Pretty Woman

If you liked the cheesy romance of the film, I can only say that this story is different! My characters don't resemble either Julia Roberts or Richard Gere. Everyone is over eighteen, and I hope you are if you are going to read on.

My history.

My name, I think, is Kate. Let me explain. My white-trash parents called me Katherine, way back in my trailer-park beginnings. All my friends, from grade school on, have called me Kate. My working name uses the other end of Katherine – Trina.

I got the hell out of my stepfather's life, but only after he had fucked my brains out, and almost before I had grown tits. I was on the streets of Richmond, my nearest big city, in no time at all.

There, almost straight away, I met Rufous, black and beautiful. He told me he loved me, and I believed him. We did coke together, and we fucked. He taught me how to give pleasure – and head. Then, one night, when I woke up from a way-out trip, I found I was in total darkness. Casting around me in a panic, I could only touch rough timber – I was in a packing-case, being jolted around in a vehicle. How I survived the journey, I shall never know. It went on forever, and I was weak with hunger and thirst, and stiff like you've never known when the vehicle stopped, and I felt my box being lifted up, and slammed down. Then I was suddenly blinded by light as planks were ripped off one side. My legs would scarcely carry me as I was dragged out, and I sat shivering in a dimly-lit room with three other girls of about my age. Nobody spoke.

I felt better when we had been given a big sandwich and a can of soda, but then we were all led off, given skimpy clothes to wear, and put to work in a bar, where about twenty girls had to hustle the clients, who mainly seemed to be lorry-drivers, into parting with their money for a quick fuck in one of about ten bedrooms. It was bearable, and the other girls were a lot of fun, but one day everything changed. Three of us were told to go and see the boss, a big, greasy-haired gorilla of a man, who sat smoking a massive cigar. He gave us each an envelope containing airline tickets and a passport. When I looked at mine, it was in the name of Rosa Montes, but my likeness stared at me from the back page, a slim, black-haired, white-faced girl with big brown eyes. We were driven to Mexico City airport, and it was only then that I found out where, exactly, I had been working.

We were met at Madrid Barajas airport, by two men, who led us to a minivan with blacked-out windows. An hour later, we were delivered to another club – I learned that the Spanish call them

puticlubs –

much more luxurious than the one we had been in in Mexico. We were kitted out with several sexy outfits and put to work. The clientele was better, and we got to keep a little money out of what we could screw out of the men for drinks. The other girls seemed to spend it all on cigarettes, but that was one vice I had never succumbed to. I stashed mine away behind the toilet cistern.

One day, I put on my 'off-duty' jeans and tee-shirt, and simply walked out. A lift from a nice old farmer, whose Spanish I struggled to follow, and then a bus into the centre of Madrid, where I did my best to 'get lost.'

It was, however, hopeless to try and find real work, so there I was, selling my pussy on the Avenida Castellana – next pitch to my new best friend, a coal-black

dominicana

called Bea.

My story begins there.

It was getting cool in Madrid, as summer waned, and the nights stopped being quite so pleasant. The other girls who worked in my area tended to wear minute miniskirts or shorts which tried to disappear up their cracks, and had their tits hanging mostly out of low-cut tops. I tried to be different, and, for the night when my story begins, wore a skin-tight black satin skirt, knee-length, with a long zipper down one side, or I could never have gotten into it, and a black nylon blouse, buttoned up the back and completely transparent, so that my firm breasts – of which I was quite proud – were entirely visible. Under the skirt I wore black hold-ups, and stood into patent black pumps with very high heels. I slung a white imitation fur bolero jacket over my shoulders, brushed my long black hair, and looked at myself in the cracked mirror in a corner of the tiny room in the fourth floor walk-up I shared with three other girls. The desired effect of a fifties tart was to my liking.

Bea whistled when she saw me clipping up the street in my heels. 'I could fuck you myself, darling,' she said.

'You couldn't afford me,' I quipped back. She gave me the finger.

It must have been around midnight on the quietest night in living memory when a sleek black Lexus crawled past, drawing interest from all the girls, one of whom I saw lift her skirt, showing the driver her naked pussy as he drove by.

'He slowed down right by me,' called Bea.

'Yeah, sure,' I said. Almost as soon as I had said that, the car, which must have sped around the block, drew up right beside me. I stepped off the kerb, and walked up to the passenger side window, which slid smoothly down. I found myself looking at the surprisingly young face of a surprisingly handsome guy, with longer-than-fashionable dark blond hair, and strikingly pale blue eyes.

