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Trowbridge

Mind Control
2006-03-11

But I didn’t really. In truth I craved your approval. I didn’t have to agree to it, I did it to please you. I longed to earn some small measure of favour with my dumb compliance to your shaming command. It was your desire to shame me by making me spend a whole day, penniless, in a strange town and looking for all the world like a common hooker. As always, I merely did as I was told, for I am your slave to do with as you wish. It had been a horrible and memorable experience. Because much as I looked like a cheap prostitute, I quickly started to feel tawdry and common within myself, as I got used to people’s disapproving looks glaring back at me. After the first hour I not only looked like a tart, I felt like one as well. I couldn’t believe how people’s attitude to me was so hostile, just because of the way I looked. I looked like a slapper, so they treated me like one. I even got stopped by the police because, leaning exhausted against a wall near the station, they suspected me of soliciting! Can you imagine how utterly humiliating it is to have to assure two coppers that you’re really not ‘on the game’, that you weren’t encouraging kerb-crawlers and (hopeless task given my appearance) that I was really a very honest law-abiding woman? I’ve never felt so ashamed in my life. I’m sure they didn’t believe me, ‘cos they circled the area for a while to see if I chatted-up the punters who leered and shouted at me from their cars, asking if I was ‘Looking for business darling?’ I’d never felt such absolute shame standing there, but I had no choice, for this was the appointed place and time for you to collect me. There was a lot of the ordeal I didn’t understand. The arrangements for picking me up were like something out of a spy novel for a start. When Master left me stranded at 9 ‘o’ clock that morning he’d told me to be waiting for him at this spot every hour, on the hour, from noon.

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   If he couldn’t make it, he’d said, he would instead arrange for someone to pick me up and they would take me somewhere in the town I could spend some time. I thought it was pretty strange at the time, but the reality turned-out to be far, far stranger. Then there were the various items Master put in my jacket pockets. There was a packet of fags and a lighter (thank you very much, you know I’m trying to give up), a false ID card with my photo on it stating I was some Cindy Leewood living on some estate in Salford. There was, even more curiously, a collection of condoms. Now this might not sound odd to you reader, but Master doesn’t use them, won’t! So why I needed a dozen Durex was a bit of a puzzle to me. Anyway, I wandered around the town, window shopping and trying to waste time for three hours and come 12 noon, good as gold, I’m standing at the side of the road just round from the railway station that I’d been dropped at, when up pulls this police car. Two coppers, who look like schoolboys in uniform, puff themselves to their full height and come over to me all officious and gloating like they know something but aren’t allowed to tell me. So I find myself, in broad daylight, (it’s midday for Christ’s sake and remember I’m dressed as a tart) assuring these two arrogant adolescents that ‘No, I am not on the game, I’m just waiting for my boyfriend to pick me up. ’ I still got the Neighbourhood Watch lecture about how the residents were up in arms about the kerb-crawlers all day and night. Come to think of it, I had some sympathy. I’d only stood there ten minutes and I’d already been propositioned five times. Must be a randy lot these Trowbrideeans!Come ten past twelve, and I’m still standing there, and the police car’s still circling the block clocking me, when a green car pulls up, winds his wind down and beckons for me to lean in the window. Innocence personified, I do just that with my barely-protected arse sticking up in the air, and he says ‘You Cindy? He couldn’t make it. Get in.

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  ’ I’m well fed-up by now and would welcome a chance to take the weight off my feet, so I opened the door and got in the passenger seat beside him. I didn’t know him from Adam, but he obviously knew about me, so I reckoned he must be one of Master’s acquaintances. Then, before we moved off, he put his hand in his jacket pocket and produced a bank change bag with paper money in it and gave it to me. ‘Give this to him for me. It’s his share of the winnings from the race at Haydock’. I just put it in the breast pocket of my denim jacket along with the mysterious condoms and the fake ID card. As we moved off, I caught sight of the panda car edging out from the side of the road on the other side, and I remember thinking it was good I’d proved to them I wasn’t a prossie after all. He dropped me at the library, and I spent half an hour browsing in there before I started to make my way back to the rendezvous for my one ‘o’ clock pick-up. Same routine all over again, Police car keeping a watchful eye on me, Master didn’t show, and this time a brown Fiat pulls up and gets me to lean in the passenger window. What with the tiny slitted skirt and the stiletto heels, I could feel the wind blowing up my naked vitals as I leant into the car to hear him. Same spiel, and when I got in he handed me a little bag with money in it, supposedly to repay Master for the money he’d borrowed last week. It went in my breast pocket with the other one. When we moved off I noticed for the first time a couple sitting in a car on the other side of the road – a woman and a bloke in a nondescript Ford Mondeo. She was on a mobile phone and he was fiddling with some gadget or another. I didn’t get a chance to have a look before this particular madman leapt off at a rate of knots to drop me at (of all places) the museum.

