Taing His Money

Some of you might find the sex slow in appearing. Feel free to scroll two thirds through if impatient.

It's my birthday soon. My fiftieth. With a landmark like that on the horizon I've been thinking a lot about my life, the good times, and the mistakes. You know, taking stock of how I became the person I am today.

When I say thinking about things, really I mean one big thing: the thing I did when I'd just turned twenty. These last few weeks I've lain awake in the early hours remembering, going over everything again.

I know if I write about it I'll get it out of my system. Writing has worked for me in the past, dispelled obsessive thoughts. Catholics have got it right with confession. Trouble is for a confession to work you have to confess to someone. Looks like it's you lot.

And of course, as well as being an exorcism for me, I will do my best to make things as titillating and salacious as the real events allow.

I have changed some stuff to protect myself. My husband of fifteen years knows nothing of this episode in my life.

Here goes.

When I was twenty I worked as a receptionist at small hotel in Birmingham, England. To start with I liked the job a lot. I was a friendly and outgoing young woman who really enjoyed meeting new people.

After I had worked there a few months, one the regular male guests began to show me more attention than was usual, taking time to chat with me and ask stuff about in my life. He was in his mid-fifties and time hadn't been kind. On the whole men keep their looks longer than us girls. You only have think of George Clooney to see how a man can continue to make the best of himself well into late middle age, but this guy had the air of someone who had gone to seed years before.

When I was on the desk alone he would tell me how nice I looked, say that if he was twenty years younger he would ask me on a date. With each new visit his remarks got increasingly suggestive. Once, when no one else was around, he asked if I spat or swallowed, came out with it just like that. It must have been the expression on my face that made him laugh out loud. To have him say something like that to my face when I was at work made my flesh crawl.

The next time he stayed, he actually ask me to go out with him on a date, was quite straight faced about it, said it earnestly. I thought it was ridiculous a man his age asking a girl like me out. I politely said no. Obviously too politely because it did not put him off one bit, my adamant refusal was water of a duck.

After that, every time he visited town he would ask me if I would go for a meal with him at one of the better restaurants in town. I tired to laugh it off, make believe he was just trying to be nice by complimenting me. But it went on week after week so I eventually told him I had a boyfriend and that I loved him very much. His response was, "why would having a boyfriend be a problem? Everyone cheated at least once in their life, didn't I know. What the eye doesn't see . . .."

His insistence began to unnerve me. I wondered how long I could remain professional in the face of his badgering. I knew one day I would not be able to help myself, I would just have to tell him to fuck-off, even if it meant losing my job. I even told my manager, Chris, about him. All he said was, "you're a beautiful young woman, Flory, and he's a bloke. What do you expect?" That was what it was like back then. Women just had to put up with unwanted sexual advances, handle it the best they could.

But then he offered me money. I never saw that coming.

It was about nine months after his first visit. I was on my own behind the reception desk when he came up and offered me two hundred pounds for two hours with him up in his room. Later I learned this was the going rate at the time for a decent upmarket escort. The look I gave him should have killed that idea in an instant.

It Didn't.

Three weeks later, after my third refusal, he came to me when I was on my own and, while looking at me intently, told me he'd just had a bad diagnosis and that he didn't have long to live. He went on to say, all his money would be no use to him when he was dead and please would I re-consider -- for two thousand pounds. That was equivalent of five thousand in today's money. I was really taken back; it was a hell lot of money for me back then,

He even reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out bundle of twenty-pound notes, unrolled the wad and began to flick through them. Then he began to ostentatiously count out two-thousand pounds on the reception desk. I just stood and watched, shocked into silence, occasionally looking around hoping no one would see.

There was something about the sight of all that money, though. Suddenly it was real to me. A doorway to get my hands on more money than I'd ever had was opening for me, if I only had the courage to step over the imaginary threshold of my fear.

But I did not believe a word of his sob story about being ill.

After that I tried to wrangle my shifts so my days off fell on Thursdays, the days he usually booked in, and Fridays when he checked out. I realise now I needed to put temptation behind me. I'd started to day dream about what I could do with all that cash,

But I couldn't always get the shifts I wanted and so inevitably we would come face to face. As usual, if there were other staff about he'd wait till I was alone, come over and up his offer, usually by a hundred pounds. After a couple more months it stood at three thousand pounds.

