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By Lesley (ouirup4it@yahoo.co.uk) edited by Robin


Just for the record, or to remind readers of my previous (Rampant Rabbit) adventures, my name is Lesley. At the time of this particular escapade in nineteen ninety two I was forty two. In my last story I recounted how, during a visit with my husband to Birmingham's seedier quarters in search of some adventurous sex, I was propositioned by an Asian man who assumed I was a prostitute.

Going along with his understandable misinterpretation of events (he had watched me give my husband a blow job in a factory doorway on the street), I offered to suck him off for a tenner and then let him fuck me for an extra ten quid in a squalid alleyway. He was clearly impressed by my services and offered to organize some "business" for me. He had also given me a grubby card with his name and phone number. His name was Abdul.

Since then I had thought about his offer many times, and the various scenarios that could develop from such an arrangement, fueled a number of fantasies. I dare say a lot of women have fantasized about being a prostitute, having sex with anonymous men simply because they pay the asking price.

When I was a young girl I loved to read the Sunday scandal sheets, exposing the suburban housewives paying off the telly installments by having sex on the side, the clubs that were really brothels etc. Later, when I was a student, "Belle de Jour" became a favourite film. It was the story of a Parisian upper class wife who works in a brothel because its sordidness excites her.

A couple of times after using this particular fantasy to good effect in our lovemaking, I had suggested it might be fun to let the Asian guy arrange me some "clients". Though my husband also enjoyed and encouraged my fantasies of working as a call girl or a streetwalker, he was very nervous of my putting them into practice because of the obvious risks.

He couldn't see how he would be able to keep a protective eye on me if someone else, who we knew nothing about, was controlling events. He said that the idea was great as a fantasy, but that's where it should stay. To avoid arguments I stopped mentioning "the offer," but it had become such a potent idea in my erotic imagination that I carefully kept Abdul's card and phone number.

Normal life has a rhythm of its own, and the school summer term came and went. Suddenly we were approaching the end of the long holiday. We usually try to get away for the last week, camping by the sea with the kids, but Gary had been asked to go to somewhere in the US on a work project for work during the last ten days in August.

It probably sounds disloyal, but my first thought when I heard of the trip was the phone number in my knicker drawer. It had come to dominate my mind. Every time I went to the bedroom I was compelled to take it out and look at it. A couple of times I'd even gotten as far as dialing the number, only to stop before the final digit. These moments had my heart pounding and left me exhausted and shaking. More than ten weeks had elapsed since my encounter with Abdul in the alleyway. He probably wouldn't remember me.

Early on Friday morning I drove my husband to Heathrow after dropping off the children with his mother. At 10:15 he was on his way. Feeling guilty, I dialed Abdul's number from a Heathrow public phone.

The phone rang for a long time before it was answered. I almost put down the receiver as a wave of nervous nausea gripped me. "Yes, please?" An Asian woman's voice greeted me. My own voice faltered as I asked for Abdul. There was no reply but I heard her call out to someone. A few more moments elapsed.

"Hello, Abdul Hassan. Can I help you?" in that distinctive Pakistani Brummie accent. Taking a deep breath I blurted it all out: how I'd turned him a trick for £20.0 and was he serious about organizing some business. "Of course I remember," he said. "Can you call me in a couple of hours? Or maybe we can meet to talk somewhere. It's pretty busy here."

I told him I was able to meet him later that afternoon, and he suggested a cafe just around the corner from our first encounter. The café was on the edge of the jewellery quarter.

The journey from the airport passed in a blur as I turned over in my head what I was getting into. One minute I was imagining having to service a procession of strangers, submitting to their every whim, and the next I was filled with doubts and determined to be sensible and duck out of it. At the same time, I was getting pleasantly hot. Inevitably the darker side of my imagination proved to be too seductive, and at 4 o'clock that afternoon I sat waiting for my new "pimp" in the cafe.

In order to get in the right mood, I had contrived an outfit that normally would only get an airing in our bedroom. Red platform peep-toe shoes, black stockings, a little red A-line skirt and white crossover top that just covered my nipples. I decided against a bra. A brief suspender belt with matching flimsy black G string, heavy bright red lipstick, plenty of mascara and loads of cheap perfume completed the outfit.