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   When I got back to the spot at two I had a chance for a better look. They’d moved the car, but it was the same two all right. She seemed to be constantly on the phone, and he was doing his best to keep his eye on me the whole time as inconspicuously as he could. Like the two times before, there was a steady stream of punters asking me if I wanted some business as I stood there waiting, and I was getting increasingly rude to them as my boredom threshold lowered. With every passing hour, I was behaving more and more like the tart I resembled. Maybe I was naïve, but it didn’t occur to me that the two were CID in an unmarked car. I suppose I assumed they were just two of the concerned residents, gaining evidence on the hookers that admittedly were plying their wares quite openly next to me on the street. Ten past two and it’s the same routine all over again. Tatty red Toyota pulls up, winds down the passenger window, beckons, I lean in and then I get in. This time the moneys not in a bag, just 4 £10 notes. He made quite a play of counting them out for me, giving me each one individually. He said it was his weekly payment ‘for the car. ’ I didn’t ask. It was none of my business. It did occur to me at the time that if the couple were watching me, sitting there counting out ten-pound notes, they’d come to the wrong conclusion.

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   As it happens, they were and they did. Dropped me off at the park, and I wandered around there for forty minutes before wending my weary way back, once again, to my pick-up point for 3 ‘o’ clock. I don’t mind admitting this to-ing and fro-ing was getting a bit tedious by now and I was pretty cheesed-off with the whole charade. I’m used to showing blind obedience to Master’s commands, but this whole thing just seemed so utterly pointless. It was demeaning certainly, and I suppose it did prove that I’d comply with even the most ludicrous of his demands, but it all seemed so bloody futile! Ten past three and sure enough, a gaudy pink Peugot goes through the familiar routine, I end-up with my arse in the air and my head poking in the passenger window before getting in and taking the money. I can’t remember what he said it was for that time, I’d stopped believing what I was being told so it just went in one ear and out the other. I just put the £50 in my jacket pocket with the rest and enjoyed the comfort of the velour seat while he fought the traffic to drop me off at a children’s playground. As we screeched off I noticed that the couple were still there, though they kept moving their car to avoid being conspicuous. So did the police car, which was hovering in the area more or less full-time. I think it was on that three o clock pick-up that I first started feeling a hint of paranoia. Anyway, I played on the swings for a bit – anything to keep off my aching feet, and then once again made my way to Railway Parade. Some of the working girls had noticed I kept popping-up, and started to check me out. Having established that I was from out of town and that I wasn’t really ‘on the game’ they seemed happy enough for me to hang around and we got quite chatty. Trouble with having a conversation with a streetwalker is you never get to finish it. She invariably gets called away by some ‘John’ to ply her profession.

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   It struck me that most of them were quite young, 18 to 19 I’d say. I thought that was really sad. What sort of life were these poor girls going to have it they were already selling their bodies for sex at that young age? Come four ‘o’ clock, I’m standing by the kerb talking to a young girl called Denise when she suddenly strides off in mid-sentence. Looking round I was suddenly alone. The other girls have vanished into thin air. Immediately I saw why. A panda car had pulled up, and the two coppers I’d had a run-in with earlier were getting out of the car. This time they had smirks on their faces that I didn’t like the look of at all. ‘Good afternoon Miss. Still waiting for our boyfriend are we?’ Then the other one chips in with ‘And would that be one specific boyfriend Miss or are there a number of boyfriends you’re waiting for perhaps?’ I must admit, second time around I was a good deal less smug than I had been initially, in fact I was quite flustered. Even I had to admit it all looked a bit fishy from their point of view – it was bloody fishy! Much as I explained the weird arrangement I had with him for picking me up, it didn’t sound plausible even to me as the words came out of my mouth. What is it about policemen? They make you feel guilty and indignant just by standing there. I became all defensive and I suppose I looked a bit suspicious. They listened to what I said, repeated their earlier warning about local residents and politely asked me to ‘move along’. I explained that I’d love to, but couldn’t, and they smirked and repeated the request, a little firmer the second time adding an ominous ‘we wouldn’t want to have to take you down the station would we Miss? Just think of all that paperwork.

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   Now move along, there’s a good girl’. Then, just as they’d turned around to get back in the panda, with impeccable timing, a blue Renault pulls up with its passenger window wound down. I was so relieved I didn’t even ask, I just jumped in the car and said ‘Cut the crap. Just drive. ’ They watched as we drove away. So did the man and woman in the old Ford which was now parked opposite. At the junction at the end of the road he stops the car and says ‘Well? How much?’ At first I didn’t understand the question, and it wasn’t till he repeated it, adding, ‘… for a blow-job. ’ that I realised I’d got into the wrong car. He really thought I was touting for trade. He’d taken me for a prostitute and he wanted to buy me for some oral sex! Horrified, I swore, leapt from the car, and teetered on my ridiculous high-heels back to my position. The policemen passed me as I strode unsteadily back to base. As I walked, a battered old Vauxhall pulled up beside me with its window down. He crooked a finger and I dutifully leant in, desperate to hear the magic words. Sure enough he said them. ‘You Cindy? He couldn’t make it.

