The Warm Up Artist

I live on a quiet residential road in North West London, backing onto a park. I have a newly refurbished room with access to a back garden that is shared with the house next door. The landlord owns both houses and I have lived in several rooms in each. Fortunately for me the back rooms -- as well as having access to the garden -- are the ones which have their own shower as well as a kitchenette.

Through the wall I heard noises a few weeks ago, consistent with the familiar sounds of furniture being moved around and large heavy objects being plonked down. I left for work one Saturday morning in January to see a large estate car and two women shifting stuff into the house. I smiled in greeting and one of them, a blonde, smiled back and gave a cheery "Good morning!"

"Good morning!" I responded in kind. I guess we are neighbours?"

"No," she chuckled, "my friend is moving in. I'm the muggins with the car."

Her dark-haired friend came out and looked at me nonchalantly. "Are you gonna give us a hand or can I get this one back to work?"

I apologised and said I had to go to work myself, but assured them if they needed anything later, my room was at the back, just stroll round and knock.

That evening I was pleasantly surprised to get a tap on the back door within seconds of arriving home and hitting the light switch in my room.

I opened up to be greeted by the short brunette with her long hair tied back and thick glasses on.

"How's the move going?" I said in greeting.

"Oh, ok, I guess. I'm Lorraine by the way."

She extended a hand and I shook it, but not too firmly. Her body language seemed assertive but her tone was warm and friendly.

I told her my name was Chris and asked if anything was wrong.

"Well," she grinned, "this is such a cliché and I never imagined I would have to say this to anyone, but could I borrow a cup of sugar?"

"Oh GOD!" I said in a mock groan, "You will get the cliché Police onto us! Question is do I risk it being a joint venture or do I wind up in the witness box putting you away?"

Mercifully, she actually laughed despite that being one of the stupidest wisecracks I have ever come out with in history.

"Will Canderel be enough? I have not bought sugar in six months and only have sweetener to offer to guests."

"Sure! So why did you quit the sugar?"

"I was snorting five lines a day, I am in rehab."

She grinned and nodded in a way that said "Yup, that was funny but you are definitely crazy," but what she actually said was: "Ooooh-kayyyyyy."

I grabbed the Canderel from the cupboard and handed it to her. To recover the situation I said about how I had joined a gym last November and was desperate to lose weight.

She deserved an Oscar for her response to that. The whole eyelash-fluttering thing and the glancing me up and down appreciatively with kind words about how I looked fiiiine to her.

"Whatever." I deflected, "I still can't see my feet in the shower."

She laughed. A warm and genuine laugh. Then she suddenly remembered: "Oh! About the shower? Do you have problems with hot water?"

I explained about the times the water heater goes on and off and advised that for a scorching hot shower, use it 6.30am or just after midnight, and for a nice warm shower use it around 4 - 5am, and any other times it is pot luck.

"Oh." she said, like this could be a problem, then added: "I may have to be taking cold showers then. Like, I will be needing maybe three showers a day, which is why I took the room in the first place." She blurted out.

"Oh." I said, mirroring her "Oh." seconds before.

"Yuh," she said all flustered now. "Well, thanks for the sweetener. I would invite you round for a cup of tea but things are kind of chaotic for now."

"No problem, but I was about to make myself one if you would care to stick around?"

"Another time, yeah?" she pleaded.

"Ok."

We said our G'nites and she was off.

I flopped onto my computer chair to drink my tea and ponder all this. First thought was she had to be on the game. Only a prostitute would need three showers in a single day, surely? But some things you don't discuss in polite conversation, and I was not going to ask her outright.

The moral compass span in my brain. I had sworn blind I could never pay for sex or even sleep with a woman who was -- by my standards -- slutty. But I did not judge her as I liked the idea of being PAID to have sex and kind of admired her for doing something off her own back, so-to-speak.

So I had a new neighbour who was a whore? Kind of adds a new angle to the girl-next-door fantasy I suppose. With that thought I went to bed.

The following day was a Sunday. No work for me. I pottered around, cleaning my room, going to the laundrette, watching a DVD and then creating a random playlist of music videos on the computer as background entertainment whilst cooking a late lunch. I found myself obsessing about Lorraine. I thought about what attracted me to her. We are both short, both obviously wear contact lenses although I wear the ones you can sleep in for a month, she wears the ones you take out in the evenings. There is a definitely refreshing honesty about her body language and the way she responds to people. Or at least, she can fake sincerity so well that I cannot tell.

