Professional Excellence Ch. 01

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Monica first appeared momentarily in Entertaining at Large Chapter XV and then had a starring role in the next one. That’s how this all started. Be worth reading if you want to be fully in the picture, but I hope this story and those which follow, will stand alone. I also set myself the test of trying to make these tales shorter than the Entertaining at Large marathons. I’d be interested to know what readers think as well as any other comments. Suggestions and support are always appreciated. For any Entertaining at Large fans, don’t worry, there are several more chapters to come, I just can seem to shake Susan off.


Prostitution. I looked it up in the dictionary. It said, “the act or practice of engaging in sexual intercourse for money”.

‘It’s the posh word for knocking blokes off for cash.’

That’s what my friend Susan said when I spoke to her about it. I was fretting, that’s why I spoke to her. When I got one of those card machine things so my clients could pay me more easily, I couldn’t really pretend any more.

Up until then I was sort of telling myself that I was doing what I was doing because it was the easiest way for me to satisfy my needs without any complications. When I accepted that I was a prostitute and what I was doing was, indeed, prostitution, it all became a lot easier.

The English student in me would cavil at the definition. It’s the “sexual intercourse” bit that I think is too narrow. Money, the exchange thereof, is for me the defining characteristic, not the particular act. Once that exchange is completed I have masturbated men, performed fellatio on them, hit their bottoms with my hand, hairbrushes or other suitable weapons, inserted objects into their anuses – up to and including a mobile phone set to vibrate, tied them up, urinated on them and sometimes just had a conversation. And when you are fucked up the bum, is that really sexual intercourse? I think buggery would be the more accurate term.

Susan lets me talk like this when I’m a little bit tight. But she’s not really interested in intellectualising what I do.

‘Go to college and find a lecturer who gives a shit about definitions, you’ll make their year. My philosophy is just say yes, and see what happens.’

I laughed at the time, yet here I am now submitting my application. They didn’t even have creative writing courses when I was young.

It was with Susan – she uses the name Suzette when she’s working – that I had my first experience of sex for money. I had virtually dragged her into a hotel bar and poured out my frustrations with my marriage to her. I barely knew her at that point; she had tutored my youngest son and some of his friends, we had met in the course of making the arrangements. There was something about her, however, that I liked very much and eventually I picked up the courage to ring her. She listened to me sympathetically and was then honest, straightforward and eminently practical about it. Since getting to know her better I can confirm that she always is.

I was moaning that I hadn’t had sex with my husband, or anyone else for that matter, for a decade. Any of my other women friends would have expressed shock and sympathy and then rushed away to tell everyone they knew. Susan, on the other hand, arranged a dinner appointment for us both with two charming German businessmen. When she dropped me off at my home at the end of the evening I was drunk, sore, slightly sticky in some unusual places, and seven hundred pounds better off.

I’m not going to say that it was a eureka moment, that a light went off in my head and I realised that having sex for money was the most efficient way for me to get laid regularly. I came to that conclusion much later. Nor was the money particularly important. I know that sounds arrogant when we’re living in a time when austerity policies force a lot of women to do what I do just to get by, but it’s true. My husband has always been more than generous in his provision both for our home and lifestyle as well as my personal needs; materially I want for nothing.

What that evening with Susan did do was make me determined that now I had got back on the horse, so to speak, after my ten-year hiatus, I needed to do it again soon to avoid any risk of slipping back into celibacy.

In my defence, I made a promise to try, in my own way, to persuade my husband Howard to resume conjugal relations. I told myself it was the preferred option. I was fond of him, he was not unattractive, we have raised two children together and, I had to admit to myself, I was scared of jeopardising the respectability that came with my position as his wife. But with all my wiles: my sexiest outfits; greater physical proximity and the liberal application of alcohol; he remained the same as ever. “Chummy” is the word I would use to describe us. We were good friends still but his strategies for steering away from physical intimacy were well-honed and unbreakable.

