It's 4a.m. and the phone rings but I'm already up and dressed for the expected call. You've found the card left in a phone box near my place but the rules of the game dictate that you stay there, waiting for me to come down and lead you to my apartment as if it's your first time. Well in a way it is, my first time as your 'call girl' as part of your fantasy...
I slip on a long coat that reveals little of what I have in store for you, and totter confidently down the stairs in high heels and out into the cool air of early morning London. No people and only the odd car make the streets silent with only the clock-like clickity-clicking of my heels on the pavements as I make my way to the box. The sun isn't up yet but it's just light enough to see rain is threatening. I quicken my pace and turn the corner to see a dark anxious figure waiting my the box.
You glance at the crumpled card in your hand, as if to remind you of a name you've only seen once in the box - and hung on to as a keepsake. "Cheyenne?" you venture as I step up to you.
I nod as your eyes glance up and down the long coat, the heels, the long reddish-brunette hair, the over-made face of a tart... all green eye shadow, pink blusher and red pouting lips.
"Graham?" I ask. You nod back, unsure of what to say. I keep it professional, "Two hundred, up front."
You're taken aback. The card says one hundred but I'm upping the stakes. The game says you know I'm good by word of mouth but are you prepared to pay the price? Pulling out a wallet you leaf through the notes and pull out a wedge of fifties and hand it over. I count five and look you straight in the eye, questioning.
"Make it the best. Make it last." You demand as customer, as paying client. "That's what you're known for, isn't it?"
It is, so I stash the cash inside my coat, unseen by you slipping it tween my breasts. Then with a tilt of the head indicate you follow me. As we pace back to my apartment spits of rain spot our coats, and by the time we make it to the door of the flats, there's the rumble of thunder and the heavens open with a savage splash on the pavements.
Upstairs, I let you into my apartment and indicate you should undress in the bedroom while I retrieve the notes from my cleavage to put it in a safe place, and lose the coat. Back in the bedroom you stand naked, uncertain and limp, as I enter the room in the littlest tight black dress I could squeeze into, my boobs bulging from the low-cut scoop neck and its hem barely covering the tops of my black seamed hold-up stockings. In my five-inch heels I'm slightly taller than you now, looking down at you, dominating you. I back you to the bed and push you to sit on it, spread your legs and kneel between them. Your cock starts to tremble and spring to life as I take it in my slender long-nailed fingers and caress it to a growing stiffness. Your erotic erection unfolds fully in my palms, cupped by my fingers and thumbs, until it becomes a rigid, thick, full eight or nine inches. I have to act like this is new to me, and perhaps it is. Your fantasy, with me as willing paid-for slut, makes you bigger and harder than I've ever seen or felt you before...