Adventures of a London Call Boy (7 page)

Chapter Eighteen

I was sitting outside a pub by the canal in Camden with Celeste a few days later when I got the call. She'd been taking the piss out of me because of my tired eyes and irregular early morning arrivals. I told her that since she'd been seeing her new man she'd been walking like a cowboy, and she told me to piss off.

A couple of American tourists sharing the table next to us were giving Cel dirty looks as her tobacco smoke floated past their lunches and towards the Lock, when my phone rang. I didn't recognise the number: another mobile, no clues.

‘Another date?' she asked.

‘Jealous?' I said.

‘No. You dick.'

I pulled a face and answered.

‘Chesc,' the female voice on the other end mispronounced.

‘Yeah,' I said, trying not to correct her.

‘I hear you fuck for money.'

I almost dropped my phone.

‘Can I call you back?' I asked.

‘Yeah. Just don't take too long about it.'

I hung up.

‘Shit,' I said to Celeste. The couple gave me a dirty look.

‘What?'

‘Erm. It's rather a delicate matter,' I said. The couple next to us shifted awkwardly. I looked around for another table. They were all taken on what was a rare warm and rain-free day.

‘Celeste,' I whispered, trying hard not to be heard. ‘Did I tell you about the consultant woman?' She raised her eyes to the heavens.

‘I told you. You have an addiction.' She turned to the couple. ‘This is my friend Cesc, by the way. He's got a sex addiction. In fact, he's got
the
sex addiction. He's going to be in the medical textbooks.'

‘Look, fuck off, Cel. This is serious. I need your advice.' Turning to the couple, I added, ‘And I'm sorry about her. She has a serious case of vibrator-stuck-in-arse syndrome. It affects her motor and vocal functions. It's like Tourette's, but twelve inches and pink.'

Muttering and fussing, the couple stood up and left, the man throwing a twenty onto the table and leaving his sandwich half finished.

‘I'm sorry,' I said. ‘I don't mean to offend.' They ignored me and left.

‘Seriously, Cel. I think I may have accidentally become a male prostitute.'

‘I didn't know you liked cock,' she answered.

‘No, you idiot. With women.'

She sat back and took a sip on her outsized cocktail.

‘Really. Who'd pay you?'

‘Seemingly at least two women,' I said.

She nodded her head.

‘Who? And, more importantly, how?'

I related briefly the incident with my caseworker's boss's boss's consultant. Or boss's boss's boss, whatever it was.

‘That sounds more like blackmail than prostitution. I'm surprised she didn't threaten you with jail. What's she look like?'

‘She's not hideous.'

‘You really know how to flatter a girl,' Celeste said with a shake of the head.

‘Well, she's OK. But not really my type. She's a few years older than us.'

‘You don't know my age, kiddo.'

‘Does it matter as you act your cup size?'

‘That doesn't make sense. How can you act a letter?'

‘Look, this is getting off the point. Basically, I took the money, no questions asked, gave her an absolutely fantastic screw, and now it sounds like her pals want a piece of the Cesc.'

‘The Cesc? That's so 1950s, you knob. Do you have a quiff and a leather jacket?'

‘I guess if the assignment requires it. Cel, you know enough about sleeping with people for money. How does it work?'

I got the sentence out just before the slap connected.

‘Do you want my help or not?' she said, while I straightened my jaw. Meanwhile, the sun had gone in, and I realised that people were looking at us.

‘Can you manage not to smoke for a few minutes? Can we go inside?'

We moved indoors into a space that despite the lack of smokers had a floor the colour of a diseased lung and a strong smell of detergent. I could see that Celeste was trying to find a way to walk and sit that involved touching as little as possible. I even got the impression that she was avoiding breathing excessively.

I bought another round of drinks.

‘Feeling flush, eh?' said Celeste as I returned.

‘Yeah. Maybe. Anyway, what do you think I should do?'

‘Well, I mean, you accepted the money once. Why not again?'

‘She caught me in a moment of weakness.'

‘Right. She caught you with a hole in your wallet and a boner in your pants, more like.'

‘Celeste, I never realised you were a poet.'

‘Seriously though,' she continued, sipping a G&T through a straw that barely touched her lips. ‘We all do some cruddy things for money. Or in your case, do absolutely nothing for very little money. I don't see any reason not to.'

‘Isn't it illegal?'

‘So's anal sex, but so what?'

‘Is it?'

‘I think so.'

‘Why aren't you in jail then?'

