‘I’ll get you a drink, but I know you girls like your money upfront, so let’s get that out of the way first.’
Somewhat to my alarm, he reaches into an inside pocket and pulls out an enormous wad of twenty-pound notes tied up with an elastic band.
‘Oh God! Couldn’t you have paid with a credit card?’
He stares, then sneers. ‘Give my details to your pimp? I think not. Here.’
He hands me the money. I make to put it in my handbag, but he waves his hand and stops me.
‘No, no, Sophie. You’re new to this, aren’t you? You count it. Make sure I’m not trying to fleece you. Here, come and sit at the bar to do your adding up and I’ll get you a drink. What do you want?’
‘Mineral water.’ I snap off the elastic band and begin riffling through the notes. The barman is watching me from the corner of his eye. I shoot him an evil glare and he goes back to filling the glass washer. ‘It’s all there. Thanks.’
Again I reach for my bag, and again I am stopped, this time by Conrad’s hand on my elbow.
‘No. I have something I like my girls to do with that.’
My girls. I am one of many, a disposable cunt. I feel a little wet, perversely relishing the exquisite humiliation of my situation.
‘With the money?’
‘Yes. I want you to go to the ladies’ room and stuff it into your underwear. Bra, knickers, stocking tops – I want them filled with notes. Go on then.’
I am mute for a moment, considering his outlandish request, but something about it appeals to me and I obey without question.
In the stall, I put the lid down on the toilet, fearful of flushing away a considerable sum, unbutton my shirt, take five twenties and arrange them, fan-shaped, in the left cup of my basque. The paper corners catch on my nipple, the notes being new and crisp, as if fresh from the mint. Was it good manners on his part to give me unused notes to put next to my most intimate areas? Perhaps I should take it as an act of consideration. Another hundred adorns my right breast. Five more to dispose of.
A circle of queens peer over the top of my left stocking top, while I reverse the notes on the right side and give five Michael Faradays a view of my skirt lining. The stripperish look this gives me is somehow satisfying.
I still have three hundred pounds to distribute. They will have to go in my knickers. That is what the money is going on, ultimately, after all.
I put five notes in the front elastic, the dry paper crackling over my shaved pubic triangle. The penultimate hundred flaps over my buttocks, the central twenty creasing into the crack of my arse.
There is only one fitting destination for the final hundred. I weave it inside the gaping PVC split, creating a kind of DIY money gusset. I will have to make sure none of it works its way back out and falls between my feet, but the initial feeling is that the notes are secure, covering my pussy lips like prissy purple guardians of my virtue. I think this will please Conrad, and I know it will enhance the effect he wants – of my never, for one minute, being able to forget that he has bought me.
Between the front, back and bottom nests of money inside my knickers, my entire sex is papered with filthy lucre. Now I feel like a whore.
While the room is still empty, I emerge from the stall, walking carefully, rustling with each step, tiny prickly darts from the bill corners piercing my skin every time I move. I feel the notes inside my knickers shift, rubbing against my labia and my clit, while my nipples grow harder, pushing against the sharp edges.
The door bangs open and I hurriedly make a show of washing my hands, bending low over the sink, trying hard not to look turned on.
When the new arrival disappears into a stall, I put back my shoulders and prepare for my return to the bar.
Conrad watches me walk over, approving of my extra-careful sashay. If my thighs get too close, the notes rub together and threaten to pull each other out of their stocking-top cradle. I mustn’t hold them too far apart, though, because that will threaten the delicate set-up in the crotchless part of my knickers. As for my breasts, their purple-stamped covering almost shows through the light silk of my shirt.
With a leafy shushing sound, I mount my bar stool, sitting down squarely on a couple of hundred quid.
Conrad smiles. ‘Where did you put it?’
‘Two hundred in my bra. Two hundred in my stockings. The rest in my knickers.’
‘Nice. How does it feel?’
‘Stiff, papery, dry. The corners are a little bit sharp.’
‘Good. What about the money in your knickers? Do you have any inside, or is it all around the waistband?’
‘Mostly around the waistband.’ I pause. ‘A hundred interleaved around the crotch. Because my knickers don’t have one.’