Plying My Trade!

You how it is... there's a knock at the door. You are probably upstairs but you think - maybe just maybe this is important. So you go down and open the door and find someone with a clipboard and a lanyard on, and in London the first words he or she will say to you is "I'm not selling anything and I don't want money." This is departing completely from the script a market researcher is given to introduce themselves, but believe me it's necessary in this city. Take it from someone who knows.

I am the person who always knocks on the door at the wrong time, I'm worse than a debt collector. And I'm cunning too, because I hide my clipboard altogether until I get in your house. The lanyard is also out of sight so you won't see my identification through your spy hole but by the time you've opened the door I will have whipped it out so it is hanging on display, as per company rules.

You might be cooking, or on the telephone, in the toilet or engaged in one of countless activities. There's a quiet, discreet non-threatening knock. You open the door and I'm standing there. I do nothing so crude as to thrust my identification in your face. I'll smile and sweetly say I am not selling or after your money, but I would value your opinion on a survey concerning a number of topical issues. I'll try and make you feel as if it's only your thoughts that are important to me. If you object I'll always have a response to everything you might come up with. I'll come back if you're eating, working, shagging or whatever. In short I can be a pain in the arse and even a bully at times, but a very charming one.

The thorn in the side for most market researchers is being allocated an area with a block of flats in it, because it is so hard to get admission into this type of building. It's very rare that a resident will let you in if they can't see you, although I have had it happen. If you sneak in with someone, there is often a ruthless enemy waiting to eject you -- the concierge. Some will turn a blind eye if you aren't causing a problem but others will kick you straight out, especially in snotty, luxury apartment blocks around the Waterloo area. I'm normally very polite, but in these types of places I wouldn't even think having the courtesy to go to the reception desk to ask if I can knock on doors. I know the answer will be no.

I have to try it on to get what I want -- and believe me I will.

I know it so well, the sound of footsteps coming in the distance as I slip round a block of flats, trying to ply my trade. Hiding in a stairwell, or going in a lift to another floor delays ejection somewhat, but in the end a concierge will always find me and ask me to leave, saying they will call the police if I come back in. I never argue but just let them escort me out, because I have a plan in place.

My knee length skirt covers black stockings and suspenders... the business jacket hides a very low cut black leather top that shows off my secret weapons to their best advantage...

In the lift or on the stairs I might drop my folder so papers fall out everywhere. Sneakily unbutton my jacket as I kneel to pick them up, showing off what nature gave me more than my fair share of -- and believe me it's a hell of a lot more. A flash of black stockings so quick a concierge will wonder if he dreamed it. If he is kind enough to kneel down and help me pick my things up, he might even experience a Sharon Stone moment, and he wonders if what he thought he saw was his imagination. But when I look into his eyes as I am leaving he knows it isn't, and that I meant him to see.

So he calls me back....

And at reception writes something on a piece of paper and gives it to me. Then putting his hand on the small of my back walks me to the door and gently pushes me out. I look at the piece of paper to find that an address is written on it with a time.

The next day I go there at the appointed time and the man opens the door to me. I give my set introduction and he asks me then tells me to sit down. I begin the interview but very soon he begins touching my hair... my face... my neck. As I trying to keep talking he nibbles at my collar bone and slides his hands into my bra and brings my nipples up before sucking on them and kissing them.

Suddenly he tells me to stand up. He bends me over and slides up my skirt to reveal my huge, white bottom. He looks at it for a minute before raising his palm and slapping down hard. I yelp with the pain. "Never try and get it my block to work again -- do I make myself clear?" is all he says and I understand what I am being spanked for, as tears well up in my eyes.

Soon I start to wonder if I am going to be able to sit down the next few days, but to my relief he stops and slides off the rest of my clothing before telling me to spread as wide as I can. Then he unzips himself and slides into me. And I just take it.

xxx