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Granted wishes: happiness?

In Book 4 or 5 of Christopher Pike’s Last Vampire series, vampire Alisa/Sita reflects on Krishna granting our deepest desires and the pain caused by our maya (illusions) when we discover that our greatest longings bring us the most suffering. For her, the longing/maya of having her daughter Lalita reborn meant that she was given the apparently demonic Kalika as a daughter.

For me, three of my greatest longings (apart from going to university, being successful, earning a lot of money, having a private plane and a Ferrari and having orgies in a mansion) were 1) peace/the cessation of criticism, 2) hair that is more straight and 3) to sell my virginity.

I have been granted all of these things (though not, I believe, by a higher power, but by chance, genetics, and fate respectively). However, they have turned out differently from what I thought and they have not provided me with closure, happiness or answers.

I have peace, but although I am very grateful for it, it brings me little relief. This is because I’m left with the memories and more questions than answers, as well as being unsure about what really happened and why. At least while I had no peace I knew what was going on even though I was confused. Now I think that distance from the events mean I’ll never figure out what happened or what went wrong – if anything; I might be making a big deal out of nothing. I can’t even figure out if it’s a real issue or if I’m just exaggerating it.

Since I was very young I wanted straight or wavy hair, but a couple of years ago I learned more about my hair texture and type and realized I actually have very straight hair for my ethnicity. I came to love my hair. Then it straightened, and it’s now wavy and not curly. So though finally my wish has been granted, I kind of miss my curls. I never even got to know them properly and spent my whole life fighting my texture with gels, serums and anti-frizz products, even chopping the crown and sides, leaving the back and bottom of the sides long so it would look more straight. I like having straighter hair, but I know I’ll never get my curls back; my hair has reverted almost to the straight hair I had as a baby. The same thing happened with my skin: I spent my entire life wanting to be lighter and daydreaming about skin bleach, hoping it’d be invented soon and a couple of times Googling for it. Then I saw a documentary at 19 that showed where to get skin lighteners and that they cost as little as under £5 – I’d have spent well over £100 gladly. But the documentary showed how harmful the lighteners were and how sad/pointless/self-harming the cult of being pale was, and I realized that I liked being the colour I was and that actually I was unusually light-skinned so didn’t need to be any lighter. A few months later, I got paler, the palest I’ve ever been (though I had been slowly paling since I was 16 anyway). But I didn’t enjoy it, I just thought, ‘ok’ because I no longer linked colour and beauty.

As for selling my virginity, I imagined it would be to a stunning man whom I didn’t like or connect with at all. But Roland is exactly the opposite. I also thought that it would be over in a few minutes, not long drawn out over a few days – well, weeks, as we can’t see each other that often. I also didn’t think this much art and stuff would come out of it or that I’d learn so much about myself from it. I didn’t think I’d enjoy it so much either, or that the guy would be nice like Roland is.

So, I’m not saying “be careful what you wish for”, instead I’m saying that wishes might not turn out like you expect and that can be a good thing because it shows how much you’ve matured and transcended the petty motives of your wishes (which like #2 might have been influenced by childhood experiences of prejudice, bullying, media ideals of beauty or cultural expectations). And when you realize that your wish has been granted and it means nothing to you, there is a certain feeling of power in it. And when your wish is granted differently to how you percieved it (like #3) and you feel that this is actually even better and more fun and amazing than you’d hoped for, it’s freakin’ awesome.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The End

Then he rubbed it in, and I liked it that he did that but I worried if it would break down with the heat of my body and smell bad in a few hours – it didn’t, though. It mixed with the Bio Oil that was already there and formed patterns. I didn’t see this as I was l wasn’t looking; I was pretty still, as I get occassionally when I’m apprehensive/surprised/disgusted though I wasn’t feeling any of that towards Roland. I think maybe I didn’t think we’d be doing this today, just spanking, but I dunno why I went still. I also felt powerful, precious, safe, and have no idea why I felt that either. Of course, the fact that I’d just had my last ever exam and had been ambushed by the police who I’d feared would cart me off to the mental asylum for days (well, local psychiatric ward for a couple hours’ observation, but I was not thinking clearly) may have affected my mental state. And the euphoria, excitement and perhaps tension (?) associated with the deal itself.

