by Shari Low
Ten minutes later, a very relaxed Roxy slid back into her chair. Mitch pointed to the two fresh drinks on the table.
‘I got you another.’
Roxy picked it up and downed it in one go.
‘Are you okay? You look, erm, weird.’
Roxy very fastidiously put her empty glass back down on the table.
‘You know, your chat-up lines really need work. I’m fine. I’m absolutely fine. I’m…’
Thump. Crash.
The noise was so loud that the domino team even took their eyes from the game.
One of the ladies’ darts team, in mid-throw, missed the board and speared a poster advertising the forthcoming karaoke night.
And two pissed-off teenagers took advantage of the diversion to steal ten pounds from a kitty in the middle of a table near the door.
And Mitch…Mitch wondered just how he was going to get an unconscious woman home to bed.
Client Record–Classification Code 1
Stephen Knight
Credit card: 2045 4512 2367 0134
Contact No: 06767 667434
Client Since: June 2006
History: Most Recent Visits (21+ archived).
25.06.07 Camilla Pref. Explicit language, sex toys
01.07.07 Antoinette Domination, explicit language
04.07.07 Mimi, Georgina Viewing onlyg–no participation
14.07.07 Coco Film-set fantasy-business suit/clipboard
23.07.07 Natalya Film-set fantasy-business suit/clipboard
02.08.07 Mimi, Coco Viewing and participation, edible enhancement
12.08.07 Destiny, Mimi, Coco Batman fantasy/Catgirl suit (Destiny)
15.08.07 Destiny Batman fantasy/Catgirl suit
16.08.07 Deedee Submission, restraints
23.08.07 Mimi, Georgina, Megan Full participation, edible enhancement
01.09.07 Deedee Submission, restraints
08.09.07 Angelina Role play–George Clooney
10.09.07 Destiny Batman fantasy/Catgirl suit
12.09.07 Mimi, Deedee, Ceecee, Coco, Destiny, Camilla Master/harem
19.09.07 Destiny No sex–client meltdown–age crisis
24.09.07 Mimi, Camilla Kidnap fantasy-Charlie’s Angels
08.10.07 Camilla Role play–Brad Pitt, submission
Props/Costumes:
Business Suit/clipboard Restraints/handcuffs
Catgirl suit Leather whip (no visible marks)
Porn (preference for girl/girl)
Refreshments:
Jack Daniels, Champagne (Bollinger)
Edible enhancements: cream, honey, grapes, peanut butter
Preparations:
Edible enhancements available, superhero costumes on standby.
Additional Info:
Birthday: 12 September
Make no references to age, ageing process, success of other A-list stars (esp: Christian Bale, George Clooney, Brad Pitt, Orlando Bloom) and reassure regularly that he does not need hair transplant.
Own transport provided.
If credit card rejected, call management immediately for reimbursement.
EIGHT
These Boots are Made for Walking
Ginny. Day 6, Friday, 9 p.m.
‘Careful that tassel doesn’t end up in your soup.’ Ginny casually gestured to the collection of six-inch-long silver and gold threads–one end attached to a perfectly formed rosebud nipple, the other end dangling precariously over the edge of a bowl of Heinz minestrone.
‘Thanks, hon. I’d take them off but they’re a bugger to get back on again and my next client is due in ten minutes.’
Destiny stood up, picked up her bowl and teetered over to the sink. Ginny marvelled at how she could walk in shoes so high: two-inch platforms rising to six-inch heels of translucent silver Perspex, with an inch-wide strip of clear plastic holding the shoe onto the foot.
Plastic and rubber products, Ginny had discovered, were big in Hookersville. There were the PVC outfits, the plastic shoes, the masks, the vibrators, the dildos, the whips, the clamps and the condoms. Oh, and the plastic sheeting that was used when the ‘golden shower’ clients were in attendance, but Ginny preferred to push that whole scenario to the furthest recesses of her mind.
And then there was the plastic surgery.
Charlotte, Deedee, Camilla, Antoinette, Mimi and Georgina: breasts.
Camilla, Antoinette, Angelina, Megan and Coco: lips. And hopefully the swelling from Coco’s latest treatment would go down soon because at the moment she looked like she could plunge sinks.
