Warren Baker's Valentine

bygeronimo_appleby©

"Uh ... I suppose," I managed to croak.

"Have you ever been with a woman? You know ... been intimate?" My burning cheeks told her all she needed to know, and Charlotte chuckled as she stubbed the butt of her cigarette into an ashtray. "A blank canvas," the woman murmured to herself, but loud enough for me to hear. "How fucking delightful." Charlotte abruptly rose to her feet. "There it is, Warren," she said brightly. "A job if you want it. I understand that what I've said will have come as a bit of a shock, but please consider it. Don't worry, I won't throw you in at the deep end." She laughed, adding with a smirk, "Those dirty bitches would devour you if I offered you to them as you are. No, you think on the offer and let me know. I'll give you twenty-four hours to decide. If you say yes I'll ... break you in gently. It'll be a probation period initially, just because you've got the requisite equipment doesn't mean you're qualified to use it. But it would be a shame not to try at least. I really do think we could make some money together, darling." She dropped an eyelid onto her cheek in a lascivious wink. "And there's some fun to be had to boot.

"Twenty-four hours, lovely boy," Charlotte said as she left me sitting there in the lounge.

Three -- Refusal

These days a lad of nineteen might leap at the offer as soon as it had been made. But, to me at least, 1972 was a much more innocent time than today. That perception might be in no small part due to my background and naivety at the time. Porn wasn't as prolific as it is today. It existed, but back then I would have been scandalised, and hugely aroused by grainy, black and white images in some naturist magazine, and so what Charlotte had outlined had come as a massive culture shock to me, completely beyond my comprehension. In my world, the notion that married couples actually paid to have someone join them for sex was unbelievable, the stuff of fantasy. But of course in reality the seventies were no more innocent than today, the debauchery was just the same, it just wasn't as widely acknowledged back then. In my village, and even in the towns and cities, there was still a social stigma attached to giving birth out of wedlock, and it was this background noise in my head, my conventional morality, that led me to refuse Charlotte's offer.

Truth be told, I was actually shit scared, terrified by the carnal scenes the woman's words had put into my head.

I prevaricated all day on that tortured Sunday. But when I sat down with Charlotte that evening I had to refuse.

"I'm sorry to hear that, Warren," Charlotte responded as we both sat in the lounge the following day and I declined the woman's proposal with a burning face and much tripping over my own tongue.

That left me in potentially dire straits. It was bloody cold outside and I was acutely aware that I didn't have enough funds to meet the rent when it soon became due.

"I just can't see meself up to owt like that, Mrs Spenser," I replied. Even hearing my own accent embarrassed me. What would Charlotte's clients think if a bumbling oaf like me turned up on their doorstep? When I looked at Charlotte, regardless of her shocking revelations and her use of profanity, I still saw her as the personification of elegant deportment, and I imagined her clients expected a certain standard. Even I were willing I didn't possess the social graces.

"What is it that puts you off, Warren?" Charlotte asked in a kind and concerned tone.

"Just about all of it, Mrs Spenser." I watched the flames flickering in the grate to avoid looking at Charlotte's face.

"You don't want the money, Warren? Is that it? You don't need the money? Or is it that you wouldn't like to see a woman naked? Wouldn't you like to have sex, Warren? What about it, what about a bare lady rolling around in bed with you? Think about her breasts swaying in front of your eyes, and what about her hands on you. Imagine a woman with your cock in her mouth, Warren, or inside her cunny."

I looked at Charlotte quickly. "Mrs Spenser," I gasped. "You shouldn't say that sort of stuff. Not a lady like you."

Charlotte snorted a laugh. "Is that how you see me, Warren?" she asked, her tone full of scorn. "A lady?" She chuckled and sipped at the vodka she'd poured at the commencement of this painful interview. "I've been a whore. I've opened my legs for money." Charlotte leaned forward, her eyes boring into mine as she deliberately provoked a reaction from me. "Most of the so-called ladies that you seem to have up on a pedestal are only too eager to get their cunts stuffed with the kind of cock you're carrying around, Warren. That big fucking dick of yours is going to waste. What do you do, wank it off all by yourself?" She paused, her expression all clench-jawed challenge. "I could arrange for somebody, a mature woman with a burning itch between her legs to do that for you, you know. And you'd be paid for it. You'd get money just for letting her do what you'd only do to yourself.

