let's play.'

  I sat back and waited for him to make the opening gambit, wondering if I would actually go through with it. Sex with a man I didn't really fancy, just for the sake of satisfying my newly discovered kink. It was my fantasy, but would it crumble in the face of reality? I had to know. I decided then and there that I would have one rule in my game, and the rule was that I could not say no. Obviously I could, in the face of danger or serious illegality – but up to that point, I would say yes to everything and everyone.

  'OK then,' he said, sitting back and determinedly getting into role. 'How much for half an hour?'

  'Two hundred,' I said.

  'Two hundred? For half an hour? You must be good.'

  'I am. Do you want to find out how good?'

  'I think I do. Hold on a minute though . . . I thought you said this would be a freebie?'

  'Yes, yes,' I said impatiently. 'It will be. But in the game, I cost two hundred.' I lowered my voice, looked him straight in the eye. 'In real life, I'm a no-strings free fuck.'

  'Christ knows you don't get many of them,' said the man, his voice a little uneven. 'Right then. Let's go to my room, shall we?'

  'Yes.'

  In the lift on the way up, I stared at the pair of us in the mirror. He looked a little crumpled and slightly sweaty. I looked like a tart. It would have been pretty obvious to all in the bar and lobby what our relationship was.

  Now we were out of the public areas of the hotel, he seemed to gain an assertiveness that had been only half-present in the bar.

  'So you had a long night,' he said, his tone rather severe.

  'Yes.' I blushed. 'I didn't get much sleep.'

  'Time for bed then, eh?'

  He took my arm as the lift door slid open and escorted me along the corridor, our feet sinking in the deep pile of the carpet as if we were walking through snow.

  It was only when he slipped his key card into the slot that I began to have misgivings. The solicitor was one thing – carried along on a wave of lust that knocked doubts for six – but this was another. A strange man's hotel room.

  Could I really go through with this?

  My escort answered the question for me. He strode straight over to the bed, sat down on the edge and unzipped his fly.

  'Right, if I'm paying two hundred for this, I want my money's worth. Let's see you with your clothes off.'

  His sudden switch to 'in charge' mode awakened my wilder streak. I straightened my spine, did a little twirl and threw the jacket I was carrying on to a chair. Never having done a striptease before, I was unsure of the ritual, but once I had unbuttoned and shimmied out of my skirt, everything seemed to flow naturally. Down to the lacy camisole, silk French knickers and lace hold-ups, I slowed the action, teasingly pretending to drop something and bending over to pick it up, or standing with one foot on the dresser while I ran my hands up my leg. I could see myself, at a peculiar angle, in the wardrobe mirror and I was impressed by the figure I cut. I momentarily considered a career in burlesque. If only I had a feathery fan and a Venetian mask.

  Indeed, I was loving my work so much that I almost forgot my 'client' was waiting until I was forced by his impatient cough to look back at him. His fist was closed around his erect cock, his face quite red and collar loosened.

  'We've only got half an hour,' he reminded me brusquely. 'I'm not paying you to dance. Get the rest of your kit off then get down on your knees over here.'

  'OK, just one more move,' I promised him, hip-swaying over to the fruit bowl and taking the banana from the top. I peeled it slowly, ran my tongue up the exposed pale yellow flesh and swirled its tip around the top of the fruit.

  'On your knees, now!' entreated the client, groaning when I simultaneously put one hand down the front of my knickers and the banana in my mouth, swishing it around in there, sucking on it for all I was worth. 'Sod the banana, wrap your lips around this!'

  He leant back, presenting his cock to me in all its fat purple-crowned glory. Giggling, I tossed the banana aside and fell to my knees in mock-worship of his manhood, ogling and caressing it as if it were made of gold. Slowly and deliberately I ran my tongue around my lips, staring boldly up at him, before taking the plunge, closing my mouth over the considerable girth, forming a seal and sucking for all I was worth.

  My fingers played with his balls, squeezing gently and sometimes creeping back to push against his perineum, which tightened the sac all the more. Even when my mouth began to ache, I revelled in the effect I was having on him, his helpless little yaps of pleasure spurring me on to greater efforts. He was going to remember this as the blow job of his life; if I was going to play the part of the expensive hooker, I was going to do it properly.

  My tongue played lightly against his steely erection, flicking up and down the shaft and around the frenulum. One of my hands closed tightly around his base while I worked at fitting more and more of him into my mouth; the other continued its foray around his testicles. He was shaking now, making strangled utterances, his hands clenching and unclenching in my hair; the end could not be far off.

  'Lap it up, slut,' he panted, before roaring and thrusting into my face. A burst of liquid saltiness filled my mouth, pumping in and down my throat for what seemed like a long time. Even when I thought I had swallowed the lot and slid off his cock, an extra jet squirted on to my breasts, staining the lace border of my camisole.

  I sat back on my heels and he lay down on the bed, spent.

  'You can go now,' he murmured.

  'You still have ten minutes,' I pointed out. 'And besides, I want my turn. I'm going to sit in that chair and sort myself out.'

  He propped himself up, squinting. 'You aren't a real whore,' he said. 'A real whore would have been off with the money.'

  'Like I said, I'm off-duty,' I told him. I sat back in the plush boudoir armchair, slung one leg over an arm, pushed aside the gusset of my knickers and began to delve into the slippery recesses, throwing my head back and shutting my eyes, imagining an audience crowded round me, brandishing twenty-pound notes. I squirmed on the velvet, flicking and plucking and plunging my fingers, pinching and squeezing my tits until I came hard, imagining applause, whistles, a shower of notes.

  Then there was real applause; the clapping of my very own audience, now sitting up again with a noticeable erection threatening to poke him in the eye.

  I glanced at the clock. Time was up.

  'You'd better go down,' I told him, yawning and rising reluctantly from the chair.

  'Hang on, though – for two hundred I should get another go, shouldn't I? I haven't even touched your pussy yet.'

  'Time's up,' I said briskly, stepping into my skirt. 'And you have a role-play to perform. Not such an interesting one as this, though.'

  'But I want to fuck you now,' he moaned.