I devoured my tuna pasta and remembered I had left some washing at the laundrette in a tumble dryer. I raced off to retrieve it.

My grin was huge across my face (I could feel it) as I saw Lorraine sat at the laundrette looking utterly bored, staring at her smalls whizzing around in the washing machine. I pulled out two black sacks and emptied my stuff from the last dryer and quietly said "Hi!" to her.

"Hey!" she responded warmly. "I guess I am gonna miss having a washing machine in the house. You always use laundrettes?"

"For over ten years." I announced, putting the full weight into each syllable as I said it for full comic effect.

She grinned, and then pulled a sympathetic face. "Geeeeez!"

"Yuh."

We seemed to fall into an awkward silence and I did not want to ask after her blonde friend in case she got the wrong idea, but she sensed the tension and broke the ice.

"So Chris," she began, "What do you do for a job?"

My stomach knotted. We were going to have this conversation HERE in the Laundrette? Are you fucking kidding me?

"I'm a Civil Enforcement Officer." I told her plainly.

"A Traffic Warden?" She suggested.

I explained that Traffic Wardens work for the Police, we work for the local Council. Similar job but most parking issues are a civil matter, not a criminal matter. Britain is different to the rest of the world in that respect.

"Wow," she breathed, "but you seem like a nice guy!"

"I am! I just tell the drivers it's about consideration for other road users and has nothing to do with me screwing people over."

"How did you get into that?" she asked.

We talked about my work for a while and then came the time for me to ask her what she did for a job.

"I'm unemployed." She said. "I mean, I had a great job in a Call Centre, they subbed the work out to Mumbai, made us all redundant, I spent like crazy and then when I got my savings down enough I went on the dole.

I was later to learn this was only part of her story.

Lorraine had been a Team Manager for over seven years in a prestigious Bureau-type DRR/DRTV Call Centre, she got a huge settlement when they closed down and enjoyed a good lifestyle, but after a few months claiming benefits she took a job working on chat-lines, dealing with callers who wanted to talk dirty. She developed a talent for it and made a lot of money very fast. Before too long it went to her head and she became hooked on the buzz of making men AND women horny for money. She paid to study to get qualifications as a professional masseuse and at first worked in a respectable Health spa, then fell out with her pervy boss and set up self-employed, working from home. Home being with Alison, the cute blonde, at the time. They had been a couple of sorts, but things got awkward when she started to see clients. Alison tried to get in on the act but was unhappy with the deal, and did not enjoy sharing Lorraine with clients just to make a fast quid.

Lorraine blurted all this out that Sunday night over a glass of champagne. She had insisted on getting a bottle for the two of us to celebrate her moving in. Alison apparently would not be around any more -- it was over. The house move was their finalisation of the break up.

"Wow!" Was my first response.

"Do you hate me yet?" She quipped.

"No." I insisted. As long as you are not still claiming dole are you? If you are working as a self-employed Masseuse?"

"Umm, I just restarted a claim because technically until I am settled here I cannot bring clients round so I need a bit of cash to keep me going." she explained. "Rent is paid three months ahead, I made sure of that, and I was planning on setting up as a legit business again visiting clients or bringing them here, but I would obviously discreetly charge for extras and just pay tax on them as tips."

I nodded.

"Morally? I don't have an opinion about your work, just so long as you are not scrounging dole and not paying tax. If I find you are living on state handouts and pulling in the tricks as well I will happily grass you up to the authorities... but I would never lodge a complaint about you for simply giving hand-jobs to dirty old men and then paying tax on it."

"Deal, as soon as I am settled I will find an accountant and set myself up again."

I offered to recommend someone, a friend of a friend from way back. I gave her a brief run down of the kind of guy he is and she agreed. So I texted a mate who texted him and a few days later it was sorted.

Sunday evening ended with the last sip of Champagne and her suggestion that I buy the next bottle so we could carry on into the night. I told her I couldn't afford it and reminded her that the deal had been I would buy the Champagne glasses and she would buy the Champers, and as far as I was concerned I had to go to work in the morning. Besides, I was not going to risk getting us both to the level where anything was going to happen between us.

