‘Via who?’
He gave a dismissive flap of his hand. ‘You know, the usual shit. Pay through the nose, agree on the scene, fix a time, report back to – ‘
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I said.
I’m not sure if that was when my pawn became a queen but I did enjoy seeing Mack’s face turn a little pale.
After a few emails, I got to the bottom of it. Turns out my membership had been mistakenly reactivated when another woman by the name of Alison Harris had signed up. I don’t know who she is. I worry she’s still hanging around some dingy street corner, waiting to get kidnapped. Anyway, Mack’s a member of the Caesar society too and when he spotted me out with his mate, Dave, he recognised me from my old Caesar profile. Mack being a dodgy bastard thought he’d cut out the middle man and arrange a threesome with Dave’s involvement – except he hadn’t counted on me intercepting their messages and uninvolving Dave.
And the codes? ‘Just a laugh,’ said Mack. ‘Spice it up a bit, you helping to arrange your own kidnap and not having a clue. ’Cept you did have a clue cos you’re smarter than us.’
You can say that again. I got on to The Caesar Society and kicked up an almighty fuss about their error. Result? Major financial compensation for me and Mack, plus heaps of gratitude for our ‘discretion’. In other words, they bought us off, terrified I’d go to the cops.
I like Mack. We understand each other. Best of all, we’ve decided to blow the money on a holiday to Sweden. He’s going to snatch me in the capital and hold me hostage in our hotel room. And we’re going to play out our very own Stockholm Syndrome, my abductor subjecting me to all manner of unspeakably sexy acts as I fall increasingly in love with him. And I’m going to send a postcard to Dave, labelled ‘2’, and it will say:
OCEM JCU MKFPCRRGF OA JGCTV
Which means: Mack has kidnapped my heart.
About the Story
ABOUT TEN YEARS AGO, I worked in London’s Soho as a sub-editor on a couple of adult magazines. Our offices felt isolated from the local hustle and bustle, and the job was fairly dull to me. Most of my days were spent in a small fourth-floor room adjoining an open-plan office. There were bars on the windows.
I got to know Soho’s streets during my lunch hour or when I was sent out on strange errands. I remember one morning trawling sex shops for a pair of size-three stilettos which I then had to deliver to a nearby studio where a model and photographer were waiting to do a shoot. Sex shops at 10 a.m. are absurd, joyless places. Many aspects of Soho feel like that during office hours whereas in the evening, when the neon is glowing, a sleazy darkness comes alive. You can sense the contained excitement, the furtive lusts and shame. Risk hangs in the air.
I’m horribly fascinated by magic’s tendency to become bleak and cracked in the cold light of day. I see that degeneration as laying bare desire’s power to push us to do preposterous, and sometimes dangerous, things. I’m equally captivated by secrets and seediness. So much of Soho takes place behind closed doors and is never spoken of again. The selling of sex – or rather, of women and women’s bodies – ranges from the blatant to the covert. The brightly advertised strip clubs and cinemas are easy to spot but look closer and you notice ordinary-looking doorways where only a handwritten note advertising French girls alerts you to the existence of a brothel.
It’s interesting to see that shady world co-existing with the hipper, slicker world of media and publishing. In some ways, having a job on a top-shelf mag put me in both camps but I never felt I belonged in Soho. The area encourages anonymity; it feels like a city at its most intense. I don’t think you can ever really know it; so much is unseen. In The Caesar Society, I was trying to capture that sense of feeling close to something hidden, hence the use of codes, the suggestion of clandestine networks and a criminal underbelly. I also wanted to draw on Soho’s atmosphere of menacing masculinity and transform that so it became about active female desire. I think it’s quite a romantic piece – in a sleazy, brutish kind of way.
The Champagne Whore
by Lily Harlem
SLUT RED, THAT’S THE only way to describe the shocking colour of my new lipstick; sticky, shiny, slutty red.
Perfect.
My working dress is also slut red, a daring halter-neck that leaves my slim, golden shoulders bare and the cleavage open to an inch below my rather modest breasts.
Clicking my patent slut-red heels through the grand lobby I especially like the way the soft material moves around my legs. It swishes just above my knees, not in a tight clinging way, but in a gentle flowing way that gives just a hint of the toned thighs and hips beneath.