Camilla, Ceecee and Natalya: nose jobs.
Camilla: vaginal rejuvenation. Her favourite, most regular client was a very famous, innovative cosmetic surgeon so she’d had no hesitation in putting her crotch in his dexterous hands. Made a change from the other way around. Apparently her lady-garden now had a grip like a vice and could shoot ping-pong balls for fifty feet.
Destiny, however, was purely as the gods of Physical Perfection had intended. Her naked body looked like it had been intricately carved from the smoothest marble. Or at least it would do if it wasn’t currently adorned with a sparkly thong, two swinging tassels and a pair of bright yellow fur-topped marigolds. Five feet, eight inches tall, Halle Berry elfin-cut hair, and caramel skin that was a genetic gift from a white mother and a Jamaican father. She was truly, truly beautiful. And naked.
Destiny had pretty much taken Ginny under her wing from the minute they met (Ginny: black Armani shift dress. Destiny: black rubber catsuit, three-foot tail and holes cut for protruding breasts) and they’d become, well, friends. In fact, with the exception of Charlotte, who hadn’t cast more than an irritated glance in her direction since their tense encounter on Ginny’s first afternoon, all of the girls had been very open and sweet. And, of course, naked. She had never seen so many nude body parts in her life. The staffroom was female-only, so nobody gave a second thought to modesty or inhibitions.
Ginny took a bite of her tuna mayonnaise sandwich and marvelled at how quickly she’d become attuned to her new environment. She realised that in a strange way her baptism of fire had been the best thing that could possibly have happened. Or rather, her baptism by two fake medics, forty feet of white crepe bandages and a ten-inch appendage that was pointing at the chandelier. It seemed to have got the shock out of her system, and after that, well…it was kind of like chickenpox–once you’ve dealt with it once, you build up an immunity.
Since then, the challenges and surprises she’d faced were easier to deal with, although for the first couple of days everyone did think she had a skin complaint because her face permanently beamed red with embarrassment…
Embarrassment that she didn’t know what she was doing.
Embarrassment that she was dealing with men who, five minutes later, would be wearing short trousers and begging to be spanked.
Embarrassment that she spent all her breaktime staring at the floor because every other line of sight included naked anatomy.
Meeting most of the staff for the first time hadn’t quite matched that first encounter on the Richter scale, but could definitely be classed as a significant aftershock. She’d been sitting at the desk for a couple of hours on, thankfully, that relatively slow Monday afternoon, when Sam had come out and announced she could take a break.
She’d shaken her head nervously. ‘That’s okay, I’m fine here, really I am,’ she’d replied nervously.
Sam hadn’t budged.
‘Ginny, you have to take a break–I don’t want a reputation as an employer of slave labour.’
She’d searched his features to see if he was joking. Hard to tell. Words implied jolly camaraderie, but tone and mask-like facial expression implied matter-of-fact moodiness. Strange, because she definitely remembered him being on the sunny side of brooding hunk when she’d met him at Roxy’s party. Now he was emanating that whole Bruce Willis/José Mourinho broodiness that some females found irresistible. Ginny just found it deeply unsettling and more than a littl
e scary.
‘Ginny…?’
Shit, he was still standing there, anticipation obvious.
She’d jumped up and nervously looked around her. ‘Sorry, can’t remember which way the staffroom is.’
His face had softened a little, either in sympathy or pity, as he’d gestured towards the door into the back corridor. ‘Through there, turn left, first door on the right.’
She’d tentatively smiled as she’d stood up, then tripped over the leg of her chair and was only saved from possible fracture and definite indignity by Sam’s lightning reflexes as he grabbed her flailing hand and pulled her back up onto her feet. Her face could have doubled as an incendiary device.
‘Sorry,’ she’d blustered, gesturing to her feet. ‘New shoes, bit of a learning curve.’
There’d definitely been a hint of a smile on his face as he’d spoken this time. ‘Just try not to kill yourself between here and the staffroom–this is already Health and Safety’s favourite place to inspect.’