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   Get in. ’ I was in that car like a shot. The experience had unnerved me so much I was shaking. Another £30 to add to my accumulating pile in my breast pocket and off we go, this time to the shopping mall. I don’t mind telling you I seriously wasn’t looking forward to returning to Railway Parade for my five ‘o’ clock meet. For two pins I’d have skipped it. But I knew Master would find out if I did, and there wasn’t any point in annoying him after I’d put-in so much effort already. As it turned out it was a good thing that I did go back, because come five, I’m standing there feeling ultra-conspicuous, ignoring the stream of punters propositioning me, and what should pull up but Master’s car. Hallelujah! He’d finally turned up. I’ve never been so pleased to see him. Taking my lead from him, I hobbled over to the nearside window of his car and leant in. ‘How much for a fuck darling?’ he said, and I continued the pretence by replying that I was £50. ‘Too dear bitch’ he replied, and with that he put the car into gear and scurried off. Now this completely flummoxed me. This wasn’t in the plan at all.

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   I decided to wait and see if I was picked-up by someone else on his behalf. I was getting really pissed-off by now. It had been a long, long day and now I was being tested even further by having to role-play the part of a street-walker; one not without a very real danger – not least of arrest! He waited 18 minutes and reappeared. Once again I teetered unsteadily on my 3” heels to his open window. ‘Are you still too expensive dearie, or have you got even cheaper?' he asked. I replied that the price for a smooth-talker like him had gone down to a tenner. He nodded, and I opened the car door. I’d no sooner got into the car than Master handed me a crisp £10 note which I scrunched-up and put in my jacket pocket, thinking only of getting away from that loathsome experience. I didn’t realise then that my trial hadn’t ended by a long chalk. Master drove off, along streets I’d pounded all day, and within five minutes had parked-up in a dark, secluded alleyway. I knew better than to question him, but I knew deep down that this was an unwelcome departure from what I’d thought was the plan. When he barked ‘In the back, you cheap slut’, I knew my fears were going to be confirmed. I did as I’d been told, and he joined me on the back seat. Pulling down the elasticated front of my top, he exposed my breasts and proceeded to maul and gnaw at my nipples tweaking one between finger and thumb painfully whilst nibbling the other between his teeth. Despite myself, I found I was becoming aroused at his coarse abuse of my body as I sat cramped and uncomfortable, wedged in the rear of his car.

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   I winced as I felt him sucking and biting my flesh and he placed a number of obscene love-bites first on my neck and then on my exposed breasts. It was lewd, it was sordid, but God help me, it was exciting!While Master continued to torture my right nipple with his teeth, I felt him grope between my thighs, and immediately he inserted two fingers into me. I was so wet, they slid in easily, and I soon found that despite my better instincts I was gyrating my hips in a salacious rhythm, desperate to induce my own orgasm. I was behaving like the common slag he’d dressed me as. I was hot!It was rude. It was squalid. It was obscene. It was certainly illegal. Here I was, in broad daylight, in the back of a car having sex with a man for money. OK, so that man was well known to me, but it didn’t change the facts. I was prostituting myself, and it felt like the most exciting thing I’d ever experienced. His hand left my breast momentarily and I heard him unzip his flies. I couldn’t see much, scrunched up in the cramped backseat. But I certainly felt it. Hard as rock, Master plunged himself into my sopping wet cunt in one giant thrust.

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   I remember groaning, as much in surprise as in pleasure, as I felt its stiffness stretch my vaginal walls, rubbing against my inner flesh with the glorious pumping of his engorged prick. The whole thing was so utterly unlike any sex I’d ever had before I came in minutes. Tensing as my orgasm hit me, I remember clawing his back through his shirt as the full impact of it overtook me. Master’s own climax wasn’t far behind, and I felt his hot spunk flood me as he grunted with ecstasy and called me every type of slut in the world. When he’d got his breath back, he unceremoniously zipped himself up again, and, without saying another word, returned to the driving seat and started the engine. My legs were still jammed between the two front headrests and my breasts and fanny were fully exposed as he moved off. Panicking, I retrieved my legs and adjusted my clothing – what there was of it! I didn’t know about the love-bites on my neck until later, but I was only too painfully aware of the shaming red marks he’d left on each of my breasts - marks that would swiftly turn to horrible dark brown ‘hickies’, and mark me as a wanton whore. I knew better than to question my Master. This was all part of my test, I knew. So I sat there quietly in the rear of the car as he drove back through the rush-hour traffic of the Town centre. I had no idea where we were headed until, horrified, I saw we’d returned to Railway Parade! He’d hardly said a word throughout, and those he had used were designed to denigrate and humiliate me. We hadn’t even kissed. He stopped at exactly the point he’d picked me up from and grunted ‘Got some business to attend to. Be here at six. If I can’t make it I’ll send someone for you.