'Can I do anything for you?' I asked – my usual opening; we had to be careful about offering any service, until we knew we weren't talking to plain-clothes cops.

'You can come along with me, if you want,' he said, reaching across and pushing the door open for me.

I slipped into the soft leather seat, just making sure that my hand was only millimetres away from the sharpened steel tail-comb in my purse, that was my sole weapon. He started the car, and I saw, out of the corner of my eye, Bea making a note of his licence number – we did that for each other.

'Just what would you like me to do for you,

cariño?'

I asked, when we had turned out along the main thoroughfare. Clients normally settled for a quick knee-trembler in the back of the car, unless I got lucky and they had a nice warm hotel room, and I could take more money off them. I didn't go in for robbery, unlike some of the girls, who skipped around showing off the billfolds they had ripped off.

'Would you like to come home with me?' he said, so quietly I had to strain to hear him.

Have I gotten one of the wierdoes who wants to talk, I wondered? Or is this something sinister? Somebody with a car like this has to be loaded.

'Depends,' I replied.

'On what? I have the money, if that's what you are worried about. And I won't hurt you.'

'I charge for working

a domicilio,'

I said.

'That's OK. What's your name?'

'Trina.'

'Short for Caterina?'

'Katherine,' I corrected him.

Now clear of the bright lights, he drew smoothly to a halt, and turned on the interior light, turning to look at me closely.

'You are very attractive,' he said, 'and have a certain quality I appreciate.'

'Is this where you ask me what a girl like me is doing in a place like……….?'

'Ah, a sense of humour too!'

'I'll answer it anyway. I'm doing this because I need to.'

'And if I offer to change your life for you?'

'I'd say you've seen one film too many.'

'Please don't be cynical, Katherine. I'd like you to come to my home. Will you do that?'

I heard myself agreeing – you must be stark raving mad, Kate, I told myself – he could be a triple axe murderer for all you know. But what was so brilliant about my life that I couldn't do with a change. What the fuck?

As he drove, he said his name was Lars Azpetegui, his long-dead father had been a Basque businessman, and his mother, who was still alive, Swedish. Then he fell silent, concentrating on his driving, which was confident and rapid.

I luxuriated in the warmth of the lovely car, anyway, and was close to dozing off when he turned sharply into a driveway, bordered by trees, low lighting shining up into their branches.

We pulled up outside a pillared portico, and he walked around and opened the door for me – a novel experience. The tightness of my skirt made it hard to keep up with him as he strode up the three wide steps to the door of the house, which he opened with a key. He watched me walk in, letting me pass, and I could see he was fascinated by me. It seemed to have something to do with the tightness of my skirt, in which I was virtually hobbled, and could only take tiny steps.

It struck me as a little odd that lights were on in the house, but there was no sound coming from anywhere as he led me into a comfortable lounge, and slumped down in an easy chair. I remained standing.

'What would you like me to do?' I asked, remembering that he had so far not paid me anything at all – normally, the first thing I did on getting into a car was to make sure I got paid.

'Slip your jacket off, please, I'd like to look at you,' he said. I did just that, leaving it across the back of a chair. I was suddenly aware of my nakedness under the transparent blouse, and had to resist an impulse to cover my breasts with my hands.

'You have nice breasts,' he said, then, 'do you masturbate very often?'

I flushed, reluctant to admit that I often brought myself off when I got in from a late night session – my clients usually came in quick time, leaving me 'high and dry.'

He took my hesitance as a mute admission.

'Come here,' he said, and I walked up to where he sat. Deftly, he reached up to my waist, and unzipped my skirt, then tugged it down and off. I was left standing in just my hold-ups, pumps and the skimpy blouse.

'Sit down there!' he told me, indicating an easy chair identical to his own, placed opposite.

When I sat down, my legs tight together, my mindset was one of acute embarrassment. (So you thought whores can't be embarrassed, eh? – well, this one did.)

'Please masturbate slowly for me,' he said.

'I'd like you to pay me first,' I managed to say.

He pulled a billfold out from his breast pocket, took out – wonder of wonders – a five hundred euro bill, and put it on the coffee table in front of him, regarding me seriously as he did so.

