Professional Excellence

Monica first appeared momentarily in

Entertaining at Large Chapter XV

and then had a starring role in the next one. That's how this all started. Be worth reading if you want to be fully in the picture, but I hope this story will stand alone. I also set myself the test of trying to make these tales shorter than the

Entertaining at Large

marathons. I'd be interested to know what readers think as well as any other comments. Suggestions and support are always appreciated.

'Regulars. Repeat customers, that's what you need, ducks. Help you plan for a bit of financial security if you get what I mean. Or splash out on something big, like a new car or an exotic holiday. Make a change from Bridlington. You deserve it.'

It was Michael, the barman at The Royal, who put the idea in my head. We had become friends over the few months I'd been working the Hideaway Bar. Friendly, anyway. He remained as laconic and detached as when I had first met him. But on slow nights, and there were more than a few of those, we had begun to talk.

He made me laugh. I've never met anyone who was so misanthropic. He didn't have a good word to say about anyone. He'd usually start our conversations with a litany of complaints against the customers he'd met since we last talked. Sometimes that would take the whole night. Management got the same dismissive treatment. On a couple of occasions he opened up a little to tell me the disaster stories which were his two failed marriages. He didn't have a good word to say about his children either. They only came to see him, it seemed, when they needed money.

I played a game with myself, trying to find someone, anyone, he would not be scathing about. So far, Muhammad Ali was the only one I'd found. The monarch and her 'parasitic hangers on' as he described her loving family, every politician, sporting personalities, journalists and other stars of TV and film, charity workers in famine areas, religious leaders and anyone else the media might be touting as a role model all got short shrift.

'They're only in it for themselves. It's either cash or glory for the whole bunch of them. At least you're honest. Money up front, let the buggers shag you and then you're off. You should run for parliament and get your own back.'

I smiled at him and raised my glass in a silent toast. Despite his world view, I liked him. He did a good job of referring punters to me. I never had any trouble with the guys I fucked after Michael had decided they were worthy of my attention. I'd bought a second mobile so that he could text me If there was someone in who wanted a quick lay and was willing to pay for it. Sometimes I'd just get the single word 'dead' and knew I needn't bother. On a few of those nights I went to the bar anyway, just to see him and chat. I'd invented fictitious evening classes to explain why I was leaving the house in the evenings and wanted to keep up that fiction as well. Not that my husband was particularly concerned at my absences.

I enjoyed teasing Michael too. About his diet, his lack of exercise, his health. I bought him little presents occasionally. Like the pair of cuff links I'd found in a junk show with garish 1950s pin ups on them. He always dismissed my concerns and turned his nose up at my gifts. But I'd caught him eating a salad after one little chat. And while he sneered at the cuff links, thereafter he always wore them when he was working.

'Pisses off the catering manager. There's nothing in the company handbook about cuff links.'

It was the only time I heard him laugh.

We had a running flirt which both of us enjoyed. When I'd finished with a client, I'd always pop back to the bar and put a twenty on the counter.

'Cash or blow job? Come on, you must be due a break. Let's nip out the back and I'll suck you off. Improve your view of the evening no end.'

He'd been working on his smile. When we'd first encountered each other he had a grin which could turn milk. You could metaphorically hear the creaking of muscles, atrophied through years of redundancy, fighting to work. Now it was almost cute as he looked into my straight face and pretended to consider the proposition. Then I'd look down and the note would have disappeared from beneath my index finger without me noticing. I told him once he should take up sleight-of-hand magic tricks.

'Help you pick up girls. And you need all the help you can get.'

I'd caught him a few weeks later retrieving a fifty pence piece from behind the ear of a laughing customer. Now, there was always a pack of cards on the end of the bar resting on a well-thumbed paperback whose cover claimed it would turn anyone into a card sharp in thirty days.

I was almost touched that he was worried about my cash flow. Michael assumed that because I was 'on the game', as it were, there was some deep personal or financial tragedy in my life. I never disabused him of his conclusion. He'd brought it up after I plumped back on a bar stool after a brief sojourn upstairs in one of the well-appointed rooms with a Coventry businessman in town to arrange deliveries of light engineering products.