 

   Now get out you filthy whore. ’At that moment I did feel like crying, I freely admit it. He’d shamed me, made me prostitute myself, used me like some common slut and now without a second thought he was dumping me back on the streets of an unfamiliar town to mix with prostitutes and lowlife. As he drove off I heard him say ‘Use the tenner however you like dearie, but if you know what’s good for you you’ll go to a pub and have a few stiff drinks. ’ With that he was gone, leaving me with Denise and Suzie and all the other tarts touting for trade on Railway Parade. I did go for a drink. I was so depressed, so ashamed. I felt so cheap, so dirty. I thought a few double vodkas might ease the pain. Denise joined me, and though I was pretty sure she wasn’t old enough to drink, the landlord seemed to recognise her and appeared quite happy to serve us two tarts with drinks. Two tarts together. For that’s what I’d become – just one of the tarts. What I’d done was what they do. I’d accepted money for sex. No matter that I knew the man.

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   After all, the working girls know most of their punters, they’re regulars. It doesn’t alter the fact that they sell their bodies for sex just as I’d done. After three doubles the shame of what I’d done that day seemed to fade a little. I didn’t notice I was getting tipsy, but I was. Another three and I no longer cared. I didn’t even mind when, to my shame, his spunk started dribbling down my thighs. I just kept them tight together and it soon dried-up. The tenner didn’t last long, but Denise was happy to buy me drinks as long as I offered her companionship and a listening ear. We talked about my shame, and she told me about the first time she’d been manipulated into having sex with a stranger for money. The first time, she kept saying was by far the worst. After that, she said, they’re just punters. You don’t even look at their faces. She described how she lapsed into a sort of inner sanctum mentally while the ‘business’ was being done to her. We talked and talked and it was only by sheer fluke that I looked up at the pub clock and saw it was six ‘o’ clock. Panicking, I gulped my drink down (it might have been my fifth or sixth, I’d sort of lost track by that time) and rushed out to Railway Parade for my pick-up.

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   Teetering precariously on my stupid high-heels I dodged the cars to get back to the assigned spot, praying that he’d be there to end my ordeal. He didn’t come. He didn’t even send an emissary. I waited and waited, and in my state of alcoholic stupor I suppose I must have looked a bit of a sight, what with the smeared make-up, the love bites all over my neck and boobs and my tarty clothing. The two people in the Mondeo clocked me standing there. Stupidly, I waved at them to show I knew they were watching me. Remember, I’d been on and off that spot since midday and had been seen (and I later found out photographed) getting into a collection of different cars with different men; each time receiving money before they drove off. Looking back I can’t believe I was so naïve. Finally, in desperation, I went back to join Denise in the pub. By now I was more than tipsy, I was definitely drunk. I must’ve been, because I took one of the £20 notes I’d been entrusted with to give to Master and bought us both drinks with it. Well, I tried to is more precise, ‘cos one of the men in the bar who’d been eyeing us up for ages bought them for us. ‘Course then he came over to chat us up. Usually I’d have given him the cold shoulder, but what with the booze, and me feeling cheap and sordid from mixing with prostitutes all day, I let him make his pitch. Denise being the younger of the pair of us, he initially made a play for her, mauling her backside through her tiny skirt and trying to grope her ample tits.

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   She fended him off easily and told him he wanted any of that it’d cost him. He didn’t seem at all fazed at this, and just calmly asked her how much it was for her to give him a hand-job outside in the alley. She replied that the price was £10, and £20 for a blow-job but added that as she was taking a break he’d better find another girl if he was desperate. What happened next was as surreal as it was exciting. This total stranger grabbed me by the arm and led me over to the side door saying ‘Come on then love, you’ll do. I’m fucking horny and I can’t walk around with this in my pants all evening’. With that he placed my hand over what was very clearly an erection, and a big one at that. I don’t know what came over me, I really don’t, but I felt so abandoned and demeaned by the activities of the day and I wasn’t thinking straight because of the vodka. I went to struggle free of him, but Denise gave me an approving wink and whispered in my ear ‘Go on. Why not? It’s only a wank after all’. In the cold light of day and sober I see that I was stupid, but back then I was pissed, and my logic wasn’t terribly good. I think in some way I thought it might pay Master back for doing this to me. Whatever, the truth is, I let the man lead me outside to a dingy little alley that ran down the side of the pub. The only light was that from the streetlights at the end of the alley, and it smelt strongly of pee. By the time he closed the door behind us he’d already unzipped his flies.

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   Taking my right wrist, he yanked it to his groin and told me to ‘Deal with that then girl’. It was a big one alright, and rock-hard too. I know I shouldn’t admit it, but touching that huge cock sent a shiver through me; the feel of it, the temperature, the silky skin of his foreskin and the smoothness of the bulging purple helmet, the sheer rudeness of it. It felt so squalid, but strangely arousing at the same time. Here I was, looking and acting like a whore, standing in an alley with a complete stranger in a smelly dark alley with my hand on his erect prick. Regaining my composure for a second I paused to put the proffered tenner into my denim jacket pocket, and then started to fondle his tool. I remember thinking ‘No-one will ever know. I’m a complete stranger in Trowbridge’. Starting slowly, and using my left hand to jiggle his balls, I gradually lifted the pace until I was pumping him furiously. Soon both his hands were down the front of my top, mauling my nipples, and every minute or so he’d give a little grunt. Being a novice I took this for pleasure. After five minutes of frantic fist-work he showed no sign of coming, and my wrist was starting to hurt. I tried squeezing the monstrous thing harder in my fist, but it made no difference. After ten, and clearly frustrated, he said ‘It’s no good lass, you’ll just have to go down on me’. With that he rummaged in his pocket and produced another tenner.

