Free Universal Carnal Knowledge Pt. 46

This special pleading would be more persuasive, I know, were I not shagging these girls all day and all night; but for what it is worth, there it is.

*

Connie took to whoredom with a gleeful enthusiasm that was a joy to behold. She was promiscuous in any case (I never realised quite how much until my birthday weekend), but FUCK has sent an already strong sex drive into orbit. Her enthusiasm and capacity for fucking draws admiration even from experienced whores. She gets relatively little escort work because clients willing and able to pay for this rather expensive service tend to prefer perfect European teenagers to big-assed African girls, but in any case (and like a lot of my girls, actually) Connie prefers parlours and parties: "More guys," she explains.

Connie seems insatiable and inexhaustible. "Don't you get tired?" Fran once asked her. "Or sore?"

"A bit, now and then," Connie conceded, "but if I just keep going it soon wears off."

This conversation led to a friendly bet. Connie wagered that she could work in parlours and parties for at least twelve hours each and every day, without a break, for a solid month. Not only did she do it; at the end she was still bright-eyed and fresh as a daisy and hungry for more.

An awed Fran paid up cheerfully. Five thousand pounds is little more than small change for my girls.

*

Maybe Connie is exceptional but in truth, virtually all the girls adapted with surprisingly little difficulty. Their new desire for constant sex, of course, gave them every inducement to do so, and it has to be said that the money did not exactly deter them either.

Laura possibly had more trouble than anyone to sever her existing commitments. Her entire life, professional and (such as it was) personal, was so much bound up with Cambridge University that it was hard to break away. In the end she had to tell people that she had realised that such a wholly academic existence was too far removed from normal experience for her to be able to write the second book for which her publishers were pressing. So she took leave of absence in order (she told everyone) to seek employment in a field in which her academic qualifications would be irrelevant. Having thus created the impression that she was going to work in a chip shop in Gateshead, or something equally mundane, she left for the life of a high-class London whore.

Although she clearly relishes her new life, and has unbent to the extent of actually being quite good company, she has not left academic ways altogether behind. She remains thoughtful and analytical, and she and I have had some very interesting conversations about how her life has changed. I asked her whether she could put her finger on the biggest single difference.

"It's not the actual sex," she replied, "great though that is. It's not even the orgasms. It's thepassion; the way I clench up inside with a wonderful, unbearable hunger. I never knew it was possible to feel this way so I never missed it, but now I can't imagine life without it." Laura's comments on sex, and selling sex, are always intelligent and insightful, and sometimes very witty; if she ever gets round to writing that second book it will be well worth a read.

*

I ought to say a little more about the girls in general and their relationship to me.

First and foremost, they are in love; passionately, rapturously, overwhelmingly in love. Every waking moment they think of me, and when they sleep I inhabit their dreams. Women have loved me deeply before – not many, but Wendy certainly did during our courtship and the early years of our marriage, and so did one of my University girlfriends, if only for a term or two – but never have I known anything like the absolute and unconditional devotion I get from my girls.

They bless the day they met me. I can do no wrong in their eyes; they put the best possible light on everything. My ruthless promiscuity, for instance, shows my generosity: I am sharing my magnificence as widely as possible. Of their work as whores, they tell me I am one in a million, so caring, so understanding; what other man would let them do this without getting jealous? The rule against other boyfriends shows (they say) how important each girl is to me; and why should she want anyone else anyway, when she has a share of me? I am so clever, so witty, so wise. Jim knows best.

Uppermost in their minds, even stronger than their physical desire for me, is the wish to make me happy. Newly recruited girls, I notice, tend to assume that what I want from them (apart from their bodies) is deference and obedience. But as they get to know me, and see how I behave with established girls, they realise that (except in a few cases, such as Florence) I prefer girls to behave in a more natural way, and they begin, tentatively at first, to treat me more familiarly and informally. They learn that they are not required to like cricket or the Marx Brothers merely because I do, and they gain the confidence to express their own opinion, to volunteer requests and suggestions, even to disagree with me about something. All this I permit, even encourage, because we all know that, in the end, what I say goes.

