Eleven

I DIDN’T EXPECT Lydia to take it lying down, so I gave up my flat and spent the rest of the week with Percy, coming into Hambling and Borse each day to sort out the cellar and, on the Friday, to witness the signing of the papers making the property over to the Linnet Club. Lydia excepted, everybody was extremely pleased with me. Gilbert and Otto not only no longer had to worry about debt but had enough to see them comfortably through retirement, as well as a ready supply of fine wines to drink and girls to spank. Percy too was pleased, basking in reflected glory as he received congratulations for having put me forward, along with an associate membership of the club. Vernon and his friends were delighted with the arrangement, even the filthy Stubbs, who had accepted the job of commissionaire.

It was all great fun, and there was one last act to play, but I couldn’t help feeling a touch of despondency. The inaugural party was on the following Saturday and I was due to be thoroughly roasted, but that would be it, job done – but not properly. Just thinking about Anton Yoshida simultaneously made my blood boil and filled my head with filthy fantasies. I also wanted Rhiannon quite badly. I was even tempted to stay in London, but with Lydia about it really wasn’t advisable. She knew altogether too many of the people I did, and if she got together with somebody like Pia Santi I might end up in real difficulty. Then there was the situation with Earle, because it could only be a matter of time before he discovered that my so-called Uncle Percy not only still spanked my bottom but spent his time rogering me silly.

I was still interested to see how M. Blanquefort’s little piece of jiggery-pokery with the ’07 Château La-Croix-de-Pignon worked out. Each morning I would search the net, reading the cautious articles as wine writers began to commit themselves on the quality of the vintage, until on the Tuesday Anton Yoshida made his initial pronouncements. At first he was as cautious as any, more so if anything, admitting that it would be a difficult year at best and advising on which châteaux had been most conscientious and were therefore likely to make the best wine. The list was largely predictable but contained one or two surprises and so seemed likely to be honest, or at least more honest than his promotion of Kavanagh’s Cordon Noir Cognac. However, Château La-Croix-de-Pignon was included in the list with a five-star recommendation for quality, which was a joke, and a five-star recommendation for value, which was insane. That meant he was either a fool or a liar, and for all my low opinion of him I had to admit that he was no fool.

As I sat back from my screen I was biting my lip in consternation. It was such a shame not to expose him, but I couldn’t. I was just going to have to swallow my pride, for the time being at least, and put down my experience with him as a solitary defeat in a war I’d won. That wasn’t easy, not when every time I tried to masturbate, and even when Percy was in me, my head would fill with what he’d threatened to make me do. An added humiliation was that he had no further interest in me, but had said what he had purely because he knew it would get to me . . . or so I thought until my mobile rang later that afternoon. I recognised his arrogant drawl immediately.

‘What do you want?’ I demanded.

He laughed.

‘Temper, temper, Natasha. I have a little proposition for you.’

‘Well, you can take your proposition and—’

‘Now, now, Natasha, I think we know who’ll come off best if you start that again. Besides, from what I hear you need work. Hambling and Borst are giving up the game, are they not?’

‘Yes,’ I admitted cautiously, wondering how much he knew.

‘Not before time either,’ he continued. ‘I’m sure even you can see that they were dinosaurs?’

‘You want the stock, don’t you?’ I responded. ‘It’s not for sale.’

‘The stock? A few bottles of mediocre Bordeaux and some Burgundies that should have been drunk twenty years ago? Don’t be foolish, Natasha. What I want is you.’

‘Well, you can . . . hang on, you’re offering me a job?’

‘After a fashion. Certain of my friends wish to enjoy a discreet entertainment, for which you would be perfect. You are pretty, albeit in a rather bovine way, busty and you have a big bottom—’

‘No I do not, and if—’

I stopped, knowing that my anger and embarrassment would only amuse him, but I couldn’t cut the connection without saying something to get back at him. He carried on, his voice as calm and smug as ever.

‘Not gargantuan, perhaps, but like so many Anglo-Saxon girls you do rather tend to run to fat around the hips and buttocks, so very different from the elegance shared by the French and the Japanese. One friend of mine, when watching you walk, said it reminded him of two piglets fighting under a blanket, and the general consensus is that your body is highly erotic, if in a rather vulgar way. Anyway, enough flattery. Do you know what a bukkake party is?’

