Reformatory Girls Ch. 17: Rebecca Lucie 05

Rebecca may not be old in years, but she has formed some definite ideas about life. Men, she is convinced, are all simpletons. Some may be kind, some less so: some may even be clever simpletons: but they all keep their brains between their legs. As such they are all cash cows – to be milked, both metaphorically and literally.

Women are slightly more complicated. Girls her age are bitches: spiteful, selfish and ruthless. Though there are some exceptions: she still remembers Emily and Lily with fondness. Older women are, if anything, worse. They are either evil – like the two prostitutes who robbed her; callous disciplinarians – like the Mistresses at Windsor; or sour-faced, repressed old prunes, like her Aunt Ellen.

The girls who work at the massage parlour, though, don't really fit into any of those categories. Rebecca, when she starts, is wary of them, and ready to dislike them. But whilst some are indifferent to her, others are friendly, ready to give her advice, willing to go to the pub and have a laugh at the end of what they like to refer to as a hard day on their backs.

The premises consist of two bedrooms with en suite, a kitchen, and a reception room with comfortable sofas where a porn video plays on a loop. There is a pool of about a dozen girls, any two of which are on duty on any one day. Generally the men take whoever is available; sometimes they come to see a specific girl and are prepared to wait; if both girls are free they are both presented and the punter can take his pick. Rebecca, like the others, has sets of working clothes which she changes into on arrival: basques, negligees, skimpy bras and pants, stocking and suspenders and shoes with high heels. Some of the girls have uniforms and will dress up if requested; Rebecca, who trusts her body to outshine any uniform, doesn't bother with that expense.

The parlour is well-run, and none of Rebecca's fears about troublesome clients are realised. The Receptionist, Heather, is a no-nonsense woman of fifty, a friend of the owner and former worker herself. She greets the clients, chats to them in the reception room, deals with the money, organises the rota and is generally helpful to the girls.

At her instigation Rebecca starts to shave. She's never done it before. She stands in the shower in her flat with a pack of new safety razors, soaps herself liberally, and draws the razor down over her pubes. She finds it curiously arousing, as more and more of her private parts emerge naked from under their habitual covering of hair. Little black mattings of hair wash down her legs into the shower tray – she'll have to clean it out later – making her look and feel like a newly-shorn lamb. Sometimes it's awkward, hunching over, trying to reach right underneath her legs, trying to make sure she hasn't missed anything. But when she has finished, when her mound and her labia are exposed, hairless, to the light and the air, she doesn't want to stop. She lathers herself again, and draws a fresh razor over herself – lightly, for it's easy to nick the skin - wanting, now she's started, to be ultra-smooth, completely denuded of hair. She's getting increasingly turned-on – to the point where the strokes with the razor are designed for pleasure rather than the removal of hair. Then she abandons the razor altogether, leans back against the wall of the shower and, with the hot water cascading over her head, starts to finger herself, delighting in the new sensations her newly-shaved genitals yield. Smooth and hairless her engorged labia feel different: firmer and fuller, no longer cushioned by hair. She rubs and tugs, and flicks at her clitoris, her cunt sopping with her own juices, until her knees buckle, and she comes in a twisting, screaming orgasm, her cries of pleasure muffled by the torrent of water.

When she's recovered she dries herself and studies her handiwork in her mirror. Her cunt looks a bit red and raw. She lies on her bed and massages some oil into herself, bringing herself to climax after climax as she does so. Why, she wonders, has she never discovered the pleasure of shaving before?

For the next few days she can hardly leave herself alone. Since she landed at her Uncle's she devoted a lot of time to pleasuring herself, but now her hands are wandering between her legs at every half-opportunity. But there is a downside to shaving: after a day or two the stubble is prickly, especially when pressed, and after a day of men pounding away at her she comes home feeling sore. The remedy is to keep shaving, ensuring that she is always completely smooth.

Aside from the pleasure it gives her, men seem to like it too. One client compliments her, and runs the back of his fingers over her shaved privates appreciatively. She takes to displaying herself with a new pride, always finding a moment to lie on her back with her legs spread, letting her client get a good look at her: smooth, naked, bare, and laid out for his delectation and pleasure.