"You look a proper cheap tart," I thought to myself as I walked from the car to my rendezvous. I was aware of the disapproving glances of women and the furtive predatory gazes of men as we passed on the street. Even the woman behind the counter had given me a disdainful look as I collected a cup of coffee. Her expression implied that she "knew my type".

There were only a couple of other customers in the greasy spoon. Two white men in their company overalls were talking football over mugs of tea and bacon sandwiches. This was fortunate, as I was unsure if I would recognize Abdul. After all, for most our initial encounter I was looking over his shoulder as he screwed me up against a wall! As it turned out, my concern was unfounded. Abdul entered the cafe and came straight to my table by the window.

Very formally he offered his hand and introduced himself. Sitting down, he said "I see you have your working clothes on."

He, on the other hand, had "scrubbed up well," and was washed, shaved and wearing casual trousers, shirt and light jacket. We exchanged a little small talk about the weather before he opened the conversation I was expecting. I explained that I could only "work" occasionally as I had a "normal" job, and that I only did this part time for the little extras. I also explained that my husband was away and unaware of what I was doing.

He said it was OK and that he could still find players tonight, but that it might mean getting casual trade from the street, clubs and pubs, rather than through pre-arranged meetings, which is what he had had in mind. Looking up I could see the two men had stopped talking football and were absorbed by our conversation. One of them smiled and winked as I met his gaze. The other had his eyes fixed on my hemline which was now showing a small band of thigh above the stocking top. I ignored them and Abdul continued.

"What sort of things don't you do?"

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Well," he leaned forward conspiratorially. "Even tarts draw the line at some things. Some won't kiss, some won't swallow, some won't take it up the arse. I need to know, so when I'm setting up the deal the punter knows what he's getting and doesn't expect anything else."

"Oh, ok." I considered, then half whispered. "I think you can say I'm happy with all that. The only thing I'm not keen on is guys who are into toilet stuff. In fact, anything to do with shit or piss is out. Other than that, whoever they are, if they pay the money I'm ok with whatever they want. You set up the punters, tell me what they want and fix the price. I'll give the service and we'll split the money fifty-fifty."

Abdul agreed to my terms. As we rose from the table, he said, "If we're to make any money tonight, I need to make a few phone calls. Lets make a start."

I followed him to the door. The two workmen studied my hemline as I passed through the door into the street. Abdul's van was parked outside. I had to stretch to get in the front, and this edged my skirt up, exposing my backside to the admiring glances of the workmen who had followed me out of the cafe. They whistled and shouted. Abdul walked over to them as I sat in the van. There was short conversation, after which he returned, started the engine and pulled away.

"Fucking wankers," he laughed "I asked them if they wanted to fuck you, but they only had a fiver. I told them they couldn't even look at your cunt for that, let alone fuck it."

The van wasn't what I had expected. It was quite clean and tidy. Abdul gestured to the back.

"I emptied it out in case we need the accommodation. Not every one wants to have it up against the wall."

The van had the feeling of factories and garages. It smelled both oily and sweaty, but it looked ok. He said he had an old mattress for the floor back at his office.

It was only a few minutes before we pulled up outside an overhead door somewhere in the Hockley. Before I got out of the van he had rolled up the shutter to expose the front of an office of some kind of engineering firm.

"This is what you do in the day, then?" I asked.

"Yes," he answered. He grinned. "With a bit of pimping thrown in at night, just for fun."

We entered a little office, with a desk covered in papers and bits of machinery. Despite it being quite bright outside, it was dark enough to need the light from the single bulb that was in the room. Abdul sat down in a worn swivel chair by the desk and began to dial. Sitting on an equally battered office chair in the corner, I tried to follow his conversations.

This was quite difficult, as he slipped in and out of his own language, and even when he spoke English, his speed and accent made most of it incomprehensible. Even so every now and then I would catch a phrase or two. Things like "Nice white woman," "good body," "tight cunt," new girl' and the like.

Hearing myself described in such graphic detail was humiliating, but at the same time it was having the desired effect on me. I felt myself juicing up.

Abdul now had a few names and times written in a little notepad. Dialing another number he lay back in the chair spreading his legs wide. He began the conversation in an Asian language, but gestured for me to come to him. I crossed the little room and stood in front of him. Still holding the phone he pointed to his crotch with the other hand. I knew what he wanted and dropped to my knees between his legs. Unbuckling his belt and pulling down his zipper I fished out his cock. It was already almost fully up--dark, thick and fat as I remembered from my first time with him. It was surrounded by jet black pubic hair.