My mouth opened to answer, but no words came out. I knew perfectly well what a bukkake party was, as I’d had it done to me more than once and thoroughly enjoyed it, but for him to suggest it after the way he’d treated me was so outrageous I was bereft of speech.

‘No?’ he queried. ‘I’m surprised. The essence of it is that one girl entertains a great many men, in her mouth and hands, the idea being to get as much spend as possible in her face.’

‘I know what a bukkake party is, Mr Yoshida,’ I managed, trying to keep my voice cold and hard but failing miserably, ‘but if you think I would attend one for your perverted friends let me assure you . . .’

‘That you would rather have sex with a warthog?’ he interrupted. ‘I did tell them you’d enjoy that, but it’s not really to their taste and they are the ones who’re paying. A thousand pounds was the sum mentioned.’

‘No. Not for a thousand pounds. Not for ten thousand pounds. I am not a prostitute, Mr Yoshida.’

‘No? You must excuse me, but English is such a mongrel language and I sometimes get lost in its complexities. What do you call a girl who accompanies wealthy men on exclusive trips on the understanding that she spreads her legs on demand?’

‘You . . . you utter, fucking . . . no, you are not going to get to me, Mr Yoshida. If you and your perverted friends want to get off on covering some poor girl with spunk you can look elsewhere. I am not for sale.’

‘Oh I’m sure you are,’ he replied, ‘but haggling is so sordid, don’t you think? So I’ll tell you now that we’re prepared to go to two thousand, no more.’

It was not the time to admit that I had plenty of money. With him a show of pure pride would be far more effective, not to mention good for my battered ego.

‘No,’ I told him, ‘and no, Mr Yoshida, means no.’

‘Fifty pounds then, if you prefer to think of yourself as a cheap tart.’

‘No! Not for any amount of money.’

‘No? You surprise me. In fact, I doubt you’re being entirely honest with yourself. For free then?’

I’d been about to cut the connection, but stopped, amazed by his sheer arrogance.

‘Free?’ I demanded. ‘Why would I do it for free, Mr Yoshida?’

‘Because you like degrading yourself, as we both know. Come, come, Natasha, give in to what you know you want. I intend to have you, you realise that? After all, there are very few girls as dirty as you, and if we hire a girl who’s only in it for the money she’ll either be unable to cope or, if she can cope, she’ll be bored or, worse, try to pretend she’s enjoying herself.’

‘I have given you my answer, Mr Yoshida.’

‘Very well, as you appear to have more pride than a girl like you can really afford, my guess is that it extends to other people. It’s a little awkward, you see, if you’re going to be so uncooperative, to keep on a girl who broke her contract of employment by having lesbian sex with a guest—’

‘You bastard!’ I broke in. ‘Leave Rhiannon out of this. It’s nothing to do with her! Anyway, we didn’t—’

‘Please don’t insult my intelligence, Natasha. You were caught on the security cameras, crossing the yard and going back again the next morning. We know you spent the night in her room.’

‘You’re a blackmailing bastard, Mr Yoshida, but it won’t work. Now fuck off!’

I broke the connection and hurled my phone into a chair. My anger was so hot I felt as if I was going to be sick, while tears were welling in my eyes. I bit my lip, struggling not to cry and telling myself that what I needed to do was think, and hard. He might have been bluffing about Rhiannon, and she was probably better off in another job anyway, considering how Southern and Allied treated her. Yet he’d implied that he could influence their decision, which suggested he was pretty closely tied up with them.

Again I considered exposing him. All I had to do was turn my pictures into a well-presented file and perhaps wait for the results to come back on my wine sample. I could send copies to Pia Santi, the French authorities, the EC even. At the very least Yoshida would be severely embarrassed, but I’d hurt a lot of other people as well, mainly ones I didn’t know at all, but also M. Blanquefort. I needed to get at Yoshida personally.

