I took a dozen yellow Post It notes and stuck them to the dressing table mirror. On each one I had written ‘I am a whore.’ I repeated these words to myself as I dressed, a black lycra mini skirt, black fishnets, a leopard print top and jacket, and, to round it off, pink ankle boots. I slung my handbag over my shoulder and paced the bedroom looking at myself, studying each movement. Did I look like a whore? Would I attract the punters?
Just a week before I had taken a short cut driving back from the gym. I saw the girl, whose name I never found out, in a side road just off the main road out of town, the other side from the bedsit land red light area you read about in the local paper every day. She was working the posh side. I stopped at a discreet distance and watched her with fascination. She looked a bit younger than me, early twenties maybe and had blonde hair cut quite short. I looked at her clothes, her leopard print jacket, black skirt and pink ankle boots, reflected how it all glaringly didn’t match. That’s how whores look, I thought.
At home I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I lay in bed, fantasised, masturbated and, as I did so I just couldn’t get the fishnets and the pink boots out of my head. Then the idea lodged itself in my head. I wanted to be a whore. I smiled at the thought. I had qualified as a solicitor the previous year and now was going to do a different kind of soliciting. Then I thought again. This was madness. I would lose everything if I was caught. That’s the thing with obsessions though, they defy reason. At work the following day as I studied a case file I found myself writing on my notepad, ‘I am a whore, I am a whore’ then panicked when I got to the water cooler and realised I’d left the notepad out on my desk where anyone could see it. I blurted it out in bed as I came and David my boyfriend took it as a compliment.
‘Of course you’d never do it’ he said. ‘But the thought of it excites me.’
Not as much as it excited me though. The following week David was away on business and I had the house to myself. At a cheap shoe store I bought myself a pair of boots, pink plastic boots for eight pounds. Now I was in my bedroom trying them on. Hers were well worn, scuffed at the toes, mine were clean, the soles unworn. She needed to work I didn’t, this was just a fantasy.
I lay on the bed and began to play with myself, imagining the back seat of a car up a dimly lit side street, imagined being under a client. I took my fattest dildo out of my bedside cabinet, rolled a condom over the end and placed it in my mouth. As I licked and sucked, imagining the soft warm cock it represented I arched my back and, after playing with my clit, put two fingers inside my wet dilating cunt before pushing the dildo in, them moving it in and out, in and out,.
‘Fuck me, fuck me’ I gasped ‘I’m a whore, a fucking whore. Give it to me, give it to me’
And with a loud yell I came. I took the dildo out, slid the condom off and kissed the tip tenderly. I took the boots off too, kissed them and laid them on the floor by the bed. Tomorrow i would be a whore..
The following evening I parked my silver Mercedes just round the corner and nervously walked to take up position about twenty yards away from the girl. She was under a street lamp I was in the shadow. She glanced briefly in my direction but soon a car pulled up by where she stood. I looked at the black BMW and thought
‘Shit!’ It was a car I recognised. I turned and hid my face in a privet hedge until they had gone. I gained a little confidence and walked down to her spot underneath the streetlamp. I walked up and down a little five yard catwalk, imagined myself elsewhere, imagined myself modelling my cheap pink ankle boots. Anywhere but here. It was bitterly cold.
Suddenly a car pulled up. The passenger window was lowered and I could feel the warmth inside, smell the leather seats. .
‘Doing business love?’ asked a balding middle aged man leaning over to get a better view of me.
I wanted to be a whore, this was my chance but my nerve failed me. I didn’t even get as far as weighing him up, as far as deciding. I froze and could only mutter
‘No I’m just er….’
He looked at me as if I was mad and drove off. Pink boots and leopard print in a prosperous residential area and I wasn’t a whore? As the red tail lights of the car disappeared roubd the corner I cried
‘Fuck’ and kicked a wall in frustration. Now my boots too had scuffed toes. Shortly afterward I dived again into an entrance as the black BMW returned. The girl got out and came striding over towards me.
‘What are you fucking doing here? This is my patch.’
I was taken aback by her aggression. I said nothing. She moved her face close to mine and I could see for the first time the signs of premature ageing, the lines of fatigue. She fixed me with a look of contempt and almost spat out her words.
‘I’m doing this to live. I’ve got two young children at home to feed. If you take a client off me it means I don’t fucking eat tomorrow. I’ve seen your car. You don’t need to work, you’re playing at whores. Believe me, despite what they call it it’s not a game.’
She grabbed my face, squeezed my cheekbones hard and said,
‘Now fuck off before you get hurt,’
She let go and I walked back to my car, shaken. I sat in the warmth and the leather and cried.
Back home I took off the boots and my panties but otherwise got into bed fully clothed. I thought about the girl and played with myself, making myself wet. Then I drifted off to sleep.
It was the following evening. I knew I had to try again. The Girl came over and pushed me back into a privet hedge. She said
‘Get on your knees.’
I obeyed and knelt before her feeling the grit of the pavement digging into my knees.
‘Lick my boots.’
I bent forward and placed my lips on the pink boots. I could now see how dirty they were. I kissed and began to lick.
‘Get them clean you dirty slag’ she ordered ‘then start on my legs. Worship them.’
I worked my way up the ripped black fishnets. When I reached the top my head was under the black lycra skirt. I could smell her sex, I pulled down the panties and buried my face in her crotch, I tasted the sourness that turned to sweetness then I worked her clit with my tongue and having finished I withdrew from under the skirt and lifted up the leopard print top. I kissed her breasts, I took her nipples between my lips and pulled and sucked, before playfully giving them a twist as I moved my head from side to side. There, in the cold, under the street lamp I suddenly felt a deep happiness. I looked her in the face she smiled, invited me to kiss her before rocking her head back, out of my reach and in a quick movement forward spitting inn my face. I let the spittle run down my face, licked it off my upper lip and swallowed. I smiled again and, with a look of pure hate she clenched her fist and punched me hard.
I woke with a start. I had soaked the bed. I began to play with myself again, I worked my clit again, pushed fingers inside to feel the rivers gushing from my fountain. I thought about her , thought about the boots, the tights, the shaved cunt, the shaved cunts, the boots, the boots the cunt, the shaved cunt. I moved my fingers faster and faster before coming again.
I got out of bed, still dressed as a whore, looked at myself in the mirror. The Bright red lipstick and mascara were smudged, there were marks al over the pillow. I looked a mess. I stank of sweat and sex. I needed a bath.
That evening David was back and up for sex but I had to disappoint him as I said
‘I have to go to the gym I’ve got an appointment with my new personal trainer.’
He was disappointed but said nothing. I put on my training gear and packed a bag with water and a magazine. I drove the Mercedes to the spot where the girl stood, still in the pink boottees, desperately hoping for custom on a bitter February night. It was so cold outside, so warm and comfortable in my Mercedes.
I wound down the window. She came over, fixed me with a vicious stare and said
‘What do you want now you fucking bitch?’
’I want you’ I said, showing her a sheath of banknotes. ‘Get in.’