A few fruitless casino siteleri days after my escapade I went out shopping. I bought the sexiest underwear I have ever owned along with suspender belts and a variety of stockings from the Nighty Nook. It was fun being fitted for the first time and my new bras felt as though my breasts were being held gently in warm palms; I loved them. Until now my 35DDs had either been squeezed into a size too small, or felt slightly loose in a size too big; I would always end up with red marks on them where fabric had rubbed. I also splashed out on a couple of dresses which were shorter than my usual style and cut a shade lower at the front; my boobs looked as if they were on the point of tumbling out when I wore them.

I’d borrowed a suspender-set from Suzette on the night of my debut and after that I never wore anything else. Until then I had never had any complaints about tights. They were comfortable and convenient and the styles I chose always made my legs look good; friends, both men and women, would tell me so. But stockings were so liberating. I felt naughty wearing them, to be honest I was naughty when I first wore them – very naughty.

Tights you can pull out of a drawer and slip on in a moment. There is something almost ritualistic about sheathing one’s legs in stockings. The fastenings, the necessary adjustments, the need to coordinate three separate items even before choosing which panties to wear all made me feel sexier. The coolness around thighs and pussy had the added advantage of labelling me as available, at least in my own mind. I started to wear them all the time.

I finished off my trip round town by staring in the window of the High Street sex toy and lingerie shop for a while. I used the pretext of the nearby bus stop and pretended I was waiting there. Susan had recommended sex toys; I didn’t have the courage to go in. After coffee at a delightful Italian place she had also told me about I did go and buy a box of condoms for the first time. I was surprised how easy it was with their own section in the Personal Products aisle. Ever the optimist I bought a box of ten.

‘Someone’s going to have fun.’

The young girl at the checkout grinned at me as she scanned the package alongside the shampoo and body lotion I had hoped to disguise it with. I told her I hoped so and managed to get out of the store without having a heart attack. I felt as if everyone was watching me and knew what I had been doing as I went back to the car park and hurried home.

I talked to myself all the way home. I just hope that if anyone spotted me at traffic lights or in the constant jams, they assumed I was singing along with the radio. What happened to Monique? Where was the bravery and brashness that got me laid in the first place? You’re going to have to bring her out more often, girl or your pussy will dry up forever.

I went straight onto the internet when I got in and ordered a rabbit vibrator – a Suzette endorsed product, a dildo shaped like an eight-inch cock, about a gallon of fruit-scented lubricants and a riding crop. That last one was a joke at the time; now I have it mounted on my bedroom wall; with quick-release catches. I took a bath, so much more luxurious than showers, and dressed in my new clothes.

When you have a spare seven hundred quid, I had told myself, you can afford to splash out. I had gone for the top of Nighty Nook’s range in everything. As I ran my newly-shaved legs into a pair of sheer, black stockings I regretted not a penny. The clips on the suspender belt snapped perfectly in place and held them tight. I twisted and turned in front of the full-length mirror casting a critical eye over how I looked. It was impossible to see how I looked from the back, but I liked what I could see.

Yes alright, the tan was beginning to fade, but my arse was as tight as it was when I was eighteen, I could still hold a pencil under my boobs though I doubted I’d find one in the house if called on to prove it, and my legs looked better than they ever had; and that was without stilettos. I paraded around the room enjoying the sensation of the nylon as my thighs rubbed together. I just had to sneak a finger over my bare pussy, but pulled it quickly away. I was supposed to be trying on new clothes.

‘Hell, I’d give you one any day of the week.’

Talking to myself was becoming something of a habit.

I realised in the middle of my pep talk that the curtains in my bedroom were wide open. It was the middle of the afternoon after all. When I went to close them I could have sworn I saw a net curtain twitch on the other side of the road. I yanked mine closed and turned my back on them laughing nervously. I wracked my brain to try and remember who was living there. It had been the home of an elderly couple until recently. They had downsized into sheltered accommodation. As far as I could remember, one of their children was moving in, perhaps they had already.

I slot oyna was breathing rather heavily, like when adrenaline is coursing through you in a fight-or-flight reaction. I scanned the room trying to judge sight lines and estimate what a peeping Tom might have seen. There was only one conclusion: everything. I sank to the floor with an embarrassed groan and clutched my knees to my chest.

