I just applied online for a provisional driving license, just before midnight. I didn’t get one before as I know 5 people who either couldn’t afford regular lessons and therefore have never taken the test despite having had their provisional for 2 or 3 years, and any skills they learned are now rusty, or who did pass their test but with little opportunity to borrow siblings’ and parents’ cars and so have had very little practice and are now nervous drivers. But I’ll have a career soon, so it seems like the right time now.
With relevance to this blog, when we were driving to Newcastle Roland we were talking about me not having a provisional licence/going to get one soon, and he said I should get one and I’m like, yeah, I will soon. Then I went, “If I get a provisional, can I drive this car?”
“Ummmmm….no,” said Roland, grinning, “Next you’ll be saying ‘If I get a provisional will you get me a Ferrari’!”
Heh. He’s cuddly because he’s fat 🙂 I like him more now 🙂
I think I should not have pranked him; he’s a real human being with feelings, not my sex toy slash ATM machine. And old people have feelings too.
Anyway, I was watching the modelling and walking around, taking photos of his bank statement and one of the studio to put on the blog. Roland came over to where I was on the bench and said it wouldn’t be long. He put his camera on the bench and I tried to look at the photos he’d taken of me – this was before he took photos of the models – but he came over and took it back; I think he was afraid I’d accidentally delete them or drop the camera…but if he’s rich it wouldn’t matter if the camera got broken, so I bet it was the photos. He asked if I was texting my friends “that you’ve been abducted”, and I giggled and said no as I didn’t want a repeat of the ‘suicide’ thing.
“So what are you texting?”
“I’m not texting now,” I replied,”I’m just taking pictures of the Luxor bank statement.”
“And what makes you think that was Luxor?” he said with a devilish grin.
“Because you drew out £500, so it’s an account you control,” I said.
He smirked but didn’t have anything to say to this.
Towards the end of the shoot, he tied the models to each other with bondage rope and took lots of photos.
“I can’t believe you would tie two people together,” I said, for dramatic effect. The models were my audience. “I can’t believe you’d do that.”
Later, as the shoot wound to a close, Roland/Danny slapped my bum as I walked over to the bench. The models totally saw it; they were at the other side of the room, behind him, but they were looking at us. I dunno if Danny knew that or not. Maybe he didn’t care. He told me in the Tower that he doesn’t care what anyone else thinks of him. Actually, he’s told me that a few times. It’s an admirable attitude in today’s commercialized and socially-policed world, where trivial choices cause deep cultural divides and political rifts, and we’re all incessantly worried about what others think of us, a trait exploited by corporations sending us to the clothing stores and makeup aisles in our droves.
Roland paid them – £100 each I think – on top of hiring the studio. Danny told them he had to get back to his other job.
“Yeah, your wee, unimportant job on the side,” I said.
We said our goodbyes to Valerie and Daphne outside the studio.
“You still have to pay me for the photo shoot last night,” I said, for the sole reason of it being a delicious thrill to say this in front of Valerie and Daphne, who were still near enough to hear it.
A minute later I told him how thrilling it was to call him Danny and say those things. I said he forgot to lie about us being in Newcastle yesterday.
“Yeah, I forgot to lie. Itold the truth,” he said. Hilarious. And the man has a PhD and all.
He asked me what I’d been doing with the photos I’d taken of the shoot – though actually I’d only taken one photo, not showing either him or the models, which you can see on Twitter.
“I thought you’d been tweeting photos the whole time,” he said. (Well, I did now!)
I said I would never take photos of him and put them on the internet because he could be identified. And generally I get people’s permission before taking photos and before posting them online. I have never secretly taken photos of anyone, nor posted photos to Facebook of people who weren’t my friends or acquaintances.
“Why did you think that?” I asked.
“Because you’re you,” he said, smiling.
I said, “You think me capable of anything.”
“I know you are.”
It’s probably good that I’ve kept my darkest fantasies hidden from him, then. I won’t reveal them to him until I’ve gained his trust and understand his personality more so I can manipulate him into acquiesance. Sometimes quite honestly I fear for him; I like him, and I would never want to see him get hurt by my depravity. And of course he is Magda’s property and I would no more damage another woman’s possessions than I would wreck her house or rip up her bag or clothes.
However, I am restraining myself a lot for the moment; that’s why I didn’t bring any other toys the last time apart from the bodystocking, anal beads, knife and needles. I have thought of a way to combine mental and physical torture, but I won’t ever do it; I don’t want to scare him off. I will be a good, doccile prostitute.
I think the hardest part of prostitution is pleasing the client and not (necessarily) yourself; taking care of his/her/their needs and not yours. That’s what makes it work, not leisure.
We went to Frankie and Benny’s – Americanized ‘Italian’ food.