The Ultimate Vampire Resource and Directory

The Collar
15:14 Oct 30 2007
Times Read: 1,223

A story intended for adults.



*



The Collar





He walked downstairs slowly and very nervously. Then, once at the bottom of the stairs he turned an immediate left, so as to stand in front of the full-length mirror hanging on the wall: the tall slim built young man looked at himself, hoping that she would like his appearance, for he had shaved fully, so no stubble would harm her delicate flesh.

Running a finger beneath the leather collar around his neck he blushed a little at the memory of its purchase – remembering the face of the young woman who had served him in the pet shop as she sorted through one collar after another, until he had found one that he had gauged would fit him.

He also remembered, how his hand had sweat and shaken, as he had proffered the money for his purchase.

Now as he stands in front of the mirror, the young man runs is hands over his chest and he playing with his nipples, teasing them erect, his eyes fixed on the collar he wears, for her. Then, toying with his right nipple with his left hand, James Murcheson let his free hand travel slowly down his belly, as he thought of his wife and the authorative tone she had adopted when she told him what to buy, to please her.

He caressed his body, with his eyes closed and his cock rapidly growing harder as the seconds passed: and finally he opened them once more, as he thought of Margaret’s last words before leaving the house earlier that very morning:

“I want you kneeling naked the hall, naked, except for the collar, waiting, for me…”

‘I do hope she approves,’ he thought, as he held his hard cock and smiled back at himself in the mirror.

Then with his mind focussed on what maybe Margaret’s desires for him to fulfil, James knelt before his reflected image, his hands travelling all over his body, as he delighted in the pleasures of auto-eroticism.

He was naked, save for the inch-wide, black, studded dog-collar, that he wore around his neck; yet it and the many chores he had done that day were all part of a deal he had struck with Margaret.

James sighed deeply, as he recalled his wife smile at his suggestion: that he made restitution for the abysmal way he had treated her mother.

“And how will you do that James?” she had asked him, as he had coloured at the question, for he had already prepared his reply.

“Well… er, I could,” he had stammered, “I could be you slave for the day?”

To this answer to her question, Margaret had smiled at her husband.

“Yes I like the sound of that,” she had begun, “It’s been a horrible weekend and that might just amuse me.”

There had been a long endless silence, as James waited for her to continue.

“So yes honey, book tomorrow off work…” then she added, “’coz I’m going to work you hard.”

That had been yesterday evening and today, he would acquiesce to all that they had agreed upon and he turned away from the mirror to face the front door: it was nearly four-thirty and Margaret would be home soon from her mothers.

“I wouldn’t have spoken to a dog like you spoke to my dear mother…” she had said and he fingered the collar again nervously, remembering the anger in her voice.

He knelt on his haunches, as she had instructed, with his forehead touching his knees, arms stretched out behind him at his sides, palms faced down.

James waited obediently, for his wife and mistress to return home, who would no doubt, tell him what to do next.

Finally his patience was rewarded, as the front door opened and James felt compelled to look up, through his expectations, as it does. It was a pleasant day, with a blue sky and a light breeze was blowing.

A gust of wind caught at the summer dress that Margaret wore and for several seconds her bodies’ fine contours are heightened by the flow of the material.

Although they had been together several years, James Murcheson had never seen his wife as he saw her at that moment: in her late thirties, Margaret wore her long full raven black hair pinned up loosely to the nape of her neck. She had full cheeks and a slightly freckled skin of fair complexion and James looked at his wife, with eyes full of wonder.

Margaret walked into the hall, closing the door behind her.

“You’re looking at me,” she said sternly, “And I didn’t tell you that you could look at me, now did I?” There was a tone of mock severity to Margaret’s voice and a slight smile to her lips as she finished speaking.

“I’m sorry…” James muttered, his forehead now resting on his knees once more.

“And,” she continued, “I didn’t tell you that you could talk either. Now did I?”

James didn’t like being chided like this, for it made him feel small and even more naked than he already was.

Then as Margaret walked round him, occasionally running her hands over his shoulders, whilst her fingertips ran over the collar he wore and James found himself wondering, ‘what will she want of me next?’