For a long time I sat brooding in my armchair, only to realise that the solution was staring me in the face, just so long as I had the courage to go through with it. Yoshida understood my sexuality quite well. Perhaps he even thought he understood me better than I did myself. Certainly he was arrogant enough, and at least he realised he had a strong effect on me. Even though I’d managed to resist so far, he wasn’t going to be surprised when I gave in, especially as he’d brought Rhiannon into the equation. I rang him back.

‘Ah, Natasha, I’d been expecting you to call.’

His smug, syrupy voice made me want to retch, but I did my best to sound resentful but defeated rather than angry as I answered him.

‘OK, I’ll do it, but you don’t have to be such a bastard about everything.’

He laughed.

‘Oh, but I do, Natasha, as I expect you know very well. It wouldn’t be nearly as exciting otherwise, would it?’

‘No,’ I admitted, ‘but you definitely don’t have to blackmail me. Leave Rhiannon alone.’

‘That was merely a bluff, in case you needed it as an excuse. So, would you like to prostitute yourself, or will you do it for free?’

My voice was cracking as I answered.

‘I . . . I’d like to prostitute myself.’

Again he laughed.

‘I rather thought you might. Two thousand pounds then, on the understanding that you are properly compliant.’

‘I will be, but I’d rather the men paid per head, and on the spot.’

‘Ah ha, I quite understand, how crass of me not to have realised. You can strip for us first and I’ll tell everybody to put their money in your underwear. They’ll enjoy that.’

‘OK. A hundred pounds a head?’

‘I expect that can be arranged. You will wear . . . let me see, a tight dress, high heels, stockings, matching panties and bra, all in red.’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. I am so glad we understand each other, Natasha. Most of my clients are still in France, so I will arrange the event for next Saturday, in the afternoon. I will tell you where to come once I’ve chosen a suitable venue.’

He rang off.

Saturday was the same day as the inaugural party at the Linnet Club, which was a nuisance but something I’d just have to put up with. The most important thing was to make sure Blake and Lucas did as they were told, so I invited them up to my flat for a private party. By the time they’d finished with me, fat Lucas from behind with his belly resting on my upturned bum and Blake in my mouth, I had them both eating out of my hands. They were also the right men for the job, as I’d been sure they would be. Being asked to drive to Weymouth in the early hours of the morning didn’t faze them at all, but their appreciation of wine stopped at knowing there was alcohol in it.

That meant making some very careful arrangements, but by Thursday I was ready, allowing me to spend Friday preparing myself for the experience of being put in a ring of men and come over until I was so sodden with spunk I was unrecognisable. Had it been Monty Hartle and his friends, or some of the local lads on the island, I’d have been nervous and excited, but with a group of Oriental businessmen, only one of whom I knew by name, my sense of anticipation was stronger by far. Again and again I had to tell myself that I could cope with it, and with what would come later, but that night I barely slept for erotic nightmares, and so I was still in bed at eleven on Saturday morning when Anton Yoshida called to tell me that the party was in a conference suite at one of the big five-star hotels on Park Lane.

All my life I’ve never really had to work, because even while I was making a living as a wine writer I knew that if it all went horribly wrong Daddy would be there to catch me. Yet I’ve often wondered how it must feel to have no choice but to work, and, for a pretty girl with no qualifications, how it must be to cope with the knowledge that you can always sell yourself. As my cab threaded its way through the London traffic I wondered if a high-class call-girl felt any different from me, knowing she was to be paid to entertain men with her body: perhaps ashamed, perhaps excited, perhaps a little afraid, as I was? Or perhaps I’d got it all wrong and after a few times she’d simply be bored.

I very definitely was not bored. All I had on was a smart red leather coat over a set of expensive and matching scarlet underwear: bra and panties, stockings and suspenders. Lipstick-red high heels and a big scarlet flower in my hair completed the ensemble, making me feel how I looked, a tart – admittedly a very expensive tart, but nonetheless a tart. Even the cabbie realised, his eyes flicking with an odd mixture of desire and contempt, and he dropped me at a back door of the hotel.

That suggested there was some sort of protocol, but I wasn’t sure what to do, so stood there on the pavement looking conspicuous until the doorman noticed me. He exchanged a knowing look with the cabbie and beckoned me in through a small rotating door. I smiled my thanks and had my bum squeezed for my trouble, adding to my rising sense of sexual vulnerability as I rode the service lift to the fifteenth floor. The suite was easy to find, but only after getting more dirty looks, this time from a pair of cleaners pushing a trolley piled with sheets. As they passed me and carried on down the passage they were whispering together, and I caught a single word – ‘whore’.