Then – no, it was before that, just before he came on me – sorry, people – he’d been using his pencil-pushing businessguy fingers on me, as I was lying on my back. It didn’t bring me to orgasm because I need fantasy to do that and he wasn’t being gentle enough – I’m very sensitive; perhaps I have more nerves than average? – and I tried to show him what to do but he wasn’t great at this. Of course, I wasn’t fantasising which is why it didn’t work. I had my eyes closed, though, and it was good and I tried to focus my attention solely on what he was doing, that’s why I closed my eyes. Then he was doing it while sucking my nipples, which are like really sensitive so it hurt but a good kind of hurt. I really liked this bit. If I’m ever a millionaire I will employ five sex servants to do this for me. Oh, wait…it’d be hard for five hands to get in there at the same time… and Employment Law is definitely against this sort of thing. I wonder if Roland is a millionaire. But if he was, he’d have a Rolls Royce, Bentley or Ferrari so maybe not. But then again, he’s going to get an Aston Martin so maybe. This useless backward-marching government of ours should make a law that all millionaires have to wear a tag on their shirt that says “millionaire” so we know which guys to fuck. And why not – they only make radical new laws/changes and change the laws/welfare state every other week anyway. But they won’t, because it’d be embarassing to have so many millionaire tags in Parliament. So I loved it when Roland was doing this, except when he jabbed my nipple with his finger so I flipped over so I was lying on my tummy and I think that’s when he got the idea to spray it all over my bum.

Roland made me lie on the sofa and he wrote “slut” in big, red letters across my backside; I knew which word he was writing by the feel of the pen strokes. Then he wrote “spanked and caned” in smaller letters. When I twisted my head round, I saw a black line from the cane and other stripes and blotches, but it wasn’t bright red, just dark pink because I’m toffee/caramel coloured; Roland had predicted as much. This reminded me of my conservative (Asian) upbringing and made me smile that I was half-naked in an office after being filmed getting a spanking for selling my virginity; it’s odd, y’know? Sometimes you can’t tell what your kids are going to turn out like.

Then after I cleaned myself off a bit at the sink, Roland said “Now let’s get you a deposit. Like you’re a Ferrari – I’ve got to put a deposit on you.” We went to the other bit of his office and he wrote out the cheque and I said it was funny how we write “only” after the amount so it read “One thousand pounds only” – it was hilarious (to poor people like me) but then I said he must’ve written cheques for a “million pounds only” or whatever. But he hasn’t, because usually it’s someone else who does that. I’d been curious to see his office/desk, for some really weird reason I can’t even explain to myself; after all, offices are pretty boring, minimally decorated, impersonal things to be in. I stuffed the precious bit of paper in my wallet. Isn’t it weird how we use paper for money? And all our money is invisible and doesn’t actually exist; there’s no physical accounts with your name on it like Gringotts in Harry Potter; fiat currency means that your account balance is just figures, a promise that the bank will give you that much. Didn’t Nostradamus say “invisible coins will lead to the joy of many who spend them”?

Anyways, Roland drove me to a bus stop. He drives fast. We were talking about implements and the spanking. He said I took it pretty well.On the way he said that the last time he spanked me he could still feel it on his hand for 3 days! He said that after the consummation, if I still want to continue, each time it’ll be photography and afterwards we will touch each other and fuck; I knew that already; maybe he already said that, or maybe I just knew. I mean nobody’s stupid enough to pay 1k for not having sex, and I wouldn’t take 1k off someone just for taking nude pics of me, so that’s what I’d assumed he meant anyway. And although 1k is cheap for sex, if he’s already given me 4k then it’s not so bad. He said was that okay and squeezed my leg and I said yeah. Like, what else would he want to see me for and be willing to pay for it? We stopped near the swimming pool – near Pollock Halls. I was keeping an eye out for the bus, it’s very unpredictable. Roland was communicating – not just with words, but with all of Roland – that he was worried I hadn’t enjoyed it. He was 100% sure of this. I think he was concerned and also admired me in some way; although his concern was an obstacle to my goal of selling myself (if he decided to stop) it also touched me a lot. It actually reaffirmed my belief that he was the right person to sell it to – not just the most available, easiest, least risky, geographically convenient person to sell it to, but the right one. He wasn’t just the lazy option anymore, or even the person I felt comfortable around and liked; I realised he was in this for the right reasons and not only to make art or fuck. I said I did like it and it was one of the best days of my life, but he said “I think the lady protests too much.”

“That’s from MacBeth, isn’t it? Methinks the lady doth protest too much? You think I didn’t enjoy it?”

“Well, when I asked you to masturbate me you hesitated. And you’ve reached for the doorhandle twice now.”

“That’s because I thought I saw the bus coming. And afterwards I did want to do it, it was just that the room was too cold.”

He was grinning, but there was a seriousness behind it.

“It was the best day of my life, honestly.”

“Really?” he said.

“Yeah. Why don’t you believe me?”

“I don’t want to make someone do things she doesn’t want to,” he said gently, “So if you want to stop, you can take the thousand pounds and have it.”

That made me giggle. “If I wanted to stop, I’d give it back to you.”

He laughed. “If it was me, I’d take it and spend it. But reenber you’re not bound to anything.”

