Rebecca may not be old in years, but she has formed some definite ideas about life. Men, she is convinced, are all simpletons. Some may be kind, some less so: some may even be clever simpletons: but they all keep their brains between their legs. As such they are all cash cows – to be milked, both metaphorically and literally.
Women are slightly more complicated. Girls her age are bitches: spiteful, selfish and ruthless. Though there are some exceptions: she still remembers Emily and Lily with fondness. Older women are, if anything, worse. They are either evil – like the two prostitutes who robbed her; callous disciplinarians – like the Mistresses at Windsor; or sour-faced, repressed old prunes, like her Aunt Ellen.
The girls who work at the massage parlour, though, don't really fit into any of those categories. Rebecca, when she starts, is wary of them, and ready to dislike them. But whilst some are indifferent to her, others are friendly, ready to give her advice, willing to go to the pub and have a laugh at the end of what they like to refer to as a hard day on their backs.
The premises consist of two bedrooms with en suite, a kitchen, and a reception room with comfortable sofas where a porn video plays on a loop. There is a pool of about a dozen girls, any two of which are on duty on any one day. Generally the men take whoever is available; sometimes they come to see a specific girl and are prepared to wait; if both girls are free they are both presented and the punter can take his pick. Rebecca, like the others, has sets of working clothes which she changes into on arrival: basques, negligees, skimpy bras and pants, stocking and suspenders and shoes with high heels. Some of the girls have uniforms and will dress up if requested; Rebecca, who trusts her body to outshine any uniform, doesn't bother with that expense.
The parlour is well-run, and none of Rebecca's fears about troublesome clients are realised. The Receptionist, Heather, is a no-nonsense woman of fifty, a friend of the owner and former worker herself. She greets the clients, chats to them in the reception room, deals with the money, organises the rota and is generally helpful to the girls.
At her instigation Rebecca starts to shave. She's never done it before. She stands in the shower in her flat with a pack of new safety razors, soaps herself liberally, and draws the razor down over her pubes. She finds it curiously arousing, as more and more of her private parts emerge naked from under their habitual covering of hair. Little black mattings of hair wash down her legs into the shower tray – she'll have to clean it out later – making her look and feel like a newly-shorn lamb. Sometimes it's awkward, hunching over, trying to reach right underneath her legs, trying to make sure she hasn't missed anything. But when she has finished, when her mound and her labia are exposed, hairless, to the light and the air, she doesn't want to stop. She lathers herself again, and draws a fresh razor over herself – lightly, for it's easy to nick the skin - wanting, now she's started, to be ultra-smooth, completely denuded of hair. She's getting increasingly turned-on – to the point where the strokes with the razor are designed for pleasure rather than the removal of hair. Then she abandons the razor altogether, leans back against the wall of the shower and, with the hot water cascading over her head, starts to finger herself, delighting in the new sensations her newly-shaved genitals yield. Smooth and hairless her engorged labia feel different: firmer and fuller, no longer cushioned by hair. She rubs and tugs, and flicks at her clitoris, her cunt sopping with her own juices, until her knees buckle, and she comes in a twisting, screaming orgasm, her cries of pleasure muffled by the torrent of water.
When she's recovered she dries herself and studies her handiwork in her mirror. Her cunt looks a bit red and raw. She lies on her bed and massages some oil into herself, bringing herself to climax after climax as she does so. Why, she wonders, has she never discovered the pleasure of shaving before?
For the next few days she can hardly leave herself alone. Since she landed at her Uncle's she devoted a lot of time to pleasuring herself, but now her hands are wandering between her legs at every half-opportunity. But there is a downside to shaving: after a day or two the stubble is prickly, especially when pressed, and after a day of men pounding away at her she comes home feeling sore. The remedy is to keep shaving, ensuring that she is always completely smooth.
Aside from the pleasure it gives her, men seem to like it too. One client compliments her, and runs the back of his fingers over her shaved privates appreciatively. She takes to displaying herself with a new pride, always finding a moment to lie on her back with her legs spread, letting her client get a good look at her: smooth, naked, bare, and laid out for his delectation and pleasure.
The girls give her advice on how and when to fake orgasms; how to reject unwelcome requests without seeming uncooperative; what sort of little extra attentions are most likely to secure a tip. She listens: but truth to tell this is all instinctive with her: she's grown up watching women flirt with and flatter men, she knows exactly how to be winsome, what buttons to push and how to push them.
Men, she quickly learns, are both all different and all the same. Every encounter is subtly different in the details; but at bottom all every man wants to do is come. If she focussed on the latter, she would go home each night thinking she was little more than a human milking machine. Sometimes, if she's tired or bored, she does think of herself in that way.
"They might as well just form a queue," she tells Amber, one of the other girls, in the pub. "Pants down, dicks out, one hand on their balls and one on their cocks, two minutes tugging until they spurt, then we could all go home early."
"Two minutes?" queries Amber, laughing. "One's usually enough."
At other times, though, she marvels at the variety, and the seemingly limitless perversity of the sexually aroused male.
She has one client, an elderly man, a retired vicar she suspects, who has a weird castration complex. Nothing gets him off so much as being told he'd be better off without his balls.
"Play with them and wank me off," he instructs her. "But talk to me: tell me how much better off I would be without them, how you'd like me to have them removed – that sort of thing."
He lies on his back on the bed. Rebecca, wearing her black negligee without any knickers, her shaved pubes level with his eye-line, takes a firm hold of his scrotum.
"What are these?" she asks rhetorically, squeezing and kneading his testicles, watching his cock stiffen. "Imagine having these between your legs all the time, getting in the way. They must be so uncomfortable." She squeezes again: the man gasps and groans. "They don't look very nice, do they?" she asks, pouting. "All wrinkly and floppy. Look how much nicer a girl looks between her legs." She raises her negligee and looks down appreciatively, drawing his attention to her own, smooth parts. She strokes herself, and shivers with pleasure. "Wouldn't you like to look like that: all neat and smooth? I don't know why you don't think of having them removed," she tugs down on his scrotum, suggestively. "A simple little operation: think how much nicer and freer you'd feel." By now the man's cock is straining; his scrotum has tightened – the touch of her fingers, along with her words, is driving him wild.
"Go on," she says seductively, wanking him ever-harder: "You know you'd like to have them off. Think how nice it would be without them, think how liberated you'd feel. Shall we have them off? Shall we? Shall we have these silly little balls removed?"
At that the man climaxes fiercely and furiously, shooting his spunk so hard that trails of it land on his face, whilst Rebecca continues to knead and milk and talk about removing his balls.
Mad, she thinks. But then most of her clients have their own strange fetishes and quirks, and his are by no means the strangest.
That honour probably goes to a man who calls himself Charlie. He's an odd man, in ways Rebecca can't quite put her finger on. Small, thin-faced, he never seems to look her in the eye, and there's a creepiness about him: he's the sort of man you wouldn't want sitting next to you on the bus. He pays to fuck her: but his shtick is that she has to reject him. He begs, she refuses – all the time positioning herself seductively on the bed and tormenting him, telling him never in a million years would she have him inside her. Eventually, sneering, she says:
"Go on- why don't you rub against my leg like a little dog?"