Taking it in one hand, I lowered my mouth over the bulbous end. I felt it thicken against my tongue. I started to suck it slowly, drawing it into my mouth as far as it would go without choking myself, then pulling off it almost completely.

I heard Abdul say "Man, she's some fucking whore, she really fucking likes it! Yeah, she's gobbling my dick now." He held the receiver down by his groin so whoever was on the other end of the line could hear my lips slurping round his dick.

A voice from the receiver said "Hi, you gonna come and see me and get your arse fucked?"

All I could respond was "mmm-hmm" as I kept up my rhythm.

Abdul resumed speaking. "So, shall I bring her round about 11?" He paused, then continued. "She'll do whatever you want, man." Another pause "Then you can let the chef take a turn. £150 for both of you. OK."

He put the phone on the receiver. Holding my head, and taking over the movement himself, he said, "I'm going to shoot now, so make sure you don't spill any on my best trousers." Pushing his cock in and out of my mouth slowly, he began to convulse. I felt the spurts of hot spunk hitting my mouth.

"Don't swallow! Hold it in your mouth." It felt slimy and salty on my tongue as I moved it around my mouth. "Open your lips. I want to see my spunk on your tongue." Opening wide, I pushed out my tongue. Dribbles of jism ran onto my fingers.

"You're some freaky tart!" said Abdul. "Swallow it now."

Gulping it down I licked my lips clean and sucked my fingers. I 'm not that big a fan of the taste of sperm, but I really get off on the way men are turned on by sluttish behaviour. Burying my face in his groin I took his softening cock in my mouth and sucked it clean.

"Fucking hell!" He said, and looked at his watch. "No time for any more perks of the job. It's nearly six. Time you was seeing your first punter."

He stood up, pushing his tackle back into his trousers. "You're going to work hard tonight, girl., you better make sure you're well lubed."

I had no concerns about my cunt, but had put a couple of tubes of KY in my bag. While he struggled to put a rather stained mattress into the van, I made use of the primitive toilet to restore my make up and apply a liberal glob of the KY to my bumhole, pushing it well up into my rectal passage. He was waiting to pull down the shutter when I emerged. We climbed in the van and headed off towards the Soho road.

As we sat in the traffic, Abdul described the man I was to see. He was an Asian newsagent-cum-grocer, about fifty, maybe a bit older. Very "traditional," he spoke English. Because it was my first time as a prostitute, he had agreed to pay more.

"He thinks it is some kind of virginity he's getting," said Abdul. "He wants to take off your clothes and fuck you, but finish in your mouth. OK?"

"Ok," I answered. I had the butterfly stomach that I always got when I was nervous and turned on.

The van pulled up alongside a shop a bit like Arkwright's. A sign read "Open all hours," and there were still vegetables and stuff on display outside.

Opening the van door, Abdul counseled, "Remember, it's a job. Don't waste time. The faster you make them come the more punters we can see."

We entered the shop. It was a typical of the Asian shops I visited for spices and sundry groceries when other stores were closed. Each item of produce competed with another for shelf or floor space. You would be pressed to think of a product they hadn't got. Behind the counter sat an Asian man of about sixty. He had a full head of hair, and a neatly trimmed beard and moustache. They were all gray. He smiled as we entered and came round the counter to touch hands and exchange greetings with Abdul, who introduced me to Mr. Khan as "Miss Lesley." They then continued to speak to each other in Urdu.

At one point, Abdul reached down and lifted the hem of my skirt above my stocking tops. He traced his finger across my 36B breasts, along the line of my top, no doubt highlighting the best features of my size ten figure. Mr. Khan then went to the till and returned with a handful of notes which he counted out.

Turning to me, Abdul said "He thinks you are very nice. I'll wait in the van."

Mr. Khan took my arm and led me through the aisle of groceries and magazines to a room at the back of the shop. At the door he called out, and from a door further into the shop a tall fat youth appeared. Mr.Khan told him to watch the shop, and the youth made his way to the counter area.

The room was a stock room, stacked with boxes of Corn flakes, soap powder and the like. On the far side was a single bed with an embroidered coverlet. I stepped towards it and began to undo my top.

"No, No, No!" protested Mr. Khan, taking my hand. "I'll do it."

I stood still as he fumbled with the fastener of my top, then opened it to slip it down over my arms.