‘Cesc, actually do fuck off.'

I raised my hands in apology.

‘Sorry. But look, isn't this just the slightest bit dodgy?'

‘Dodgier than cruising contact websites for casual sex with strangers?'

‘Is that dodgy?'

‘Do you tell anyone?'

‘You.'

‘You don't need to tell me. I can hear you.'

I took a swig of my drink.

‘OK. Point taken. So you're not taking the piss. If you were me, you'd return the call and go with this girl.'

‘Well I'm not a lesbian. And if it was a bloke calling, then no, not with a barge pole. But if I were you, then yes. It's different for girls.'

‘How so?'

‘You'd be more of a novelty.'

‘That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me,' I said.

‘And, you're less likely to be kidnapped and chopped up into little pieces by some deranged loner. I mean, maybe I'd go, but I'd take a big friend and a Tazer.'

‘That'd put him right in the mood, I'm sure.'

Celeste fiddled with her shades for a moment.

‘It's tricky,' she said. ‘I think people are still sexist. I certainly wouldn't want it to get out if I were taking money for sex.'

‘But you are …' I interrupted.

‘Do you want another slap? I can't help it if men can be very generous with me. But at least I know them in the first place. Not some stranger who's got my number at the jobcentre.'

‘You wouldn't know what a jobcentre is. But I take the point. I'd actually quite like it if people suggested that it was worth paying money to have sex with me. So you think I should call her back?'

She paused, sniffed her drink, and took out a cigarette while looking at the door.

‘Now I wasn't saying that. Not exactly. But I don't think you shouldn't.'

I added up the negatives. It was about as close to a straight answer as I was going to get from my friend.

Chapter Nineteen

Another drink went by, Celeste popped outside for a couple more cigarettes and I sat looking at the mystery number.

I didn't call immediately, and I sort of half chickened out of making a decision. Back at the flat, Celeste prepared for an evening with some college friends of hers, most of who had married extremely wealthy young men and were now busying themselves in the pursuit of perfection as modern wives. I sat on the sofa, playing with my phone and failing to watch TV.

After much delaying, I finally sent the mystery woman a text. It said, simply, ‘You can call me now.'

She was clearly waiting. My phone rang right back.

‘Where were we?' she asked.

‘Erm. Fucking for money?' I answered.

‘Yes. Well?'

‘Well what?'

‘Do you?'

‘That depends.' I realised that despite spending so long thinking and talking about it, it hadn't really gone to plan. More to the point, I didn't have a plan.

‘On what?'

I realised that there was a strong chance of things going very quickly wrong.

‘Whether we can count on our mutual discretion in a professional relationship.' As the words left my mouth, I wondered who on earth had said them for me.

‘I say,' mocked the woman on the other end. I tried to imagine her physically from the voice. She sounded older than me, like a smoker, and had a touch of wickedness about her.

She continued. ‘So, do you want to do this then?'

‘Yes. I need some details. And we need to agree terms.'

‘I'll text you my address. What do you normally charge?'

I invented a figure that sounded reasonable.

‘And what does that get me?'

‘Anything you want, unless it involves long-term harm to me or a third party. And I don't go with other men, children or animals.'

‘Of course. You're a gentleman, after all.'

I hadn't been called that for a while, but I agreed all the same.

‘And is that a night, an evening or what?'

‘Until you want rid of me.'

‘Wow. And what if I wear you out?'

‘We'll see, shall we,' I answered.

‘OK then. I'm looking forward to it.'

‘Good. I'll see you later then,' I said, and hung up.

I still wasn't convinced. I thought she might not text, and after a few minutes, when the message still hadn't arrived, I thought it might have been a wind-up. But the text arrived, and I thought it might still be a wind-up, and that I should either sack it off or take a friend, preferably one who was good at fighting and/or legal advice.

I looked up the address online: it was a swanky new apartment block not far from the flat. I checked the property developer's website: private gym, swimming pool, views over the heath. Perhaps I should have asked for more money. I figured that at least if things got ugly, there'd be a concierge to rescue me. I realised that I'd have to get a taxi if I wanted to turn up looking pristine, and wondered if I should add that or include it in the price. I also thought hard about whether I should add VAT.

In the end, I concluded that if the worst came to the worst, I could just leg it and put the whole thing down to experience. If she'd got my details from J., then it would probably count in my favour if I had to report her for harassing me. Offering someone money for sex is one thing, I reckoned; passing them on to someone else is at least a step further.