He asked me to kiss him and I was reluctant to, because he’d licked me out too – it was great but vanilla stuff doesn’t satisfy me as much as spanking – so, anyway, I didn’t want to taste my own juices because it disgusted me for some reason. But I did kiss him, just not with tongues. “We should kiss more often,” he said.

I watched him drive away, and of course on the bus I listened to Roxanne – the Moulin Rouge version.

 

 

 

 

 

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“I didn’t know prostitution could be this hard”

This is the bit that is hard to write, but I want this to be an honest record of my adventure, so I will reveal my weaknesses also. And I don’t want to spin a story about how this is all glamorous and raunchy fun; it isn’t, you gotta earn that money. It isn’t as fun as you think it’s going to be. I think it must be hard for ‘real’ sex workers who don’t always get to chose their clients (though some, like my friend Lochlan’s friends, do.) I’m not trying to create arbitrary distinctions by saying I’m not a ‘real’ sex worker. The reason I’m saying I’m not is because sex workers’ coalitions and unions such as COYOTE, PLAN or their International Trade Union (which is open to sales assistants in sex shops, lap dancers, porn scriptwriters and others who aren’t usually classified as sex workers) would probably not accept someone doing it as a one-off to a single individual as a sex worker. And nor would most people generally. However, I do feel like a whore with him, because I want to feel like a whore and so I do. And because I’m fully aware that he’s not my boyfriend. And that I am not attracted to him at all. That I wouldn’t do it if he wasn’t paying me. And not for less than 3k, perhaps 2k if he lost a couple pounds before we did it. So yes, I do feel like a prostitute. I feel like I want to give him his money’s worth 😀

To me, the intruiging, educated, one-of-a-kind Ro is, sadly, in possession of a body that is repulsive, though he is tall and has most of his own hair. I just think he’s fat even though he’s only a little chubby or just normal weight even…and he is uglier than I go for (just a little above average in looks) and very old (40-ish? I can’t tell).

I wish he had dark floppy or spiky hair and was slim, with a face that isn’t slightly fat. Though I have to say, in his defence, that he doesn’t have wrinkles. Actually, why do men (including my Ro) have grey hair? IT’S CALLED HAIR DYE!! USE IT!! He says he was blonde before he went past his sell-by date, and there is a lot of blonde on his head. It’s very short. I like something to tug and tug hard and make him squeal. Ro dresses okay but he doesn’t have a good dress sense. I think he’d look good in a leather or denim jacket over a shirt and dark chinos or slacks, but I’m not being paid to give style advice, I’m being paid to fuck. I’d be much better at giving style advice. I frequently have to give it anyway because my friends treat me as a style guru.

I like him. I want to spend time with him, a whole day. But it’s his personality I feel drawn to, the way he sees this little world of ours, the bright flashes of what passes for thought behind his eyes. No, he is smart, and more educated than me. He is so interesting and unique. If only I could stand to touch him.

I miss him right now, and I want to hug him. I look forward to seeing him! Even if he’s repulsive I’m genuinely happy around him.

I just realised, he must be really tall. Because I’m 5 6″ and I don’t come up to his shoulders. He might be taller even than Lochlan, who’s 6 2″, because I come up to Lochlan’s shoulders or even above his shoulders.

Anyway, that was a big digression.

So we’re in the office. Roland made me sit on his lap. Then he says “I want you to masturbate me.” I’m thinking about how that sounds more posh than ‘wank’ or the American term ‘handjob’ but mostly I was thinking how I didn’t want to do it. He said that if I can’t do this, how am I going to be able to lose my virginity? Did I really want to go through with this? I thought how sex would actually be easier, so there’d be no problem with that, and it would be easier if we did it right now than wanking him right now. I told him so, and he said that if we had sex right now then it wouldn’t be art and hence not worth as much. I didn’t understand why I didn’t want to do it, as the only thing I’d told him I wouldn’t do was blowjobs or large brands/scars or anything that damages my hair.

Roland wasn’t annoyed at me being a faulty product like I’d have thought; even when I said I would do it, he just kept talking to me gently and stroking my arm or back, saying if the girl didn’t want to then it wasn’t much fun for the guy either, and that I had to be sure I really wanted to do this. He said selling yourself is a very interesting goal but you are always free to change your mind, and that isn’t a failure, it’s a good thing because it’s responsible and means you know what’s best for you. He also said you shouldn’t push yourself too hard and do something you later regret. “You don’t have to prove anything to me or to yourself,” he said, “Nobody can make you do anything you don’t want to, no matter how many deals are made along the way.”

I said “I can, I can do it now” and he said it’s not about being able to, it’s about being willing and happy to. I said I was, and he said I wasn’t, I was just doing it for the money. We were talking with me on his lap and after a bit I said I’ll do it right now. He initially thought I meant sex, and said it wouldn’t be worth it, but I said, “What you said, just now…I’ll do it.”

