Reformatory Girls Ch. 17: Rebecca Lucie 05

"Well why not?" she asks Rebecca, laughing. "It's made his day, put some lead in his pencil: his wife won't know what's hit her when he gets home tonight."

"Maybe he doesn't have a wife," suggests Rebecca.

"Then it's more business for an honest working girl. Now come here: did anyone ever tell you you have the most kissable little pussy in the world?"

Kim kneels down, just inside the doorway, and soon has her tongue between Rebecca's cunt-lips: minutes later Rebecca is climaxing into Siobhan's mouth, whilst standing braced against the front door.

They've been living together for a fortnight when Kim makes a second proposition:

"Why don't we jack it in at Birds of Paradise and go it alone? We'd earn far more money, we'd be our own bosses and we could work when we choose."

It's a no-brainer really. So they give in their notice, somewhat to the displeasure of Heather, and make a few alterations to the flat. Quality over quantity is their plan: they will only tell the more trustworthy and affluent of their existing clients; will charge upmarket prices ('because each of us is worth any two of your average parlour girls'), and will be selective about their terms: no fifteen minute quickies, and sessions by appointment only: no-one walking in off the street.

It works like a charm. Gary is the first to migrate from the parlour, and is full of praise for the ambience, the absence of time constraints, and the extra little personal touches to be found from a session in the girls' private home. He recommends them to his friends, and before long they have just the select clientele they want.

And partly because they can now do the occasional 'overnight' they are making many multiples of the money they made at the parlour.

Rebecca is happy: how could she not be, with so much disposable income and so much delectable sexual pleasure at hand? Not only is she doing what she has come to feel she was born to do: for the first time in her life she is with somebody who both desires her and genuinely cares about her.

And yet, for all that, there are the occasional tears in the fabric of intimacy the two girls have wrapped around themselves. For whilst she may not acknowledge it, Rebecca has suffered too much, has been damaged too deeply, for the demons inside her to have been altogether banished. She has mood-swings, and outbursts of anger and bitterness, which erupt without warning and without apparent cause.

One day she's just said goodbye to a dull client: for half an hour she's had to listen to a tirade of complaints against the man's wife, whilst all the time reassuring him that of course he is in the right.

"Why the fuck do they get married?" she says, stamping into the kitchen, and throwing her high-heeled shoes against the wall (the no-clothes rule has been modified since they've started seeing clients at home.)

"For the sex of course," says Kim, amused.

"But they're not getting any sex," throws out Rebecca. "At least not any that satisfies them."

"All the better for us then," says Kim. "Let's drink to frigid wives." She raises her tea-cup: but for once Rebecca is not to be jollied:

"I'm so fed up," she says. "I just want to piss in somebody's face."

"Hey – where's this come from?" asks Kim. She goes up to Rebecca and puts a hand on either cheek. "You can piss on my face if you like – if it will make you feel better."

"No," says Rebecca, softening. "Not you. I couldn't hurt you."

"But you want to hurt someone?"

"Oh, I don't know." Rebecca picks up the cast-off shoes: then suddenly screams and hurls them again at the wall.

Kim frowns:

"There's a darkness in you," she says, not unkindly. "I've known it for some time. But I don't know where it comes from. Do you want to try talking to me?"

"No," says Rebecca. "I don't know how."

"Let's start by taking these stupid things off," says Kim. Rebecca is wearing a tessellated white bra and panties that her client has requested: she stands mutely whilst Kim removes them, then allows the Irish girl to take her in her arms.

"You could tell me about your past," Kim invites. "You're still a dark horse to me, you know."

"What is there to tell?" asks Rebecca, who hates even thinking about her past. "I was born, I grew up, I became a whore."

"You're not giving me very much are you?" says Kim, still smiling, still radiating warmth and concern.

"Oh for fuck's sake," says Rebecca: "will you stop being nice to me? I'm not a nice person: I'm a whore."

"We're all whores if it comes to that," says Kim. "I don't see that as a negative term."

"Yeah, well I'm a bitch as well," says Rebecca. "So instead of being nice to me why don't you hurt me for a change? Go on: stick your fist up my twat, piss on me – treat me like the bitch I really am."

"I don't know how to be with you when you're like this," says Kim, stepping back. "If this is something you get off on, then I'll do it: but I don't think that's it. I wish you'd open up to me."