I’m wearing fishnet stockings, a tight mesh that suits my small frame; hold-ups as opposed to a suspender belt, can’t have lumps and bumps ruining the sleek lines of my figure.
The overall look is just as I intended, it befits a high-class whore and suits the exclusive Grosvenor House Hotel on Park Lane; the venue I’ve picked for tonight’s sales pitch.
I glance at the display of exotic flowers flooding an antique mahogany table and sense the concierge looking my way. I strut a little more confidently, as if I belong, as if I am entitled to be here. I am – why shouldn’t I be? I’m performing a service the same way he is.
Before me heavy double doors are propped open and a gold sign overhead reads ‘Champagne Bar’ in black writing. I walk in and the atmosphere mellows from the stiffly formal lobby to a distinguished but relaxed lounge. A huge fire blazes through subdued lighting and an excess of contemporary leather seating is dotted about.
There is a sleek bar and three middle-aged men in suits lean casually against it, drinks half-drunk, chatting in a familiar way. One of them looks at me; turns, comments, then they all scan me up and down. I give just the barest tilt of my lips and step around them. The floor here is thickly carpeted and my trip-trapping heels fall silent.
‘Good evening,’ one of the men says as I draw parallel.
‘Hi,’ I say.I quicken my pace and choose a stool around the far end of the bar. Behind me is a window, a huge expanse of black glass which glistens as the lights of Park Lane traffic fractures through the millions of raindrops streaking its surface.
The barman is attentive and I’ve barely seated myself and placed my slut-red purse on the bar when he’s over. ‘Champagne, madam.’ He stands a tall flute of golden bubbles in front of me. ‘Compliments of the three gentlemen.’
I raise the glass, smile and mouth cheers to the three men who are staring at me with hopeful expressions. But I don’t let my attention linger, they’re not my type, a bit old, a bit samey, not at all hunky.
I’m fussy – really fussy.
I can afford to be. I have a roof over my head, money in the bank and two kids doing rather well at private school. Being discerning about customers is a luxury I allow myself.
The bar is half full and as I savour the deliciously dry bubbles popping on the roof of my mouth, I check out the clientele. Several couples sit cosy on over-stuffed sofas, a few groups laugh with reserved mirth so as not to disturb the gentle ambiance and a pianist tinkles away near the fire; something lazily jazzy, un-intrusive and mellow.
There are two single men; one reads a broadsheet in a bucket chair by a table lamp and the other has a laptop on his knee and a glass of red wine in his hand. Neither looks my type, but it’s OK, I know I’ll get lucky if I bide my time.
I take another sip of champagne and my attention is caught by a shadow looming in the double doorway. A big bulk of a man is briefly silhouetted before he strides onto the carpeted area. He wears a charcoal-grey suit which fits his wide, six foot-plus frame to perfection and my heart does a happy flip of hope; he’s so my type.
I’ve always had a thing for men with that overdosed-on-testosterone look. Big, burly chunks of muscle do seriously funny things to my stomach, my knees and somewhere else in-between. I find myself hoping his wallet is deep enough for me to have a good time as well as him. Not just a req
uest for a quick blow-job – that’s not my style. My rate is for the night, not individual acts, unless it gets kinky, then it’s an open court for discussion and depends on my mood.
He stands at the bar beside the men who sent me champagne, dwarfing them as he catches the barman’s attention. I lip-read his order of bottled beer, exactly what I’d have predicted, then I pout and run a hand through my long dark hair as his brooding gaze scans my way.
But his glance hits me so briefly and with such lack of interest I wonder if he’s even noticed me summing him up. I try not to crease my forehead into a frown, reach into my purse and pull out a gold compact and my slut-red lipstick.
I keep my eye on the hunk.
He signs the drink to his room and the sight of his big-man hands tip me over the edge. That’s it. He’s my target for tonight; no one else will do. It’s him or nothing.
He moves to take a seat nearer me, but not at the bar, a creased brown leather armchair next to a Tiffany lamp and with a view of Park Lane. I settle into re-applying lipstick and peer at his face over the compact. He has a strong, square jaw that protrudes slightly, giving him an air of pride, his nose looks like that of a rugby player, or a boxer. His mouth is wide and soft. I watch fascinated as he licks a drip of beer from his bottom lip and leans meaty shoulders back into the chair.