The big purple bill was an eye-opener, and it did the same thing for my legs! I slowly parted the labia of my neat, shaven pussy with both hands, then slipped a finger into my moistening crack, letting it linger there while I kept my eyes on Lars.

It was far from being the first time I had fingered myself for a client – they ask you to do a lot of things – but this, I realised, was different. He wasn't jerking off, just watching me intently, his elbows on the chair arms, fingers making a steeple. I knew then that I desired him, wanted him to fuck me, fuck me hard, but he just sat there and watched. I worked a second finger into my slit, and felt my clit growing into a hard little bud, no doubt visible to him as it sneaked out from its protecting hood. Wet now, my cunt was demanding penetration, and the two fingers slid into its warm depths, bringing a low moan from my throat.

'You will not cum!' my client suddenly said, and I tried to check my rising climax, whilst still sliding my fingers in and out of my vagina, which was now making that wonderful slurping sound only a wet cunt can make.

Lars stood now, and walked over to my chair, putting one elegantly-trousered knee on the arm. He pulled down his zipper, and took my free wrist while I continued to work my pussy with the other hand.

He guided my hand into his trousers. He wore no underpants, and I immediately encountered his long, slender cock, then pulled it free of his trousers. I held it in my hand a moment, admiring its rigidity, then licked its crown, taking a tiny drop of pre-cum from the tip. He grunted with pleasure as I rounded my lips and took his whole length deep, deep into my throat, and I sucked him as well as I knew how, encouraging him to 'fuck my mouth' as I sensed he wanted to do – this was a man who had to be in control.

'Oh, I'm cumming,' he breathed, 'and you may now cum, too!'

I plunged three fingers deep into my cunt, abandoning myself to the first orgasm I had ever known with a client, as I felt his whole body stiffen. He shot a great, hot load of creamy cum straight down my throat, and I swallowed it gratefully, then licked him carefully clean.

He went and sat back on his chair, and eventually said, 'You will stay the night.' It wasn't a question.

'I'll have to make a call,' I said, and realised I'd agreed to spending the night at his home – and presumably in his bed – without argument. I took my cellphone out of my purse, and called Bea, who was just going to bed, to tell her not to listen out for me.

'Lucky bitch,' she said, 'I've had two tricks all night, and one of them couldn't get it up.' I laughed and clicked the phone shut.

'Come with me,' said Lars, and I followed him along a corridor. He opened a door, and showed me into a big bedroom, with a double bed. The bed covers were turned back, and there was a long peach colored silk nightgown laying on top.

'Good night,' he said, 'I trust you will sleep well.'

'Aren't you…..' I started, but he had already closed the door on me and gone.

I stood just looking at the luxurious bed, then took the five hundred euro bill out of my purse, and looked at it in disbelief. Who pays five hundred for a blow job? I shook my head, went into the en-suite bathroom, showered, slipped into the extravagant silk nightgown, and got into bed. My last thought, as I dropped off to sleep was: If he comes and murders me in my sleep, I shall die happy.

As I awoke, the smell of coffee pervaded the house, and late summer sunshine made shutter-stripes on the opposite wall. It took me a few moments to remember where I was, and I lay there enjoying the unaccustomed soft luxurious feel of silk against my skin. That was what I was doing when a quiet knock sounded on my door.

What a strange man, I thought, why doesn't he just barge in?

'Come in,' I invited.

Then I got a further surprise, when a uniformed maid came into the room, carrying a breakfast tray. She was darkly pretty, probably, I thought, of gypsy or North African origin. Her jet black hair was tied back in a pony-tail, and she wore a black velvet minidress and a little white frilly apron. Black seamed stockings covered her long slender legs, and she clicked along on stilettos higher than mine. A 'cliché maidservant,' I thought, as I enjoyed the excellent breakfast of hot coffee, orange juice, croissants and rolls.

I'd eaten all I wanted, and was considering getting up, when another knock sounded on the door. This time, it was Lars.

'I hope you slept well, and have had a good breakfast?' he asked.

'Most certainly, thank you.'

He came and sat on the end of the bed. He was now dressed in a dark blue busines suit, with a dazzling white shirt, and striped tie – a contrast from the chinos and button-down of the night before.

'I must go to work soon,' he said, 'but I thought we may have a little chat first.'

I looked at him quizzically – all my clients up to now had just given me the money, accepted my service, and departed.