There is one important constraint on this freedom of speech: the complete inability of my girls to offer any moral judgment on me. This is not of my doing; rather, it seems to be imposed by FUCK. It can be quite limiting. It means that if I ask a girl's honest advice about what I ought to do, the course of action she recommends will be the one she thinks will make me happy.

For instance, girls planning brief visits home to Africa or eastern Europe often tell me in great excitement that their native district is full of poor but beautiful young women whom they could easily lure to London on the promise of waitressing jobs and the like; the idea is that they will then introduce them to me, and FUCK will do the rest. It is important to be clear that they are not suggesting this because they think I want to hear it; on the contrary, they are well aware that I have set my face against dragging naïve girls into prostitution in this way. They are suggesting it because they think having hordes more young beautiful girls would make me happier (and I have an uneasy feeling they are right).

When I tell them that what they are proposing is morally wrong, it simply fails to compute. To most of them, it is simple: my happiness is the supreme good, so anything that promotes it is morally right by definition. The more thoughtful girls can grasp at an intellectual level that there might be a difference between moral rightness and my pleasure, but even to them it is mere abstract theorising with no possible application in the real world. Recently, some girls have started to turn the ethical argument against me, arguing that it would be a praiseworthy act to import young women wholesale from poor countries; they would make money and have fun, their families and the local economy would benefit from the money sent home, and (this is presented as the clincher) the girls themselves would get to meet and fuck the most magnificent and desirable man in the world. Everyone would win, in fact.

So far, I am resisting this. But I know how FUCK has eroded my own standards of conduct, so I wonder how long I shall hold out.

The upshot of all this is that what few moral constraints exist are those I supply myself. Nina's rape still troubles me more than anything. I had no idea that I was capable of such an act, and I have taken great care that there should be no repetition, but nearly a year on that look in her eyes still haunts me.

*

All my girls have put on weight, of course, and in the great majority of cases look far better for it. The process seems to stabilise after a while, but no two girls are affected quite the same way. Florence, I have to say, is a sight to behold. Her tits are now so big that it is an effort for her to get up from bed, and when she sits down they rest on her legs. It would be impossible for the poor girl to lead a normal life, but in this profession, her bust is what the advertising industry calls a USP: "unique selling point". A tit-man takes one look at her and she can virtually name her price. She cannot go out very much (she travels by taxi) and I let her spend a lot of time here when not working, so that she can display not only her tits but her now abject servility. Despite my normal aversion to cosmetic surgery I shall allow her a drastic breast reduction when she stops working.

As for the other changes FUCK has wrought in my girls, the sex industry is the exact place they are least likely to attract attention. Body shaving, high heels and lots of sex go with the territory. If anything makes my girls stand out from the general run of London whores, it is not the FUCK-induced changes but their honesty and reliability, their absence of piercing and tattoos, and their clean-living aversion to cigarettes, drugs, and heavy drinking.

Perhaps they are also unusual in that they work so hard. Most ordinary whores, Gina tells me, will work only a couple of days each week, or perhaps more intensively in short bursts interspersed by periods of taking it easy. But my girls are driven by the remorseless sex drive and spectacular orgasms that FUCK induces, so they typically work all day, day after day. They take the odd day off to relax and unwind only at intervals of a week or more, and even then the craving for sex never really leaves them alone.

It is fascinating to listen to my girls talking about their work; it reminds me of hearing specialists in some technical area of expertise – law or medicine, perhaps. They constantly swap tips and ideas about how to attract clients and make them happy, and frankly I am bewildered by some of the vocabulary they have developed to describe the finer nuances of sexual activity.

(To take but one example: I simply had to ask for an explanation when I heard one girl warn another that a particular client, although a nice guy, was a terrible "starfish". It turns out to mean a notably inactive lover: a client that asks the girl to go on top and simply lies there, limbs splayed out, leaving her to do all the work.)