'You missed a bit.'

Michael nodded towards my chest. I looked down and noticed a small globule of white goo sparkling in the bar lights as it nestled in the cleft at the top of my cleavage. I scooped at it with my finger and tentatively tested it with the tip of my tongue. I grimaced.

'Lube. Another tit man.'

Michael shrugged and kept look out while I rubbed the residue into my skin. When you have 35DD breasts, you get a lot of attention. The guy upstairs now congratulating himself in the shower had been typical of a lot of my punters. I'd approached him at Michael's suggestion about an hour earlier. He had bought me a drink and I had listened attentively as he described the reasons for his presence in our town whilst keeping his eyes focussed on my cleavage. He only dragged them away when I drained my glass and crossed my legs so that my cocktail dress rode up giving him a glimpse of the top of my sheer, black stockings and the suspenders holding them in place.

'We could take this discussion upstairs, if you like? Or maybe you're interested in other things too?'

He was an egotist. I got a lot of those. Almost all of the men I met at the Hideaway were of a type. Between forty and sixty, well dressed but physically running to seed. Some of them knew straight away what the deal was as soon as I approached them. We'd flirt a while over our drinks and I'd make sure they got a good view of my boobs by leaning forwards, or tossing my hair and straightening my back. The few leg-men among them would be treated to views of my stockinged thighs and possibly even knickers if I was in a good mood. They'd usually ask the price and invite me to their room within minutes.

The others, like this guy, would assume that I was seeking out their company for their startling good looks and scintillating conversation. I called them the egotists because that's what they were. For them, the realisation that it wasn't their patter but their wallets which would get me into bed, was sometimes a disappointment. One or two even turned me down. The man from Coventry hadn't.

'How much?'

'Two hundred for the hour, extra if you're into anything kinky.'

His question had been non-judgemental. I tried to make the tone of my response equally businesslike. When I started it had been harder; now it had become like second nature to me. He stood and we'd left together without further comment. Once in the room we settled the cash side of our transaction and I turned so he could unzip my dress. I unhitched the thin shoulder straps and let it fall.

I always got a thrill from the reaction of the men I serviced when my skimpy dresses drifted down my body and I stepped out of them. With the quieter ones you could hear their excitement in a sharp intake of breath or a soft whistling as they breathed out. The drunks and the more confident would comment appreciatively, usually with a swear word or two. Few of them apologised for their language, and why should they?

Despite the magnetic quality of my breasts, I liked to think it was the sight of my legs which turned them on. I'm average height for a woman, but in high heels, much taller. I almost always wear black stockings and lingerie when I'm working which I've been told more than once seem to make my legs go on for ever. These days my stockings have arrow-straight seams which take some maintenance but are well worth it.

Mr Coventry's hands went straight to my boobs. I still had my back to him so I leaned against him and let him have his fun. He weighed them in his large hands, all the time making approving noises. He eventually found my nipples. The bra I was wearing was made from a stiff brocade so it took some doing. I let out a small groan to let him know he was on target and slipped my hands behind me to undo the catches. I could feel him hardening as he pushed his cock against me and I enjoyed the sensation as I ground back against him.

My own breathing was becoming unsteady as my nipples stiffened under his ministrations. He was tugging and pinching gently, completely engrossed in the task. Like a lot of men I'd known he was muttering to himself as he explored me. I shrugged off the bra and turned to face him. He buried his head in my boobs. I pressed them against the side of his face while he nuzzled. His tongue, wet and warm like a heifer's, started tracing long lines first along the inside of each boob then around the circumferences before finally going for the nipple. Bullseye. My body shook as he pursed his lips around my left nipple. When he grabbed it with his teeth I let out a yelp. He pulled back.

'Did that hurt?'

I grabbed his neck and pulled his head down onto my right tit by way of answer. At the same time I slid my free hand down his chest and straight to his dick Which was straining now against the front of his trousers. Mr Coventry was slimmer than most men his age - I'd guess about forty-five - and his equipment was definitely above par. I'd become something of an expert at assessing length and girth through clothes. He was eight inches and thick, I estimated. I began slow, rhythmic strokes in time with the action of his tongue and teeth on my nipple. I was humming.