Margaret inserted between the collar and her husbands neck: she hadn’t thought at first would obey every command that she gave, after all, the choice to do so was his after all, but that he was ready like this, spoke of a very enjoyable evening, she thought to herself.

“Come upstairs my pet,” she told her husband in a commanding tone of voice, emphasizing the word ‘pet’, with s smile on her face. She slipped the leash from the coat-rack, which James had bought earlier that day, to his collar, also purchased at the same time.

James was on his fours now and dutifully followed his wife upstairs, as she walked ahead of him, with the chains leash gripped firmly in her left hand. Towards the head of the stairs, Margaret stopped, turning just her head to look at her husband.

“I can see where you’re looking…you, you… pervert.” She said with distain.

Turning back, she smiled at the turn of events, for it felt so right.

“You’re a bad boy, aren’t you?” Margaret said as she turned back abruptly to look at her husband.

But James Murcheson did not answer, he was surprised at his arousal and all he could do was stare upward.

“What colour panties am I wearing?… Tell me?”

James did not answer, for his normally demure wife was not wearing panties, yet more than that, to his delight James viewed the peach-shaped vulva, naked of hair, for the first time in his married life.

With his cock rising toward his belly James was in lust, both with his wife and the moment.

“Come…” Margaret said, patting her right thigh, as if to call a dog to heel and Murcheson followed his wife on his hands and knees as she led him into the bedroom.

James was excited, she could see that, but she wondered, ‘what will he think in a minute?’

Margaret lifted the back of her skirt, so she sat bare-assed on the satin sheets.

Then to check is that James had readied the room as instructed, she reached beneath the pillow and smiled when she found the items that she had asked to be left there.

He knelt, waiting. He had been given a choice, but if a man agreed to do as he was told, then didn’t – well, he wasn’t a man, was he?

‘Anyway,’ he thought, ‘it’s all a games after all, isn’t it?’

“Well, c’mon… I want you lying on my lap… with your head on the pillow,” his wife said, looking down at him.

James lay down as instructed, upon Margaret’s lap, his chest on the duvet, with his right cheek on the pillow. Margaret could feel his arousal against her right thigh.

He felt her left hand across the base of her buttocks and James closed his eyes, trembling with anticipation of what might happen next: this was his moment.

She placed her left hand on his left shoulder.

“I want your ass…” She whispered.

James murmured his assent, as his wife sucked the tip of her left hand middle finger.

Slowly Margaret drew the moistened digit down the crease of her husband’s arse-cheeks, holding James in thrall by her caress, finding pleasure, in the feelings of tenderness it created within.

He hoped that her caress would not end; yet it does, as on a downward stroke, the finger enters James clear up to the second knuckle. Then as he begins to tense his anal muscles at her sudden violation, she thrusts inside and his asshole walls widen to accommodate her finger.

The saliva soaked digit enters deeper and he arches his back and gasps; as to his surprise and delight, James discovers pleasure, in penetration, by his wife Margaret.

Margaret looks down at her husband lying over her thighs, finding she is wet between her legs, as back and forth the finger slides into James, whose brow is creased, as he turns his head, the anal intrusion within him creating an almost agonizing delight.

With her right hand, Margaret toys with James nipples, causing them to harden, as she looks at her husbands rounded fleshy buttocks: they lay there, just waiting, for her.

‘Oh, this is so right,’ she considered, as she raised her right hand and smacked at her husbands bum cheeks, twice in rapid succession: Then, twice more.

James flesh showed crimson where his wife’s hand had struck and he gasped at the sudden impact of flesh upon flesh and the ensuing sting of the blows and then, the warmth that followed: and he turned his head as through half-lidded eyes, to look up at his wife, finding satisfaction from the intent expression on her face.

James quivered, with a bowel-churning climax, as Margaret continued to slowly push one, then two fingers in and out of his anus, and his wife smiled now, as she took pleasure from her husbands oh-so-sweet submission, to her own desires, to dominate and penetrate him.

He moaned aloud, his gratification; as she found her own, in her possession of him, as her left hand glided her left hand over his buttocks, the middle finger drawn into the crease and downward.

“Please…?” James asked.