It was then I began to think half-seriously about doing it.

At the time, I was a living with a bloke named Dave. He was a year older then me -- a humble warehouse operative back then -- and at that time we really were very much in love. I wanted to tell Dave about the offer. I wanted Dave to be the sort of partner I cold confess anything to and have him understand. But he wasn't that type of man and never would be. In fact, looking back I realise though he affected all the swagger of counter-culture her he was in fact, deep down, very traditional in his attitude to sex.

When it came to sitting him down and talking him though it, I could not pluck up the courage. Even though we so could have used the money, I knew Dave would never have gone along with the idea. He used to get irrationally jealous if blokes showed me too much interest. He was my first real boyfriend and I had never been with anyone else.

Perhaps it was Dave's latent jealousy that prompted me to do what I did. I mean, it was not because I fancied my admirer, -- who I will call Mike. Something else compelled me -- not just the cash. And that is what still puzzles to this day. Why did I do what I did?

After weeks of agonising, I decided the chance of that much money was too good to pass over. All week I psyched myself up so that when Mike asked again -- as he invariably would -- I could look him in the eye and say, "Yeah, I'd do it."

Making that decision was such a relief. No more agonising.

Me and Dave argued that week. No I did not tell him what I intended to do, but he must have sensed something was in the air. He said I was acting different. He demanded to know who I was seeing behind his back. I managed to reassure him, to lie. But after that everything he said to me became a prod, irritated me. Guilt on my part? Who knows.

But on that Thursday afternoon when Mike booked in and I was face to face with him, confronted once more with the unpleasant reality of him, I lost all the misplaced enthusiasm I'd raised during the preceding week. Looking into his weary eyes, seeing his podgy face and over-ripe lips, I just couldn't get the words to come out. I thought I never would.

Mike might have been a handsome bloke thirty years before he propositioned me, but by this time his pot belly was struggling to break free of his suite jacket, his hair too long at the sides for the amount of it he still had, and his face was red and blotchy, which I guessed was because he drank too much of an evening and ate all the wrong food. But somewhere beneath the flab of his face, good bone structure still fought a brave rear-guard. In his favour, he was always immaculately turned out. His clothes and shoes looked expensive.

But then that evening Dave went and phoned me at work to say sorry about the blazing row we'd had just before I left the house. Even though he was sweet, I was pissed with him for phoning me at work. He knew I was not allowed to take personal calls.

Late that night Mike came in and asked for his keys. Was it because I was annoyed with Dave the reason I came out and said it? Or had a long hidden side of me been stirred into life and now wanted to come out and play. I really don't know, but out of the blue I found myself saying, "Mike . . . You know your offer -- the one you made last time? Does it still stand?"

There was no need for him to answer. His face said it all. He asked what time I finished. Would I come up to his room.

That was impossible, of course. There is no way I could be seen coming and going in and out of a guest's room. And besides, Dave would be expecting me home at the usual time after my shift. So I told him no, that he would have to make other arrangements for us if it was going to happen. I told him that on his next visit he could perhaps stay at the Regency instead of here; I could visit him there. He said he would arrange it and phone me when he was settled in. Straight away I said I was not allowed to have personal calls at work. He said that he was a regular customer, why would it be a problem. I said, okay then, told him to watch what he said if any other staff answered.

It was only after he'd gone to his room that it dawned on me how hard it was going to be for me to get to over to see Mike at the Regency. How things were between me and Dave, I didn't dare say I was going out for a night with girl friends. I knew it would raise his suspicion. My assignation would have to be in works time, pull a sicky.

I got Mike's phone call on Thursday evening, five-thirty, the following week. I had been anticipating the moment all day. All he said was, "Come over now. I have your money."

Pretending to be ill was not hard. A flock of moths and butterflies had set up a rave down the dark cellar that was my belly. I felt sick to my core. I told manager Chris I'd developed bad menstrual cramps and could not function. He was so sweet, straight away called me a cab. I felt vile lying even to Chris, let alone my Dave.