So, I showered and shaved, slung on some CKs, some fancy clothes and a dash of aftershave and made a quick check on my condom supply. As I waited for the taxi, I could feel the adrenalin and the testosterone starting to flow. Even if she wasn't a great looker, I was enthusiastic about getting another performance like the other night.

The taxi was early, so I took him a roundabout route to get a better look at the area and the building. I don't know why. I knew that part of London well, but I suppose I was looking for any sort of sign. I'm not superstitious, but I guessed that if the flat was surrounded by police cars, I might give it a miss.

There was nothing untoward, and nothing to give me an excuse to duck out of it. As the taxi pulled up, I caught a glimpse of someone looking down, three or four storeys up, on the other side of some gates and an elegantly paved and gravelled entrance way.

I buzzed and the big glass door opened on to a wide marble hallway without a word from the intercom. She was obviously waiting for me. The lift sped me to her floor, and as I stepped out, I realised, all of a sudden, quite how much I was looking forward to it.

Chapter Twenty

One thing that's important about this game is the erection.

If it can't perform to order, or a guy can't find a way to cheat nature, then he shouldn't even try. Or he needs to grow one hell of a tongue.

Now the erection is a curious thing: if any other part of the body increased so greatly in size and stood out at that sort of angle, you'd see a doctor. When you get one in the wrong context, you seldom mention it, unless you're a radio shock DJ or one of those American sports commentators who get far too excited about athletic endeavour.

In this profession, I've discovered that timing is all-important. If you walk into a job with the fellow already stiff as a board and bulging in your pants, you may give the impression that you're just totally indiscriminate. On top of that, there's no contrast.

The trick is to let the client know that she makes it hard. I'm not saying I douse it in ice before turning up, but it's good to make it clear that the performance is being laid on especially. Prior to dates, I may drift off into fantasy or memories of previous sessions, just to put me in the right frame of mind. But nowadays I always make sure that it comes up for her and just for her.

That evening, however, even before I'd met her, I was walking gingerly, my cock throbbing with expectation. I was surprised at myself; I suspected at least some nerves, but the whole experience surrounding the assignment was very exciting.

When the lift pinged to a halt, the doors opened on to a carpeted hall. Along the corridor, tastefully and discreetly decorated with some prints and a vase of flowers on a sideboard, was an open door. I padded over and then knocked.

‘If you're the delivery man, come in.'

I considered any one of a number of puns I'd heard in soft porn, and rejected them all. Instead, I pushed the door open.

‘I'm afraid not,' I said to no one in particular. ‘It's Cesc. We spoke on the phone, earlier.'

Inside, I surveyed the room. It was a wide, open-plan kitchen, diner, living room in one, with distinct sections and modern furniture over a dark wooden floor. Very elegant. The far wall was floor-to-ceiling glass, giving a magnificent view of the city.

‘Anyone home?' I called.

There was no response. I shut the door behind me and looked for signs of life or habitation. To my right was a kitchen area, next to it, closer to the window, was a long dining table. The left of the room held sofas, a TV, a couple of very large art prints of discreet female nudes, and a large sheepskin rug. In either corner, left and right, doors led off to, I presume, bedrooms.

I clicked over to the window. I noticed a couple more interesting features: a large coffee table book of what appeared to be contemporary erotic photographs. And in the glass cabinet by the sofas, quite a number of books on sex. I started to draw a mental picture of the woman's interests. It did nothing to quell my arousal.

‘Hello,' I said again. Again, there was no response.

On the table was a tray, with a glass, some ice and white wine. I poured myself a drink and stood surveying the scene and the view. I noticed that one of the doors was open, and the other was closed. I tried to work out whether this was clue or coincidence. I walked back across the room. By the entrance, there were no hints: no little notes, no lipstick messages. On the floor, there were no trails of underwear. I called out again, but again with no reply.

I deliberated for a while. It was clearly some sort of game. As I understood it, I was paid to play by the client's rules.

‘I have a delivery for you,' I said, quietly, but loud enough to be heard in either room. A voice from directly behind me made me jump.

‘Pick a door,' it said.

One was closed, the other half open.

I chose the closed door. Half-open doors have always made me suspicious.

I tried the handle, but it was locked. I noticed that there was a fisheye. I knocked, and stood back from the door slightly. After a moment, I heard the bolt being turned.

I tried again. This time the door opened.