"She'll even get rid of your lingering virginity as well. How about that? Don't tell me you'd turn down an offer like that. Twenty pounds in cash in your pocket and a lady to wank you off before she climbs aboard your big cock and fucks you. You'd see her all bare, Warren. Think about that. A naked woman, tits swinging as you look at her face and see the pleasure you're giving her. Or would you like her in lingerie? A lot of men are mad for a girl all dressed up for fucking."

My cock had swelled and I felt an almost overwhelming desire to touch myself. A kind of reckless madness swept over me, a hungry desire that made me want to take my cock out right there in front of Charlotte and tug it until I groaned and sprayed jizm all over myself and the furniture.

"Mrs Spenser," I said, with my throat so thick with lust that my voice came out as a croak. "Would it really be like that?"

"Yes, Warren," the woman replied quietly. "I promise."

Images flashed into my head of some mystery woman riding my dick. What would it feel like to have her hand on me? And what about the fucking? What would she look like? How would her voice sound as she sighed and groaned? Would she talk to me, tell me how it felt and tell me what to do?

I swallowed heavily. "All right," I mumbled. "Yes."

"Oh goody," Charlotte responded. She drained the vodka out of her glass and placed the empty tumbler on the table. "I'll advance you twenty pounds tomorrow," she continued, brisk and businesslike. She pointed at my longish hair. "We'll get you a haircut first thing. Then we'll go to Burton's and buy you a half-decent suit -- off the peg, you'll be on a probation period at first, but if you show promise, and as you progress we'll spend some money on some decent clothes. You're going to be pampered tomorrow, Warren," Charlotte smirked. She lit a cigarette and told me to stand up. Her eyes looked me up and down. "Manicure, pedicure and a shave," the woman added. "Early evening you'll bathe; I want you immaculate and scented for your guest. Nothing poncy thought, Warren. You're a nice big lad and well built I'd say, under your clothes." Charlotte grinned and added lewdly, "I don't just mean your cock either. I'd hazard that you're put together reasonably well." She reclined in her seat and put a forefinger to her chin. "We'll choose a nice aftershave for you, something manly and rugged."

All of that made my head spin. I could just see me sat there like a great nancy in some hairdresser's chair getting my nails done.

"I'll need you to be ready at eight tomorrow evening, Warren. A cab will pick you up then, so be ready on time. I'll arrange everything."

It hit me then, I was going to sleep with a woman!

"You mean it?" I asked stupidly, standing there with my arms hanging by my sides. "Really? Tomorrow?"

A laugh tinkled from the woman opposite. "Yes, Warren. Really. Tomorrow. You're going to fuck a woman." It came to her, the significance of the date. "On Valentine's Day of all days!" She smoked and studied me with that feline stare. "How do you feel?" she asked.

Shaking my head, I replied, "I ... I don't really know, Mrs Spenser. Scared and excited at the same time. It's like waiting at the dentist ... but nowt like the dentist. I dunno how to describe it." I looked into Charlotte's face. "I dunno if I can do it, Mrs Spenser. I'm scared witless!"

Charlotte crushed out the half-smoked cigarette. She rose to her feet and walked towards me, lifting a hand to caress my cheek, her eyes held mine. "You'll be fine," Charlotte crooned. "Enjoy the anticipation, Warren. This is going to be a unique twenty-four hours for you, so enjoy it. Savour that feeling of butterflies in your tummy but don't be scared. The lady I've got in mind will be aware that it's your first time, she'll look after you and make it special for you." Charlotte's hand moved to my other cheek, the backs of her fingers sliding over my jaw. "She'll go slowly so you can savour each moment, every taste and texture of her body as she shows you how to kiss.

"You'll kiss her mouth, her neck, her throat and her cunt. She'll take your cock in her hand and her mouth, and of course you'll also discover the heat of her between her legs. She'll be wet for you, Warren. When she sees your big dick she'll moisten quickly, and when she holds you in her hands she'll groan and tell you what a lovely big cock you have."

"Mrs Spenser ..." I groaned, enthralled by Charlotte's description of what my future held.

"Does all that sound good, Warren?" The woman kissed my cheek, a butterfly's wings against my skin. I gasped and pulled away when Charlotte's hand touched the bulge in my trousers. "You're big right now, aren't you?" she breathed, touching my cock again, pressing the flat of her palm against me.

"Yes, Mrs Spenser," I sighed. The pressure of Charlotte's hand sent an arterial burst of lust through me and I made a clumsy lunge at her, my hands going to her waist as I tried to pull her close so I could kiss her mouth.