The lump in my throat was threatening to choke me as I knocked on the door. I was eager to get to work, humiliated and aroused by my encounters but too vulnerable to want any more. The men at least understood, and were there to get their pleasure just as I was there to give it, so the suite was a sanctuary – or so I thought until the door was opened by a girl with a black bob and mischievous, upturned nose: Rhiannon.

‘What . . . what are you doing here?’ I stammered as the blood rushed to my face and chest.

‘I’m the waitress,’ she replied, ‘and . . .’

She trailed off, her big green eyes wide in shock, her pretty mouth ever so slightly open. It was obvious she knew, because it was obvious that Anton Yoshida had hired her on purpose, no doubt telling her that a call-girl was coming up to entertain the men but not that it was me. I couldn’t think what to say, and I was burning with embarrassment and shame, so hot that I was close to tears as I entered the suite. There was no time to explain the truth, and I was very sure Yoshida would have primed her with care and skill. My sweet, virginal Rhiannon now thought I was a call-girl. I very nearly lost my cool, but the shock as I glanced around the huge living room of the suite burst the bubble of my anger. Yoshida himself was there, and the men, lots of them, so many that my mouth came open in automatic protest.

‘I . . . I can’t, not all of you!’

‘Forty-seven?’ Yoshida answered me. ‘Surely that’s not too many for a girl of your experience?’

I shrugged, lost for words, my head so full of conflicting emotions that I didn’t know what to say or do. All forty-eight of them were looking at me, Rhiannon in shock, Yoshida in cool amusement, the businessmen bobbing their heads and smiling. For a long, hideously embarrassing pause nobody spoke at all, until Yoshida himself broke the silence.

‘What are those?’

‘I, er . . .’ I began, holding out the pile of shiny red presentation packs I’d made up so carefully, ‘I . . . I thought you might all like a memento. I had some pictures done, of me.’

There was an immediate buzz of appreciation and more polite nodding from the businessmen. I put the folders down and opened the top one, showing a large glossy print of me kneeling in nothing but a pair of minuscule yellow bikini bottoms with my head bowed and my naked breasts held up for inspection. Again came the buzz of appreciation.

‘There won’t be enough to go around, I’m afraid,’ I admitted. ‘I only did twenty. I . . . I thought you said twenty, Mr Yoshida?’

‘You proved to be rather more popular than I anticipated,’ Yoshida answered, ‘but never mind, you can have some more folders made up later. Very well then. First of all, gentlemen, there is the matter of payment, for which Natasha has come up with rather a sweet idea. She will dance for us, and you are to tuck your money into her underwear, as if she were a lap dancer in a strip club, as she was for a couple of years before she became a call-girl.’

It was an outrageous lie and my mouth opened in angry denial, only to close again. I needed to stay in control, or I might as well just leave, in which case it would all have been for nothing and I definitely wouldn’t get a chance to explain to Rhiannon. Instead I smiled and stepped forward to the middle of the carpet, feeling more vulnerable than ever. The view through the huge picture window was of Hyde Park, but it might as well have been another world.

I bowed, because it seemed the right thing to do, first towards Mr Zhang and the group around him, then to each side of the room. Rhiannon had gone to fetch drinks from the kitchen. The men seemed anonymous and interchangeable, but I couldn’t shake her presence from my mind. I had to do it, though, and do it well, so I simply let my body take over, imagining I was performing for Percy and his friends as I let my coat slip from my shoulders and began to dance.

It wasn’t hard; it never is. I’ve danced for men often enough to know what they like, plenty of boobs and plenty of bum, peeks of pussy and occasional eye contact, a little bit of tease and a little bit of brazen display. The most important thing is to go all the way, otherwise they feel cheated. Men like to feel they own a girl who’s stripping for them, that they know her every secret. Hold back a little and they get off on your shyness, hold back too much and they feel dissatisfied.

