Amsterdam.
"Haec meretrix Maxima possidetur," which means: "This prostitute is owned by Maxima." Me. Meretrix historically refers to a registered prostitute, and I am registered to her, Maxima. My Domini.
Christmas 2025
The volcanic ash, all two hundred cubic miles of it had encircled the globe eighteen months ago. Napoli had been destroyed, the Italians had evacuated five million residents, there had been minimal casualties, if fifteen hundred dead can be called that. Next year we might have a summer again, but probably not until the year after, but who knows.
"Fuck, driving in that wasn't fun," Christina said, "but I like Leiden. Any word from Charlie?"
"A text over two hours ago, the idiot decided to fly, but according to flight tracker it's still on the ground."
"You're worried, why?"
"Nobody should be flying, bloody governments allowing it are playing politics with people's lives, the EU should have stood up to the Americans."
"Of course, the club could do with seeing more of them, didn't you say?"
"Only because they've more money than sense, Champagne sales are seriously down, no one else buys it, apart from the Russians, and we don't see many of them anymore. Where the fuck is Charlie, and why isn't he answering his fucking mobile!"
"Maybe he's changed his travel plans after all?"
"Then why hasn't he called?"
It was cold, the wind coming from the north. I looked out of my lounge window, the lights of the city were just coming on, the lights reflected on the surface of the canal beneath me. I was in a reflective mood, as I sipped my glass of Irish whiskey, Jamesons my preferred tipple, although I could afford a far more expensive one, Jamesons was and still is my favourite.
The last few years had been kind to me, and not just me, but "us." The semi in Woodley, on the outskirts of Reading a distant memory, although we still owned it, it is let to a family, who now called it home.
"Want another one Mum?" Lizzie my daughter asked.
"No, I am good thanks," I replied. "Have you heard from Dad?"
"He sent me a text from the airport, saying his plane was delayed, nothing since."
"I told him to catch the Eurostar, more reliable than flying, especially at the moment with all the volcanic ash in the atmosphere," I said.
"They say in a year or so it will be better," Liz said, but without conviction.
"Mmm, I'll believe that when it happens."
"At least business is still full on, even with Christmas being next week."
"We should be going, Domina is expecting us, and you have work, as do I, and we don't want to be late, do we!"
I finished my drink in one, and put the glass on the table, cut crystal, when once it would have been one from Ikea.
We'd done well...............
****
Reading, England. 2021.
I'd been lucky in finding a husband like Charlie, we liked the same things, and as it turned out had a similar fantasy, not the same, well you'll find out, mustn't get ahead of myself. Let me do the introductions, I am Nicola Latham, nee Wilson, I'm thirty-five, tall at 5'9", my hair is red, so naturally, at school I was called Ginger, as was my equally tall, elder sister Christina, older by a year. We were both blessed with long legs which are slightly out of proportion to our bodies, which are long and slender. And as far as Charlie is concerned, I've "great tits," 36D, with hips to match, and a waist even after I'd had Liz that gave me an hourglass figure. Our daughter, Elizabeth takes after me, slightly shorter at 5'8" and with a 34C bust, but with my legs. Our "boss" calls her a walking wet dream, I see her point. Charlie mustn't leave him out of this, as it's his story as much as mine, he's 6'2", athletically built, with black hair, which is greying at the temples, giving him a rather distinguished look, he's forty-three, and still plays club rugby when he can. I'd rather he didn't, time to switch to golf I seem to be always telling him. Or is that nagging!
After Liz was born our love life took a nosedive, I'd expected that, but not to the extent it did. That all changed at a barbeque at my parent's house, no, really! The subject of favourite films came up, I still don't know why, or how, that doesn't matter. I remembered what mine and my sisters was back in the day, Pretty Woman, which my dad disapproved of, not the film, but because me and sis then decided to dress as a pair of prostitutes. Dad went nuts if he saw us, Mum was more chilled, as her film was Mona Lisa, another film about a prostitute, and my Nan's the World of Suzy Wong.