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   Without thinking what I was doing, I scrunched it up and put it in my pocket with the others. Next thing I knew he put his hands on my shoulders and gently but firmly pushed me down, until I was kneeling in front of him with my face level with his protruding monster of a prick. No sooner was I crouched down on my haunches than he placed his hand at the back of my head and pushed it forward, bringing my mouth into contact with his erection. Before I had time to think, it was between my lips and I was mouth-fucking him. Trying to regain some element of control, I placed my hands around his shaft, and started using my tongue to lick and suckle his engorged purple helmet. It tasted of sweat and pee, he clearly hadn’t washed it recently. My fondling seemed to please him, and he started to groan his approval. I had never felt so debased, so utterly crude as I did kneeling in that alley sucking a strange man’s cock. Yet there was an excitement to it; the fear of discovery, the thrill of forbidden fruit. I was selling myself for sex, and I’m ashamed to say it was making me as horny as buggery! I was behaving like the dirty slut my Master had tricked me into being. Crouched down as I was, with my legs apart to keep my balance on my precarious stilettos, my skirt had risen up and a cold draft made me only too aware that my naked fanny was in full view. So were my tits, where he’s pulled the front of my top down to get access to them. Every time I looked down on them I was made only too aware of the obscene love-bites Master had inflicted on me, and which marked me as a whore. As I moved my head back and forth, fellating him, they swayed in front of me, making me even more aware of my indecent display. I was having more success with my mouth than I had with my hand, and I could taste his pre-come in my mouth; all salty and slimy.

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   His grunts became more pronounced and the mouth-fucking progressed. If I hadn’t had my mouth full I would have smiled – I’ve always prided myself on giving bloody good head! This wasn’t making love. It had nothing to do with affection or even feelings. This was raw pure sex. Purely the fulfilment of a base biological need; to empty his balls into my mouth. I suppose, what with being drunk and everything I got a bit carried away. I increased the rhythm and I think he was close to coming when – horror of horrors, the pub door opened and a man and woman walked out into the alley. I froze like a rabbit in headlights; too terrified to move. We had been seen. Suddenly this was no longer some anonymous fantasy-like game. Now I’d been caught in the act reality hit me straight between the eyes. I’d been observed blowing-off some stranger in a pub alleyway for money. The woman giggled at what she saw in front of her and I could just make out the man leering. It seemed they stood there staring for hours, but it can only have been a few seconds really before the girl pulled the man away and they walked off down the alley. As they did so I heard the man shout out ‘Give her one for me mate.

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   Make sure she swallows the lot mind! This fucking bitch always spits it out. ’ With eyes tight shut I waited, listening, as their footsteps disappeared into the night. I still had him in my mouth, still rock-hard despite the shock of our discovery. He wasted no time in recommencing his pounding of my tonsils, and his hand at the back of my head ensured I was soon once more gagging on the swollen pole he was forcing down my throat. The excitement I’d felt previously had evaporated the minute the couple emerged from the pub. Now I just felt like a bit of meat being used by this man to suck the sperm out of his engorged prick. I felt used and cheap. I felt dirty - but not as dirty as I did 30 seconds later, when he literally exploded into my mouth the most copious stream of hot salty spunk, with each throb of his knob oozing another mouthful of slimy jism. I struggled to swallow it all, and some of it spilled from my lips onto my top, leaving glistening droplets of white cum on the shiny Lurex fabric. The slimy texture of it coated my teeth and tongue. The salty taste of it and the sticky consistency made it difficult to swallow without reaching. I’ve never know anyone ejaculate quite so much. He was like a never-ending fountain of the revolting stuff! At one point he was bucking his hips so hard it fell from my mouth, and a spurt jetted through the air to catch my hair just above my forehead. What didn’t get caught in my hair proceeded to dribble down my brow onto my eyelid. Once the pulsations ceased he wasted no time in removing his tool from my lips.

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   Without a word being spoken, he zipped-up his flies, opened the door and returned to the bar. I was left crouched down with my genitals and breasts on display, with spunk liberally splattered over my lips, hair, face and top. It was then that the sensation of utter degradation hit me. He’d used me like some sort of a human toilet, emptied himself in me and returned to his drink with no more thought than he would have had had he been for a pee. I tidied myself up as best I could. I didn’t have a tissue, so I had to remove the excess spunk with my hands. I rubbed the droplets into the fabric of my top and ran my fingers through my hair to make the sticky deposit less obvious. The rest of it I just had to rub into my skin, it was all I could do. Feeling dishevelled and ashamed I returned to the bar to find Denise chatting to one of the other working girls and an unshaven man in a leather jacket. As I approached them, the two women were smiling broadly. ‘Let me guess’ said the other woman, who Denise introduced as Roxy ‘He couldn’t come from a hand-job and he got you to go down on him? Am I right?' I began to get the feeling that I’d been stitched-up. ‘Well, yes’ I replied ‘How the devil did you know?’ Both the girls giggled and Roxy said ‘Because that’s Blow-Job Tony. He’s done it with all of us. He asks for hand relief, never comes and cons you into going down on him and then floods your mouth with a torrent of come. We’ve all done it.