I stayed like that for ages trying against all odds to put a positive spin on the situation. It was then that Monique came to my rescue. She pointed out that the chances were I had imagined the curtain-twitch and there was no one there. And even if there was, so what? Look on it as free advertising, she reasoned. Let the punters know you’re available.

I wished Susan was there. I felt certain she would agree with my alter-ego but a bit of amoral support would have been a godsend. I stood up slowly, took the edges of the curtains in each hand and slowly drew them back again. My worst fears were realised. Directly opposite me in the window of the front bedroom, staring out, stood a man of about sixty. He grinned and gave a friendly wave. I waved back a little more tentatively, it was a reflex reaction I immediately felt silly about doing.

This was surreal. The man was averagely handsome. He did not appear to have the statutory pot belly of most of his generation, at least. His full head of hair was silvered and his skin looked ruddy. Not expensive-holiday tanned, but the face of someone who had spent a lot of their life outdoors. He drew on a cigarette and gave me the thumbs-up sign. I couldn’t believe I gave a little bow. I turned away to blush in private.

What next? On my bed, I had laid out my new underwear. I went over and picked up a couple of the bras. One was white and lacy, embellished with pink flowers, the other plain black but skimpier and see-through. I took a deep breath and returned to the window. I felt a bit like I had when I saw Suzette and Monique’s escorts had arrived in the bar early; nervous but also excited. I held up the two flimsies and shook my head from side-to-side enquiringly. The unknown man went through a pantomime demonstrating indecision, scratching his head and frowning, then pointed left. See-through it was.

I could feel myself getting wet as I slipped the straps of the bra over my shoulders and made a big play of adjusting my boobs within the cups. I had shaved off all my pubes in the bath; the unusual sensation of airiness down below probably contributed to my growing excitement. My nipples were stiff against the soft gauze. I stroked them gently enjoying the sensation of the new material all the time maintaining eye contact with the mystery man across the road.

A damp patch appeared on the gusset of the matching panties almost as soon as I put them on. AN Other demonstrated his sad face as I covered myself facing the window. I took my time making several adjustments to the line of the panty’s side seams against my groin and again straightening the lie over my privates. They were so damp, you understand, getting them smooth was a struggle. I struck a pose when I had finished and curtsied to the exaggerated applause from my audience of one.

He went through his confused routine again as I held up my two new dresses. One was black with barely any shoulder straps, the other the palest of greens and virtually transparent in the sun beaming in through the glass. He opted for black. Good choice. I couldn’t possibly wear this underwear with the green; too dark. I stepped into it and secured the short zip at the back.

I didn’t exaggerate my appreciation of the dress as I had the rest of my outfit. I was genuinely interested in exploring exactly how much it covered, or not; how the skirt moved and how the top contained my breasts. I stretched, bent and twirled to see, so far as was possible, the amount of stocking top, thigh or cleavage which were exposed. Finally satisfied, I approached the window my arms outstretched.

Matey had clearly enjoyed the show. He opened the window, tossed out the cigarette butt and then put his fingers to his mouth. Our double-glazing blotted out the sound, but his whistle must have been loud, I could see the effort on his face as he blew. An elderly woman out walking her dog looked up and was clearly complaining. I gave a quick bob and then slowly drew the curtains. It seemed an appropriate way to conclude his entertainment.

I hugged myself when the light was blotted out. I was laughing both as a release of tension and because I remembered I’d paid for the sex toys to be express delivered. Roll on tomorrow. I busied myself tidying away the rest of my purchases into appropriate drawers and, estimating that about ten minutes had elapsed, opened the curtains again. Wouldn’t want anyone thinking there’d been a death in the family.

I was speculating as to whether I had enough time for another bath – for purely masturbatory purposes this time canlı casino siteleri – when the door bell rang and was followed seconds later by heavy knocking. I knew it was unlikely to be the police, we didn’t live in that kind of a neighbourhood. But I still panicked; the only realistic explanation was my new admirer from across the street. I hadn’t heard a car, and the few neighbours who occasionally called round would have telephoned first. My initial thought was to hide under the bed and pretend I wasn’t in until he went away.