“I think we have a communication problem, darling…” Margaret whispered softly into his ear as she leant forward. Then her fingers entered him once more, first one, and then two, rhythmically driving in and out her husband’s receptive asshole.

“Yes darling,” Margaret added, “I think there’s something we should talk about, don’t you?”

And, James nodded, hardly aware of his wife’s words, for his mind had become focussed on the fingers deep inside him and the crescendo of pleasure building within himself.

Impaled on Margaret’s fingers, James became conscious of the collar once more, as his wife grasped at the studded collar and drew his head backwards

“I can feel you on my leg. You’re going to cum, aren’t you?” She hissed, as she twisted and turned her gingers inside him, as she slowly pinched his right nipple hard, causing James to gasp with agonizing pleasure.

“You love it, don’t you?” She asked her husband as she tugged at his nipple a little harder still: “Come on darling, admit, you love being fucked like this? Don’t you?”

But, James did not answer Margaret, because he did not know how to tell her was right, that he finds exquisite what she is doing to him and that furthermore, he enjoys the sweet pain she gives him.

“C’mon now, answer me…” she tells her husband, tone of voice demanding, “after all, you had plenty to say to my mother the other day, didn’t you”

James felt her pumping into him and began to grunt in time to the inward thrusts, bucking his backside against her, arching his pelvis into the air and his wife’s driving fingers.

“You like it, don’t you,” Margaret asked him, as she caressed her husbands buttocks with her left hand, as she gently exerted pressure on the back of the collar, so he could feel it pull against his throat, just hard enough for James to be reminded that tonight, he belonged to her.

“Yes,” he told her, as she used her fingers in and out of her anus and James found his hips rising to meet each thrust of her fingers, erection pressed hard against her thigh.

“Oh yes,” James murmured, as she murmured, as she pistoned her fingers in and out of his willing asshole.

Margaret drew her fingers slowly out of her husband’s anus, taking pleasure from James loud groans of disappointment at the loss within.

“Please don’t stop, don’t ever stop,” he begged.

“Don’t tell me what to do!” She snapped, slapping his buttocks twice quickly: and, from beneath the pillows, Margaret found the six inch long, inch wide phallus shaped mini-vibrator and K.Y. gel, he had placed there earlier, as instructed.

She held the plastic hardon in front of her husband, who shivered a little as she clicked it on and heard it buzzing, before she clicked it off.

“Now you’re ready,” she said to him, smearing the small toy and his hole with K.Y gel: “I want you to lie there and remember that t me who your ass belongs to…” she told him, as she slapped his flesh again, turning it crimson once more.

“Open you legs,” Margaret instructed and James obeyed, dutifully.

She found his sphincter me muscles part easily, as she slowly, gently eased into him, as he bit his lower lip, groaning.

Pushing the vibrator deeper, she paused a second, so he could accustom himself to its presence. Then she turned the toy on and he groaned further, loudly, as his eyes widened, and James grasped the pillow.

He twisted his head from side to side as she worked it deeper still, wincing at the pain, as is asshole widened. He felt, so… slutty, carnal and so vulnerable to his wifes every whim as she pumped the vibrator into his anal cavity.

“It hurts,” James moaned and Margaret smiled, as her husband’s groans of pain became moans of pleasure, as he found a strange fulfilment from his submission.

And Margaret watched, with fascination, the facial gyrations her sweating husband demonstrated along with her movements, in and out of his asshole.

The, she slowly withdrew the plastic phallus, only to reinsert it, to his delight.

She began to move the toy in and out a little faster, twisting and pinching his nipples once more, very hard.

After a few minutes of this, Margaret began to pump the vibrator harder, bringing her face close to his.

“You are mine,” she hissed, tightening the forefinger and thumb grip on his right nipple, the humming plastic deep inside him.

“C’mon,” she encouraged, “tell me. Tell me you’re mine.”

“I am… I am…” James tried to answer, as his wife worked his body.

“I am yours...” He finally answered.

Raising Assent
13:53 Oct 18 2007
Times Read: 1,247

Kryte jumped from the balloons wicker basket, as soon as it touched earth; and he swirled his blade in the air, to hear its keening whine. The finest sword in the known worlds he’d been assured: and he hoped ‘they’ were right.