She’d followed his directions and breathed a sigh of relief when she reached the staffroom door. Ten minutes. Rest and relaxation. And hopefully a stash of Paracetamol for her headache.
She’d swung open the door and been greeted by new sight number two of the day–a completely naked female, her short, bobbed black hair tucked behind her ears, her white make-up and dramatically lined black eyes reminiscent of ancient Egypt. She had been balancing on one leg, while spreading what looked like chocolate sauce on her other leg, which was in a perpendicular position with her foot halfway up a wall.
‘Just in time!’ the strange but very flexible woman had announced in a mildly irritated tone. ‘Can you do my back and my bottom–I’m going to pull something if I try to do it myself.’
Ginny had racked her brain for the appropriate response. Was it:
Of course, no problem, please bend over.
Sorry, but it’ll put me right off my afternoon snack and I hate to miss my Jaffa Cakes.
Ermwellpffftermcanermermsure.
Naturally, Ginny had gone for the obvious choice of c). She’d picked up the tube of thick gunge, squeezed a large dollop onto her hands and proceeded to rub it tentatively across the female’s back.
‘I’m, erm, Ginny, by the way,’ she’d stuttered, anxious to detract in some way from the most excruciating thing that had happened in her life since, well, two and a half hours before.
‘Charlotte,’ had come the brusque reply. ‘And can you make sure you get right in under the butt cheeks because I don’t want lines.’
Ginny had raised her eyes heavenwards, offering up a silent, ‘God, you have got to be kidding me!’
Apparently not.
There had been no bolt of lightning. No sudden intervention by a crowd of jolly japers jumping out of a cupboard shouting, ‘Gotcha!’ No sniggering camera crew behind a plant pot.
Just a naturally grumpy, rude woman demanding that a virtual stranger apply fake tan to her buttocks.
Baptism of fire number two. And this one had left its mark. Tanning session over, Charlotte had impatiently snatched back the fake-tan tube and with a barely audible ‘Thanks’ stomped out of the room, leaving Ginny red-faced, sweating, with hands the colour of Tango, having received a fast-track lesson in ‘Modesty is a wasted virtue: discuss’.
It had taken a couple more days of extreme exposure for her ‘embarrassment in the face of nudity’ gene to fully desensitise, but now?
‘Nice thong,’ Ginny commented nonchalantly as Destiny washed up her dishes. ‘Don’t the sequins come off in the machine though?’
‘Handwash only. Want me to get one for you? I’m shopping tomorrow, I could pick one up.’
Ginny laughed as loudly as the mouthful of tuna mayonnaise would allow.
‘Thanks, D, but I’ll pass. Don’t think I’d ever have the opportunity to wear it.’
‘What? Not even for that boyfriend you’re always talking about?’
The tuna caught a giggle on the way up from her throat. ‘Definitely not for that man I’m always talking about–the shock would probably kill him.’
‘Then, honey, you need to find yourself a new man.’
Destiny pulled off her marigolds and checked her watch. ‘Better go. The next one likes to be locked in the cupboard and I haven’t cleared it out yet. Are you coming out with us tonight?’
Ginny shook her head.
‘No, think I’ll pass. I’m on again at ten tomorrow morning and I didn’t bring a change of clothes with me.’
‘Aw, come on. You look great,’ Destiny cajoled her.
And that, Ginny accepted with only a mild flush of the cheeks, was the truth.
She’d lost a couple of pounds–no doubt due to chronic tea and HobNob deprivation. Then, a couple of days before, Destiny had taken her to an ubër-trendy hairdressing salon in Knightsbridge for a sharp new hairstyle. It had been like saying a traumatic goodbye to an old friend–albeit one with split ends, a tendency to frizz and more than a few premature signs of greyness.
Actually, just walking into the salon had been terrifying. It was a veritable explosion of chrome, glass and crystal, with chic, black-clad stylists at every chair, cutting and drying the crowning glories of champagne-sipping, impeccably groomed clients. Her normal hairdressing experience was absolutely nothing like this–but then, having a cup of tea while her mother gave her a quick trim with the pruning shears in the kitchen was never going to be in the same league as the ultimate in cutting-edge coiffures.