"Very nice," he whispered, stooping slightly to suck my nipple into his mouth. He reached behind to unzip my skirt, and his whiskery chin grazed my breasts. Pushing the waistband down over my hips, he crouched to pull the skirt round my ankles for me to step out of. Remaining like that for a few seconds his eyes level with the 'g' string he repeated "Very nice, very nice!"

Hooking his thumbs into the side strings, he eased down the flimsy garment to expose my neatly trimmed bush. Holding my bottom with one hand, he motioned for me to open my legs. As I did so, he pushed his tongue straight into my cunt. I was already moist from anticipation of the evening's activities, and he lapped at my juices.

Mindful of Abdul's instruction to keep it short, I gently pulled him to his feet. He wore a smart traditional tunic and pajamas. It occurred to me that he had probably dressed for the Mosque that afternoon, and that his neatness was not entirely for my benefit. I helped him slip the tunic off, and he dropped the bottoms.

He stood like a small boy in just a white singlet. I almost laughed. Mr. Khan was short and stocky, and his dick was of the same proportions. Lying back on the bed, I drew him to me. His mouth found mine. It tasted of garlic and spices. He probed my cunt with his fingers, then got his cock into the entrance and thrust it in. Suddenly he was frantic, jabbing in and out vigorously.

He sucked my nipples while his hands groped my arse. Suddenly he stopped, climbed off me and gestured that I should suck him. I got on my knees and took his cock in my mouth. As it was not that long, I sucked it all the way in until my nose was buried in his pubic hair at the end of every stroke, as he held my head and fucked my mouth.

Just as I thought he was at the moment of no return, the door opened and the fat youth stood there watching us. He mumbled something and my irritated punter shouted some expletive in return. The youth closed the door and left.

A few seconds later my paying lover spurted his spunk into my mouth and I swallowed it down. A few moments longer and the shopkeeper was dressed and mumbling a "thank you" as he went out of the door.

I had just put my skirt back on when Abdul put his head round the door.

"Don't bother dressing. The nephew wants the same deal as his uncle."

The nephew was the tall fat youth. I didn't like the look of him as he shouldered past Abdul into the room. "Take the skirt off," he commanded. I dropped it to the floor and once again stepped out of it. I had not replaced my gee string. He casually unzipped his jeans and pushed them round his knees. His cock hung down, half hard.

"Come on, get it up." He pointed to his dick. I dropped to my haunches on my high red shoes and slipped my lips round the dark greasy slug of his cock. He smelt faintly of sweat and stale body lotion. His cock hardened rapidly as I massaged it with my tongue. Soon it filled my mouth. Unlike the previous occupant of my mouth and cunt, it was both fat and long.

"Turn round," he said. As I turned my back to him, he pushed me forward to bend over, resting my hands on the bed. I felt his fingers probing and opening the lips of my cunt. Then the knob of his cock eased in. He pushed until I could feel his dick against the neck of my womb and his pubic hair against my bum. Leaning forward over, me his podgy stomach rested on my back as he mauled both my breasts. He began to work his dick in and out of me. He was slow and deliberate. I thought he would take ages to cum, but after only a few seconds he uttered a groan and withdrew.

Thinking he had finished, I turned to face him. Holding his dick, he began to wank it, pulling my face toward it with the other hand.

"Open your mouth and push out your tongue," he panted. I did. Strings of slimy spunk spat from his pulsing cock as he feverishly jerked it in his hand, splattering my tongue face and neck. He remained motionless in front of me, breathing hard, with his softening dick leaking sperm onto the floor. Reclaiming his prick with my lips, I rolled the warm sausage of flesh with my tongue cleaning every trace of spunk from it. Pulling it free of me, he yanked up his jeans, tucked in his equipment and left.

Replacing my skirt and top, I wiped my face with a tissue, reapplied some lipstick, and followed him from the room, tucking the scrap of material that was my knickers into my bag as I went. I figured they were mainly a presentation feature, and were probably surplus to requirements for the remainder of the evening. Without a glance at either Mr. Khan or his nephew, I exited to the street, and swayed in my high red shoes, as I imagined a real whore would, to where Abdul and his van were waiting.

As we pulled into the traffic, Abdul expressed his satisfaction that I'd only taken just over half an hour with the two men, and said that Mr. Khan would like to be a regular customer.