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   Welcome to the club’. ‘That’s right’ I said, ‘it’s a positive torrent isn’t it! I’ve never known anyone produce so much spunk. You bitch Denise, you might have warned me’. She smirked and just said ‘Well… you’ve been pretending to be one of us all bloody day, I thought it was time you were made to earn your spurs.
    Now you really are one of us. You’ve got Blow-Job Tony’s £20 in your pocket and his spunk down your throat – and in your hair by the look of it. Now you’re a fully paid-up working girl and you’ve got the love-bites to prove it. Get the drinks in girl, I’ve got an empty glass. ’I blew £10 of my earnings buying a round, and by this time I was pretty-well blotto. I don’t remember much of what was said, but the conversation seemed hilarious at the time. It turned out the man was Roxy’s pimp, a sleazy character by the name of Rob. I do vaguely recall Roxy daring me to prove I had the bottle to be a proper working girl and take on a real punter outside and I know only too well that, full of bravado which the alcohol provided, I took her up on her dare. Given the way things worked out, that’s a decision I’ll live with for the rest of my life. Roxy disappeared for while, and when she returned she had a man on her arm. He was about 40, stocky and looked like a builder.

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       ‘This is Jake’ she announced ‘ we girls call him that after the old Rolf Harris song “Jake the Peg”’. I smiled, but didn’t really understand what she meant. I suppose Roxy must have realised I didn’t have a clue what she was going on about so she continued ‘Jake the Peg, with his extra leg. Get it? We gave him the nickname ‘cos when Jake has you there’s only ever three legs on the ground. ’ Again I smiled without really understanding what she meant. ‘I’ve told Jake you’re our new girl, and he always likes to try out our new girls before anyone else, so he’s going to take you outside. He’s given me the £30, and I’ll give it to you when he confirms you’ve let him have you. That’s not a problem is it? You did say you’d take me up on my dare. ’ What could I say? I really had said I’d prove I had the bottle to let some ‘John’ take me for £30. I was committed. My befuddled brain struggled to find words which would wheedle me out of my promise, but none came. The final straw came when her final words were ‘Or are you just chicken; all mouth and no bottle?’ That incensed me. ‘Sod her’, I thought, ‘I’ll show her who’s got bottle!’I went to walk towards the door, but Denise pulled me to one side and whispered in my ear. ‘There’s another reason we call him Jake the Peg. It’s because what he’s got in his Y-fronts might as well be another fucking leg.

     

       You’ll need this. Insist he uses it. Trust me on this one. ’ With that she placed a condom in the palm of my hand; an extra-large condom. She winked, and repeated ‘Trust me. And he’ll try and avoid using it. Don’t let him!’. With that, this Jake grabs me by the wrist and pulls me out into the alley again. Pushing me against the wall, I felt his hand dive between my legs and I was forced to part them. ‘What do we have here then?’ he said in a broad Scottish accent ‘A nice tight pussy for me to open-up. ’ I felt a finger insinuate itself into my vagina, then two, as if he were checking out the merchandise. Meanwhile, his left hand was busy undoing his flies and freeing what transpired to be a mammoth cock. Denise hadn’t been wrong, it was enormous, the biggest I’ve ever seen! I now saw one of the reasons they called him “Jake the Peg”! It was as big as a baby’s arm!It was already fully erect, and sensing that he was about to start the action I did as Denise had told me. ‘Not without this’ I said, holding out the Durex in front of me. ‘You wear this or nothing’s going to happen’.

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       He moaned, and swore, and pleaded, and offered me more money, but I stood my ground. No condom. No sex. Reluctantly, he allowed me to sheath him with the oversized latex johnnie. As soon as it was on, he grabbed my left leg and jerked it up till my knee was pressing into my breast. This of course required that my miniscule skirt ride-up; which it did, and I then realised the other reason the girls called him Jake the Peg. I was pressed firmly against the brick wall with one leg pinioned by his right arm in the air, my right leg supporting me (somewhat precariously) and my genitals fully exposed and available to him. He didn’t waste any time taking advantage of the fact. With his right arm used to hold-up my leg, he used his other to position the head of his prick at the entrance to my fanny. Then, without finesse or foreplay of any sort he plunged it into me. God! I’m no virgin (though he made me feel like one!) but he was BIG! Correction, he was fucking enormous. It just went in, and in, and in. I thought there was no end to him. By the time he had himself fully inside me I felt as it the tip of it was tickling my throat! And it wasn’t just long, the girth of his dick was stretching my vaginal walls to their fullest extent. This punter was akin to bloody-well giving birth! He started a sort of primitive thrusting, bouncing me up and down as I attempted to stay upright & balance my whole body weight on one tiny stiletto heel.