The room was darkly lit: the light through the drapes as the sun began to set, a vintage lamp in the corner and some candles. The decor was dark, mostly: long black velvet curtains, black and white prints on the walls, a line of black lacquer-fronted cupboards, a full-length mirror on a stand in the corner. And a very big bed, made up in what, in the faint light, looked like black satin.

There was no one. While the room suggested gothic perversions, the absence of another person suggested a wasted trip. I half checked that there was no one hiding in a corner. I was right. There was no one hiding in the corner. I muttered something to myself and went to turn, only to be intercepted by two hands over my eyes.

‘Don't move,' said a sensual female voice.

‘Not moving,' I said. ‘Only my lips.'

I could tell she was at least my height, although a sharp click of metal on hardwood suggested that she was wearing stilettos.

‘What are you delivering?' she asked, close to my ear. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

‘Whatever you want,' I replied.

‘Good.'

Very slowly, I moved my hands behind me. I felt what I thought were hips, and was pleased to feel smooth flesh and silk. With a very small movement, I pulled her close to me. Her hands went from my eyes to my lips to my chest. Against my back I could feel her nipples through the fabric of her clothes.

‘Can I turn round now?' I asked.

‘Not yet.'

With her hands still over my eyes, we walked forward towards the bed, stopping just short.

‘I've left the money for you in an envelope on the dining table. I'm presuming you know what you're doing.'

‘That's correct,' I said, passing over the fact that despite my amateur experience I was still very much a novice professional.

‘Good. What do you think I want?'

I considered the surroundings, the heavy scent in the air and the heat from the candles.

‘I try not to make predictions. But I think one of us is going to get bound and gagged.'

‘Correct,' she said.

As I opened my mouth to attempt a witty response, her knees knocked into the back of mine, throwing me off balance. Her hands went to my shoulders as I fell and I was spun round onto my back on the bed. I noticed a large iron bedstead as I landed, and then caught a glimpse of her: at least a decade older than me, with raven hair cut sternly around her face and very pale skin over dramatic, aquiline features. She was tall and slim, but with large breasts in a push-up bra. Over her underwear – a thong and stockings, I judged from the outline – was a long, black silk dress, slit right up to the hip on both sides. She was not pretty, but she was magnificent.

As she pounced on me, there was a metallic sound: before I could react, cuffs were on my wrists and I was strapped to the frame.

‘If at any stage you want to stop, say so, and we stop,' she said.

‘Let's hope that's not necessary,' I replied, testing my bonds.

‘Right. Well in that case, just knock the board three times.'

‘Why?' I asked, before she answered my question by forcing a bit between my teeth and a strap around the back of my head: a gag. I'd been right.

Despite the physical discomfort, I was excited by the scene. She looked down on me from by the bed, and then very slowly undid my shirt and trousers. My erection was fighting to get out, and soon she had stripped me, leaving me naked bar an undone shirt. Then she was at the foot of the bed, and I felt a larger version of the wrist cuffs on my ankles. Soon I was fully stretched on the bed, my erection like a sundial on its stand.

‘In our everyday lives,' she said, ‘we too often ignore those senses that are not vision or taste. Everything is eaten or looked at these days. Sensations become dulled. And people are selfish. No one takes pleasure in giving sensations to others.'

I started a response: ‘Normally that's my job.' It came out as ‘Orhhuhhy ah aehh ohh.'

‘Precisely,' she said.

She moved towards me and produced from the same hidden pocket that had housed the cuffs, a long, black silk handkerchief. She tied it over my eyes and firmly knotted it behind my head. I thought about struggling against the bonds, as part of the game, but decided to keep still.

The next thing I knew was the feeling of hands on me: slim, slightly cold fingers running over my chest, across my stomach, around my crotch, down my thighs, and back up again. They ran in circles over my chest and then were gone. I tried to work out where she was, but I could only assume that she was standing astride me. The hands returned and I felt them on my nipples, first massaging, then teasing, then tweaking. And then there was a cold, metallic sensation, then pressure, and the pain.

I bit against the gag, trying to identify the precise source of the pain. I was sure metal clamps had been applied. This was clearly a woman who had invested in the correct equipment.

After a moment in which I began to adjust to the new sensation, I felt her hands again. Now they were massaging my thighs, my abdomen, my groin. Then I felt a tickle against my balls, and the lightest of touches along the length of my dick. I arched my back, straining for more contact, and then she was gone.

A few seconds later, there was a change: instead of her hands, I felt something like a feather being run over my body, alternating tickling and arousal. Its tip moved over my balls, up my cock, over its head. And then she was gone again.