On the way home, with Lizzie in the back, with her eyes wide open, I got the third degree from Charlie. Not about the merits of the film, but what me and sis had worn when emulating Julia Roberts, the high heels which we brought at a charity shop, to the short skirts, and low tops. Well, it got the boys attention.
"Fuck Nicola, you dressed up as a prozzy!" Charlie exclaimed. "Wow!"
"Dad, language, I am here, remember!" Liz reminded us from the back seat.
"You'd like me dressed like that?" I asked him, ignoring the teenage strop, who was now all ears.
"Yes," he said quietly, so that I almost missed it.
I thought back to when we'd played at being Julia Roberts in that film, how I'd felt, and the buzz it had given me.
"Me too Charlie, me too."
That night, for the first time in years, we fucked like rabbits, and then went again.
The next day, I phoned in sick, sent Liz to school, then hit the shops. Victoria Secret for a much-needed upgrade to my underwear, the granny pants were going in the bin. I was remeasured in Marks for a new bra, I was wearing the wrong size, hence the strap being halfway up my back. Stockings, even a couple of suspender belts. Then some skirts, and a couple of dresses, all short, tight, and clingy. I already had a couple of pairs of heels, but it was when I passed the Cancer Research shop that I saw what I needed. I brought them all, six pairs of skyscraper heels, hardly worn, and in my size. All various colours and styles. I couldn't help smiling. Then another stroke of luck, a woman walking towards me, chewing gum, a total slapper. But it was her earrings that got my attention, hoops coming almost to her shoulders. I turned around and went back to Claires accessories.
When I got home, I played dress up, or in this case should that be dress down? Then I hid it all away, for the weekend.
The week was one of those ten-day ones, where Friday never comes. But it did, eventually. Liz was spending the night at one of her friends, as soon as she was out of the house, I shot upstairs. I'd already showered. I went to work on my face with my sponges, foundation, then concealer, blend then more foundation. Heavy on the eye liner, mascara, and eye shadow, Blusher blended in a blur of brushes. Another application of mascara, note to self: false eye lashes required.
Then I stripped off, suspenders or holdups? Easy, suspenders, plus a half bra, the girls once adjusted looked perfect. A thong, which like the cups of my bra was semi-transparent. I always kept my lady garden trimmed to a neat landing strip, smooth underneath. My red pubes on veiled view. I rolled the black eight denier stockings up my long legs, threaded the suspenders under my knickers, and for the first time in a decade, attached them to my stocking tops. The skirt, my favourite purchase, shoes aside, a pleated Stuart tartan kilt, that barely covered my bum, and was short of my stocking tops. Then the six-inch heels, red ones, with an ankle strap. Finally, a pair of hoops through my pierced ears.
Perfect.
I sent Charlie a text, he was at the rugby club with a couple of his mates:
"Ring me, urgently!"
Two minutes later my mobile rang. Charlie.
"Hi," I cooed in what I hoped was a sexy way down the phone, "I am the prostitute you've booked for tonight, I am at the house now, ready for you. Just to remind you it's £100 in cash please!"
"What?" He stammered.
"You did order a prostitute for tonight, didn't you?"
The penny dropped.
£100, in cash. I'll be ten minutes."
I pressed end and waited. I didn't have long.
The car screeching to a halt on the driveway, followed by the slamming of the driver's door gave me the heads up. I was standing on the landing when the door burst open, and Charlie rushed in.
"Hi, you must be my six o'clock," I called down.
"Nicola?" Charlie called up the stairs.
Now just for the record, my name is Nicola, and I hate it when it's shortened. It's Nicola, end of.
"No one of that name here," I said, "I am Nikki honey, you've got my money?"
"Yes," he stammered.
"Then don't you think you should come up and give it to me, or shall I come down?"
"Err!"
"I'll come down then," I said, descending the stairs slowly, letting him drink in, what I hoped was a vision.