The girls give her advice on how and when to fake orgasms; how to reject unwelcome requests without seeming uncooperative; what sort of little extra attentions are most likely to secure a tip. She listens: but truth to tell this is all instinctive with her: she's grown up watching women flirt with and flatter men, she knows exactly how to be winsome, what buttons to push and how to push them.

Men, she quickly learns, are both all different and all the same. Every encounter is subtly different in the details; but at bottom all every man wants to do is come. If she focussed on the latter, she would go home each night thinking she was little more than a human milking machine. Sometimes, if she's tired or bored, she does think of herself in that way.

"They might as well just form a queue," she tells Amber, one of the other girls, in the pub. "Pants down, dicks out, one hand on their balls and one on their cocks, two minutes tugging until they spurt, then we could all go home early."

"Two minutes?" queries Amber, laughing. "One's usually enough."

At other times, though, she marvels at the variety, and the seemingly limitless perversity of the sexually aroused male.

She has one client, an elderly man, a retired vicar she suspects, who has a weird castration complex. Nothing gets him off so much as being told he'd be better off without his balls.

"Play with them and wank me off," he instructs her. "But talk to me: tell me how much better off I would be without them, how you'd like me to have them removed – that sort of thing."

He lies on his back on the bed. Rebecca, wearing her black negligee without any knickers, her shaved pubes level with his eye-line, takes a firm hold of his scrotum.

"What are these?" she asks rhetorically, squeezing and kneading his testicles, watching his cock stiffen. "Imagine having these between your legs all the time, getting in the way. They must be so uncomfortable." She squeezes again: the man gasps and groans. "They don't look very nice, do they?" she asks, pouting. "All wrinkly and floppy. Look how much nicer a girl looks between her legs." She raises her negligee and looks down appreciatively, drawing his attention to her own, smooth parts. She strokes herself, and shivers with pleasure. "Wouldn't you like to look like that: all neat and smooth? I don't know why you don't think of having them removed," she tugs down on his scrotum, suggestively. "A simple little operation: think how much nicer and freer you'd feel." By now the man's cock is straining; his scrotum has tightened – the touch of her fingers, along with her words, is driving him wild.

"Go on," she says seductively, wanking him ever-harder: "You know you'd like to have them off. Think how nice it would be without them, think how liberated you'd feel. Shall we have them off? Shall we? Shall we have these silly little balls removed?"

At that the man climaxes fiercely and furiously, shooting his spunk so hard that trails of it land on his face, whilst Rebecca continues to knead and milk and talk about removing his balls.

Mad, she thinks. But then most of her clients have their own strange fetishes and quirks, and his are by no means the strangest.

That honour probably goes to a man who calls himself Charlie. He's an odd man, in ways Rebecca can't quite put her finger on. Small, thin-faced, he never seems to look her in the eye, and there's a creepiness about him: he's the sort of man you wouldn't want sitting next to you on the bus. He pays to fuck her: but his shtick is that she has to reject him. He begs, she refuses – all the time positioning herself seductively on the bed and tormenting him, telling him never in a million years would she have him inside her. Eventually, sneering, she says:

"Go on- why don't you rub against my leg like a little dog?"

At this he wraps his legs around her, presses his cock and balls against her warm flesh, and humps her thigh until he shoots his load, creaming spunk over the top of her thigh, onto her tummy and hips.

One thing that surprises her is the number of men who want hand jobs. Why, she wonders? Why settle for a hand job when you could fuck? Is it so that they can convince themselves they aren't betraying their wives? One man acknowledges that is the case. "A handjob doesn't count," he tells her. Another claims it's because he likes to be pampered, he doesn't have to move. A third tells her it's because he doesn't like wearing condoms. But the most convincing explanation comes from a regular of hers:

"It's to do with the sensations," he says. "With a handjob you can have your cock and your balls fondled at the same time. Fucking is more satisfying psychologically – there's no substitute for coming inside a girl. But the sensations are better with hands. The ideal would be to fuck one girl whilst another plays with your balls."

Rebecca files this away, along with all the other insights into men's sexuality she has gleaned, against future use.

