Dottily up for Sex

'Tempted but I've another gig on the other aide of town. I can't be late.'

My jaw was again gaping as I watched Michelle let Amber out of the door.

Chapter Six

'Michelle,' I began tentatively.

She sat beside me on the bed, her artificial hard-on pointing to the heavens.

'Wasn't Amber something else?' she said. 'I only wish I'd booked her for longer.'

I wasn't nearly so amenable. 'Let me get this straight. Amber isn't a friend of yours; she came here because you booked her to have sex with us.'

'Got it in one,' Michelle chuckled.

'I don't believe it. I hate and despise prostitution.'

'She's not a prostitute; she's an escort.'

'She's still being exploited whatever you call her. And now we've helped exploit her! Omigod, I'm as bad as her pimp!'

'She doesn't have a pimp,' said Michelle. 'She works for Girls4Girls.'

'Who on hell are they?'

'I found them on the Internet. They specialize in female escorts for women. I paged through girls they had available for tonight and Amber sort of leapt out at me.'

'Hold on a second, when did you book her?'

'On Thursday, while you were having your one-to-one with Professor Robinson.'

I bit my tongue. It's hard to explain how I felt at that moment. Having sex with Amber had been a good experience . . . no, it had been great . . . but I had serious problems with "the oldest profession of all". Far as I was concerned girls were forced into it and used to fuel addictions. Indeed addictions were often purposely inflicted on them, to keep them in line.

'I wish you'd told me,' I finally grumbled. 'I thought she was a girlfriend of yours, here to join in the celebrations.'

'I didn't want to give you chance to opt out.' Michelle grinned at me. 'And admit it; I made a good choice, didn't I?'

I hummed at that, conscious it was still Michelle's birthday, genuinely surprised at her wanting to pay for sex but unsure if I was over-reacting.

Does she get a thrill out of it, I wondered. Calling in a total stranger and fucking her.

'Have you been with prostitutes before?' I asked out loud.

'Escorts, you mean?'

'Whatever. Have you paid for it before?'

'Maybe once or twice,' Michelle patted my bare leg. 'Listen girl, it's a career, not torture. Girls like Amber rake in a grand a week. And they don't have to come in contact with sexist male pigs. Ask me it's an honourable thing to do. And I bet they don't pay much tax or NI either. It's win-win all the way.'

'Hmmm,' I said again.

'Never mind Amber,' Michelle went on, her hand moving onto my pussy. 'Forget her; she's gone so we'll have to celebrate on our own. Now then, where were we . . .'

*****

I didn't necessarily buy everything Michelle said but I did spend a lot of the next few days lost deep in thought.

How well did I actually know the girl? Despite all the hours we'd been together there were gaping gaps in her history. Okay, so I knew her sexual preferences inside out, but what did I know about her previous lovers? Zero: that was what. So far she had told me sod all about her break-up. I didn't even know her ex's name, never mind anything more detailed about her.

And what did "maybe once or twice" actually mean? Was it literally once or twice or had she been using prostitutes regularly? Had the habit contributed to her break-up?

Regularly seemed unlikely due to the cost. I had looked up Girls4Girls and blinked at their hourly rates. Amber (who really did leap out of the page at you) was one of the most expensive. And yes, if she was splitting the charge 50-50 with her agency, she could well be on a thousand a week.

I dwelt on that a while. A thousand a week for having sex with women in plush hotels . . .

Hmmm . . . student debts could soon be cleared at rates like that. And maybe the girls got chance to work overtime. Girls like Amber surely would.

Michelle, meanwhile, was all sweetness and light. Or should I say Shelly was? After Amber left us in 666 she gave me control of her harness and behaved like a delighted little girly.

Was she an accomplished actress? Had I misjudged her altogether?

In the end I gave her benefit of the doubt.

Yes, talk about addictions; I wanted her too much to properly doubt her.

*****

The shocking news arrived early evening the following Thursday. I was out with Michelle (like as per always) and we'd bumped into Martha in one of the less rowdy student drinking holes. Martha was in one of her conversational moods and the three of us were having a good laugh.

Then Michelle's mobile rang.

'Hello,' she said. 'Hey, hiya Claire, long time no hear.'

As I wondered who Claire was I saw the blood drain from Michelle's face.

'What do you mean?' she snapped.

Martha and I looked on as she listened and got paler and paler. 'Treliske,' she said after an age. 'Okay, I'll be there as soon as.'

She rang off and stared blankly at the two of us. 'Ronnie's been in a car crash,' she said, 'I have to go.'