Not that it mattered this time, as they were guaranteed their satisfaction, all over me, and any clothes I left on were sure to be ruined. Still I did my best, just out of pride, teasing and flirting as I gradually exposed myself, making very sure they all got their fair share and that long before I was finished each and every one of them was familiar with every curve of my waist and hips, every intimate contour of my boobs and bottom, every fold and crease of my shaved pink pussy and the wrinkled brown star between my rear cheeks.

They loved it, clapping and cheering, exchanging lewd jokes in several languages I didn’t understand, pushing their bundles of money into my underwear while I still had any on and wedging them into my cleavage and between the cheeks of my bottom once I was nude. I didn’t even try to count but just let it all pile up, until the floor was littered with scraps of scarlet material and banknotes of every denomination. All the while Rhiannon distributed beers, whisky and glasses of Champagne, walking among the men with quick, dextrous movements, clearly nervous and fearful of groping hands and pinching fingers. None of them touched her, or not that I saw, and she was able to retreat to the kitchen unmolested while I stood in the centre of the room, as naked as the day I was born, my hands on my head, my feet set apart among my discarded clothes and the money I’d been paid for my services.

‘Put your clothes and money over there in the corner, Natasha,’ Yoshida ordered. ‘Then go into the small bedroom’ – he gestured towards a door – ‘and bring the plastic sheet you’ll find in the bathroom. Spread it on the floor.’

His voice was so calm and authoritative, the atmosphere of male privilege and female submission so strong that I found myself bowing to him by instinct and hurrying to obey. The bedroom he’d sent me to was only small by comparison with a normal hotel, and en suite. I quickly found the sheet and scampered back to spread it on the floor, my heart hammering at what I was about to do.

The men were joking among themselves, and the more senior ones clustered around me. I knelt, a position that seemed shamefully appropriate to what I was doing, looked up and opened my mouth. They wasted no time, and were far less concerned about exposing themselves than a group of British men would have been. Mr Zhang simply flopped his cock out of his trousers, straight into my mouth. Others had also unzipped and I took a cock in each hand, while one man began to fondle my breasts as he masturbated and another to rub his cock in my hair.

I was still painfully aware of Rhiannon, who was peeping from the kitchen door with a look of horrified fascination, but I couldn’t have stopped myself if I’d had the chance. My instincts had taken over, and yet my mind was still clear enough for me to be astonished by my own behaviour as I tugged and sucked and flaunted myself for their pleasure. One man ducked down to grope my bottom and I found myself wanting to stick it out in the hope of getting an exploratory finger up my pussy. When Mr Zhang pulled his cock free and pressed his balls to my mouth I took in as much of the fat, leathery sack as I could, rolling his balls over my tongue, as dirty and subservient as Yoshida could possibly have wanted me.

Soon I was surrounded by a forest of hard cocks, fat and thin, long and short, all sticking rudely out of their smart suits, most with their balls bulging out below. The air was thick with male scent and I’d started to juice and squeeze my thighs, while my nipples were sticking up like little corks. When the first man spunked on me it gave me a sharp jolt of pleasure, even though he’d only done it in my hair and across my forehead. I began to suck more eagerly, jammed another man’s cock in beside Mr Zhang’s and set up a fast rhythm with the two in my hands, one of whom came on the instant, erupting spunk down my cheek and over my shoulder and one tit.

They were laughing at my eagerness, and passing comments in their own languages and English, all utterly indifferent to my feelings. They said I was beautiful and called me a slut. They said I was pretty and how they’d like to spunk in my face. They said I looked nice and laughed as one spunked in my eye and the mascara began to run down my face. They said how big and firm my boobs were and how they’d like to fuck my cleavage. They said I had a fat bottom and pointed out the now faint marks from my caning. They said I had a pretty bumhole and asked me to stick my bum out to show it off.

I obeyed, lost in my own arousal, wiggling my hips to make my cheeks shake and encourage them to touch. They took the invitation, a finger sliding in up my wet pussy just as Mr Zhang reached his orgasm, holding me by my jaw so that he could wank into my open mouth and let everybody see the pool of spunk he’d laid on my tongue. As soon as he let go I swallowed his mess like a good girl and took another man in. Four, maybe five, had already come on me and the rest were waiting their turn, either standing or seated, with their cocks out ready for my mouth and hands. All except Anton Yoshida.

