My name is Rachel Stevens. My job is a little unusual, but I like that; I’m a chauffeuse. I quite enjoy my work and I get to wear this real spiffy little uniform in light grey with a cute little peaked cap – all made to measure. I look damn good and I get paid for it and paid well, too.
I’m employed by this big retail company to drive around one of the directors. I’d better not give any names, so I’ll deliberately change those details. The company is a big high street business and I don’t think they would appreciate themselves or their directors mentioned here. As I’ve said, I really like my job. My name is not really Rachel Stevens, by the way.
I don’t just chauffeur (or should it be chauffeuse?) the one director, of course, but I mainly do. I pick him up in the morning, drive him to work and in the evening take him home again. During the day, I have sundry other duties like ferrying clients to and from meetings and the airport, station or bus stop (ok, I’m fooling: these types don’t use buses). Essentially though, I am Simon’s chauffeuse.
Not that I call him Simon, of course, it’s always ‘Mr Green’, or ‘Sir’. He calls me ‘Stevens’ or ‘Miss Stevens’, except in one particular type of situation, as you shall see. Sometimes, we don’t drive straight home after work. These are the occasions I am writing about. Here, I shall call him Simon.
‘Let’s go cruising, Rachel’, he’ll say and off we will go to the dark streets, where we drive along at a slow speed which makes it clear that we don’t really intend to be getting anywhere soon. This is strange for many people try to get through the seamy seedy underside of the city as quickly as possible.
Kerb crawling its called. The girls here are lined up, waiting. Some look better than others. I don’t like it much, but I’m safe enough. The cops don’t like this sort of thing either, but I guess that’s one of the advantages of having a chauffeuse … so easy to say that we are lost and asking for directions, so believable if it’s a woman driver. Far more believable than the truth, I expect: we’re out trying to find a whore for Simon.
How does a clean-living girl like me get involved in such a business, you are probably wondering. Well, it never originally started like that – Simon used to be a bit more discrete. Originally, it was ‘I need to pick up a friend’, and then as he felt more comfortable with me, or maybe bolder, this just kind of evolved. It’s all a bit difficult to imagine and I certainly find it difficult to describe. There’s something voyeuristic about all this – I’m not directly involved and yet the whole situation involves me. I don’t like to think about it too much; it’s puzzling and I think it tells me something about myself that I don’t want to know.
But it’s not about me. It’s about Simon, sitting in the warm comfort of his nice chauffeuse driven company car, looking for his evening’s entertainment.
He always likes drawing this part out. He’s probably like this in restaurants: taking his time perusing the menu; trying to find just the right dish to satisfy his appetite. We drive along a bit … browse … sometimes we park … look … drive around … come back … park. It’s difficult trying to tell it, but it’s what we do. It’s a waiting, looking, thinking, planning game.
And then we swoop – it’s like a commando raid. He’s spotted one – I don’t know how he’s made his decision, but he’s made it and we’re going in. Slowly I pull the Daimler out, careful to not obstruct traffic … it’s difficult negotiating with a prozzy when there’s some guy behind you tooting his horn. (Tooting his horn … that’s a good one!) Okay, maybe that’s not really swooping, but it has that kind of dramatic feel to it (my imagination kind of livens things up, sometimes).
This all very much follows a pattern. It will help my story if I just take one particular case as an illustration. Simon is not very imaginative and, although there is occasional variety, this recent incident (just last week) is pretty much typical.
This is Jessica. She looks 25, but is probably younger … 20, perhaps, or maybe she’s older; you can’t always tell by the light of the streetlamps. Impressive cleavage, bigger than mine, but I don’t feel jealous: that is not a cleavage that you put in a uniform, unless you’re making a porno, that is. She exudes confidence as she moves. I’d be cold dressed like that. She is wearing a leather jacket over a cheap red dress, which does a lot to show off her figure, but little to keep it warm. She approaches the car like most people approach a cash dispenser; it’s probably much the same to her.
Simon handles the negotiation. He has this down to a fine art: he waves a big wodge of notes. This guy is a financial director and he can’t talk money to a street girl. I guess he likes the idea of being able to buy her; it’s more than she’s worth, but the illusion would be broken if he had to haggle with the merchandise and the illusion is probably everything – I think Simon’s inner world is a little fragile.
The sight of the notes is enough for her and she climbs into the car beside Simon. I can’t see, but I imagine she puts a solicitous hand on his knee. I put the car into gear and we pull away.
‘I’m Jessica’ I hear her say. ‘What’s your name, honey?’
He gives her half the wodge of notes, which disappears from view amazingly quickly (well, no I don’t see, but I bet it does). He doesn’t answer the question.
‘You’re my bitch’, he says (where has he got that from?). ‘You will address me as ‘Sir’! I want you to take off your clothes.’
‘Now. Bitch!’ (He hasn’t given her a chance to comply, yet; but I guess that’s all part of it.)
‘Yes, Sir’ she says and undresses. It doesn’t take long; she’s not wearing much.