"Just friends then?" she agreed, obviously disappointed.

"Just friendly neighbours." I corrected.

"So are you going to gossip about me to all our neighbours and housemates now?"

"No! Half of them would probably want to pay for your services if they could afford you and I am not touting for your business. You can do your own bloody marketing!"

She laughed. "Good answer! So I can trust you? I mean, I already consider you the best friend I have right now. Sorry if that is scary for you."

"I'm flattered." I told her, "But you know I probably have the same issues as Alison. I could never be more than a friend to you as I would hate to share you with anyone."

She looked at my bulging groin and nodded. "I admire your resolve. And I am flattered that you do at least find me attractive by the look of your jeans."

I laughed. "It's staying IN my jeans though, G'nite" I said, opening the door.

"At least walk a girl home, can't you?"

"Sure!"

We strolled the four metres to her door and she leaned forward to kiss my cheek. I air-kissed her cheek and told her I was off Wednesday if she wanted to hang out again.

I did not sleep that night and had a lousy Monday and Tuesday at work. I was permanently horny and thinking of her.

Wednesday came and I almost pounced on her when she tapped at my window.

"Want a coffee? I am just brewing up."

"Please, I could smell it from my room!"

Both our windows had been open but I was still impressed.

She was in her dressing gown with skimpy boxer-shorts and a t-shirt underneath, and huge fluffy slippers in the shape of rabbits.

We talked about life, music, my work, her meeting later with my accountant friend.

It was so damn obvious that I was aroused and would have been so easy to push her into the shower and ravage her. But I was determined to be a gentleman.

I asked her about her work and we got into the specifics. She always uses condoms, she never sees more than 15 clients a week, each client gets a four hour slot regardless of how little time they need, this is so she can wash and change thoroughly and prepare herself for the next one. She never uses her real name (and Lorraine is her real name but I was to call her Lois if ever she was talking to anyone else, just in case it happens to be a client she is saying goodbye to).

I asked her about Alison.

"She made things easier for me but I made life tough for her." She said sadly.

I asked her very deliberately and very carefully if she ever had problems being able to have sex with a client.

I had hit the nail on the head.

"Well," she began, "there are moisturisers and there are things a woman can do to warm herself up for sex but when a guy is fucking you for half an hour solid and you are in a position that requires you to use your own fingers on your clit just to keep yourself aroused enough, it can get awkward. Uncomfortable even."

"Hmmm" was all I could manage.

"Guys have it easy!" she insisted.

I immediately lectured her on how impotence can be awful for a guy if he is trying to save a failing relationship by giving his woman unlimited cunnilingus whilst getting NOTHING out of the relationship for himself.

"I wondered when we were going to get onto your issues," she smiled, "I knew you had some, just didn't know what."

So we talked about my patterns with girlfriends of not being able to perform, and usually ending up pleasuring them for hours with tongue, fingers, fruit, toys etcetera and then wanking myself off afterwards.

I confided that I had not had full sex for over six years.

Lorraine suppressed a giggle.

"Fuck you!" I said.

"Please do!" she retorted.

I froze. "Nah, not if I have to share that gash with another 15 blokes a week!"

"C'mon! I have not had sex for over two weeks! I have had 17 showers in that time, brushed my teeth at least 27 times, waxed my legs once, shaved my pussy twice, had a colonic irrigation and two manicures!"

"I hear you." I laughed.

"So? I am 29 years old and super fit. Guys LUST after me! I even have offers to set up my own website! You DO fancy me so WHAT is stopping you? I charge £200 an hour for this body, or £50 for a basic massage with no funny business. And you are turning down a FREEBIE???"

"I am not comfortable with myself naked just now. I am working out 3 times a week, walking 10 miles a day and avoiding junk food ...and I started smoking for new year's to get the weight off even more. I went from 9 stone to 14 stone in under 3 years and am now finally getting back towards 11 stone."

"Then fuck me doggy style, I won't even look at you!"

"You are such a romantic!" I teased.

"Ahhh!" she nodded. The Eureka moment. "You're an old-fashioned type from a good Christian upbringing?"