The girls in general form a kind of loosely affiliated sisterhood. When I venture out I constantly bump into them in twos and threes, enjoying a day off shopping their way along Oxford Street or looking for a nice restaurant somewhere. They socialise together, gossip together, and shop together. They share flats, clothes, sexual hints and tips, clients, and even the occasional non-paying male friend.

*

Here is a vignette. The aural details are correct; the visuals and a few other particulars are from my own imagination, but I doubt I am far off the mark.

The luxuriously appointed bedroom of a fashionable West End apartment: between the satin sheets lie entwined two perfect young lovers. Their sighs of pleasure as they caress each other are disturbed by a cellphone on the bedside table. The man groans; this kind of interruption is painfully familiar. The girl calmly answers the phone. Her accent has only a slight suggestion of eastern Europe. "Yes ... right ... thanks, good," she says, and replaces the phone. She thinks she has rung off but in fact she failed to press the button properly and the line remains open.

"You must go?" asks the man sadly, for he knows the answer already.

She holds his head close to hers. "I can give you one minute," she tells him.

"But –" he begins to object, then gasps slightly with surprise and pleasure as she performs some practised act of stimulation.

She giggles in delight at her own expertise and his reaction to it. "Plenty of time," she says.

He utters a little cry as she again exercises her skill and suddenly he is inside her, thrusting in a frenzy of lovemaking. She responds, bucking her hips and moaning with arousal but yet retaining some vestige of control. Then with a subtle but irresistible move she drives him to climax and as she feels his seed within her, her own orgasm breaks and waves of pleasure wash over her.

Since she thought she hung up the phone precisely fifty-three seconds have elapsed.

Abruptly she pushes him aside and is out of the bed, scampering to the ensuite shower and manipulating the taps. She stands at the shower door and claps her hands briskly. "Playtime's over. We gotta move it, move it!" With that she is in the shower busily lathering herself while he groggily drags himself from the bed and fumbles for his clothes. "Get me a cab," she calls from the shower. "Five minutes. Numbers by the bed." By the time he has found his phone in his trouser pocket and made the call she is out of the shower and towelling herself off. She claps again impatiently. "Quick, quick." He begins to dress with more purpose while she opens the wardrobe and rapidly searches through it. She has already stepped into a pair of high-heeled slingbacks but is otherwise wholly naked. She is nineteen. The pale flawlessness of her skin is emphasised still further by her complete lack of visible body hair. Her movements are graceful and she might be a catwalk model but for her very full breasts and rounded buttocks. Her allure, however, is not diminished, but rather enhanced, by these suggestions of voluptuousness.

As they continue to get ready they casually gossip about a friend of hers. It is obvious that the man is the other girl's lover too, but neither of them considers this fact embarrassing or even remarkable. She picks out a long elegant evening dress and eases herself into it. She wears nothing underneath it. Then she sits at the dressing-table to comb her long golden hair.

"You seen the guy before?" he asks.

"Mmm-hmm," she confirms.

"What's he like?" he asks with studied carelessness.

"Jealous?" she smiles. "Don't be. Fat, bald, and fifty."

Dressed now, he stands behind her chair and massages her shoulders tenderly while she dabs perfume on her wrists. "Poor you," he consoles.

"Keep your sympathy," she laughs. "He's a very nice fuck. One thing I've learnt from this business," she muses aloud, "you can't judge a book by its cover." She stands. "Do me up, please."

There is no need for this request, for she can easily reach the zipper herself. But why not use his services since he is so readily to hand?

The door intercom sounds and she answers it: "One moment, please."

She turns to the man, putting her arms around him. "Why don't you get me warmed up?" She kisses him passionately and he responds, holding her tightly as their lips lock together. For a few moments they lose themselves in the kiss. Then suddenly she pulls away. "That's enough. Mustn't overdo it. Thank you," she smiles. She picks up her bag and her phone, and they leave. In the street below she kisses him on the cheek and gets in the cab alone. He watches her disappear into the night, and walks slowly away. Only when she tries to call ahead to say she is on her way does she realise the phone has been connected all this time.