He’d been tailing the behemoth for weeks now, ever since the Parliaments command. Now, here he was, on the top of the escarpment: outside the creatures lair and his confidence had begun to waver somewhat.

‘There was much that could be said about a life in the guard: but the ability to live long life was not part of it,’ he mused, edging toward the caves mouth, his back to the rock face.

“Oh for a fire-lance!” he exclaimed, recalling his weapon of choice, which he’s give someone’s right arm for, right now: boy, did he remember the admonishment he received at the temerity of his request.

In the end the decision of weapon choice had been taken from him.

‘Damn Cyrus,’ he thought, not for the first time.

This was been his third assignment, in as many months.

‘How many lives do they think I have left?’ he considered, edging carefully into the cave mouth, idly wondering if today was the day when he’d meet his end.

It’d been Cyrus the elder who’d handed him the blade, with the red ruby-encrusted pommel, assuring him, “This will suffice, if needed at all.”

‘Oh thank you for you esteemed counsel,’ he’s wanted to say: yet accepted the mission, with a smile of course.

The warrior swept back his long dark hair, as he adjusted his eyes to the almost impenetrable darkness.

And with senses attuned to such light as needed, he stepped forward and into the lair, very carefully.

“Hello!” He called, knowing it would already know of his presence.

“It’s Kryte,” he announced boldly, taking another pace forward, as flame rushed toward him.

He had been prepared though, knowing this might happen: and had eased his back against the cave wall, as he had called out.

And when there was no-more flame after a moment, or two; Kryte stepped another pace toward dark shadows that provided its cover.

“Kryte?” The voice was deep, sonorous: and questioning.

“Yes, you know me…” He continued, taking another step forward: and, he stopped, suddenly. There were its red eyes just ahead of him.

“And you know why I have the sword.” He added, trying to sound tried to sound bright, as he continued speaking.

Cyrus had called it ‘Peachemaker’, this sword named ‘Assent.’

But, the elder was notorious for his bad humour. Kryte hoped his charge would know its history, better than he did. Yet, as instructed, he held the shaft in two hands and the sword aloft, its tip pointing to the ceiling.

“You hold the elders blade,” the voice intoned, sounding mournful as it came nearer.

The warrior was nervous. This was it. How would the beast react?

First there were those piercing green eyes, with the vertical, elliptical central iris; then its huge snout and pug-like ears; next, it’s long neck and powerful shoulders, with it’s large wings held tight to its sides.

“Why do you call me Kryte, the sword-holder?” The dragon asked.

The warrior gulped at the sound of his name, yet through the constriction in his throat, he responded.

“The Mage wants you!” He pronounced with as much authority in his voice he could muster, as he continued to hold the sword aloft, with sweating hands.

‘Why me?’ he thought briefly, recalling the stories of those dragons flame and those it had killed, for Parliament.

“He instructs you to visit him for the annual check-up on your teeth.”

There, he’d said it.

Kryte closed his eyes and waited for the flame to consume him, the dragon really didn’t like the dentist at all.

A Miasma Of Memory
15:57 Oct 16 2007
Times Read: 1,258

Left hand cradling the back of his head against the pillow, he lifted the ‘moke to his mouth and inhaled deeply. As he inhaled deeply on the bitter-sweet smoke, he closed his mouth and held his breath and very slowly counted to forty-five, watching the glowing end, the sole light in his small, dark room.

Very slowly, he draped his right hand to the side of the bed, searching for the ashtray carefully with the tip of his little finger and tapped the ash carefully into the small souvenir, a present from his late aunt in Australia, being careful not scorch the sheepskin it sat on. The sheepskin? Where had he got it? It was… back when?

Exhaling slowly, he remembered. He had got it in the Lakes. That was it. Back then, on the weeklong break with work. When?

“Yes…” 1987. That was it. And boy, had it been good. Her name? Karen. Yes… Karen the receptionist. She’d blonde hair, blue-eyes and a smile, that lit up, the moment their eyes had made contact.