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       This wasn’t funny. He was too bloody big, and every time he pumped it further into me it bashed against my cervix and it really hurt. Luckily, his sexual technique was as poor as his physique was impressive, and he was soon into the short strokes. Within a couple of excruciating minutes, he’d shot his load and was busily returning his ‘third leg’ into his grubby underpants. I breathed a sigh of relief, shook my left leg a bit to get the circulation going again, and returned to the bar to claim my earnings from Roxy. By the time I did so Roxy’s pimp had gone, and another of the girls, called Donna, had joined them. When Jake reappeared from the alley and solemnly nodded at Roxy to confirm my feat, the three of them let out a whoop of congratulation. I was now one of their sisterhood. The £30 was duly handed-over and I bought another round of drinks to commemorate my passage into full-blown prostitution – looking back, I can’t imagine what I thought I was doing, but at the time, and in my drunken stupor, it seemed appropriate. I don’t really remember much of what went on after that. I know we four girls stumbled out of the pub, four tarts together, and across the road to Railway Parade. I was busting for a pee, and I’m told I made a great play of crouching over a drain and openly pissing by the side of the road. There’s even a photo of it on file apparently. There was a white van, and I know I got in it with some Asian bloke. Donna & Roxy were egging me on I remember.

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       He must’ve given me £30, because I found it in my jacket pocket later. There’s a slight recollection of me fumbling with a condom and the springs of the van creaking as he humped me, but apart from that it’s a blank. I know I got the back of my jacket and my backside filthy with brick-dust, I assume it was from the floor of the van, so the likelihood is that he did in fact fuck me. Next thing I recall is being dumped back on Railway Parade with a swimming head and a greasy cunt. I thought it was strange, even in my befuddled state, that none of the girls were there, but I was too drunk to sense the warning signs. Bold as brass, I stood by the side of the road smoking one of the cigarettes I’d sworn I wouldn’t touch when he put them in my jacket pocket that morning. So much for self-discipline. I suppose I thought if I’d sunk so low that I’d prostitute myself then a little nicotine couldn’t make things any worse!A blue Mondeo pulls up and I lean into the passenger-side window, hoping to hear the familiar mantra Master’s accomplices all used before picking me up. But this seemed like a genuine punter, and he asked me if I was ‘looking for business’. Don’t ask me why I did it, to this day I don’t know. But I’d already been with three complete strangers for money that day after Master had fucked me in the back of his car, and I was so completely pissed I don’t think I cared what happened to me. I was stranded in a strange town and I had no way of contacting him. I was feeling at a pretty low ebb. I certainly wasn’t thinking straight or behaving anything like my normal self. Anyway, for whatever reason, I said ‘Sure’ and got into the car.

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      Soon as I did all Hell broke loose. A panda car with its blue lights flashing pulls across the front of the Mondeo and a woman jumps into the rear seat flashing some ID. There’s a copper knocking on the driver’s window asking ‘Is this your car sir?’ whilst the bint in the back seat’s going ‘We have reason to believe you have been soliciting contrary to …. Blah blah blah. You do not have to say anything etc etc etc’ Next thing I know, I’m arrested, carted off to Trowbridge nick and put in a cell to sober-up overnight. I was roused, far too early, with a crashing hangover and a copper hovering over me. The true horror of my predicament dawned rather slowly on me as I struggled to remember how on earth I came to be incarcerated in a police cell dressed like a cheap slut. Apparently I’d been charged the previous night with soliciting and was due to go before the local Magistrate’s court first thing that morning. As the haze in my brain cleared I heard the desk sergeant say something about the duty solicitor waiting to see me. He lead me to an interview room and this old guy in a tatty suit was already sitting at the table. I spent about half an hour with him, and he explained the charge, the evidence against me, which was considerable, and finally recommended I plead guilty. As it was a first offence I’d only get a small fine, he said, and I’d be out by lunchtime. I could see his distaste for his client (me) written large all over his face. Quite clearly he considered me to be the lowest form of pond-life and to be honest I didn’t think much of myself either at that moment. For I could now remember in only too vivid detail exactly what I’d done the previous day, and the memory wasn’t something I was exactly proud of.

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       Apparently, it was pure bad luck on my part that I’d strayed onto Railway Parade on the very day that the police had decided to carry out a high visibility purge on kerb-crawlers and streetwalkers. Normally, he said, I’d have been let-off with a caution, especially for a first offence, but having invested so many man-hours on convincing a vociferous local populace they were serious about clearing the streets, I was the only girl they’d managed to get evidence on. They had a whole file of photos of me apparently touting for trade, or leaning into various car windows showing rather too much of my arse. They had about five of me urinating over the drain, though the solicitor said I should be grateful that the C. P. S. had decided not to pursue charges for that. The police were taking the amount of cash I had on me as prima-facie evidence that I’d been working the street all day, and the collection of condoms I’d been given reinforced that belief. They’d even interviewed the landlord of the pub. I read the statement he’d given, saying that I’d been seen consorting with known prostitutes and had escorted a number of men (he said five but it was only two – at least as far as I could remember!) into the side alley and returned shortly afterwards with money. It was all pretty damning. Just as we were finishing up, and we’d decided I’d plead guilty, he dropped his last bombshell. As the case would attract a lot of interest and because I was from out of town, I should, he said, expect there to be a lot of press coverage of the case in the local papers. Railway Parade had become something of a cause-celebré in the area, on account of the number of innocent young girls that had been harassed by kerb-crawlers. The local Muslim community had taken the cleaning-up of the street as a campaign and I was to be the sacrificial lamb.