The woman cried out and struggled against me. "Warren, no!" she yelled. We struggled for a few seconds until her second vehement refusal penetrated that heavy curtain of lust. "Stop it!" Charlotte cried out, moving her head this way and that as she tried to rebuff my unwelcome advances.

In the end she slapped my face, gave me a stinging slap that made my ears ring.

I stared at Charlotte, appalled at what I'd done, my hand at my cheek. "Mrs Spenser," I gasped. "I'm sorry ... I ... Oh, Mrs Spenser ..."

Breathing heavily, Charlotte regarded me with wary eyes. She reached for her cigarettes and, sitting down, lit one. The woman dragged heavily and blew a thin stream of smoke towards the ceiling.

Waving the cigarette in the air, Charlotte said, "It was my fault, Warren. I'm the one who should be sorry. I took it too far. I took you to that place. You went a little insane on me for a moment." Her head tilted to one side. "But you can't ever allow that to happen again, especially not with a client. Never, Warren."

I nodded, mortified by my actions. "I'm sorry, Mrs Spenser. I just got ..."

Charlotte waved the hand with the cigarette again. "I understand, Warren. Truly, I do. But let's not dwell, let's concentrate on tomorrow." Four -- Initiation

In my narrow bed that night I woke up frequently and entertained notions of just going to Charlotte's bedroom and begging her to let me fuck her. I thought about tugging at my cock, masturbating until I found some release from the torture the woman had subjected me to.

"No wanking tonight," Charlotte had said when I went up the stairs to my room. "Save it for that lucky lady tomorrow evening. Give the woman her money's worth, Warren."

Sleep came in fits and starts throughout that long night, and every time I did manage to doze I was plagued by erotic dreams where women with indistinct features rode my cock, breasts swaying while their insides gripped my shaft. Each time I dreamed, a woman with different coloured hair, bigger breasts, wearing stockings or completely bare would find her climax while my own orgasm was forbidden.

In the morning, that Valentine's Day which dawned late but to a high, clear blue sky, I woke up less than refreshed. I took a quick bath in a freezing bathroom, cleaned my teeth and then brushed my hair. When I looked into the mirror, unshaven -- why bother since the barber would take care of that particular chore -- I wondered at the man I would see reflected back at me the following morning. My stomach flipped with the anticipation Charlotte had told me to enjoy.

I liked the sensation; I was scared and excited, not quite aroused, not then, but as the day went on and my appointment grew closer, my cock thickened whenever I remembered the importance of that evening and what, hopefully, lay in store for me. I wondered at what the woman would look like. Would she be pretty or plain, sophisticated or less refined. Of course I wondered at her body and the size of her breasts and their shape and whether she'd be thin or rounded.

After pulling on my trousers and buttoning my shirt I ventured downstairs and found Mrs Bradshaw at the stove while Charlotte smoked and sipped tea at the kitchen table.

Following a hearty breakfast of bacon and eggs and mushrooms and beans we left the house, with Mrs Bradshaw eyeing me oddly as though she knew something sordid about me when I left the kitchen. I felt a momentary rush of panic when the thought occurred to me that Mrs Bradshaw would be the one I'd break my duck with, but Charlotte only laughed, almost until tears came to her eyes she found the notion so funny.

"Dear God, Warren," she spluttered when her mirth subsided enough to allow speech. "Alice is a lovely woman, an absolute treasure, but not exactly what I had in mind for you." She placed long fingers on my leg as the taxi took us towards town. "I'll organise someone I think you'll approve of, somebody in tune with the situation and what's required." She squeezed my leg just above the knee. "Don't worry, it will all be lovely. Let her take control and you just relax."

For the rest of the day, with Charlotte's advance of twenty pounds in my pocket, the woman invested in an off the peg suit, sniffed with impatience when I balked at the manicure and pedicure, watched while I had a haircut and shave at an up-market salon and then treated me to afternoon tea in one of those posh cafes.

"You bathe and dress in your suit, and be ready for the taxi at eight o'clock -- prompt. I'm working tonight, a Valentine's orgy for some City bankers, so I've got to go out." She kissed my cheek. "If tonight goes well, Warren, you could be working for me on a regular basis very soon. Nervous?"

I nodded and replied. "Yes."

Charlotte squeezed my hand and kissed my cheek. "You'll be fine," she reassured me. "Enjoy it."

And that was it. I was on my own.