Experience had taught me that no matter how fascinated a man was with my boobs, a few minutes cock massage, would return his own needs to the top of his internal agenda. Mr Coventry's appreciative grunts became harsher as I squeezed and increased my tempo. When I pushed him back towards the armchair in the corner of the room he offered no resistance. I helped him off with his jacket and pressed down on his shoulders to make him sit. He kept his hands on my tits all the way down, pinching the nipples as he sank to draw me lower with him. I stood for a minute, bent at right angles from the waist, giving him free range of my tits as they bounced away from my chest, before finally sinking to my knees between his thighs. He leaned back in the chair, at last releasing me: it didn't take a genius to work out what was coming next.

I unzipped his flies and slipped by left hand inside to cradle his balls while I worked on the waist band with my right.

'Wow. You're a big one.'

I said that to most men, but this time I meant it. His clothing must have been summer-weight. I had underestimated his size significantly. I jiggled my jaw, unconsciously preparing to receive his girth. I had come to love the feel of penises in my mouth. Most men pay little or no attention to skin care, but I was always impressed with the smoothness of the skin of their dicks. Mr Coventry slid into my mouth, but I gagged almost instantly and pulled back. I could barely get my hand around him, but I held on tight, wanking him hard between gobbles. I wasn't managing more than two or three bobs at a time before the gag reflex kicked in and I had to pull back fighting to fill my lungs. Time, I thought, for the not-so secret weapon.

My boobs had been pressing against his thighs as I worked with my mouth. I eased forward slightly and, with my mouth holding just the head of his cock, used both hands to push my tits together around his shaft. I leaned back and took a few deep breaths as I kneaded my tits around him. He opened his eyes to find out what was causing the new sensation. We smiled at each other.

'You like it? It feels really good to me.'

I got a positive, if inarticulate, response from his mouth, but his hips did the talking for him and he began thrusting himself up and through my cleavage. The head of his cock was emerging a good few inches above my bust and I opened my lips to take in the head with each drive. Once we had established a style there was a regular popping noise as he slipped back releasing the slight vacuum in my mouth. I reached out for my bag - I was so familiar with the lay out of the rooms by now that I placed it on the floor next to the chair without thinking - and retrieved a tube of lube.

'This'll make it even nicer.'

I squirted a string of pale gunk between the two globes and quickly massaged them together. I had abandoned the fruit flavoured lubricants I had initially purchased in favour of a light skin cream. I had found I was getting a reaction to one of them, probably the green apple. I'd woken up a few times the next day with an itchy soreness between my tits. I'd been terrified I'd caught me kind of STD the first time I saw it and was at the doctor's before breakfast; the lubes were in the bin by lunch.

Mr Coventry grabbed my boobs and pushed them hard around his pumping member. The head and the top of his shaft glistened and deepened in colour as it popped up between them with increasing regularity. I was murmuring soft encouragement and managed to squeeze my hand between us and down to his ball sac. They skin around them was taut and wrinkled so I stroked rather than fondled.

I knew what was coming. Mr C was a tit-man of the old school. Lots of my clients enjoyed sticking their dicks in my cleavage. I had become something of an expert at judging when the time had come to ease back and reach for the condom. A few, and he was one, liked to go all-in. His face was red and his breathing more erratic. I applied gentle pressure to his balls and stroked the base of his shaft with my thumb.

'Ungh.'

'Yes.'

'Argh.'

'Oh god.'

'Uhh.'

'That feels so nice.'

'Jeez.'

Our orgasms - his real, mine fake - were synchronised; they like that. With each exclamation he pushed up hard with his hips to the point where his dick hit me under the chin. His ejaculations, there must have been five of them, had there own timing. The first greasy string spurted so high I could feel it in my hair and across my face. I licked my lips and closed my eyes. The second exploded deep between my boobs as he slid back in preparation for his next push. The last three, less fountain-like, but nonetheless equally heartfelt coated the tops of my tits with a semi-transparent stickiness.

As he fell back in the chair groaning, I quickly grabbed his flopping tool and held it like a lollipop as I licked and sucked the last drops of semen from and around the head.

'Mmm. Delicious. I'm going to the bathroom to clean myself up.'