Andre, her personal consultant, had managed to hide his horror well as he attempted to run his fingers through her mane.
‘And vot product do you normally use, my dahling?’ he’d asked with more than an undertone of astonished dubiety.
‘Product?’
Destiny to the rescue.
‘Shampoo, conditioner, gel, mousse, that kind of thing,’ she’d prompted encouragingly.
‘Oh…er, none of those. I just use some of that all-in-one-shampoo-and-conditioner stuff.’
Andre’s eyes had widened and he’d gasped so dramatically that for a few horrifying moments Ginny wondered if he’d swallowed his tongue and would require the administration of the Heimlich manoeuvre.
‘Just do your stuff, Andre,’ Destiny had cajoled him. ‘Make her fabulous.’
And fabulous she now was.
He’d started by doing some kind of reverse perm thing that had beaten her mane of frizz into submission and rendered it straight and pliable. Then he’d highlighted the area around her face with a soft blonde that made her green eyes pop out and her skin glow. And finally, he’d put her hair into a middle parting and cut in some long chunky layers to add beautiful movement and texture (his effusive words, not hers). Afterwards, on Destiny’s instructions, a beautician had shaped her eyebrows (borderline sadism), applied eyelash extensions (two caterpillars on her eyelids), sprayed her with an all-over fake tan and given her a French manicure so gorgeous she’d been overcome with the urge to wave to passing strangers. In the space of four hours she’d been transformed from an unremarkable-looking woman with hair that closely resembled a welcome mat to Reese Witherspoon’s cute sister.
Cognisant of the fact that she’d have to replicate the new hairstyle on a daily basis, she’d spent hours practising styling her new locks with those GHB things.
She was definitely getting the hang of them–by this morning she’d managed to get it down to forty minutes and only three burns requiring treatment with antiseptic cream.
As for the face, Goldie Gilmartin, national treasure, had shown her how to take five minutes to apply make-up that made her look like she’d spent an hour being beautified by Elizabeth Arden.
But of course, it was Roxy’s clothes that should take a large chunk of the credit for the transformation. Today she was in a slate-grey Roland Mouret Galaxy dress–not this season, but who cared when it made her look like Jessica Rabbit from the neck down–and Christian Louboutin black patent leather platforms with pee
p-toes and fishnet tights. Her feet were going to resemble a string vest when she took them off, but it was worth it.
Even Sam had complimented her that morning. He’d nodded as he passed her, broken into a barely discernible smile, and said, ‘You look good today,’ in a quiet, understated tone.
Okay, so it wasn’t exactly gushing praise, but she’d come to realise that for Sam that was damn well close to a drum roll and trumpets. He was always very sweet, very polite, very civil. He always seemed patient when he was training her on something new. He regularly asked how Roxy was getting on. He was never irritable, or angry, or moody–yet she had a real feeling that he was definitely on the Prozac side of the happy scale.
Her phone started to vibrate and she checked the screen, expecting another hysterical text from Roxy. She’d already decided to ignore it. Cruel–but this whole thing had come about because Roxy was being her usual impetuous, petulant self and Ginny had decided that a wee taste of normality and accountability would be character-building. Okay, so she was making that up. The truth was that she was having a blast and she’d be buggered if Roxy’s perpetual fits of dramatic, self-indulgent pique were going to cut it short. For once in their lives, Ginny was calling the shots. She was in charge, feeling fearless, and could handle anything life threw at her. Except…DARREN.
One word written along a mobile-phone screen; one stomach doing a flip, and two hands starting to tremble.
Crap.
She contemplated letting it go to voicemail but she knew he’d just keep calling back until she answered. He was persistent that way. Some might say ‘stubborn’, but she preferred ‘tenacious’. Now that he’d finally, finally, deemed to call her, she knew she had to speak to him. Just as soon as she managed to shift from ‘speechless apprehension’ to ‘capable of conversation’.
As the days had gone on, Ginny had realised Roxy had been lying when she had initially claimed that Darren had taken the news of her Houdini act well–a hunch backed up by the absence of any contact for the rest of the week. She’d texted him–no reply. She’d called his mobile phone–no answer. She’d called his home–his mother said he was out.