I dressed carefully, taking care with my tie and making sure my collar sat over it neatly at the back. Ten minutes before the hour and I was ready, and the agony of those last minutes ticking by had me pacing the room. Eventually I heard the toot of a car horn outside and parted the curtains to look outside. Seeing the cab actually there sent a thrill of shock through me.

"This is really going to happen," I muttered.

I balked then, deciding on the spur of the moment that I couldn't go through with it. This kind of thing just didn't happen, and especially not to me. My hand was halfway to my collar, inches away from undoing my tie and unravelling my future. The money would have to be given back to Mrs Spenser, I'd have nothing for rent and would be forced to leave and face God knew what. Despite facing destitution and homelessness at such a young age I couldn't face meeting the anonymous woman at the as yet unknown rendezvous; the prospect made me weak at the knees and my limbs tremble.

Then the taxi tooted a second time and I knew that if I didn't leave immediately, if I didn't stop fannying around like a big girl's blouse -- as my mother used to say -- I'd never know what magic might lay in wait for me.

Twenty minutes later and I found myself on the street in front of a large, detached house in Mill Hill.

"It's all taken care of, mate," the driver had informed me when I went to pay the fair. "On account." He winked at me. "I do a lot of runs for the lady, see." The man tapped the side of his nose with a forefinger. "You go inside an' enjoy yerself."

I watched the appropriately red brake lights of the taxi wink once when it drove away and negotiated the roundabout at the end of the road. Then, feeling the cold air bite through my suit jacket I walked towards my destiny.

The front door opened before I even knocked.

I blinked several times when I found myself confronted by an unexpected figure -- one I knew.

"Come in, Warren," Mrs Bradshaw said, her breath smoking as she held the door open for me. "It's freezing out there."

"Mrs Bradshaw," I blurted, surprised.

"That's me name, don't wear it out," the woman said. "Now come inside before you end up frozen to the step." I stepped into the spacious hallway and Mrs Bradshaw closed the door behind me. "Now," she continued, "the lady's waiting. Can I get you anything before I show you to the room?" The woman looked at me expectantly, the hint of a smile twitching the corners of her mouth. "I expect you might like to wash your hands," she offered euphemistically.

"Please," I replied, reminded of the time only a couple of days before when Mrs Bradshaw had walked in on me as I pissed into the toilet.

This time, with the door bolted against interruptions, I peed my nerves away and, after washing my hands using the pleasantly scented soap next to the sink, opened the door to find Mrs Bradshaw hovering a few yards away.

"Well," she said. "I'll show you upstairs, sir."

The sir threw me a little, but then I realised that Mrs Bradshaw was in professional mode, working in a world that, although alien to me at that moment, would soon become familiar.

Still, at that stage, as I followed Mrs Bradshaw's broad beam up to the second floor of the big house, my knees felt watery and there was a greasy slide slopping around in my stomach.

We halted outside a door, with me almost stumbling into my guide I was so nervous.

"Don't look so bleedin' worried," Mrs Bradshaw hissed at me. "Fer gawd's sake, smile. You look like a flippin' undertaker with yer fizzog like that. Anyone would think you was off t'be hanged."

I swallowed heavily and tried to compose myself. Mrs Bradshaw tutted and rolled her eyes. Then she knocked at the door.

"Mr Baker," she announced after opening the door and taking a step inside.

"Hello, Warren," Charlotte said, smiling gently at me when I walked into the room. "Thank you, Mrs Bradshaw," the blonde said while I stood there and gawped, my mouth hanging open. "Sorry about the charade, Warren," Charlotte said quietly when the door snicked shut. "You weren't expecting me, eh? But I thought I'd give you a baptism of fire. You'll never be as nervous as you were tonight again. The worst is over, darling."

"Mrs Spenser," I mumbled, as though I'd made some kind of momentous, world-changing discovery. "But ... but you're meant to be working."

"Please, Warren, call me Charlotte." She smiled at me again, moving away from the door towards a huge bed. Charlotte, wearing a flowing oriental robe belted at the waist, moved beyond the bed and went to a mirrored dressing table of some elaborate, antique design in a varnished oxblood red. She lit a cigarette and turned to face me. "There is no bankers' orgy tonight, Warren. Or at least not one that I organised. I have a few girls out running around tonight, Valentine's is a popular time, but all the arrangements have been in place for a few days now." Charlotte grinned, adding, "Which gives me a little time to indulge myself. Drink?" she offered.

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