A Study in Shame. Lucy Salisbury
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didn’t last long. Some of the young men at my college were truly beautiful: golden British youth in the first flush of manhood, muscular Americans obsessed with athletics and English girls, intriguingly dark city boys with yet more intriguing bulges in their trousers. I had one of the latter first, and had is definitely the word. He thought he was seducing me, a shy skinny virgin who wore print frocks and had hair down to her bum. So did I, but it never occurred to me that he’d want to call the shots. It never occurred to him that I’d want him to get me ready with the handle of my hairbrush, never mind offer to return the favour, let alone sit on his face to have my bottom licked. That was the sort of thing I was used to.
He wasn’t, but I didn’t even realise it was unusual for a man to call me a demented bitch as I lowered myself onto his erection with my sex lips spread so that he could watch as he took my virginity. I was enjoying myself too much, and he did have the most beautiful cock, long and thick and very, very black. He felt wonderful inside me, even better than the well-buttered courgette Juliette had used to break my hymen. On reflection, it might have been better not to tell him that, and it would certainly have been better not to tell him my Alabama plantation-owner fantasy while I was using his cock to rub myself off. In my defence, I must point out that he came so hard he splashed his own face, but suggesting he lick it up was probably another mistake.
I’d had a great time, and I was both hurt and surprised when he didn’t want to carry on seeing me. Naturally, I knew that people can be sensitive about the colour of their skin, but he was fucking me at the time, and I wanted him to shame me, not the other way around. Most people don’t see it that way, as I quickly discovered. In fact, most people won’t allow a woman to fully express her sexuality without calling her a slut, even when they take full advantage, as I also discovered, and I didn’t dare risk a repeat performance now that I was at work and in an even more enclosed and gossip-ridden environment.
The internet was out of the question, as my computer was part of the office network. It was monitored for ‘inappropriate use’, and, while that didn’t cover the milder sort of dating and contact sites, I had no intention of allowing the company scandal-mongers to learn that I’d been surfing for sex, or even a long-term relationship with Mr Right. Not that I wanted anything of the sort, and I didn’t even know who Mr Right would be, only that he wasn’t the sort of man people would expect me to like. For one thing, he’d be quite rough, the sort of man who’d do things I found sexually humiliating without even realising it, and who didn’t ask questions afterwards.
That was the point my thoughts had reached as I stood staring out of my window after work with a glass of wine in one hand and Morrison’s paw in the other. Twenty-nine storeys up, the view was magnificent. The Thames seemed close enough to toss a pebble into, the cars moving through the rush-hour traffic like toys. I could see an immense amount of life, most of it very alien to me, especially the jumble of warehouses and industrial units along the margin of the river, even though the nearest was probably no more than ten minutes’ walk from the front of the building.
It seemed to be some sort of depot, with big colourful lorries moving in and out, some being loaded or unloaded, others parked in a long single rank that backed onto the river. I could even make out the names, mostly continental firms, and see the drivers, talking together, lounging by their trailers with mugs of tea in their hands or seated in their cabs. They looked like the sort of men who’d do me good, big no-nonsense men who’d enjoy me without worrying about anything but the pleasure they could take in my body. It would be deliciously shameful too, and risky, bent down in the front seat of a lorry cab, my blouse open so that the driver could fondle my breasts while I sucked him off, and, if we got caught, well, I’d just have to suck his mates as well.
The thought sent a powerful shiver through my body, and again as I considered how easy it would be to make the fantasy into reality. All I had to do was make my way down to the street, stroll across to the depot, select my man and ask politely if I could suck his cock. He’d be surprised, but he’d accept and that would be that. In less than a quarter-of-an-hour I could have a nice fat penis swelling slowly to the motion of my lips and tongue while I played with myself down my knickers.
Life’s never that simple. For a start, people would see me leave the building, so at the very least I’d have to take a roundabout route to reach the depot. Then there would almost certainly prove to be some nosy little security guard who wouldn’t let me in, or if I did get in and summoned up the courage to approach a man he’d no doubt turn out to be faithfully married and would turn me down. That wasn’t so bad though, because it would be deeply shameful to proposition somebody only to have him call me a slut and tell me to fuck off, and I could always have a second go.
Or he might turn out to have a weedy little cock. They say size doesn’t matter, but a big well-formed cock is so much nicer than a small crooked one, just as a big well-formed man is so much nicer than a small crooked one. The problem is that you can’t guarantee a big well-formed man will have a big well-formed cock, so I’d probably end up sucking on a little wonky willy, and even the humiliation of having to go through with it wouldn’t make up for the lack of size. I’d just have to ask again. And there was another problem. They probably wouldn’t believe my offer was genuine, or, if they did, they’d assume I wanted to be paid.
With that thought came a shock of humiliation far stronger than before. To ask a complete stranger if I could suck him off was bad enough, but to be offered money, and to take it, would be far more shameful. I wasn’t going to be offered a lot, either, not by a truck driver. A man had once stopped me in the street and offered a thousand pounds for sex. I’d slapped his face so hard his glasses came off. A trucker wasn’t going to offer a thousand pounds, maybe not even a hundred, certainly not for a blow job. Fifty? Twenty? Ten?
Every time I lowered my price I felt a fresh shiver of excitement. To suck a man off for money would be unbearably humiliating, but the mere thought of doing it for ten pounds had me close to tears. I wanted to do it, but I didn’t dare. If I was found out I’d be sacked on the spot, and everybody was sure to find out. It was a great fantasy, but that was all.
Yet surely there was no harm in taking a walk down towards the river? It was a lovely evening and I could put on something pretty but casual, something that showed enough of my legs to intrigue any sex-starved men I happened to pass but which wouldn’t raise an eyebrow from even the most censorious of my colleagues. After all, they all thought of me as a prude and would never, ever guess what was going on in my head.
‘Well, Morrison, what do you think? Shall I sit in and have another glass of wine over an old film, or shall I go out and pretend to myself that I’m a tart?’
He didn’t answer, which was good enough for me.
I pretended I was really going to do it, thinking the whole plan through and acting accordingly. The first thing was to dress the part, which was tricky. On the one hand I had to be able to get out of the building without arousing suspicion, but on the other I didn’t want the drivers to automatically assume I was the stuck-up little bitch everybody seems to take me for just because I’m tall and blonde and speak decent English.
‘What do you think, Morrison? How about my red dress with a hat but no knickers underneath? Yes, that feels right.’
It did: acceptable, yet daring, with intriguing possibilities.
‘I do hope it isn’t windy, that’s all, because if it is my dress will blow up and everybody will see my bare bottom, and rather more. Wouldn’t that be embarrassing?’
There was no wind, so I was quite safe, but the thought alone was embarrassing enough to add to the faint shaking of my fingers as I sorted out my dress and a pretty straw hat to go with it, an ensemble which would make it look as if I was going out on a casual dinner date. Next came my underwear and shoes.
‘Do you think I should wear a bra? I’d better, I suppose, people are sure to notice with my nipples so hard, but let’s make it something strapless. No stockings. My legs are smooth and I ought to show them off, while it’s best to keep things simple. Flats or heels? Flats are more sensible, and there’s less chance I’ll be taller than the man who buys me, but tarts wear heels.’
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