I'm not sure if this piece will end up in Non-consent/Reluctance or Non-Erotic, so if you're looking for filthy sex scenes in this offering, I'd suggest you leave it now. There's sex in it, but the main focus is in the narrative from the principal character's point of view. It's more, I hope, about a glimpse behind the curtain at a nasty place where people of this ilk exist.
If you do read on, I hope you ... enjoy it, which probably isn't correct of me; perhaps it would be better if I say that I hope it leaves an impression upon you.
Feedback would be great, please. I really would appreciate it if you let me know what you thought about it.
OK, thanks for clicking the link to my tale. There may be bloopers herein -- If you do spot any, to my red-faced chagrin, let me know ... Nicely!
GA -- Langkawi, Malaysia -- 30th of November 2012
I'd only stopped off for a skinny de-caf latte with a shot of caramel in the Costa at the motorway services when, as luck would have it, bad luck in her case, I clocked her.
With Big Brother and his fucking cameras everywhere these days it's difficult to take them from anywhere public. Suddenly, with the progress of technology being what it is, I found my profession fraught with risk. Some of the fun has gone out of it and I must admit to a little nostalgia for how it used to be, when times were simpler. Gone are the halcyon days of the 60s when I started out around Victoria coach station and King's Cross terminus, sniffing out the naive and displaced. The 70s were great days too, and even into the 80s things were simple enough, but now, with reality TV and the internet, people are more aware and so suspicious. It's enough to make me weep.
I usually take them younger, about twenty years younger than the one I had my eye on, firm and ripe and so full of front. Some of them are so feisty when I nab them straight off the bus or all wide-eyed as they step off the train. At first that is, not that the gumption lasts for too long. The spark usually burns itself out when the fear kicks in, and by the time they've sussed that they're in deep shit it's well too late.
But this one caught my eye. Twice the age of my regular stock-in-trade as I said, and I estimated her to be forty if she were a day. She'd weathered the storm of her years well, taking my fancy and turning my head as soon as I saw her. Being in one of my dirtier moods I decided right away I'd like to give her one decided. She looked fucking delicious with her big ol' titties swaying and her arse swinging as she swanned around the coffee shop in Toddington services off the M1 motorway. I could see beyond the clothes and the make-up and the hair, and I recognised a boob job when I saw one; she didn't fool me, and no matter how she presented herself, I could tell she'd been around the park a few times. But she was a right sort and I fancied her the moment I clapped eyes on her.
Her tits were her downfall, if she hadn't been showing the fuckers off in a tight-fitting sweater I probably wouldn't have looked twice, but when I saw the full, rounded promise of those jugs ...
Well, I put her right at the top of my Christmas list to Santa. Appropriate given the time of year, what with Christmas being less than a week away.
On a whim, since I had nowhere else to be after all, and since I had more than a few quid in the bank I could afford to indulge myself, I decided to keep an eye on her. Even if this panned out to be a non-earner I could still have some fun.
My usual method is to gain their trust, pretend to be their friend and take them somewhere quiet before I make a move. I've got my usual haunts and normally only work where it's known to be safe for me, no cameras or witnesses, the kind of things that can lead to a curtailment of operations and a long stretch at Her Majesty's pleasure. I'm not one to act on the hoof, but this time, as is my wont on occasion, I decided to take my chance when it presented itself. I'm not bragging or anything but I've developed a bit of a sixth sense over the thirty or so years I've been doing this, and I can normally tell when it's good to go. It most definitely wasn't wise to risk it right there in full view of the fucking CCTV so I elected to follow her rather than take her from the car park in the services. The fucking civilians even have number plate fucking recognition systems these days, just so the money grabbing bum-fucks can send a fucking parking ticket to the registered keeper of a vehicle that stays beyond the allotted time limit. Even if the Beemer's registration was hooky and the filth wouldn't be able to trace me through the car, why take chances.
They really bugger up my plans sometimes, the bollocking cameras.
Not picking her up in the services was a simple operational precaution. Then it seemed I'd gotten all worked up for nothing, that the whole thing would be a washout when, after donning a thick North Face jacket against the cold, hiding her superb tits away in the process, she waltzed out to the car park and met up with some bull-shouldered bastard of a bloke. After chatting for a minute or so, they weren't out there too long, thank fuck, it was fucking Baltic outside, they hugged goodbye. It could have been platonic, that hug, a gesture of goodbye and season's greetings from a colleague or something, but the way big geezer kissed her before he walked off to a silver Mercedes, and the way she held him and, huddled inside her thick coat, watched him drive off told me that these two were close.
I didn't give a rodent's rectum about the details of their relationship. It meant nothing to me, all I cared about was the fact he'd fucked off and left her and that I could now follow her to wherever she was heading. Keeping her in sight I watched the blonde climb into a smart looking Mini Cooper.
I'd been prepared to tack onto her and follow the mini no matter how far she travelled up the motorway, but to my delight she only drove a few more miles before she took the exit at Milton Keynes. I tucked the motor a few cars behind hers as she zipped along the new stretch of the A421.
She lived in a nice part of Biggleswade, a recently built, very middle class estate of the Bovis or Persimmon persuasion. Typically bland and commuter belt boxes for the vapid and bovine. Boring as fuck I should think, living there, but maybe they did a lot of swinging to liven up their Saturday nights, a bit of wife-swapping instead of staring at Bruce Forsyth on the telly. I never could stick that big-chinned cunt, and felt pleased that I lived in east London. Give me a decent boozer over this soporific suburbia and their crap televisual habits any day.
The main obstacle of course was getting past the front door. I was buggered if I was going to fanny about masquerading as the bloke from British Gas or a BT engineer, so I took the easy option and waited until a couple of hours past midnight before I made a move. Getting in posed no problems at all, with a bit of quick handiwork on the patio doors at the back of the house and I was in like Flynn as the old saying went.
I stood in the shadows of the kitchen and paused to allow my eyes time to adjust to the darkness inside. As the minutes ticked by I could see she was one of those who went the full monty over Christmas. Personally I thought a tree in the kitchen was a bit over the top, but I suppose it takes all sorts.
In her kitchen, before the dirty work started upstairs, I could smell her, the day-to-day scent of her, and I could've knocked one out right there in that cosy domestic setting while the trace of her perfume lingered. I fantasised over her legs and heart-shaped arse during a minute or two of recall at her strutting through Costa in those lethal heels of hers before deciding not to bother pulling my cock. After all, the real deal was upstairs.