He lifted the ‘moke to his mouth and took another hit, his memory a colourful miasma of swirling imagery, recalling with a smile, how breathless he had been by the time he finished running to meet her at the end of Blackpool’s Golden Mile. His recollection of that moment was also of her car, a Datsun Cherry, which had easily accommodated his long legs, as they had lain back on the seats and kissed. And slim as Karen had been, he had thought she’d break, as she’d lain beneath him, unconcerned with his weight as he she had wrapped her stocking-clad legs round his lower back, to draw him further into her warmth. And he smiled, with memories of their time together, as she shared pleasure with him, which she had with other care-staff before him.

And, he grinned at the memory of the little bald-headed fellow, dancing with the taller, big blonde, in the low cut red dress, he’d seen on the packed dance floor, while he’d held Karen tight, breathing in her scent: before, she’d let him back into the small hotel on the promenade, through the back way. And, he’d tip-toed back to his room to close his eyes and relax, only for the night-porter to waken him, to toilet an elderly lady from their party, as no other staff were prepared to rise. He stubbed the ‘moke out, recalling the trip out in the yellow transport ambulance the next morning.

He had fallen asleep, sometime after they travelled down a small road leading past Beatrix Potters cottage, with his head on a clients shoulder. Yet, she hadn’t minded, he’d thought with a smile: it had been her wheelchair he’d pushed, later that day, when someone had bought him the sheepskin rug.

“Now who had got me that?” he mused, just seconds, mille-seconds, before falling sound asleep.

'Pots and Pans'
16:46 Oct 14 2007
Times Read: 1,270

Debbie and I had got ourselves a home in Kirkdale, Liverpool, so as to be near where she had worked at Walton Hospital as a nurse; and, near a rail station, so I could get the train ‘over the water,’ to Hoylake and the residential home I worked in as a care assistant with the elderly.

On the day we moved in and just before we’d closed the front door of our terrace house on the world, her Father had brought the last box of our belongings to us: a pile of pots and pans.

Shaking my hand, he’d looked me in the eyes and said to me, “Look after her, as I would…” And, taking in mind all I knew of him and how he’d looked after his daughter, my gut reaction had been a strong desire to hit him, square on the nose.

But, that wouldn’t have gone down well, with Deborah Jane, so I hadn’t.

'Bridge Over Remagen'
16:24 Oct 14 2007
Times Read: 1,273

There are certain events in one’s life that change your life forever. One of mine occurred one Saturday afternoon, half-way through a showing of the film, ‘Bridge Over Remagan.’ I’d been sitting in my armchair, in the sunlit backroom, which had then been my bedroom.

As I recall, the Americans were defending the bridge, with British support: but, at this point of my story, I’d had my eyes closed, as I’d held the chairs arms tightly, with Deborah Jane, Sweet Deborah Jane, my English Rose, knelt between my legs, her hands on my thighs as she sought to pleasure me.

She had engulfed me in her mouth, my hardness filling her mouth as her lips reaching my pubic hair. Then she had begun to deepthroat me, my eyes fixed on her beautiful face, my right hand resting on her long lustrous brown wavy her.

“Oh God… you’re good,” I’d cried out as pleasure overwhelmed my senses.

“How did you get to be get to be so good at this?”

Kneeling back, onto her heels, she’d looked up at me and relied with utter innocence,

“My Father taught me…”

Well, needless to say, that’d killed the mood somewhat.

Late-night chat
12:09 Oct 10 2007
Times Read: 1,296




Dressed in the shapeless Baggies, tee-shirt and pyjama bottoms, she knew he wouldn’t mind, the blonde paced the kitchen, making her sandwich, in the kitchens bright light. Just moments before, she’d stood at the door to the yard, with a desire for a smoke. But, it was raining. That was when she’d decided to finish the sandwich, as they continued to chat: and he’d told her of his wariness of blondes and smiled, when she’d explained at one point that her eyes weren’t always brown, sometimes they were blue. She had eaten her sandwich, listening to the rainfall, the kid’s busy watching teevee, as they continued to talk, about things that neither had imagined they would once again. And, as he touched base, with a remark that he had made, that caused her embarrassment, the blonde blushed, as she hesitated with her response, ever so-pleased that her laptop didn’t have a cam…

A Submissive’s release
22:53 Oct 05 2007
Times Read: 1,315

Adult content.