I grabbed her hand as she rose from her seat. 'Whoa,' said I. 'Who is Ronnie and where in fuck is Treliske?'

'Ronnie's my ex,' she said. 'And Treliske is somewhere near Truro.'

'That's nearly 400 miles away,' said Martha. 'We used to holiday in Cornwall every year. And the motorways are hell on earth. Plus you've been drinking. This is not the time to go charging off.'

For once Martha was talking sense. Michelle sank back onto her stool and we debated the best ways to travel to Truro. Flying was obviously quickest but none of us had a private jet and the options from Manchester seemed dubious.

(Don't take this as gospel, but I got the impression flights down from Manchester at best involved bi-planes and the risk of encountering the Red Baron.)

Trains seemed more likely, if hardly cheaper. But we weren't convinced. The national news had recently been full of delays, work-to-rules and the wrong sort of leaves on the track.

At that point Martha took over. Michelle could drive but didn't have a car and hiring a motor was prohibitive (not least because she'd maxed her "emergency" credit card out on hiring Amber!).

Give me two minutes,' said Martha. 'I think I have the solution.'

She pulled out her own mobile and dialled one of her numerous boyfriends. 'I need to borrow your wheels,' she said after a second or two of small-talk, 'Don't worry about the lack of mobility; you won't be needing it seeing as you'll be fucking me most of the time it's gone.'

The guy . . . God only knows who he was . . . said something and Martha laughed. 'Saturday night and all Sunday morning,' she said. 'And yes, you're on for a little you-know-what. You know that I like doing that anyway. So have we a deal?'

It was as simple (and as sordid) as that. Don't ask me exactly what Martha promised but she got the loan of a "roadworthy Mini" from lunchtime Friday until evening Sunday. Leastways Michelle did.

I was grateful for Martha's intervention but still had renewed doubts about my lover. She had been through the biggest break-up ever, right? She'd moved 200 miles north to get away from her past. But one phone call and off she scurried.

In fairness it did sound like an emergency. Ronnie had been visiting her mother in St Ives and had got involved on a pile-up on her way back to Bath. I wasn't an expert on Cornwall but I had heard that the A30 was known as a fast road. One guy I knew used to say it was a relief to get off it, onto a nice and relatively slow motorway.

Apparently Ronnie's injuries weren't life-threatening but she could lose a leg.

I used that horrid thought as a block against jealousy. How incomprehensively horrible would it be to lose anything, especially a leg!

Less convincingly, I assured myself that Michelle was only being loyal. Without knowing what had gone wrong between them, I assumed Ronnie was responsible (Ronnie and perhaps an escort or two too many).

And, although I hated myself for doing so, I assumed Michelle still loved her ex.

I did offer to travel with her but, after dithering in a most unlike Michelle way, she said not.

'She might not even want to speak to me,' she explained. 'It might not go well. And there's a fair chance I'll bump into her bloody awful mother. I can't inflict her on you.'

So I kissed her and waved her off on her trek.

And I wondered if she'd ever be back'

Chapter Seven

I arrived home Friday afternoon glum and unsure of myself. Martha was at the kitchen table, scoffing fish and chips again. And this time she'd bought some for me! They were keeping warm in the oven.

'Tonight you need a mate, girlfriend,' she said as I applied excessive amounts of condiments onto my feast.

'Tonight I'm going to crash out and wallow in self-pity,' said I forlornly.

'Fuck that, you tart. Tonight we're going out. It'll be just like old times. Swallow your grub and then go put your face on. The night is young.'

*****

I never have had much of a face (unlike Martha, who could have fronted for Vogue) but I always did scrub up quite well. Consequently we drew a bit of attention as we went around the usual circuit.

Those two are dead certs, some of the guys probably supposed as they set eyes on us.

Except not right then. Right then we got loads of approaches and Martha batted them all off. 'I'm out with my girlfriend,' she invariably said, 'try again next week.'

Even Cauliflower Ears got the same treatment. Okay, so he was instructed to call her "sometime next week" but was left in no doubt his chances that night were slimmer than non-existent.

Part of me chuckled inside. Out with Michelle . . . a stunningly beautiful girl in her own right . . . we very rarely had to fend off guys. Yet out with Martha they were coming at us ten-a-penny.

Not that I'm trying to undermine Martha's reputation more than I may already have. Let's just put it down to her beauty and voluptuousness.

Or maybe it was the way we were together. I had known Martha for ages and we almost certainly had a "reputation" for being fun girls to be with.

Anyway, scrap all that. What Martha said in dismissing Cauliflower Ears amazed me.