"Oh, it's nothing," says Rebecca, sighing, relenting. "I'm sorry. Just give us a rub will you?"

She takes Kim's hand and guides it between her legs. For once Kim hesitates: she herself has an unbounded sexual appetite: but it hasn't escaped her attention that whenever anything difficult or uncomfortable crops up Rebecca instantly turns to sex. It occurs to her that Rebecca uses sex the way some people use alcohol: to smooth away all the difficulties and unpleasantness of life.

"How about a massage?" she suggests.

Rebecca nods. They go into the bedroom and Rebecca lies face down on the bed. Kim, who has taken courses in Aromatherapy and Nuru Massage, produces a tray full of oils. She squats across Rebecca, and begins to smooth oil over her shoulders and the small of her back. She can feel the tension in the muscles: but soon Rebecca is relaxing: her breathing is more even, the tensions start to ebb away.

"Is that better?" she asks.

"Mmm," Rebecca says.

She works her way down: over buttocks and thighs, then works her fingers between Rebecca's toes. Rebecca's body is glistening with oil.

"Turn over," she invites.

She works her way back up Rebecca's body, oiling her feet and legs, oiling the insides of her thighs. Her hands glide over her vulva: Rebecca shudders and moans. Her oily fingers slide over Rebecca's labia, over her clitoris, teasing out all the involutions, gliding between all the folds. Rebecca gasps, twists, draws her legs as wide open as she can. The oil blurs the differences between inside and outside: Kim's fingers slide frictionlessly into Rebecca's vagina. One finger slides in and out of her anus, causing Rebecca to buck and thrust. She carries on, building Rebecca up: the finger of one hand glides back and forth over Rebecca's clitoris; the fingers of the other hand penetrate her, stretching and invading her, sliding deep inside her and withdrawing. Rebecca's whole body is primed by the massage; her genitals are so suffused with blood, so aroused, that is seems no orgasm could do justice to the explosive force within. Kim's face is a mask of concentration: she's so attuned to Rebecca's arousal she can feel her own genitals starting to engorge. Unconsciously she presses her pussy down against the mattress, adjusts her position, has to remind herself this is for Rebecca alone.

"Come on my love," she murmurs, "let it all go."

Rebecca's head is thrown back; her mouth is hanging open. Her legs start to judder: Kim knows she is nearly there.

"Come on honey," she coaxes. "Come for me like you've never come before."

Rebecca's legs tremble; she kicks out her feet; she gasps like she's just run a marathon:

"Oh yes," she cries: "oh my God – aaaaah."

She bucks and thrusts upwards: her cunt muscles grip Kim's fingers: her orgasm seizes her, feels like a nuclear explosion in her genitals, a mushroom cloud of sensations extending outwards, through her labia and her perineum, through her thighs and tummy and arms and legs, a great pulsation of sexual energy and release that goes on and on, Kim no more than a bystander holding her fingers in Rebecca's writhing cunt, trying not to let her other fingers slip away from her clitoris.

"Wow," she says, when Rebecca has subsided. "Somebody needed that."

"Oh my God," says Rebecca, gazing blearily and gratefully at her benefactor, and clutching the hand inside her vagina lest it be withdrawn. "Kim, Kim, Kim – God I don't deserve you."

Kim brings out the best in Rebecca. It's not often that she's unable to coax – or rub or suck or fuck – Rebecca's dark moods away. But one day Kim receives an urgent phone call from Ireland: her father has had a serious accident: he may not recover.

"I have to go," she tells Rebecca. "You can come if you like, but it won't be much fun."

"I'll do whatever you want," says Rebecca.

"It's probably best you stay here and hold the fort," Kim says. "We don't want to lose clients."

So Rebecca stays in the flat alone.

Two days later Kim phones to say her father has turned a corner and is out of danger: she'll be home in a week. Relieved, Rebecca allows herself to luxuriate in the pleasure of having the flat to herself.

For much as she loves Kim, and for all that they have mind-blowing sex together, no sexual partner, however attuned to you, can touch you with the same sensitivity as you can touch yourself. Rebecca, for all the sexual satisfaction Kim gives her, misses masturbating. There is nothing in the world like a long leisurely session of self-pleasure, eking out and fine-tuning every sensation according to the precise pleasure it brings.