Handjobs of course are fine by her – they make the least demands. And if a client wants a finger up his arse, that's no problem either: she's quite happy to put a condom and some lube on her finger and slide it inside. And even when it becomes routine there's something perennially satisfying about seeing a trail of milky fluid spurt out of a man's cock and hearing him groan with relief. If only it could be bottled and sold, she sometimes thinks. Occasionally she wonders why nature is so wasteful. The average man might father two or three children: yet his balls go on producing spunk hour after hour, day after day, years after year – and all of it has to be expressed one way of another. So pointless and wasteful: sometimes she feels like she is in the waste disposal business.

At other times she feels she's more of a care worker. She has one client, Percy, who, as he never tires of telling her, is eighty-five. The days when he could get an erection are long past: but he can still appreciate the company of a beautiful girl. He likes to look at her, and he like to lie on the bed and hold her.

"It's the only think that keeps me alive," he tells her. "Having a lovely warm girl like you to hold."

She's tried once or twice to kindle some life into his wizened cock, but it's no use. "Sorry," he says wistfully – as though he's letting her down.

She develops an instinct for what each man wants. Some want warmth, and a simulation of love. Some want her sweet and submissive, some want her lascivious and depraved, and some want her to bully and discipline them. The only ones she finds difficult are those who want her to come. Usually it's a matter of pride – they want to know they can make a girl's knees tremble, can satisfy her. It's very hard for her to get sufficiently aroused. Sometimes she's straight with them, tells them what they are doing feels nice (whether it does or not) but that she's happy for them to take their own pleasure. And as long as they don't feel unmanned by this, most men are secretly happy not to have to worry about her pleasure and to be able to concentrate on their own. Where she senses a man's ego really does require her to come, she fakes.

She'd feared, when she started the job, that there might be problems with drunks, or men who refused to pay. But the parlour closes at 6 p.m. thus saving them from the evening drinkers (not that a drunk could have got past Heather anyway); and as Heather takes the money that's not an issue for her.

In fact the only problem she encounters on a regular basis is men who want to marry her. She gets at least one proposal a week, let alone all the other offers to 'take her away from all this'.

"You have to invent a partner," one of the girls advises her. "Then you can decline without seeming to reject them."

The next time a man proposes she favours him with her most winsome smile:

"That's such a lovely offer," she tells him. "I'm so flattered. Only, I already have a partner I'm afraid."

The man – fifty-five, pot-bellied and balding - goes away with a warm glow, and the thought that if only somebody else had not got there first, the lovely, foxy girl from the massage parlour would certainly have become his wife.

One day a man does walk in who frightens her. He's so tall he has to bend his head at the doorway, has muscles like boa constrictors, a great thatch of ginger hair and a beard a family of crows could nest in. When he sees her expression he gives her a disarming smile.

"There's no need to be afraid of me," he says, in a surprisingly gentle voice. "I'm only dangerous when I'm in the Ring."

It turns out he's a professional wrestler, whose fighting name is King Kong. When he's undressed he shows Rebecca his scars, of which there are many, and his tattoos. She gives him a massage, the most interesting she's given, for his body is like an illustrated book. Then she opens her legs with some trepidation for him to fuck her, but he is considerate enough to take the weight of his body on his own arms.

He clearly likes her, for he returns a fortnight later. When they have undressed he tells he to keep still and trust him: then he puts his massive hands under her buttocks and lifts her up into the air. She puts out her arms, ready to steady herself on his head if she falls, but his arms are steady, and she senses he won't let her fall. When she is level with his face he brings her towards him, presses his face between her legs, and licks her pussy. It's exciting and frightening: she's within touching distance of the ceiling, if she pitched over his head she could break her neck. But he licks her and holds her steadily, revelling in his strength, so she keeps her thighs open for him, trying not to panic, enjoying the wetness between her legs. It's the first time she's felt turned-on in the massage parlour, and she thinks if he goes on long enough she could come in his face – except that that might unbalance them and bring her crashing to the ground.

Then he lowers her, slowly, amused at her, pleased with himself and his prowess. This time he lies on his back, and she kneads his large hairy balls in their ginger thatch, then eases herself onto his thickly-veined cock and rides him to orgasm.

On the whole she enjoys her work. She works three days a week, so she doesn't have a chance to get jaded. She doesn't earn as much money as she'd hoped, for the parlour takes 50% of her earnings – but it's a lot better than serving burgers or stacking supermarket shelves.