I had to travel over town to the Regency in my work uniform, white blouse, tailored trousers, jacket and sensible shoes. Not the most alluring look. I think deep down I would have liked to have dressed up for the occasion, mainly for myself, really. Just to get into the scenario, become the person the role demanded. In my mind I'd been imagining myself turning up in suspenders and stockings underneath something outrageously low-cut and seductive. But I did not even own any stockings, let alone a suspender-belt. Tights not quite the same thing. So I told myself that Mike liked me enough in my working clothes to offer me three-thousand pounds to spend a couple of hours with him, so he would be happy enough with me as I was.

I can't describe how nervous I was by the time I got out of the cab at the Regency -- Sorry.! That should be: I cannot tell you how terrified I was when I got out of the cab. For any amount less than what I was expecting to walk away with for a few hours work, I would have told the cab driver to carry on and take me home. All I wanted at that moment was to be back home in Dave's muscular arms holding me, loving me.

I felt so obvious walking through the Regency lobby. I imagined all eyes on me seeing the words "whore" stamped in bright letters on my forehead. Of course no one paid me the slightest attention, especially dressed how I was. Just another anonymous corporate female. Not even the young girl on the desk bothered to give me a second look. She was very pretty and I wondered if Mike would perhaps proposition her after he'd done with me.

I'd imagined Mike jumping on me as soon as I entered his room. But no, to begin with he was the perfect gentleman. Perhaps I was a little too eager when took up his offer of a drink but I really needed one to calm my nerves. He handed me scotch on the rocks. It made me cough when I swallowed, but the alcohol untangle my twisted nerves.

He was without his usual jacket, in just his shirt sleeves. I had not previously seen him without a jacket or coat. The size of his belly was a shock. Enormous! All that flab spilling over the belt of his trousers. For a moment the thought of him mounting me naked sent a cold chill though my nerves and made me queasy.

I asked for another drink.

"When you've finished it," he said handing over the glass, "take a shower. I want to lick you everywhere." He looked at me intently and said, "And I mean, everywhere."

I'd brought along condoms for him to use. Now I took the box out of my bag and laid it on the bedside table.

"What the fuck are they for?" he asked.

"For you."

"You can forget about those, young lady."

"Well you can forget about tonight," I said. "No condoms, no me."

He looked devastated. "For bareback I'll pay double what we agreed."

I had to sit and think. I was on the pill so that was not an issue. I'd hardly given a thought to disease, but I suppose it was the back of my mind. This was really before all the hoo-ha about aids, though I suppose it was out there in the U.K. by then, but at first we all believed only gay males got it. Fact is, I just did not want his raw cock inside me, did not want have his sperm on my skin, in my womb.

"Triple it and I might re-consider." I blurted out, just another day to day transaction as if I were at wholesalers doing a deal for produce. I could hardly believe what I was saying even as words leapt from my tongue.

"Okay," he said, without so much as a blink.

Immediately I felt I'd sold myself to cheap. I wondered how high he would have gone.

I took a long time showering, trying to put off the inevitable. While I soaped myself I thought about his cock, how would he get it inside me with all that flab in the way, but more than that I thought about his cum and how he had asked if I spat or swallowed. Back then I hated male sperm. I even found having to swallow Dave's a chore, a girlfriend's duty.

So I scrubbed and scrubbed for as long as I could, as if to make cleanliness a barrier but I had to come out eventually. I dried myself and put on one of the hotel robes that hung on the bathroom door.

He was lying on the bed completely naked and sipping Whisky from a tumbler. I eyed him all over from crown to toes and thought of a beached, albino whale. His skin so pale, so much of it.

"Come join me," he said.

I lay by his side on my back with my robe pulled tight at the waist by its cord. I rested the back of my head on a pillow, spreading my thick dark hair out like a dead princess. I was terrified and just looked blankly up at the ceiling. What I had been dreading for so long now began. He turned to me and opened my robe with hands that were actually trembling. His breath was hot on my face, laden with whisky and nicotine. His ghastly tongue quickly parted my lips and began licking my teeth, prised between them to hunt down my tongue, jostle it into life

I closed my eyes and allowed him his way. And it wasn't so bad after all. In fact it was nice, in a strange sort of way. I found myself letting down all the psychological barriers I had constructed, felt them dissolved by his kisses. As he kissed me, he switched position and pressed his bulk against me. There was so much of him and I felt overwhelmed. But he was soft and fragrant, almost womanly, so different than Dave with his workman's muscularity.