So one afternoon when she has no bookings she spreads herself over the bed and settles down to play with herself. The girls have acquired two dildos and two vibrators but, though she likes a dildo inside her, when it comes to clitoral stimulation Rebecca still prefers her own fingers. Hours pass in blissful play. With no-one else to worry about, Rebecca stretches out her pleasure, arousing herself, building herself up towards a climax, then delaying, prolonging the divine urgency of her need. With no-one to watch or overhear her, she can indulge in little quirks that she would be too embarrassed for even Kim to witness. She stops now and then to touch her fingers to her nose, inhaling the smell of her own sex. She touches her anus, pokes in the tip of her finger, and once more inhales her own smell. She talks to herself, sometimes under her breath and sometimes out loud. 'You want to come, don't you," she says, covering her vulva and making rapid circular motions. 'Well you can't." She lifts her hand, denying herself: there's a strange, perverse pleasure in this, and she wonders what it would be like to stop masturbating without having come, to get up and get on with other things. She rubs herself again, and forces herself to stop again. She gets up off the bed. 'Time to do some housework," she says. There's a fever raging between her legs. 'No,' she says: 'you're too needy." She reaches for her knickers and skirt: she knows she's going to give in; she knows any minute she's going to fall back on the bed and bring herself off: but she goes on with the pretence that the pleasuring session is over.

She even gets as far as threading her feet through her knickers. Then she touches herself: and this time she can't stop, the game is over, she kicks off her knickers again, lies back with her legs spread and rubs furiously at herself until the long-delayed explosion occurs, and kicking out wildly with her feet she comes and comes and comes.

By the time she has had enough it is getting dark outside, and though starving she barely has the strength to stick a pie in the microwave. She feels good though: it reminds her of the hours spent alone in her Uncle's house, wandering naked from room to room rubbing herself on every available surface.

The next day she has a new client: he's young, lacking in sexual confidence, and wants her to show him 'how a woman works'.

"Will you masturbate for me?" he asks.

He lies on his back: Rebecca kneels with her legs apart and her snatch a few inches above his face. Then she gets to work. Some girls would perform, would exaggerate: she's wise enough to know that men prefer authenticity. She looks down at him, staring studiously at her pussy: then she closes her eyes, blots him out altogether, and fingers herself just as though she was alone. It rarely takes her long to arouse herself: soon her genitals are swelling, and pleasurable sensations are coursing through her. What an amazing job, she thinks to herself. Being paid to masturbate. She throws her head back as she comes, letting out long, uninhibited moans.

The man's eyes are on stalks: he's given up all interest in finding out 'how a woman works', he just wants to come. So Rebecca lowers herself onto his cock, rocks back and forth a few times, and it's all over quickly. After he's gone she stashes the banknotes away in disbelief: was I really paid good money to do that?

But the following day her happy mood evaporates. It begins with another new client. He's about fifty, tall and self-important, and something of an alpha male. He wants to do role play. But whereas most men who want role play like to be submissive, like to be bossed and bullied and humiliated, this man wants the opposite.

"I'm the client," he says: "and you're bought and paid for. I tell you exactly what to do."

Rebecca much prefers to be dominant, but she consents: it's only role play after all. But it soon becomes clear the man is putting deep-felt attitudes into the role.

"You're a whore," he tells Rebecca. "You have no agency of your own. You do what I tell you – understand?"

"Yes," says Rebecca submissively.

"Yes Sir," says the man. "Now get you kit off."

Rebecca takes off her bra and pants.

"Now walk up and down so I can look at you."

She does as she's bidden: usually, when she feels a man's eyes on her, she feels powerful, feels his admiration and his lust. Now for some reason she feels self-conscious and diminished.

"Stretch up your arms," instructs the man.

She does so.

"Lift your right leg."

The next few minutes are like a game of Simple Simon Says, as the man orders Rebecca to stretch and bend and walk here and there and put her legs in this position and that. It's not that any of the positions are painful: it's rather that the combined effect of all these orders is to make her feel like she is a puppet and he is pulling her strings.

Which is just what the man wants.

"You're a whore," he says: "what are you?"

"A whore Sir," says Rebecca, her head bowed.

"You open your legs and men fuck you," the man says. "You're a spunk-bucket. What are you?"