Sitting in a comfortable chair opposite you, I choose to restrain a smile from crossing my face, as you stand before me; eyes downcast, staring at the tips of the black court shoes you’re wearing, for me.

As you smooth down imaginary creases in the front of the short grey skirt you wear as instructed. It reaches halfway down your thighs, displaying as much of your shapely legs as I want. But, I will see more, soon and I stand, slowly.

“Lift your head,” I tell you, taking pleasure in your acquiescence as you lift your head to fully display the studded dog-collar round your slim neck.

Then as I walk round you, I run my left hand over the scant material covering your delightful buttocks, the leash in my right hand.

“Ahhhh…” you sigh at my touch, as you’re filled with expectant pleasure of what is to come, as I halt behind you, left hand soon beneath your skirt.

It is immediately apparent that you’ve done as instructed: a white blouse, no bra, short skirt, heels and no panties.

Reaching the flesh at the top of your back holds ups, cupping your left buttock in hand and clasping the leash to the clasp on your collar, fingers delve deep into your liquid warmth, as you tilt your head a little to the right, exposing your neck, for me.

There is a moment of immediate need shared, a connection for this moment.

“You’re teasing,” I hiss through pressed lips, already aroused.

Then anticipating my other needs, you press against my fingers, the wetness allowing me to learn you are as excited as I am.

Breathing hard, I take each buttock in hand.

You close your eyes, listening carefully, the moment drawn out, as I hold you tightly.

Then you open your eyes, as I bite your neck.

“Ahhhh,” you sigh, as I taste your flesh, salty to taste, your body given to me.

“You need to be turned over a knee and spanked, till your buttocks attain a rosy hue,” I say to you.

“I do so need a spanking,” you reply, head downcast.

You smile, as I haul you across my lap, flipping the skirt over your buttocks and soon you writhe beneath me, as the blows rain down on your warming flesh.

“Mmmm…” you moan softly, feeling each sting across your ass and I smile, taking delight, in your pleasure, through pain.

“Yes baby,” you sigh through gritted teeth, as you look back at me crying out in pleasure wanting more.

My left hand holds you in place, as I continue, staring at the rosette glow my spanking doth bestow, as you squirm a little, moaning loudly crying out my name, as I spank you.

And, stopping a moment, I part your cheeks with my left hand, running questing fingers through your split peach and upward, to your puckered hole, which I tease, for moment or two, before picking up a ruler and continuing to work on your flesh.

Smiling back at me, you cry out again in pleasure.

Then hearing your cries, of pleasure and pain, I bring the ruler down, again and again: and as the flesh turns from red to crimson, I smile, horny as hell: knowing you're enjoying this, as much as I am.

“Mmmm yes baby,” You cry out, loving it, smiling back at me, squirming a little.

Ceasing awhile, I use my fingers, to penetrate your pussy and ass, so as to clean them later with my tongue. I piston them in and out and you push your my shapely ass back, pushing my fingers deeper in and you beg for more, tightening your pussy around my fingers.

Suddenly, you arch your back, legs kicking your legs, as you reach the peak of orgasm that you’ve desired, since I began.

And I smile finally, delighted you have attained what I wanted, your release, through submission and I caress you face, as you breathe hard, my arousal evident against you.

“Honey,” I say to you gently, “I think it’s time for bed.”

I help you to your knees, then leash in hand I walk you, with on all fours, to your bed, my mind already filled with the pleasure the night ahead will bring.

The Opening
16:29 Oct 01 2007
Times Read: 1,327

Mason had looked at his watch several times in the last half hour. Ten O’clock his appointment was due. But, he was impatient. After all, this was his time. He wanted to know he was getting his monies worth. And to Mason, that meant punctuality, as much as anything else.

Pacing back and forth, a fine malt in the glass he held, the moderately tall, slim blonde, pulled the drapes aside to look down at the London cityscape. His shirt was a dark blue, sharp, with a button-down collar, no tie, he hated them. The suit, grey; he thought it looked good, so had two more, just like it.

He smiled sardonically, as he sipped at his scotch, recalling the ribbing he’d taken from sweet Melissa about his name. She’d said it’d said he sounded like a popstar, or something. Mason. He liked the name. He’d taken it from an LP his Mother played when he was younger. ‘The Mason Williams Phonograph Album’. An important title for an LP he’d thought: and when his life changed, he’d become Mason. Just Mason.