*

These non-paying lovers were a development I had not foreseen. They began to appear quite early on. Girls would go out dancing or socialising on their days off and, not surprisingly, attract the attention of amorous young men, whom they would sometimes take home. I had no problem with this, of course, but I wanted no attachments to form so if the girl felt that she had found a man with potential she would pass his name and number to other members of the Stable and a day or two later he would be surprised to get a call from an unknown girl saying she needed a date for the evening and her friend had given her his number; could he help out?

Assuming he lived up to my girls' exacting standards the man would find his social life taking a remarkable turn for the better as he found lovely girls constantly calling him out of the blue. Often he would arrive at a girl's flat to find she was with a friend, who would be equally beautiful and highly flirtatious. A favourite trick of girls in this situation is to change clothes right down to the skin without any attempt at modesty and chatting unconcernedly of neutral topics the while. Unable to believe his luck, he would find himself with a succession of gorgeous and sexually promiscuous young women, provided of course he did not allow himself the fatal indulgence of developing too strong an attachment to any particular one of them. If he did, he would find that the phone calls abruptly ceased and his messages would go unanswered.

The girls have deemed a few men to be of such outstanding quality that they have encouraged them to find work as escorts for female clients. This is not, of course, a service provided by my Stable but with their contacts in the wider sex business my girls were able to provide plenty of advice and useful numbers. I gather that at least three of these men are now earning a good living brightening up the lives of lady clients (divorced businesswomen in their forties apparently feature largely), and of course they still socialise with my girls when they can.

I had not anticipated these developments but I did not intervene. So long as nothing interferes with my prior claims, the girls are free to find their amusements as they please. Gina, however, strongly disapproved and told me I should put a stop to it.

"Why should I?" I demanded. "I can't see what harm it does. If a girl has a bit of time to herself and wants some fun, what's the problem? She'll still come running to me if I want her."

"I don't care what you say, hun," insisted Gina. "If she wants a fuck she should go back to work. It ain't right, giving it away like this. It's unprofessional."

"But," I pointed out, "you fuck me without charging."

"That's different," she explained. "That's payment for services rendered."

*

Of course, my girls have been involved in occasional incidents and difficulties over the months. Perhaps the worst was when a Russian businessman treated one of them very roughly, not so as to make her fear for her life but badly enough to leave some cigarette burns and quite severe bruising. Instantly the word swept across the Stable and indeed beyond it, for at parties and parlours my girls took every opportunity to spread the warning. Of course, I know this kind of alert would not cut off his supplies completely, but I like to think the thug suddenly found it harder to get girls and had to pay more for poorer quality.

Another case that I found disturbing, as did many of the girls, concerned a fairly prominent London solicitor, a senior partner in a major firm. He was a familiar client and seemed unremarkable until one day he poured out his heart to a girl about his money worries. She told me about it and since she liked him and found him good company she suggested that maybe I ought to tell the girls not to take his business any more. I was sympathetic to this suggestion but rejected it. My reasoning was that there is no shortage of whores in London, so even if we banned him he would still spend just as much money on women; the only difference being that my Stable would not see any of it. So my girls continued to see him. Then one day his cheque (a few regular and trusted customers are allowed to pay this way) was refused by his bank. A day or two later I saw in the paper that he had declared personal bankruptcy (which, apart from the disgrace, meant the end of his legal career). The day after that he hanged himself. He left a youngish widow (second wife) with three small children. Nothing was said about prostitutes at the inquest but it was revealed that he had been gambling heavily. He was well liked by the girls that had met him and they were very upset about his death, as indeed was I. Indeed, I still am, even though it happened months ago and logic tells me that he was on a self-destructive streak and there was nothing we could have done to avert his death. All the same, it leaves a bad taste.