‘I don’t take it up the ass, Sir’ she says. (Simon’s not into that sort of stuff anyways)
Simon has already got his cock out and has been stroking it while watching the girl undress. I can’t really see this either in the rear view mirror, but this is what I know is happening. I’m trying to keep an eye on the road, which is more important than my boss masturbating.
‘You want me to suck that for you, sugar?’ she says. There is a pause. ‘Sir’.
I see Simon’s head nod behind me, feel the small movement in the car as the weight of the two bodies behind me shifts. I do find that slightly erotic: I know what is going on; I have the evidence of my senses; I can feel the subtle changes in motion in the car, but I cannot see. I can see all of Simons face in the rear view mirror; see his expression change, as it will and know that the cause is Jessica down below sucking his dick. His eyes meet mine in the mirror and I am drawn into the whole experience in a way I find difficult to understand.
The eroticism is usually spoilt by Simon’s occasional need to give me some form of commentary like: ‘Rachel, she’s taken it all,’ or stupid requests like: ‘Rachel, can you find some speed bumps, please?’ Men!
It’s normally a 25-minute journey. The windows are dark tinted, which is just as well when we are stationary at traffic lights. At some point I usually lose interest in what is happening behind me. I have a job to do. Simon, I know, likes to play and tease, but he’s saving himself for later.
I park the car in the drive. He has a nice big house, but there are no lights on except the PIR, which was triggered when the car drove up the graveled entranceway and approached the building.
Jessica is dressed again. She gets out holding his hand and he follows. He has not bothered to ‘adjust his clothing’ (I love that phrase) and his cock is still jutting out obscenely in front of him. The cool night air does not seem to reduce his excitement and he obviously has no idea how ridiculous he looks. The drive near the house is quite secluded, so no one is to see what goes on apart from us. I try hard not to giggle.
He opens the front door with his key and we go inside. The lounge is large (of course) with two matching leather sofas on either side of the big brick fireplace.
‘Take a seat’ he says. I sit on one sofa and Jessica sits on the other. I’m quite relaxed, the grey leather is nice and comfortable, just a shade darker than my jacket. Jessica is nervous though. I guess it’s not the securest of professions. I wonder if she feels safer with me there, or whether my presence in my neat little uniform is just a bit too strange for her.
Simon moves to the sofa that Jessica is sitting on (yes, it’s still sticking out, bobbing about in front of Jessica’s face). Jessica, who I think is unsure of exactly what is expected now, starts to suck his cock again, probably just because it’s there in front of her.
Simon is standing sideways to me, I expect deliberately to give me a good view. He talks to me, because that will keep me looking at him and the girl who is trying to swallow his cock. Having me there must be a big turn-on for him. I don’t know what he thinks I make of it all. Perhaps it’s my indifference, maybe it’s the uniform (did I tell you I’ve got this real nifty little uniform?): something clearly works for him.
Jessica is really doing a good job sucking Simon’s stalk (she’s sucking Simon’s stalk – try saying that quickly! Giggles.), somehow she’s managing to involve her whole body in the process. In many ways it seems just a bit too good to be true, but it is beginning to excite me just a little. I try to think of other things. Jessica continues working on Simon’s cock, her body submissive to his will, but her mind, I think, has gone shopping.
Simon, though, does not really care where Jessica’s mind might be right now. Her mouth is doing a most professional job on his executive member; taking it in deep, pulling it out; licking around the swollen purple head with her tongue; she slurps noisily for effect and then it’s back in again.
‘Oh Yes!’ says Simon, momentarily forgetting me, and the remembering me again. He doesn’t really want my attention to wander.
‘Can I get you a drink, Rachel?’ he asks.
‘A tonic water would be nice, thank you.’ I say. There’s no reason not to be comfortable and I think Simon would be disappointed if I refused.
Simon removes his cock from Jessica’s mouth and moves to the drinks cabinet. He drops ice in the glass and pours the drink. Simon knows how I like my tonic. Jessica looks annoyed; I suppose she is offended that pouring me a drink seems more important than her fellatory skills. I can’t help but wonder whether this is some blow to her professional pride (perhaps she takes pride in her professional blow?). The messages Simon is sending in this bizarre little tableau are very confused, but perhaps that’s all part of the game and I’m no psychologist.
Simon’s dick is still stiff and waggling about as he brings the glass to me. It is wet from Jessica’s mouth and maybe some precum; I don’t really want it too close to me. He looks just as ridiculous as before. I thank him nicely and he returns to Jessica on the sofa, his prick as stiff as ever, knowing that I am watching.
‘Time to fuck.’ he says.
I watch as Simon tries to stuff his thick dick into one of his black condoms. He likes the look of black condoms. Jessica positions herself, lying back on the sofa pulling her red skirt up around her waist. Her legs are open: no panties; maybe she never put them back on; maybe she was never wearing them in the first place. She seems to have forgotten about me now the situation is a more familiar one.
