This is the story of a single encounter from my life as a UK punter. I am middle-aged, male who, simply by staying with my firm for long enough, is over-promoted and overpaid for what I do. Mostly, I tell other people what to do and then get them to write a report on it. I then have meetings with other middle-aged men who do the same as me, we compare the reports and decide it's not quite good enough. We then issue 'targets'. This, in brief is British management in action. The point of telling you this is to explain how I have enough spare time and cash to fuel my lifestyle. I have no relationships outside the sex industry. I have a lot of sex (if that's what you could call it) and I like it that way.
Boom and bust effects the fortunes of the North disproportionately to those of the South. Today's millionaire can quickly subside into tomorrow's foreclosed bankrupt up here. Sometimes, these temporarily rich entrepreneurs have time to leave a legacy in the landscape; a spread with a quad garage, fifty rooms and, of course, a pool. One such place is the setting for the incident I am going to narrate.
The original, rambling structure is now cheaply subdivided and re-branded as 'Valentina's Spa Retreat'; a brothel in all but name. It sits just outside a drab, Yorkshire town you may well never have heard of, but where I happen to live. Among its myriad rooms is one named 'The Aqua Suite'; in fact, a wet room from the time when Valentina's was private mansion. It had been part of the spa arrangements adjoining the inevitable swimming pool. The pool has been filled in to create extra parking, but all that plumbing is still being put to good use.
The pretty young woman who conducted me from Reception downstairs looked like a school leaver to me -- hell of a first job - I remember thinking as we went down the dim corridor decorated with art-porn and smelling of air freshener. I followed to the very end door. She produced keys that were chained somewhere beneath her smart, little jacket and pushed it open. After the scant illumination of the stairs and landing, the brightness within was startling.
"Go in, please" she nodded pleasantly "and just mind the step-over for me. That's lovely."
I picked my feet over the raised lip she had pointed out and took in the scene of the drama to come.
The walls were tiled in the expensive good taste of a couple of decades ago. The ceiling was clustered with overpowered inset spots. They glittered on taps, showerheads and fittings and lent a sort of clinical mercilessness to the space, at odds with the warm, blousy, tattiness of the rest of establishment. The only other thing in the room was a tall, chrome and plastic bar stool set over the central floor drain.
I had never been in this particular room before. One or other of the many bedrooms had been the setting for my earlier ceremonies in this establishment and conducted with other girls. My hostess for today was also new to me; Mistress Amanda.
"You can put your things in the cage on the back of the door" continued the school leaver, still standing on the carpeted side of the door. "Your lady will be with you in five minutes, okay? Lovely."
It was only after door had closed leaving me looking at the wire basket meant for my clothes and possessions that I began to quail a little.
What the hell was I doing? Putting myself through this? This, of all things! And paying how much for it? Again!'
Just the usual self-doubting, self-tormenting litany, in fact.
My cooler, kinkier head replied.
Stop torturing yourself - someone else is about to take care of that for you. Too late now, anyway. Let it come. Welcome. Enjoy. You know how.
As I went through this calming mantra in my mind, shirt, trousers, underwear, watch were shed until I found myself naked almost by surprise.
How long? Maybe three minutes. Oh my God, any moment it begins.
With a low-level panic, I realised that I had not thought how she should find me.
Standing? No. Kneeling. But where? In front of the bar stool throne, head bowed.
As I moved to this position, I heard voices coming into range down the hallway.
"...every single time, I swear! And God, he was so grateful about it! Right, I'm in with another client now. Speak to you about that thing tomorrow, ok?" The voice was richly female, humorous, confident; flat, local vowels but with an urban easiness.
The floor was hard under my knees and toes.
Oh, fuck, it's now!
The door opened and the only barrier was gone.
Instantly, I knew there were two of them. I really hoped it wasn't the school leaver again. My buttocks tightened and I coloured in hot shame.
Three seconds crawled into by in complete silence as they weighed me up; my fingers sought my brow in an automatic gesture of embarrassment.
"Put your hands down" came her instruction; unhurried, mature, authority. My hand fell like a puppet. I pictured how I must look to them, a pale figure with thinning hair and thickening waistline, indecently nude in a cube of hard, white light, neck reddening.
Punter.
Meat.
Money.
A single set of steps padded off back down the corridor and the Aqua Suite door closed once more. Just She and me. The familiar, dirty alchemy of base shame transmuted into hot, conflicted, pleasure began to bubble somewhere dark inside me.
"Down"
I fumbled with her single syllable, not knowing quite...
"Get down on the floor, I want to climb into my seat. Your back, my step - okay?" she explained with mock patience, a teacher with an awkward adolescent.
The clop of a high heel on tile and then a careful knife in the back, a jerk and twist of overpowering load with bitter pain arriving like a leering accomplice a half heartbeat behind. I thought she would simply use me like the tread of a stair and pass on but instead she settled her stance, two feet planted, hands (I assumed) on the stubby arms of the stool.
To take the uncompromising weight of a woman in high heels on naked flesh is the stuff of my waking dreams, but the reality never fails to shock with an overload of raw sensation. It is like being clamped in a vice with teeth - or fangs, perhaps. The urge to writhe away from cause of the hurt is primal but the sense of privilege at actual contact with the adored thing overcomes everything. Absurdly, you want to impress her with your endurance; serve her well as a good, solid step - her plinth. At the same time you are so aware of how any woman, even a prostitute, must despise a man who has a letch to put himself in that position.
"Good boy" she rewarded me after a few moments, "Does that hurt?"
Not expecting an answer she followed with,
"Are you married? I hope not because the way I'm going to mark you up won't be easy to explain."
And with that she very slowly drew the steel tip of her heel across the skin of my naked shoulder. She mirrored the action with her other heel, furrowing rib to hip and then again back to the first, with a slightly different path across my flesh. And on, and on, punctuating the lazy, agonizing choreography with little stamps and grindings of her stilettoed feet.
I was in ecstasy. At moments of humiliating lust as pure as this, I honestly think I would allow myself to be killed if it pleased my lady. I wanted her to annihilate me then, carelessly, beneath the scrawping and stabbing of her feminine, whorish, magnificent shoes.
And all at once, it was over. She swung into the stool and left me sobbing with emotion and pain an inch below her crossed legs, utterly unable to speak. I think she would have continued the torture until I was reduced to that state no matter what, so it was probably as well for my ripped-up body that I broke so soon.
"My shoes aren't clean" she stated, leaving me to infer her wishes. I crawled from my hunched position and began to lick at the soles of her stilettos which I found tilted upwards on her flexed foot and to be slightly sticky with the fluids from my wounds. I licked earnestly, genuinely wanting to make things perfect for her.