He had me sit up and removed my robe, then he stood with it and placed it over a chair. When he came back he looked down on me, his eyes scanning every inch of my body. He sat on the edge of the bed and took my hand and kissed each finger in turn, then still kissing, he moved his lips over my palm, my wrist, slowly all the way up the soft flesh of my inner arm. He lavished my armpit with his tongue before licking his way to the sides of my breast and under them, slathering the crease beneath each, doing it over and over, then up and on until he had my nipple between his teeth. A storm of electric shudders surged when he nibbled my nipples, back and forth the shivers shot along my nerves. Between my legs a whirlpool spiralled and twirled. In spite of myself and my revulsion for Mike, I became overwhelmed by sheer physical pleasure.

I kept my eyes tight closed, not wanting the sight of him to spoil this unanticipated enjoyment/ I did not want to dispel the illusion of a real lover by looking at the actuality of this fat old man. I imagined I was being treasured, was not just the paid whore I now was. And if I am honest, he did treasure me -- absolutely treasured me. But he'd had to pay me more than any working girl, pay me way over the odds for that privilege. That thought pleased me a lot.

He kissed me everywhere, took his time, licked every inch of my soft, young flesh. His mouth attended to parts of my body I never, ever imagined a lover would take the time to seek out. Each foot was lavished: sole, heel, ball and instep, but especially between my toes, his tongue slithering between each. The pleasure of it almost unbearable, his capacity to produce lubricating saliva unbelievable.

When my legs were done, his tongue between my buttock cheeks. He spent longer there than anywhere else apart from my cunt. He became a pig snuffling for truffles, parting my cheeks and burrowing deep, then letting my buttock flesh enfold his own cheeks while the flicker of his tongue in my most intimate spot was almost too much for me. The way it curled and probed made me want to call out, but stifled words under my breath were all I managed. Almost a plea not to please me so much, "Oh, Mike! Mike! My god! You're licking my arse. Oh, please . . ." But I did not tell him to stop.

All those soft caresses, his licking, nipping, and sucking, were an unappeasable primer for orgasm. In spite of myself I succumbed to two orgasms that first hour; one when he licked my arse while simultaneously fingering my clit; the other also from his tongue, but this time on my clit while three fingers eased in and out my cunt. I hated the cum my body insisted on lubricating his hand with.

He did not give me time to get my breath back after orgasm, his tongue in my mouth again. Then he was lapping at every inch of my face, my cheeks and nose, chin and throat, over and over, his tongue as slobbery as a great mastiff's. He was frantic for me now, licking and groaning over and over.

It seemed an eternity before he actually mounted and fucked me. But for that time before it happened it was a dream of tactile and oral attention. After all the licking and kissing, I was in an inner space I'd never knew existed. A place Dave had never taken me to. Dave probably never even fantasised about half the stuff Mike was doing.

At one point Mike was flat on his back and had pulled me upright so I was sat up straddling his face with my legs spread wide. He pushed down on my hips to force my cunt and arse onto him. I remember the feel of his cold nose between my buttocks as he encouraged me to rock my hips, rotate them so that my cunt squelched his face. Even though he had shaved, the rasp of whisker chaffed my buttock cheeks.

I can't remember everything now. I spent two hours with him.

For a while I let myself drift away under his soft caresses, his kisses. I was abruptly brought back to reality when he began manoeuvring to fuck me properly. I lay there waiting for him to get his cock inside me and watched in disbelief as he kind of lifted the great substance of his belly in one hand while guiding his cock into me with the other. When he was in me, pushing deep, he let the bulk of his belly down over my abdomen. It kind of overflowed over the sides of my own belly, a mass of gelatinous flab enfolding my torso. I was such a slight thing back then, a real sylph, no more than a size eight.