The next sensation was metallic, cold against my thighs. And then I heard her voice.

‘This will most likely hurt,' she said. I felt her hands running up and down my shaft, and then one of them cupping my balls. Soon the cup became a squeeze, and the cold metal applied itself either side of the top of my sac. I felt it tighten, and then felt it pull down. The pain was intense, but my cock hardened. I squirmed, trying to find some way of losing the vice that was pulling on my testicles, or somewhere to stick my penis. There was nothing.

‘Don't think I just want you for your cock, Cesc,' she said. I realised she had moved, and was further away.

‘Although I might do,' she said, from closer. And then I felt her mouth around me: there was no other contact, just suddenly the hot flesh of her lips and tongue around my penis. I felt myself starting to come, but strained every muscle to stop. My balls tried to rise against the clamp but a second later she was off me and the clamp was pulled and tightened. I tried to wince with pain.

‘Not so fast,' she said. I heard her walk away and heard the clink of ice in a glass. Then I felt the shock of the cold water poured over my cock and balls. I felt them tense, but not shrink. Numbness came over my groin, and meanwhile she took my cock roughly in her hand.

Now she was wearing gloves. At first, I thought they were silk, but in between the delicious smoothness, there was something else: a painful abrasiveness that hurt and aroused at once. More specially made kit, I thought, trying to control a mixture of feelings including the need to cry out in pain and the urgent need to come.

Just before reaching the point of being unbearable, everything stopped. There was a pause, and then she undid the nipple clamps. I sighed with relief, only to be immediately more aware of the pain in my penis and testicles. After a second, I felt a liquid sensation: she ran ice over my chest and massaged it over my nipples. The chill was then replaced with intense cold, before I realised it was heat, burning heat: I felt singeing pain and then dull tension, and bit hard against the gag: she was pouring hot wax onto me, first onto my nipples, then onto my stomach and finally onto my balls.

My heart was now pounding. I thought about knocking the headboard, but resisted. Pain, I thought, was just one sensation amongst many, and unless I heard the buzz of a chainsaw, I hoped I was more or less safe. I simply had to bite the bullet, as it were, and try to enjoy myself. Certainly, none of her actions had lessened my arousal.

With the wax hardened on me, I felt her over me again. Hoping that the binding and singeing had been a prelude to a fuck, I expected to feel her close to me. But I soon realised that she was concentrating on something else: quickly, my right hand was unhooked, crossed with the left and refastened. At the bottom of the bed, the same happened to my feet. With a push, she left me lying face down. ‘Oh shit,' I thought.

I felt the first crack of the whip, or crop, or birch, hard against my buttocks. The pain was still registering as she hit my thighs, my buttocks again and then my calves. She was clever: the strap was thick enough to hurt, intensely, but did not seem to cut. I felt my breath quicken and I bit on the gag tight, before another volley of shots numbed my legs and arse.

I realised also that I was lying face down, and the sensation of the sheets against my cock was going to make me come at some stage if I wasn't careful. Clearly, so did she. I felt a sharp pain in my balls and realised that the screw had been pulled up. Now I was on all fours, my balls pulling away from my body, my cock tantalisingly in mid air. She beat my arse, my legs and, in a blow that caused me almost to gag and to howl with pain, my poor, exposed balls.

And then there was nothing. I had a chance to feel the various echoes of mistreatment over my body. I breathed hard through my nose, and tried to become as comfortable as possible.

‘Well done, Mr Aleixandre,' she said. I realised that the voice was behind me. ‘You've taken a lot so far.'

I pondered the implications of ‘so far'.

‘I don't want to ruin you the first time,' she said, now from beneath me. I felt her hands on my cock, and suddenly, there was a condom on me. I strained to move downwards, but felt the pain as my balls were pulled back against their strap.

‘Now, I want you to fuck me. As hard as you like,' she said. I could only move so far down without splitting my reproductive organs in two, but somehow, I felt her rise to meet me. Her underwear was gone, although the long silk dress and her stockings appeared to be on still. I tried to thrust, but each push brought intense pain with the resistance against my testicles. She'd obviously been turned on by the act, as she moaned with pleasure with no more than half of me inside her. I tried to thrust, but could not, but she squirmed and arched beneath me, drawing me into her. Again, I pushed, and the pain grew. We were moving together, I with my limbs still stretched, she running her hands all over me, occasionally allowing her nipples to brush against me.