I sat back on my heels and he lay down on the bed, spent.
'You can go now,' he murmured.
'You still have ten minutes,' I pointed out. 'And besides, I want my turn. I'm going to sit in that chair and sort myself out.'
He propped himself up, squinting. 'You aren't a real whore,' he said. 'A real whore would have been off with the money.'
'Like I said, I'm off-duty,' I told him. I sat back in the plush boudoir armchair, slung one leg over an arm, pushed aside the gusset of my knickers and began to delve into the slippery recesses, throwing my head back and shutting my eyes, imagining an audience crowded round me, brandishing twenty-pound notes. I squirmed on the velvet, flicking and plucking and plunging my fingers, pinching and squeezing my tits until I came hard, imagining applause, whistles, a shower of notes.
Then there was real applause; the clapping of my very own audience, now sitting up again with a noticeable erection threatening to poke him in the eye.
I glanced at the clock. Time was up.
'You'd better go down,' I told him, yawning and rising reluctantly from the chair.
'Hang on, though – for two hundred I should get another go, shouldn't I? I haven't even touched your pussy yet.'
'Time's up,' I said briskly, stepping into my skirt. 'And you have a role-play to perform. Not such an interesting one as this, though.'
'But I want to fuck you now,' he moaned.
'Thanks, but no thanks,' I told him, buttoning my jacket. 'You know where to find me if you fancy another go. And you know what it will cost.'
'How can I go downstairs with this?' he beseeched me, staring disconsolately at his treacherous stiffness.
'Good afternoon.' I smiled, opened the door and sailed off down the corridor, surging with wicked glee.
The lift door opened and I crossed the lobby, feeling every eye upon me, X-raying through to the semen stain on my camisole, the wet spot on my silky knickers, the traces of salty spunk on my tongue. They all know I'm a whore, I thought, swinging my hips and letting my heels click on the polished floor.
When I got home, I had to bring myself off again.
After that, the hunger was upon me. It became a game as addictive as any of those online fantasies; truly a second life.
At least once a week I strutted my stuff, maximally tarty and overdone amid the minimalist décor of the bar, lacking only a flashing beacon on my head to proclaim my shamelessness.
The men came in all shapes, sizes, ages, degrees of attractiveness and intelligence; the rule was, I could only say no in the most extreme of situations.
My juices stained dozens of pristine bedsheets; I took it lying down, standing up, on all fours, on chairs and desks and over windowsills; between my tits, in my mouth, cunt, arse; three ways, four ways, six ways till Sunday; with women, with an audience, with a camera, with a blindfold, with a webcam, with a whip, with a will.
There came a time when I could rely on three or four regular 'clients' being in the bar at any one session; sometimes I would only take up the first to offer; on other occasions, I would treat them all, one at a time or as a group. About six weeks into my new 'career', logistics were careering out of hand. The number of men waiting for their free ride every time I entered the bar was becoming unmanageable.
I pitched up one day at a new and unpopular time – half past three in the afternoon – and was relieved to find just me, the waiter and the barman in attendance.
I ordered a strawberry daiquiri and gave my creepy friend a dazzling smile. Perhaps today his luck could be in after all. For once, he smiled back instead of tossing his fringe sulkily.
'Have you heard? We've got a new manager. He wants a word with you.'
My fingers tensed around the stem of my glass. 'Why? How would he know me? What have you said?'
The barman simply shrugged and leered at me. 'His office is behind Reception. Go on and find out what he wants.'
I cannot say no. So I went.
I noticed that the severe-looking middle-aged woman I was used to had been replaced by a young girl with a pierced nose and an antipodean accent; a temp, I guessed. She smiled brightly at me and pointed to the door at the back of the area when I told her the manager wanted to see me.
I had no idea what to expect, but obeyed the terse instruction from the other side of the door to enter, and pushed my way into a huge windowless office. The manager sat behind a massive desk, about half a mile away, or so it seemed.
'Ah,' he said, and crooked a long finger. I made the epic journey across the carpet, my knees already weak, concentrating on keeping atop my heels and avoiding any humiliating wobbling. He did not stand or attempt to shake my hand, but simply looked me up and down through gold-framed spectacles, neither approvingly nor disapprovingly. Eventually he sat back and said, 'I'm new here.'