He just watched and sipped his Champagne, more amused than aroused as I gave in to the appalling degradation he’d planned for me. I saw him smile when I deliberately gaped wide to let a man spunk in my mouth, but at the same instant I got a load in my other eye, and from then on I couldn’t see at all. Both my eyes were stinging with sperm, but I got no mercy, only another load splashed over my tightly closed lids. Now utterly helpless, I could only let them take control, guiding my hands to their cocks and twisting my head about by the hair to make me suck.

I shivered at every splash of sperm on my body. One man did it all over my tits, another down my back and in my hair, a third over my bottom. My pussy was straining to an entire fist, and I was sure I’d be fucked, but it never happened. They did what they’d paid to do and spunked on me, one after another after another, until my face was plastered and my belly had begun to bulge from what I’d swallowed, and I was sure that if just one more did it in my mouth I would be sick. That didn’t stop me wriggling my bottom in the slimy puddle underneath me as soon as the man who’d fisted me had relieved his cock all over my hip. I had to come, but I knew I’d never get enough friction from the splash mat, so the moment they began to slow down a little I stuck a hand between my thighs and began to rub.

They cheered and clapped as they saw I was masturbating, but that didn’t stop me. Instead it almost got me off, because I knew they were watching and enjoying my reaction. I spread my thighs for them, rubbing hard on my bump, all thoughts of decency forgotten, no longer even caring that Rhiannon was watching me. She could like it or lump it, that was all, I had to come, and come immediately. One man was still in my mouth, another rubbing his cock on my slimy tits, a third tickling my bumhole.

Spunk splashed in my cleavage, down my belly and on to my hand as well. I rubbed it in, sucking urgently and squirming on the finger that was now a little way into my slippery bumhole, right on the brink of orgasm . . . and then I was there, my whole body jerking and shaking as spasm after spasm ran through me. One of them spunked in my ear, another full in my face, both driving me up to another peak, and at the final, choking, breathless summit of my ecstasy the man in my mouth jammed his cock deep and spunked down my throat.

It was too much. My belly gave a single huge lurch and I threw up at least a pint of spunk all over the man’s cock, down my own tits and on my legs and cunt. A second lurch and I’d done it on the man between my knees, but they were still around me, still wanking over me, even as I squatted in my own filth, a thick, slimy mat of spunk covering my body, sticking in my hair and running slowly down my face and breasts to soil my belly and thighs, smearing my bum cheeks and my open hole, into which the very last of them had just ejaculated.

Not that I realised he was the last. I couldn’t see, I couldn’t hear properly, I could barely breathe. Forty-six men had come on me, most of them not even bothering to use my mouth, but I hadn’t been fucked at all and I’d had only one cock in my bumhole, and that was no more than a finger’s width. My jaw ached, my throat hurt and my tummy felt raw, but that was it: it was over. I felt an odd sense of disappointment as the men backed away, clapping and congratulating me on my performance.

I managed a smile through my mask of spunk and tried to climb to my feet, only to slip and sit down again in the mess, theirs and mine. That made them laugh, but they did at least help me, moving me and the mat very carefully into the small suite, where I was made to lie down, rolled up in the mat and plonked down in the bath, where I wasted no time in turning on the taps.

The first thing I did was clean my eyes, to discover that the men who’d helped me had left, except Anton Yoshida. He was in the bedroom, sitting in an armchair he’d positioned so that he could watch me through the open bathroom door. In one hand he held a glass of Champagne, while with the other he was toying with his cock and balls where they hung from his open fly. He nodded when he saw that I was watching, then spoke.

‘You were very good, Natasha, really very good. I particularly enjoyed it when you were sick down your chest . . .’

I could well believe it of him, and forced a rueful smile as he went on.

‘. . . although I suspect that Mr Kweon, whose cock you were sucking at the time, and who got a good deal of it on his trousers, was less pleased.’

‘I’ll apologise,’ I promised.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘You’re learning. I knew you’d be the girl for this job, Natasha, once I’d brought you out of yourself a little. So, what shall I do with you?’