Here's a direct quote: "We're girlies tonight and we're off to The Pride. You wouldn't even get in."

'I'm not sure you'll get in,' I told her as he returned to his mates at the bar, tail between his legs.

Martha pushed out her splendid chest and batted her lashes. 'Surely there's something about me that may appeal?'

'Yeah, you'll be getting your ass pinched every two minutes.

'So tell me something new!'

*****

As it happened we got in without any hitch. Bad news was that Tiger Lily wasn't due on that night and neither was Ziggy. Immensely admiring the way Martha let a (different yet again punky) barmaid ogle her tits I turned to the stage.

And fuck me, it was Joan Jett!

I did a double-take and tried to calculate. Best I knew the real Joan was even older than my dad. It followed that this super-sexy twenty-something couldn't possibly be her. But looking at her you would never have guessed.

Omigod, Martha was visibly salivating!

And she was straighter than straight, wasn't she?

Well, wasn't she?

'I love rock and roll,' a hundred voices sang along, 'so put another dime in the jukebox baby!'

I strongly suspected it wasn't a seventeen-year-old "him" they all saw standing there at that fabled jukebox.

'Fucking great,' Martha hissed into my ear. 'I'm not missing guys at all!'

I took that to be sincere, kissed her nose and went for a pee. Again, as I exited my cubicle, I was confronted by Robin.

This time she was furious.

'I'm your number two,' she snarled, 'how dare you come in here with that big-titted slut?'

She was much too close to squeeze past . . . to the hand basins or anywhere else.

'She's not a big-titted slut,' I managed. 'She's my housemate and I love her like a sister. We don't . . . . Well, you know. We don't screw or anything.'

I crossed my fingers behind my back at that assertion. As far as I knew, we had never actually screwed. But the more I thought about it, the more I wondered about that drunken night in Martha's bed.

Maybe we had, maybe we hadn't. It was the toss of a coin.

Robin wasn't about to retreat. Using her strength and physical presence she shoved me back into my cubicle and locked the door behind us.

Suddenly we were nose-to-nose in a very confined space, the back of my legs up against the loo, with nowhere else to go.

'Honestly,' I bleated, 'Martha's my best friend, but she's not number two. She only wanted to come here to see what it's like.'

'So where's number one?'

'She's down south, seeing her ex. She was in a crash.'

'Hope it's nothing insignificant,' Robin growled. Then, scowling even more ferociously: 'Hang on a mo; are you saying she's fucked off and run back to her ex, without a backward glance?'

'Yes,' I admitted, unable to come up with any sort of an alibi.

Robin responded by kissing me and I wilted like . . . well, I don't know what like, exactly. Do violets wilt or do they just shrink? Whatever they do, I did it.

Confession time once more: big, strong and powerful Robin overwhelmed me. I succumbed to her in far less than the blink of an eye.

And, when her hand sneaked inside my scanty, Friday night skirt . . .

Well I merely opened my legs and . . . mentally at least . . . begged her to go on.

Thirty seconds and I came gushingly. Robin's mouth was still fastened tight on mine but somehow I vocalized my imperative demand.

'More!'

Another short thirty seconds and I came again.

'More,' I beseeched.

Moving her fingers, now inside me instead of on me, Robin obliged. Surprised by my new staying power I lasted a whole five minutes. Then my outburst flooded the cubicle floor.

Robin kissed me again then let go. 'I'm your number two,' she said. 'When you face reality I will be number one. Have you got me right?'

'Right,' I gasped. 'That was . . . well it was fantastic.'

'Haven't even started yet,' she replied smugly. Then, favouring me with one of her rare, delightful smiles: 'Shush; we have company.'

We stood there cramped in the cubicle, clinging to each other, deathly silent while some patron or other emptied her bladder, washed her hands and finally left.

'Are you on duty tomorrow?' I asked as Robin unlatched the door and had a quick looksee outside into the wider . . . thankfully unoccupied . . . lav.

'Maybe, maybe not,' she said dubiously. 'Why ask?'

'I'm asking because I'm a nosy bitch. So are you?'

'I'm on call. And Frances is in dodgy health. Either way I'll be here; working or drinking.'

I grinned at her. 'Is Tiger Lily on?'

'No, tomorrow it's Ziggy.'

'That's even better. Expect to see me, one way or another.'

Chapter Eight

A fifteen minute toilet break might have been remarked on by anyone else, but not by Martha. She was deeply in conversation with a girl who looked exceptionally . . . well, mannish. Yes she had an impressive chest on her but I'd have bet millions she'd never shaved anywhere, ever.