By now Rebecca is hating this: but the man has paid, and telling herself it is only role pay she bows her head again:

"I'm a spunk-bucket Sir," she says.

Next the man starts inspecting her, cupping his hands under her breasts and juggling them, not with appreciation, rather as though he's weighing up a couple of apples he's thinking of buying. He squeezes the flesh on her thighs, slaps her buttocks, and tells her to lean forward, spread her bum cheeks and show him her anus. Under his critical scrutiny she feels as though she's at the livestock market.

"Alright: now turn round, get down on your knees and suck my cock."

She turns and kneels: his cock is long, but largely flaccid. He takes it at the root and swings it back and forth against her cheeks and her nose.

"I had a wank before I came out," he tells her proudly. "I know the tricks you whores get up to, charging a man for an hour and bringing him off in five minutes. You can work for your money for a change."

He feeds is cock into her mouth. She feels more like biting than sucking it. He clasps the back of her head and clamps her against him. She doesn't have much choice but to suck: and slowly, gradually, he starts to get hard, though not before her jaw has started to ache.

"Look at that," he says, pulling out of her and drawing her attention to his erection. "Your bread and butter, that is."

She doesn't answer.

"Alright: lie on your back, stretch your arms behind your head and draw up your knees."

She does as she's bidden.

"Higher. Legs wider apart: the most submissive position you can."

The man towers over her: she feels small and submissive and helpless. He takes a condom from the bedside table and, when her legs start to slide, orders her to draw them up higher. When he enters and fucks her he is thrusting down vertically, pinning her feet close to her ears, pulling her buttocks upwards and probing her anus with his finger. He moves slowly, intent on making it last. When he eventually comes he emits a strangled, snarling noise.

Usually, once a client has come, any roles they've been playing are dissipated with the sexual tension. The client smiles, gasps, cuddles or at least reaches across to express some token of gratitude or affection. Even Rebecca's castrating vicar calls her 'my dear' and thanks her.

This man merely buries his head in the pillow, and makes no effort to cease from squashing her. When he does, finally, roll off her he lies on his back and gazes up at the ceiling.

"I'll have a shower now," he says presently: "bathroom through here?"

It's as though he's taken possession of the flat as well.

He comes back spruced and dressed and gives her a nod.

"Not bad," he says, as he's leaving.

"Wanker," says Rebecca, when he's gone. She too goes into the shower. He's just a client, she's serviced him and taken his money, that should be an end to it. But he's left her feeling cheap and diminished, and the streaming water can't wash her feelings away.

At the parlour, one client followed another, there was little time to dwell on any particular session. Now she has nothing to replace the sour taste of the man with. Her hand roves automatically between her legs: but for once she can't get a rhythm going.

That night she sleeps fitfully and has a vile dream, in which she is back at Windsor and the girls are crowding round her bed, poking at her and taunting her. She wakes herself up screaming at them.

She gets up in a savage mood: she's angry at what's been done to her, she's angry that, though she left them behind a long time ago, these girls still have a presence in her psyche. She wants to hurt somebody: but there is no-one available – only herself. Her anger turns inwards.

"You are a whore," she tells herself contemptuously. "You're a whore and a bitch and a spunk-bucket: you deserve everything that happens to you."

Suddenly an idea comes into her head; and no sooner there than it becomes a compulsion. She goes into the kitchen, fills up a tumbler and begins drinking glass after glass or cold water. At the same time she puts on the kettle and makes a pot of tea. Soon she is full, but she forces herself to drink more water and, when the tea has brewed and cooled, two large mugs filled to the brim.

There's a grim determination bordering on enjoyment to what she is doing.

She paces round and stretches, testing the growing pressure in her bladder.

"You little whore," she sneers: "you're going to drink your own piss."

Her bladder is full nearly to bursting. She forces another tumbler of water down her throat then eyes an area of the room where the carpet meets the wall, unobstructed by furniture. She sits down, and works her way forwards until her feet are close to the wall. Then she starts to walk her feet up the wall, all the time inching her bottom forward, until her feet are stretched out above her and her bottom is pressed against the wall. She supports her hips with her hands.

It's difficult to start pissing upside down. She can feel the pressure in her bladder: she has no concern for the carpet or her face – but she can't quite let go.