And, for a second, he thought back to the quad on campus, where he had sat talking with sweet Melissa, as he had talked about how he intended to make his living, when he left the comparatively comfortable world of a student. Long hair, blonde, with long red manicured nails, that she’d run through her hair as they had spoken. She had spoken at length with Mason, fascinated by him and all that he knew of and planned.

He had reasoned, sensibly he thought, that there were those in the city who worked sixteen hours a day, so didn’t have the opportunity to meet ladies. So Mason had seen an avenue to make money. He saw himself as a facilitator. He provided a service. And, to him it was as simple as that. A website provided the springboard for many a man, to realize his fantasies, through the auspices of hiring an escort. Mason gave the girls advertising their services through his site access to men to with money and a need to satisfy. He provided a service. No more, no less. And, for him, the rewards for providing those services had been great. A two up, two down, on an estate in Croydon had given way to an opulent lifestyle that he relished. And why shouldn’t he, Mason reasoned, I’ve paid my dues. Life hadn’t always been easy for him. But, it was now.

He looked at his watch again. Expectant. Mason had things to do, places to be. But, when business could to be as pleasant as his could be, you could afford to be patient. Afford? There was a lot that Mason could afford now; and, all his work was done by mobile, as he lived his life. And it was a good life. Most of the time. Yet.

He remembered Nicole. Black. Long legs that went on forever. She’d always kept her appointments. Until. One day a client had rung back to say she’d not turned up.

A good customer. A regular. And, Mason had to cover the booking-fee, with a little extra, for good customer relations, he’d thought. And, he’d gone round to Nicole’s apartment, to enquire over health. Well, that was how he’d phrased it the next day.

He finished his scotch, aware of the times. Time? It was time to so his teeth. Swill his mouth and use some antiperspirant. Time? It’d been nine-thirty when he’d met her again: just two days ago. A cocktail bar. Serving. It’d been a blast, the look on her face, when she’d recognized him. She’d given him his drink. A Margarita. And, he’d given her a tip, a good one. He’d also given her his warmest smile, and, his number.

“Phone me.” He had said. And there’d been something. In the way she’d looked back at him as she had walked back into the crowd, tray in hand, toward the bar. There had been something. He’d known she’d phone. And, she had. Of course.

The call. It’d been like so many he’d had before. That in itself had caused him to smile a lot as they had spoken.

“You’d talked of making real money?”

“Yes.”

“What did you mean?”

“Just that.”

Then breathless, she had asked the same questions he’d heard, so many times.

He’d tell them that the choice was theirs. Yet, once they’d tasted the lifestyle, most were hooked. Curiosity. Greed. Base instincts that drove us all. They were traits Mason understood. After all, his business was pleasure. And, it was a pleasure to do business. Escort. Escort men, some women, professionals on the whole, he’d tell them, as he had repeated the old mantra, that all he did was facilitate. Anything that happened between the girls and client once they’d met was their affair, not his. Mason had lost count of the amount of times he’d said that. And, he’d never worn that ironic smile, when he’ said it; the smile he reserved for those who assumed they knew more. It was just business. His business. And business was good at what he did.

Time? It was nine fifty-eight. The phone rang. It was the man on the desk.

“There’s someone for you sir. Are you expecting a guest?”

A guest. Mason was expecting more than a guest. He expecting to do business: to find out, if this one could cut it, in his world, with clients he demanding as he was.

Time? Ten O’clock. Mason smiled. On time. Now that was a good sign. She might work out it seems. After all, punctuality was one of the major aspects of the business.

“Yes. Yes I am. Send her up.” Setting the receiver down he looked round the room. Everything looked, good. Presentable. Just like him. Mason looked at his reflection in his the hall mirror, with a smile, just seconds before he heard the knock on the door.

“Do come in,” He told the willowy blonde, whose face pleased him still. And, she’d stood there, eyes downcast, quite obviously very nervous.

So, Mason took her slender hands in his, blinked and told the woman, sweet Michelle: “I’ve been so looking forward to your call.”

And, Mason smiled as she entered, as he knew she would.