Painful Visit

(Chapter 16)

"Painful Visit" (circa-1984)

It was late in the afternoon when he pulled his car to a halt outside Gary Fowler's bungalow. The wheelchair access ramp and handrail supports leading up to the front door a chilling reminder of a young man paralysed from the waist down, sitting alone on his birthday, his wheelchair his only companion, Stella Mason with aspirations stretching far beyond the care and wellbeing of a broken man, long gone.

He lit a cigarette and waited for the girls to arrive, the interlude giving him time to brush aside the insignificance of a toothache and think about his friend and the injuries he had sustained in the head-on car crash.

The therapy and convalescence that followed and the months of travelling to and from the hospital to assist in Gary's psychological recovery, the regular meetings with hospital consultants and the endless meetings with the local council, helping to arrange accessible accommodation, mobility aids and equipment that would improve his quality of life.

The information from the doctors and specialists were at best conflicting. The doctors saying that the human body has a natural healing process and will eventually make some recovery, but the damages to his spinal cord were so severe it had left him incapable of any significant movement below the waist. The specialists confirming that although spinal cord injuries affect erections, orgasm and ejaculation, medical research had identified that paralysed men still produce testosterone and have sensory functions, erogenous zones and feel sexually aroused in the conventional way. And because the human body will find other ways of functioning, some men who have lost all genital sensation might still be capable of orgasm through stimulation of other parts of the body.

After six months of therapeutic and physical exercise it was reassuring to see that Gary was showing some signs of improvement. Except for a slight numbness in his left arm his upper body was unaffected, and with a little assistance he quickly acquired the confidence to move around in a wheelchair.

It was also reassuring for everyone when he eventually announced that it was time to stop feeling sorry for himself and get on with the rest of his life.

A frantic waving of hands, long painted fingers and arms draped in gold bangles, skyscraper 'fuck-me-hard' heels stepping from the car, skirts little more than wide belts, tits bouncing beneath scraps of cloth no bigger than a handkerchief, swaying their hips and flashing smiles, the body language of confidence signalling that Janice Barton and Linda Graham were ready for their next client.

Both in their late-twenties the girls had spent most of their late teens working as 'strippers' in Working Men's Clubs, but the money wasn't that good and the competition was ruthless.

If you weren't prepared to give the booking agent a blow-job, you didn't get work.

They tried working the streets, but after too many rough fucks in smelly back alleys, too many blow-jobs in dirty secluded doorways and too many black eyes and no cash, for the sake of their health they decided to register with an escort agency.

With their virtue for rent Janice and Linda traded sex to strangers. 'Fucking-for-money in a safe and controlled environment was less of a risk and gave them potential earnings almost six times that of an average job. The girls were street-wise and astute business women. They were also aware that age brings with it the inevitable demands of gravity, so before things started to head south they had the forethought to put all their hard earned cash into useful and meaningful investments.

Working seven-days-a-week in their well-practiced profession, Janice and Linda had acquired about twenty regular clients who they entertained at least once a month, either in their home or in a hotel.

Married...Single...Working-Class...Professional...Lawyers...Policemen...Politicians...Men of the cloth, the occasional celebrity and those suffering from erectile dysfunction were all accepted without question.

Their terms and conditions of engagement were not exhaustive, but dirty unkempt men and those requesting bondage, severe pain, sadism and torture were immediately rejected.

No credit cards. No refunds. No deliveries taken in the back door.

After leaving their corporate image of respectability and a world of suburban boredom, dressed in their expensive Italian suits and loaded with testosterone, the alpha males entered a new dimension, a furtive playground of sin masked in a veil of hidden fantasies, the dark conspiratorial undercurrents fuelling their suppressed libidos.

Most of their clients were commissioned on a one-to-one basis, but there were some wealthy businessmen who were willing to pay a lot more, especially if it involved a lesbian act or something more sinister, something with an unconventional agenda.

Their best customers were those men who were married and were just after a quick fuck or a blow-job, especially those who were doing it for the first time. They weren't sure if it was their guilty conscience that prevented them from getting an erection, but it was certainly good for business because they kept coming back until the familiarity relaxed them enough to accomplish the deed.

One wealthy client paid handsomely for his moment of voyeuristic stimulation.

Dressed in French maid's outfits, stockings and suspenders and towering heels, skipping around the bedroom with feather dusters, orchestrating their bodies with provocative suggestion, bending over and opening their legs, the dirty old pervert lying spread-eagled on the bed with his cock in his hand, masturbating under a running commentary of fantasy and filth.

A fat balding man in his mid-fifties - rumoured to be a teacher by day - with a fetish for dressing up in a baby's nappy, offered to pay them twice their normal fee if they acted out a mother and baby routine, treating him like a toddler and letting him to suckle their breasts.

A sixty-year old man suffering with erectile dysfunction and an obsessive pain fetish wanted to be tied to a bed with handcuffs. The girls had to clip pegs to his nipples and attach several pegs to his scrotum and penis before covering him from head to toe in oil. Through a chorus of filthy name calling and shameless humiliation they had to spank him with a table tennis bat until his buttocks turned red.

There was an elderly client who they simply referred to as 'craggy face.'

Although the man had unattractive facial features he was extremely wealthy and with a passion for 'water-sport' he was prepared to pay a phenomenal fee if the girls would straddle his naked body and perform a 'golden fountain' over his rugged face.

A welcoming hand greeted them at the door, the wheelchair a chilling reminder of Gary's restrained and handicapped existence, the two happy-hookers wasting no time, easing quickly into their professional roles, lifting the mood with laughter and flirtatious innuendo.

"Wine glasses," Janice enquired, disappearing into the kitchen while Linda shuffled inside her 'fuck-bag,' removing a couple of bottles of wine, a birthday card and a gift for Gary.

The sound of clinking glasses and costume jewellery jangling on wrists, a vocal rendition of 'Happy Birthday,' echoing off the kitchen walls, the gaiety and laughter, the alcohol and suggestive innuendo bringing a long-awaited smile to Gary Fowler's face.

The interaction of flirtatious foreplay quickly gathered speed, handkerchiefs, wide-belts, pants and bras abandoned on the floor, Gary's eyes wide open, his jaw hanging loose, his wheelchair floating somewhere just above the ground.

A fleeting glance at his watch reminding him that he should be heading home to pack a suitcase, a subtle wink at the girls before heading to the door, the sound of hurried footfalls following quickly on his heels.

"Have a good holiday and don't worry about Gary," Janice smiled, throwing back the last of her wine. "Trust me, your friend Gary will have a birthday gift that he won't forget," she said, with professional confidence, raising the empty glass to her mouth, sucking the last remaining drops, catching a glimpse of the unsightly scratched tattoos on her right arm.

"If we can't get his juices flowing, it won't be for the want of trying," she giggled. "And just to let you know were not on-the-clock for Gary," she confirmed, exaggerating a wink and running her tongue suggestively around the rim of the glass, the promise of a temptress flashing in her eyes.

"Our next appointment isn't until later tonight with craggy face," she mused, pausing for a moment and looking serious, playing carelessly with a couple of gold bangles on her wrist.

"That reminds me...We'll have to drink a lot more wine before we meet him."