Then one day, having just said goodbye to a client (with a kiss and a hug and a 'come-and-see-me-again-soon') she steps into the passage, intending to go to the kitchen for a much-needed drink, where she encounters Jade, the other working girl, ushering a punter towards her room. The man stops when he sees Rebecca:

"I've changed my mind," the man says. "I'd like to go with her."

Jade's face is like thunder, and Rebecca is uncomfortable: but she smiles sweetly – for the client has the right to change his mind – turns around and leads him into her room.

The day proceeds as usual; Rebecca passes Jade a couple of times, and nothing seems amiss. But as soon as the doors are closed behind them at 6 p.m. and the two girls have turned the corner, Jade rounds on Rebecca accusingly:

"You stole my punter," she hisses. "You owe me."

"I didn't steal him," Rebecca counters. "He chose me."

They argue briefly: then without warning Jade pushes Rebecca against the wall and presses one hand across her neck.

"You think you're so special, don't you?" she snarls. "Well you owe me."

Rebecca initially is caught by surprise: her heart starts to pound. But she's come a long way since the two prostitutes robbed her in the Dog and Gun. She eyes Jade up, decides she doesn't amount to much, and in a single movement knocks her hand from her throat, grabs her by the hair and twists back her head. Now it's Jade's turn to be caught unawares: "Let me go," she yells. "You're hurting me."

"I'll do more than that in a minute," Rebecca hisses back. "I've dealt with far harder bitches than you. I didn't steal that man, he chose me, and he chose me because I'm prettier and sexier than you, so don't you dare fuck with me again."

"All right, all right, I'm sorry," gasps Jade, her head twisted, face upwards, capitulating even more readily than Rebecca could had hoped.

Rebecca should have stopped there. Up until then she has right on her side: Jade is out of order and Jade has apologised. The incident should be closed.

But Rebecca does not stop. Something descends on her: not red mist exactly: rather a white, vengeful, lustful, sadistic mist. Memories of the prostitute who grabbed her snatch in the Dog and Gun flash through her mind, along with the memory of how she forced her fingers into Maria Hyde-Clare's vagina. Instead of letting go and walking away, and careless of the fact that they are in a public street, she thrusts her free hand inside Jade's pants and grabs at her snatch.

"Hey, what are you doing?" Jade protests. "Let go!"

Far from letting go, Rebecca forces her fingers between Jade's legs. Jade starts to panic – there's hysteria now in her cries. Rebecca hardly hears her – all her strength is concentrated in her fingers, in the fight to force her middle finger into Jade's cunt. Jade twists and tries to wrench away, but Rebecca has her finger inside her, and once inside her she corkscrews it deeper, until it is in to the hilt.

"You're a fucking psychopath!" Jade yells.

Rebecca's teeth are bared: she presses her face close to the terrified Jade.

"Don't you ever fucking mess with me again," she says, wriggling her finger to emphasise her words. "Do you understand?"

"Girls, girls," says a man's voice somewhere behind them. "Stop this now – come on."

Even now, with a member of the public behind her, Rebecca can barely bring herself to let go. But she does relax her grip a little – sufficient for Jade to wrench herself off the intrusive finger and out of Rebecca's grip.

"She's crazy," Jade appeals to the man. Then without waiting for a response she strides hurriedly up the road. Rebecca watches her for a second then, although it is not the way she had intended to walk, she strides off in the opposite direction.

By this time Rebecca has bought herself a mobile phone. The following day – not a working day for her – it rings around mid-day. It is Heather.

"I want to talk to you asap," she says. "Can you come in today at closing time?"

Rebecca assents – and spends the afternoon bracing herself for the sack.

Among the girls who work at Birds of Paradise is one who stands out. She's Irish, goes by the name of Siobhan, and has astonishing copper-red hair, liquid green eyes, and a voice with a soft, Irish lilt so sensuous that a man could come just by listening to her. She's not only elegant and beautiful: there's a warmth to her as well – and something less easy to define: a vitality: a life-force: a sense that she is someone who enjoys everything life offers to the full. Rebecca has never worked on the same shift as her, but she has encountered her a few times at the parlour and once at the pub, and Siobhan has always taken time to welcome her 'to the stable', and ask how she is getting on.