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       There was only one saving grace. I’d noticed it as soon as I looked at the charge sheet, but thankfully I’d been astute enough not to point out the error. They’d made all the charges against the name on the fake ID card I’d been given, Cindy Leewood of Salford. Obviously they’d found it when I was made to empty my pockets on arrival at the police station. I suppose I was so pissed/incoherent when they brought me in that they must have taken the easy route, and instead of asking me my name and address they took it from the ID card. I can understand why they did, it even had my photo on it, so it looked authentic. Now, while I’d be the one in the dock, and I’d be the one whose picture was going to be plastered all over the newspapers, it wouldn’t be my name and I wouldn’t have a criminal record. I was quite happy to go along, it worked in my favour, or so I thought. I remember thinking how grateful I was that he’d been prescient enough to put the fake card in my jacket pocket. I must admit though, that I did start to wonder if Master had planned the whole thing in advance. It just seemed as if all the bits of a weird jigsaw had neatly fallen into place. In my mind’s eye the picture on the jigsaw was the one I’d been shown of me pissing in the street, drunk and depraved. The trial went exactly as the duty solicitor had told me it would until it came to the sentencing. Then it went badly askew. But when the magistrate asked if I had any previous convictions the whole bloody thing went pear-shaped.

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       Turns out that this sodding Cindy Leewood, whoever she is, is an habitual street-walker with a string of previous convictions for soliciting as long as your arm! I’d gone along with the pretence that I was her only because I thought it would stop me getting a conviction against my real name. I now found out that far from helping me, that deception was about to make my predicament catastrophically worse. My solicitor swung around glaring at me; furious because I’d told him (truthfully as it turns out) that I had no prior convictions. He’d told me to expect a £100 fine, but the stern-faced magistrate that decided my fate had it in mind to make an example of me. ‘It is quite clear from your record Miss Leewood that you are a career prostitute who regards a fine from this court as no more than the price of plying your pernicious profession. It is the duty of this court to regard such an attitude as close to contempt, and the sentence I must pass must therefore must be a deterrent, not a mere inconvenience. The public nuisance caused by kerb-crawling and soliciting is immense, but it is one you have chosen to ignore. Given your past history, the only way I can be certain of keeping you from causing gross inconvenience to members of the law-abiding public is to pass a custodial sentence. I therefore sentence you to two months at her Majesty’s pleasure. Take her away. ’Two months! Two stinking months! I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Before I knew what was happening some butch reject from Prisoner Cell Block H was bundling me downstairs, and I’m locked up in some cell with a couple of other women who’re also waiting to be carted off to Holloway. They wouldn’t let me see my solicitor, and I suspect he wasn’t keen to see me because he now thought I’d lied to him about ‘my’ previous. I called you every name under the sun during those two never-ending months Master. I tried over and over to ring you, but you never returned my calls.

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       It was so cruel of you to inflict this on me. I know I should expect no better treatment, but I thought I meant more to you - obviously not! It took me a long time to realise you’d deliberately set the whole thing up to teach me humility, but then you get a lot of time to think in prison. Locked up for hour upon interminable hour with a load of predatory women you do tend to dwell on your inner thoughts. I can honestly say I’ve never been more wretched than I was during my unexpected sojourn in HMP Holloway. The routine, the uniform, the slop they dish up for food, the boredom, the early nights, the same conversations over and over again – you’ve no idea Master. When you’re in the depths of despair it’s easy to reach out to someone who seems to be a convenient shoulder to cry on. A lot of the relationships in there were like that. Being with someone was better than being alone. And you’re never as totally alone as you are when you’re banged-up, believe me! Nights get very long and very lonely. After a while you sort of forget that it’s something you wouldn’t do on the outside. It’s so odd being in an all-female environment, you kind of forget that your fellow inmates aren’t the sort of people you’d normally be cuddling up to in bed at night. But when you’re totally adrift then someone, anyone, is better than being alone. I’m not proud of myself. I’ve never been tempted by another female before. In normal circumstances it simply wouldn’t have happened.

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       But it did Master, and I suspect you knew it would. Yes, I shared my bed with fellow inmates, only two but that’s enough isn’t it. Yes we made love. Yes I enjoyed it. And yes, to my eternal shame; I would do it again if the circumstances were right and I fancied the woman. I never ever thought I’d say those words Master, but they’re true so I suppose I have to. I so miss you Master. If only you would send word to me. I tried so hard to please you Master. If you are reading this please have pity and contact me. I love you so. Continued? I so hope so. .

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