‘You can do this.’

Monique kicked in again just as I was judging whether my boobs would squeeze under the bed frame if I lay flat on my back. Bless her, I braced my shoulders, smoothed down the short dress and made for the stairs. There was more knocking as I reached the front door. It stopped at the sound of the latch being undone.

‘Can I help you? I thought you might be my husband. He’s always forgetting his keys, you know what men are like. But what can I do for you?’

I leaned against the edge of the door, my hand on my hip and we stood looking at each other on the doorstep. I was taller than he was now I had my heels on and the advantage of the step into the house. But I liked what I saw. It was something about the laughter lines around his eyes. The barrel chest and well-muscled arms had their points too. But most of all I liked the decent-sized erection which was tenting the painter’s overalls he was wearing. He was staring at my breasts. I smoothed my hand over them while waiting for him to formulate an answer to my question. It was clearly more difficult than I thought. He said nothing, just kept staring. I tried again.

‘Would you like to come in?’

I was shaking inside. The Monique in me was spurring me on. Her and the buzzing from my clit which had been expecting to be surrounded by warm water by now. With the Germans, Susan had made the introductions and handled the transition from dinner table to room. I was so drunk and horny when I’d bumped into Kevin and Norman in the hotel foyer, picking them up had been easy. Come on mister, give me something to work with here.

He stepped onto the doormat and I smiled encouragingly.

‘I was pricing up a job opposite.’

He stopped. His eyes were still on my chest.

‘Nice view from the upstairs rooms, isn’t there?’

‘Oh yes. Beautiful. Really nice. And I was wondering.’


He still wasn’t making it any easier. But it was clear that he was more nervous than I was. This made me more confident. I took his hand and drew him further into the hallway so that I could close the front door.

‘I was wondering whether you had any jobs you wanted doing? I’m a painter.’

He Indicated his overalls with a flick of his hand as if to settle any doubts I may have been harbouring about his profession. I had to laugh. He had spent goodness how long watching me cavort about in the nip, developed a raging hard on, plucked up the courage to come over and this was the best line he could muster.

‘Pity you’re not a plumber. We could have replayed some of those scenes from seventies porn movies. Ah well.’

I shrugged and smiled at him again. I gave him a minute for a comeback and stared at his erection in the meantime. It must have been a good seven inches. Still nothing. In fact, if anything he looked as if he might be on the point of leaving. I grabbed his arm.

‘Wait there, there is something you could help me with. It’s silly, but it’s one of those things I’d be embarrassed to ask Howard to do, he’s my husband by the way. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind lending a hand. It’ll only take a moment.’

I scurried up the stairs only pausing at the top to check that he had been looking up my skirt as I expected. He was leaning forwards and staring up. The attempt at a nonchalant facial expression was a nice touch. I waved. I made the descent more slowly and the man in the hall made no attempt to hide his interest only moving his eyes from my pussy back to my boobs when I was too low for any chance of a glimpse of my damp knickers.

‘It’s this.’

I opened my palm to reveal the wrapped condom I had fetched from upstairs.

‘It’s a new packet and I’m not sure how to open them without damaging what’s inside. Could you help?’

Nothing like a practical task to bring out the hunter-gatherer in a man, I thought, as he patronisingly demonstrated how to hold the small package firmly and where the best place was to breach the serrated edge. He held the now half-opened envelope in his own hand.

‘See? Easy.’

‘It is isn’t it? I can’t see why I thought it might be a problem.’

We both looked at the johnnie while I gave him another chance to come up with the obvious – glaringly obvious – next line. He didn’t. Either my breasts had developed the power to remove his power of speech, or I was dealing with a numbskull. If it wasn’t for his twitching member I might have been tempted to give up and run myself that bath. I took the small package from his hand and let it settle in my own.

‘Seems a shame to waste it. Now the packet’s open, wouldn’t you say? I imagine they’re no good if they dry out.’

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