I handed him a small packet of wiped from my handbag as I fled. Experience had taught me that I needed to act fast. The gooey lube and a massive load of cum had a habit of spreading everywhere. I could already feel Mr C's contribution beginning to slide down to the top of my stomach. I grabbed a towel as soon as I got into the small, tiled room and started mopping.

After a tit-man like Mr C, I generally had to call it a night. No matter how assiduously I mopped and rubbed, there was always a residual sheen and usually tell-tale stains on my stockings and garters. I had once been propositioned by an insistent, and very attractive, salesman from Bromley after a previous experience. I'd persuaded him to start our time together in the shower. Most punters were not so accommodating.

After splashing copious amounts of warm water onto my chest from the small sink and drying myself thoroughly, I examined myself critically in the mirror and rearranged my hair before turning to the door. My shoulder-length, shaggy cut was ideal for my new line of work. I could arrange it immaculately before leaving the house, but fingers and a dollop of man juice were sufficient to make me look presentable after a bit of action.

I leaned my shoulder against the jamb with all my weight on my left leg. Shoulders back, tits out I pasted on a smile as I watched Mr Coventry sitting on the edge of the bed dabbing at an imaginary mark on his trousers. There was a small pile of crumpled wipes next to him. He was obvious thorough. Once he realised I was watching he looked up and smiled. I maintained eye contact as I took a few steps towards him; the rooms are not that big. I bent to pick up my bra and dress, hanging them over my arm as I sat beside him.

'That was fantastic. You're huge.'

I laid my hand gently on his groin where, despite being drained and zipped-away, his package was still noticeably engorged. I gave him a guileless smile when he looked into my face.

'Your wife is a very, very lucky woman.'

I imperceptibly strengthened my grip not changing my facial expression. He said nothing.

'We still have a little time. Would you like me to stay a while? Or shall I leave.'

Over the few months I had been plying my trade at The Royal, I had developed an infallible inner time clock. I could estimate an hour almost to the minute without looking at my phone. I'd given up wearing a watch once I became a prostitute. Metal straps can do nasty damage in the heat of passion. We still had about thirty-five minutes of his hour left. He said nothing so I withdrew my hand and began shaking my dress out. Some men get very remorseful, perhaps even ashamed, after paying for sex and the sight of me sitting virtually naked next to them just makes them feel worse.

'No stay.'

'My pleasure.'

I stood up to lay my dress flat over the back of the armchair and glanced at him for confirmation before laying my bra over it. When I sat back down I shuffled closer to him and this time deliberately began to gently stroke his dick over his trousers.

Mr C was quiet for a minute. He looked down at my hand and what I was doing. Then he coughed picked up the conversation where we had left off in the bar and began talking about his day's business meetings. It was a little weird, sitting there in my stockings and panties expressing polite interest in widgets and bottom lines whilst stroking a penis, but by no means the strangest situation I had found myself in recently. After about five or ten minutes of his monologue with only the politest of noises from me I reached in and unzipped his flies. He stopped talking. I looked at him and smiled.

'Don't mind me. You carry on talking, you have a really sexy voice and I'm interested. You were describing your meeting with Graham.'

He recommenced his monologue and I concentrated on freeing him from his underwear. There was no trace of our previous activity on him and I enjoyed the fresh scent of sanitised towel as I stroked him hard.

'Whereabouts in Coventry did you say your business was? You do know you could build a second career in porn with an enormous cock like this?'

I smiled sweetly as he spluttered an answer to the first question and ignored the second. I leaned over and licked the top of his bulbous, purple head. There was a faint taste of pre-cum breaking through the scent of the wipes.

'So out by the big hospital then? Or a gigolo if sex work is more your cup of tea.'

I went down on him again this time taking two or three inches into my mouth. He stopped talking about his meetings and let out a small moan. I felt him scrabbling for my boobs again and adjusted my position so he could reach my nipples. I traced the track of the veins in his dick with my tongue and took each of his balls gently into my mouth in turn. I hissed and sucked in sharp breaths as he squeezed the most sensitive parts of my nipple. I felt him harden further at the sound of my discomfort, so I did it again.