‘You . . . you can do anything you want,’ I told him. ‘You know that.’

‘Yes, I do, and I’m glad you’ve come to understand. It’s the only way for a girl like you, isn’t it, to accept a man as master?’

‘Yes,’ I admitted.

‘Very good. Finish cleaning yourself up and come to me, crawling.’

I nodded and began to soap myself, taking my time as he watched. My entire body was soiled, but the real problem was my hair, which was badly matted and needed to be rinsed and shampooed several times before I was satisfied. He didn’t rush me, but sipped his drink and watched, his eyes drinking in my naked body as I moved in the bath and stood to get under the shower. Finally I was clean, and as I towelled myself dry I was wondering why nothing had happened. It looked as if I would have to suck him off after all.

There was an assortment of body lotions and powder, courtesy of the hotel, so I made an elaborate show of creaming my skin and powdering my pussy and anus, all in full view. There was even a hair-dryer, but that really was going to take too long, so with my hair still wound up under a towel I got down on my knees. He watched, quite calm but with his eyes and the corners of his mouth betraying the cruelty and arousal I knew he felt.

I hadn’t meant it to go so far, but I was still turned on and seemed to have little choice. Extending my tongue, I began to lick his balls, making myself his obedient little dog as I knelt naked between his open thighs. I wanted to masturbate again, and for a few seconds my pride held me back before I gave in and began to tease myself. My pussy felt smooth and powdery, just a little wet in the middle, very different from the state I’d been in earlier.

I took Anton’s cock in my mouth and began to suck in earnest, my arousal rising apace with my humiliation as I gave a willing blowjob on my knees to a man who’d treated me like dirt, a man who got his kicks from seeing me gag on a cock and puke all over my breasts. He really was an utter bastard, and yet there I was, stark naked at his feet, mouthing eagerly on his cock as I masturbated.

I was going to come too, at any second, certainly before he did. My bum cheeks were already beginning to clench and my pussy to tighten, and I remembered how it had felt to spew up a mixture of spunk and my lunch, hot and slimy on my boobs and tummy, all over my legs, soiling my cunt. On that thought I came, and I knew it wouldn’t be the last time I got off on what ranked among the filthiest and finest memories of my life.

‘Dirty bitch,’ Anton chuckled. He tugged my head hard back by the hair, grabbed his cock and with a few quick jerks tossed himself off in my open mouth.

All of it went in and I swallowed it quickly, spent a few painful seconds trying to keep it down, then rocked back on my heels.

‘May I fetch you another drink, please?’ I asked.

He held out his glass, not bothering to reply. I got up, still a little unsteady on my feet, and left the bedroom. I was wondering what was going on in the living room, but I needn’t have worried. Mr Zhang and the others were standing in little clusters, all urgently discussing the contents of the folders I’d given them. One or two asked questions, which I did my best to answer as I slipped into my knickers and shoes before gathering up the money and stuffing it into my handbag.

There was no sign of Rhiannon, and the realisation that she would probably never want to speak to me again took more than a little of the gloss off my pleasure as I pulled on my coat and buckled it tight to make sure I didn’t give anyone an accidental flash in the street. My stockings, suspenders and bra went into one pocket and I was done – as was Anton Yoshida.

It had seemed reasonable to assume that Mr Zhang and his colleagues had a strong sense of honour, and also that they would object to being cheated. Only the top two sheets of each folder were pictures of me, while the rest was a very carefully constructed exposure of his corrupt methods, including as much evidence as I’d been able to cite without leaving M. Blanquefort in danger of criminal prosecution. It had been enough, of that I could be sure from the black fury on Mr Zhang’s face as he demanded that Yoshida come out of the bedroom.

I left the same way I’d come, down by the service lift and out at the back. All the while I was wishing my black mood would lift, but by having Rhiannon witness my submission Yoshida had ruined what should have been a moment of triumph. I’d seen the horror on her face as she watched, and though I’d soon been too far gone to stop myself my bad feelings were flooding back. Worst of all, the state I’d got into while they gave me bukkake was a deep part of me, and something Rhiannon would never have been able to accept. As I came out of the hotel I was biting my lip, close to tears.