‘Another champagne?’ A quiet voice at my side jolts me from my study. I re-focus and see the shorter of the three men from the bar standing at my side.
‘No, I’m fine thank-you,’ I say watching his thin weasel moustache twitch.
‘Perhaps a night-cap, a brandy perhaps, the hour is getting late.’ He nods at the over-sized clock behind the bar which shows eleven.
‘No, really, I’m fine.’ I tuck away my compact and lipstick. ‘Thank you so much for this one though.’ I hold up the nearly empty glass.
‘Well,’ he says, and leans in so close I can smell his musty aftershave. ‘I’m sure we could come to some sort of arrangement for you to say thank you properly.’ He places a clammy hand on my bare arm.
I swallow tightly.
This is not what I want. Not by a long shot.
‘The lady said no.’ A deep voice growls.
Weasel man turns and comes face to chest with the hunk I’d been happily admiring until a few moments ago. ‘What’s it to you?’ he questions in a squeaky voice.
‘She’s my date.’ Hunk moves closer and Weasel side-steps around the corner of the bar to avoid becoming trapped. ‘You got a problem with that?’ Hunk adds with a scowl.
‘No, no, not at all, I just thought she was alone … you were sitting over there.’
‘Not any more.’
‘OK, OK.’ Weasel holds up his hands as if in surrender. ‘No harm done, sorry mate.’
I watch with relief as he heads back to his friends giving a forced nonchalant shrug as he goes. ‘Thanks,’ I say releasing a genuine smile up at my rescuer.
I get one raised eyebrow in reply.
‘Would you like to er … join me?’ I ask.
He bangs his beer on the bar, pulls up a stool and sits down– very close. ‘I’d better now I’ve told them you’re my date.’
‘I really appreciate it, unwanted attention can be a hazard for a woman like me.’
The same thick black eyebrow lifts again as his eye-line drops to my displayed cleavage. ‘I’m guessing you want attention wearing that dress.’
‘Oh, yes.’ With a dainty flick of my tongue I lick my freshly glossed top lip. ‘But I only like attention from a certain type of man.’
‘And what type would that be, no …’ he holds up his palm. ‘Let me guess … the rich type.’
‘Rich works, so does …’ I pretend to be thoughtful, rest an index finger against my temple. ‘So does … handsome.’
He snorts and rocks his head back. ‘That rules me out then.’
I make a show of slowlydropping my eyes from his buzz-cut dark hair, over his slightly stubbled, rugged face and then down his suit, all the way to his shiny leather shoes, one of which rests on the gold bar of his stool. ‘Another glass of champagne and I think you’d be very handsome to a woman like me.’
‘Champagne it is.’ He holds a hand up to the barman and using sign language orders two glasses. ‘You gonna tell me your name?’ He turns his attention back to me.
‘Ruby.’
‘Ruby.’ He nods slowly. ‘And tell me Ruby, what do you do for a living?’
‘Can’t you tell?’ I reach for the fresh champagne the barman has placed next to me.
‘I want to hear you to say it out loud.’ His knowing eyes bore into mine; they’re so dark they have no gap between pupil and iris.
‘You want me to say it?’
‘Sure, then we’ll know where we stand and I won’t make a cock-up that’ll earn me a slap.’
‘OK.’ I tip my head and hold eye contact. ‘I’m a whore.’
He grins and flashes a neat row of white teeth. ‘A whore.’ He rolls the word around his mouth. ‘A whore. Ruby the whore. I think just whore is a better name, forget the Ruby.’
I shrug. ‘Whatever turns you on …er …?’ I extend the sentence wondering if he’ll offer his name.
‘You don’t need to call me anything.’ He lifts his champagne to his lips and takes a deep sip. His silver wedding band twinkles in the headlights of a passing Bentley. ‘You want to set up a deal, Whore,’ he says.
I like him calling me whore; he says it with such deliciousness; he savours each syllable and ekes out the ‘r’ at the end. His mouth plays with the word and I hope he wants to play with me that way. ‘A deal,’ I say, knowing I must stop fantasising and think business. ‘What have you got in mind?’