'I know you must be wondering where the snag is,' he said, smiling, 'and well you may, but will you just listen to me for a moment?'

I nodded.

'I have passed by your pitch once or twice, and singled you out. Why, you may ask? Mainly because of the way you dress – different from the other girls. For this, and the fact that I find myself attracted to you, I decided to approach you. Can I ask you something, Katherine?'

'Of course.'

'When you wear something like this skirt, does it give you a special sensation?' He had picked up my black satin skirt from where I had put it over the back of a chair.

'You mean because it is so tight?'

'Yes.'

'I suppose it feels…..sexy,' I said, hesitantly.

'So you enjoy restraint, I think?'

When I didn't reply, he asked, 'Have you ever worn a corset?'

'I don't need one!' I told him indignantly.

He laughed. 'Not because you need one, but for restraint, discomfort? Perhaps you would find that "sexy" as well?'

The idea had never occurred to me, and I told him so. Where was he going with all this?

'I spoke last night about the "certain quality" you have that attracts me to you. Your dress sense is some kind of manifestation of that.'

'Just what is it you want?' I asked, getting a bit tired of his deviousness.

'I said also that I could change your life – and so I can, if you want me to.'

'You don't know anything about me,' I said.

'I know that your life must leave a lot to be desired, getting into cars with strangers, risking your health, your life every night, and the nights getting colder all the time.'

'I make them wear a condom,' I said. It was all I could think of to say.

He smiled again. 'Come and spend a week with me, Katherine. Let me introduce you to a lifestyle you may not know anything about, but which, believe me, you are cut out for.'

I looked at him hard, suspicion written on my face. People just didn't treat me like this. I had come across a succession of bastards in my life so far, starting with my stepfather, and continuing on into my present life.

'Why do I want to trust you?' I asked, 'when really I have no reason to trust anyone.'

'You will always be free to leave whenever you choose.'

'But what is it you want me to do?' – And, I thought, what are you going to pay me?

'I want you to be my willing slave,' he said. I couldn't believe my ears.

'Fuck you!' I said, 'I'm nobody's slave!' I started, indignant, to get out of bed,. I was out of there! But he laid a hand gently but firmly on my arm.

'I said

willing,'

he said quietly, 'you will be forced to do nothing you don't want to do, Katherine.'

I looked at him, and what I saw was something like sincerity. I also saw a good-looking guy, with a lean, fit body, and beautifully dressed. My resolve weakened. After all, what had I got going for me out there on the street?

'Just so long as you promise I can go at any time,' I said.

'You have my word. Now I must go to work. You don't need to put the same clothes you wore last night on. Teresa has gone to buy you some things – she thinks you are almost exactly her size, so you can pop a robe on until she gets back.'

My mouth fell open as I looked at him. He had been entirely confident that I would accept his proposal. He smiled back, and took a slim paperback from his jacket pocket, handing it to me. I saw its title: 'The Image.'

'Some reading matter for you,' he said, 'supposed to be by Jean de Berg, but really written by a woman, you may be interested to know.'

Then he was gone, and I was left pondering my plight. After a while I shrugged, and had a long hot shower, then slipped on the towelling robe I found behind the bathroom door. I brushed my hair, took a little time doing my make-up, then had a wander around the house. It was a beautiful home, I thought, and looked normal enough, with a nice kitchen, a bedroom that was obviously Lars's, and a small one that had femenine touches, presumably occupied by Teresa. Both, like mine, had their own bathrooms. The lounge, where I had been the night before, looked bright in the sunlight, and a door led to a big dining room. Another door was locked. There was a guest bedroom, showing no signs of occupancy, and a small, well-equipped gym. I went back to my room, and, noticing the paperback lying on my bedside table, picked it up and started to read.

It was an odd story, which was, nonetheless, fascinating, and I found myself getting excited as I read of the gratuitous punishment that the central character, and his girlfriend Claire, meted out to their young friend Anne, who accepted their treatment of her, and came back for more. After a few chapters, I put the book down and looked at myself in the mirror. Why had he given me this to read? It was obvious – he saw

me

in Anne's role. Shit! I picked the book up again and read a bit further. Christ, it was rivetting, and I found my pussy moistening distinctly as I read. My hand slid down into the opening of my robe, and my breathing started to quicken as I fingered my cunt, for the second time in just a few hours.