"Nearly!" I encouraged her, "Atheist background, then did 3 years as a Jesus Freak, then copped off with a single mum for a year-long relationship and then spent 7 years playing solo mostly, picking up a few strays now and again."

"So you have had less sex than the average 19 year old?" She quipped.

"Yup!"

"That is SO SWEET!" you really are lovely. Pity -- you would make a great warm up act if you had more experience."

"Thank you! You mean I could tell the customers a few jokes?" I replied.

"No, dummy! You know what I mean -- you could help me get all wet and loosened up ready for clients, and I would pay YOU for the help because it makes my job easier!"

"Hmmm, not sure I could put anything in my mouth that is regularly going with other guys."

"So for you sex has too much baggage? You cannot just be clinical or practical about it as a bodily function?"

"Wanking is a bodily function. But Sex is an intimate act requiring passion, love and trust. For me to do anything with you would then make me hate any guy you see afterwards as a client. It would bother me!"

"You really are a wanker!"

"Yeah. Thanks for that. And you're a whore. Pots and kettles."

"Fair enough. I'll have to go and play solo then!" Lorraine breathed incredulously, like this was a revelation. An alien concept.

"oooo00o0o0, can I watch?"

She glared at me. Long silence. I squirmed.

"If you like!"

I admitted my thing for female masturbation and how I had a history of voyeurism.

"Ewwwwww! I find that stuff a bit weird." She admitted. I am a do-er, not a watcher. I don't WATCH sport coz I do not PLAY sport. You know?"

"Yeah."

"But whilst I love sex, I don't go a bundle on playing my own flute and can't imagine anyone enjoying watching others without being allowed to join in."

"So sexually we are opposites. I get a kick out of seeing women playing solo enjoying themselves. Really gets me hot."

"No. I am not even an exhibitionist. If I was I would have my own website set up already. I just have not bothered as it doesn't thrill me to have thousands of guys jerking off to my pictures or videos. I don't get it!"

"Oh, ok"

"So, are you coming to mine?"

"Huh?"

"To watch?"

"Would that be too weird? I mean, if you are not in the least bit exhibitionist then what is the point?"

"The point is, I value our friendship greatly and whilst I would love to stick a rubber on your no-doubt-beautiful cock and pounce on you, I am looking for a workable compromise."

"Ok!"

"You get a kick out of watching women play solo? And I have never masturbated for a man except whilst he is inside me, fucking me. The idea of being WATCHED is new to me. I figure I can try it once at least."

"Ok, great!"

So I opened the door for her and she said, "After you, friend."

To which I replied, "No, please, I would rather stare at your arse for 30 seconds than have you stare at mine."

She laughed and we went to her room.

The decor was tasteful. Creams and beiges. Even the bed-settee and curtains. She had worked hard to get everything organised. I was impressed.

I had an impulse to reach for her, kiss her passionately, strip off her gown and make passionate love to her, then beg her to get a proper job and settle down with me. She sensed the longing in my eyes.

"One rule I have with clients is no kissing on the lips. But I would be really really happy if you could kiss me right now?"

"Sure." I breathed and moved forward to hold her, turning my head slightly and merging my mouth with hers.

We seemed to intuitively move together. She pulled me close so her hard nipples were firm against my t-shirt. My hard cock rubbed through my shorts against her girly boxer shorts.

Alarm bells began to ring in my mind as I suspected we would end up fucking.

I pulled away.

"I'm sorry." I began, "I want you so bad but I cannot just cold-bloodedly do this and then let go."

"You don't have to. Just accept that you and I already have a special bond and the best compliment I can give you is I will gladly do things with or for you that I have not done, or would not do, for anyone else."

"Ok," I said. "Why me?"

"Well, just from our conversations I already know you will be a sensitive lover, a real find. Generous, and good with your tongue."

"Yeah, I did show you how great it is." I laughed.

"In every sense. You have the gift of the gab, a great sense of humour and I feel I have known you forever. Or at least? I would hope we could be friends forever. But being eaten out by you would be a huge bonus."

"Not gonna happen! Even if you have not had sex for over 2 weeks, you have still had an estimated 200 cocks in your cunt. Why would I want to put THAT in my mouth? No offense!"

"None taken. Not even for £500?"

"What?"

"If it would bring you down to my level. I know you love to eat pussy but I know you have hang-ups about sex."