He leans his head to mine, moves my long hair with the back of his hand and whispers into my ear. ‘A quick fuck in the toilets.’
The request doesn’t even deserve a response so I tilt my chin in the air with a haughty flick.
‘Too downmarketfor a whore like you, eh?’
‘I could have had that with them.’ I nod at the three guys at the bar ordering more drinks. ‘I’m not up for that, not with you.’
‘So what are you up for?’
‘The whole night or nothing. Sex, foreplay, a soap down in the shower. Eight hours from the time we get to your room.’
‘How do you know I have a room?’ He frowns.
‘I saw you sign your tab earlier.’
‘You were watching me?’
‘Why not? You look like you have deep pockets.’
A deep rumble of laughter spills from his lips. ‘Not all I got in my pocket,’ he says as he shifts his weight on the stool.
I smile but stay in business mode, cross my legs and hook a heel on the bar of my own stool. ‘Fifteen hundred for the night.’
The smile slips from his face. ‘You must be joking, you got a gold-plated pussy or something?’
‘I never joke about money.’
‘Me neither, seven hundred and fifty.’
‘Thirteen hundred.’
‘How do I know you’re any good? You might shag like a sack of potatoes.’
‘I can assure you I’ve never had complaints before, the odd heart attack yes, but no complaints.’
He props an elbow on the bar and leans in close. ‘One thousand,’ he murmurs. ‘For the whole night, my rules, I’m in charge– you do what I say.’
‘That could work.’ I pretend to mull it over and try not to look too excited at the deal about to be struck and what delights might lay ahead. His cool water aftershave and his intensely primitive stare are making me wet for him already.
‘But one thing first.’ He straightens and his suit jacket stretches across his chest.
‘What?’
‘Uncross your legs.’
‘Pardon?’
‘You heard what I said– I want to sample the goods before I cough up a grand.’
‘You want to sample the goods … here?’
‘Oh, yeah, right
here, right now, my rules, remember?’
I unfurl my legs and slide to the edge of the bar stool, grateful that apart from a few drivers whizzing along Park Lane I’m hidden from view to everyone in the Champagne Bar. He stands, nudges my legs further open and reaches back to pull his stool closer; sits back down.
I take a sip of champagne and feel a thrill as a cool finger sneaks up the hem of my dress onto my fishnets. I make a point of not reacting to the burst of pleasure as he winds higher and higher on to the warm flesh of my thigh. The material of my dress is bunched and rucked around his wrist and his wandering fingers find and sweep the silk gusset of my lace panties.
I don’t look down though I know I’m on show, exposed, instead I hold a serene, confident expression as his unblinking eyes drill into mine.
‘You’re hot,’ he whispers. ‘Are you wet, too?’
‘Just for you.’ I squirm onto his inquisitive finger.
‘Dirty little whore,’ he mouths, a twitch catching his upper lip and a wicked glint sharding through his eyes. He pulls the elastic of my knickers aside and a single thick finger strokes up the soft folds of my now hyper-sensitive flesh and flicks over my buzzing clitoris. Just once, just enough to tease and make me want more.
I pull in a sharp breath and try not to let out a whimper as the barman walks over and removes our empty glasses.
‘Would you like more champagne, sir?’ he asks.
The exploring finger heads lower and begins to slowly push into my emptiness, filling me just a little. I can barely register what the question has been.
‘We’re fine thanks,’ Hunk answers for me as he slides all the way in. I feel my spine soften and curl forward. I need more of what he’s doing but I can’t have it now, not here. I look up at the barman and see a fleeting, unreadable expression cross his face before he turns his back on us.
The finger pulls slowly out, knickers realign, and my dress is straightened to my knees. ‘Well?’ I ask, feeling a flush of colour rise on my cheekbones as I re-cross my legs, pretending the whole thing never happened.
My brooding client props his elbow on the bar and the light catches my glistening juices spread on his middle finger. ‘Let’s see.’ He opens his mouth and pokes his long, moist finger in up to the knuckle. Then closing his eyes he withdraws it very, very slowly letting out a small murmur of approval as he does so. ‘I think …’ he says, hardly opening his hooded eyes. ‘You’ll do very nicely, but I’ll warn you, I don’t spend a thousand pounds lightly, I’ll be getting my money’s worth. You think you can handle that?’
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