Then I saw her, standing on the other side of the street, her hands folded in her lap, her head lowered. She looked up and I crossed to her, an apology trembling on my lips, only for her to speak first.

‘Are you OK?’

‘Yes. Look, Rhiannon—’

‘You are so brave, Natasha! I so wish I was like you.’

‘Like me?’

‘Like you, to just handle men the way you do, like they were nothing, like you can take them all and come out laughing.’

‘Oh. Well, I suppose you could put it like that . . .’

‘How else? What did you earn just now?’

‘I don’t know, about five thousand, I think.’

‘Five grand! In what, just over an hour? It takes me nearly six months to earn that.’

She had me completely off guard, and I very nearly pointed out that I could arrange another bukkake party for her with Mr Zhang before I stopped myself, realising that however much she admired me it was something she could never bring herself to do. Instead I shrugged and waved my hands in a meaningless gesture as I struggled for something to say. Her next question caught me by surprise.

‘Do you really like men?’

I knew the answer to that, not the truth, necessarily, but the only sensible thing to say.

‘Not as much as I like girls, especially the girl who’s standing in front of me now.’

She smiled and blushed. I held out my hand, she took it and as we began to walk all my bad feelings vanished, to be replaced by a glow of triumph. I’d dealt with Lydia, I’d dealt with Anton Yoshida and I was holding hands with Rhiannon. The only flaw was that I had just a few hours before I had to be in St James’s, not nearly enough time to do justice to her, and my aching jaw and the raw feeling in my tummy weren’t going to help. I really needed to rest, but it was my only chance.

‘I hope you’re not working this afternoon?’ I asked.

‘No. That was a special booking. My contract’s finished.’

‘Contract?’

‘I was on a three-month contract with Southern and Allied Food Products. Mr Yoshida said you’d lost your job. I’m sorry.’

‘It’s not like that. Like you, I was on a short-term contract, that’s all. In fact, there’s a leaving party of sorts this evening. I’d much rather be with you, but as it’s for me I really have to go.’

‘Oh. Maybe we could meet up afterwards? Or could I come along?’

‘Er . . .’ I stopped, embarrassed. ‘. . . um, the thing is, it’s a bit like the other . . . what just happened. They expect to spank me, you see, as, um . . . a sort of going-away thing.’

I was blushing hot, which was ridiculous when she’d just watched me strip and get bukkake from forty-six businessmen. She giggled.

‘You’re terrible, Natasha! And are you going dressed like that?’

‘I was going to change. This is much too overt for their taste. They’d rather I was in my business suit or, better still, school uniform. You know what dirty old men are like.’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘Well, if you come with me you’ll find out!’

She fell silent for a while, leaving me once more conscious of my appearance and the way people were looking at us, or rather at me. My mood had changed, and had it not been for the cold November wind I’d have been tempted to flash my tits at the more intrusive of them, particularly an elderly woman with a miniature poodle who looked at me as if I’d just risen from hell.

As we reached Berkeley Square Rhiannon suddenly began to talk again, her words tumbling out so fast that with her accent I could barely understand what she was saying.

‘You’d have hated my life, Natasha and that’s the truth. I’ve been so shut up, always shut up, in convents and at home, with everybody always on my case telling me I have to be pure and I have to be good or else I’ll go to hell, or get raped because every man always wants to fuck and doesn’t care, and I don’t want to be like that, Natasha. I want to be free. That’s why I went to Paris and signed up with the agency, just to get away, but I can’t, not in my head, not yet, but maybe with you, if you’d help me? I . . . I’d quite like to watch.’

I squeezed her hand, taken aback by her sudden explosion of emotion, because I could tell that she was close to tears. She’d always seemed vulnerable but now more so than ever, and younger.

‘How old are you, Rhiannon, if you don’t mind me asking?’

‘Eighteen.’

A year less and she’d have been close to half my age. I felt a sudden pang of guilt for what I wanted to do to her, but it didn’t last long. She wanted it, and if she was ever to enjoy her sex life, she needed it. Besides, if I didn’t take her she would no doubt succumb to some fumbling oaf or smooth-talking bastard, so it was really for the best.

‘OK,’ I told her, ‘you can come, and I promise I’ll look after you.’