'You're Dotty aren't you,' the mannish woman said in greeting. 'I've seen you before in here with that lovely Michelle.'

That eased my paranoia not at all. How could Michelle be renowned after living up here less than two minutes?

'Got to compliment you,' the stranger went on, 'The two best-looking women in town, both devoted to you. And you ain't bad-looking yourself. See you around . . . I hope.'

I watched Martha as she watched her ass slinking away. Or perhaps "slinking" is an exaggeration too far, even for me. But manly as she was, she was well worth staring at.

'Forget Tiger Lily,' I said, 'you obviously want something else.'

'Bugger off,' Martha replied, still watching that stocky but shapely ass slinking just for her. 'And get the drinks in. I'm as good as parched.'

*****

Joan Jett was brilliant but the following act was beyond superb. It was only Suzy Q!

Yes, yes, I realize that that Suzy has been married forever but she's still a feminist icon. Don't ask how many lesbians have "canned the can" alone at night with her in mind. It must be tens of millions or billions of zillions.

This Suzy Q version was as realistic as Joan Jett (and yes, I did have a brief mental image of the two them getting it off together afterwards . . . Put that down to a vivid imagination).

And omigod again! As well as being Bowie's biggest fan my dad had recorded countless episodes of Happy Days. The real Suzy had been in that . . . thinly disguised as a hard rock chick . . .

Martha surprised me by taking my hand.

'I haven't had half as many bum-pinches as you promised,' she said.

'You've had the biggest come-on I've ever seen,' I countered.

'From Isadora, you mean?'

I laughed out loud. 'I've never seen a more unlikely Isadora.'

'What do you mean?'

'I mean Isadora translates to the "gift of Isis", the queen of the gods. That lady looks more like the gift of Zeus.'

'Your superior intellect never fails to astound me. Let's drop the foreplay and go home.'

I wondered what she meant by that but didn't object. Okay, so I wouldn't have minded watching Suzy's leather-clad ass a little longer, and the finale from Joan wouldn't have gone amiss . . .

But it was pushing midnight and I needed to think about Robin and Michelle.

And where was Michelle anyway? Would she be there yet or had traffic got the better of her? As far as I knew it could take between six and sixteen hours to drive to Cornwall. This time of year should be closer to six, but it was a Friday . . . POETS day as well as notoriously busy on the roads.

Self-consciously, I checked my phone and found a recent text. It was as if she'd read my mind.

'TRAFFIC IS LIKE SHIT ON M5. BROKEN OFF IN EXETER. HOTEL TWICE AS EXPENSIVE AS MADCHESTER. NO SPA OR SAUNA AND NO SEXY ESCORTS EITHER, AS IF I COULD REALLY BE ARSED. MAKE SURE KEEP TO IT WARM FOR ME FOR SUNDAY. HUGS AND KISSES.'

I did wonder how hard Michelle had looked for escorts. And I also wondered how hard I'd tried to fend off Robin.

Not at all, was the answer.

At least it was to the second question.

'Come on girlfriend,' Martha repeated, her eyes imploring. 'Let's drop the foreplay and go home.'

*****

Home was predictably empty, what with the two of us out and Michelle in or around Exeter.

Forgoing more alcohol, I pecked Martha on the nose, wished her goodnight and undressed while she noisily occupied the bathroom. Then, clad in bra, panties and self-supporting stockings, I took my turn to pee in privacy.

My oh my, what had I done! I'd only let a butch bouncer fuck me three times in no time at all. And I had no offsetting excuse. If Michelle's text was to be believed she was still a hundred miles away from her precious "Ronnie" and hadn't been able to find . . . or afford . . . any local talent.

Would I do as promised and meet Robin tomorrow . . . no, make that later tonight. Would I, should I and could I?

Hmmm . . . Questions, questions . . .

Musing and not at all sure, I went back to my room.

Martha was there; sitting on my bed, wearing no more than her very inadequate gown. That is to say it was the one that could cover her tits only by exposing her ass, and vice versa. Not that it was covering a lot of anything at that moment.

'What's going on?' I asked, feeling oddly naked (even though I was infinitely more presentable).

Scrap that. Martha really was voluptuous. I'd seen her naked many times and I'd seen her having sex. Her body was very familiar to me. I'd kissed and caressed the top half of it for hours on end.

But now was different. Now we didn't have two or three guys watching us act.

Now was for real.

'Martha,' I said uncomfortably, this doesn't feel . . .'

'Feels good to me,' she countered, rising and shrugging off her gown altogether, letting it fall to the floor.