He made me stand up and then patted my butt and suddenly I was turned on, and I wanted to, like my bum was a big squashy ‘on’ button. I said now I could because he’d smacked me, and that it would work if the lights weren’t so bright. He dimmed or switched off the lights and made the room less cold (I feel the cold more than most people).

I was thinking why am I doing this, and on remembering the 1k deposit I did feel a drive to do it, but it was also difficult to motivate myself to do it for 1k. I thought, ‘this is crazy, you can do this for 1k, of course you can, it doesn’t mean anything.’ But I couldn’t, not properly so I knew I’d have to detatch myself to do it well. It was so weird how this simple thing had been made into a big deal in my head, I felt frightened and like I was consenting to sexual assault, which doesn’t make sense logically or legally, but that’s how it felt to me. I didn’t know prostitution could be this hard.

Then I did it, detatching myself just as he pulled it out. He wasn’t as big as Matt, the only other guy I ever wanked off, which is odd because Matt wasn’t as tall or broad-shouldered as Roland. But it’s possible Matt was already semi-hard, so maybe that’s untrue. Anyway it’s not as if it matters, because the bigger they are, the less they grow when they get stiff so the end result is the same. And anything more than 5 inches is a waste because only the first third of the vagina has feeling. I enjoyed wanking off Matt.

In my detatched state, I thought of how it happened with Matt:

Matt is peeing in a bush in the early hours of his 19th birthday. It is around 2am. We are walking home after clubbing with friends to celebrate his birthday. We live in the same street. I am also 19. I’m looking at him surreptitiously even though I know this is wrong cos of privacy. We are both drunk. I think he is delicious.

“I’m not looking,” I lie as he catches me. I cannot control my movements when drunk so I didn’t turn away fast enough.

“You can look if you want”.

I look, then I stand right next to him and look. Then I step back a bit and look.

Matt shakes it and I touch it, it looks stupid.

We walk on a few steps. He still has it out as I’m admiring it.

“Can I touch it?”

He nods and I touch it for much longer, feeling it and sliding my hand up and down. It swells.

“Do you like it?”

I giggle. “It feels…rubbery.”

I wank him for a little while,  he tells me how to do it better and he says I’m really good, then I stop because I know we’re both drunk. I wonder if I will regret this in the morning. I can barely walk, anyway – I’ve been holding Matt’s arm before he went for a pee just so I didn’t fall over. And I’m wearing flats.

“Do you want to do more to it?”

“No…I’m sorry…it’s like, we’re both drunk…I don’t know if this is a good idea. Sorry.”

He doesn’t mind, just does it himself. We walk along talking while he’s wanking, it’s hilarious. I ask him does he think I’m a slut for snogging these two strangers and spanking that guy in the club. He laughs, “You’re a slut – I’m the one that’s walking along wanking!” We laugh, and although I’m embarassed at my changing my mind, Matt thinks its smart since we are both pretty steamin. We snog and my hands are all over his butt and we fall onto the grass. I am moaning as our tongues intertwine. Then we get up. We walk along with him wanking though it’s smaller now, and we hug for a long time then walk up beside his house.

“If you want to do anything more, say now. It’s okay. I’ve shagged someone up against the side of my house before.” I would if I wasn’t so drunk I’m having trouble balancing in flats. I snog him again and we part ways.

Of course, the next morning I regret not fucking him.

After that, I pretend Roland is Jay, Leanne’s friend and my acquaintance, who I’ve wanted for over a year, then Amir, the smartest guy in one of my classes who’s very cute and from Lebanon so he has a lovely accent. Then Kane, the guy who dumped me for not wanting the white picket fence. (He hadn’t dumped me yet). I use the baby oil. Roland says I’m really good and he can’t believe I’m that inexperienced. “I have a talent for this,” I tell him. Matt was surprised at my skills too.

I’m wondering why am I doing this and I know I don’t want to. Usually if I don’t want to do something then I don’t do it. But then I remember the £1,000 deposit and suddenly I want to, I want that £1,000 and I un-detach myself. I tell him a story about a girl called Chastity who was abstinent and got raped by Roland (I’ll post it here) and another story I forgot what it is (maybe I was detached while telling it). I was loking into his eyes the whole time, letting the inflections and nuances of my voice and expression fuel the eroticness of the stories. It went on for 15-20 minutes and I started to like it. Then he made me lie on the sofa so he could spurt on me. I lay facedown and he was above me; I felt contented and slightly excited.

 

 

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Tied over a carpentry bench

I rubbed my bum for a while and then Roland dressed me in a black and gold corset, sliding sheer black over-the-knee tights up my legs. My toenails were bright red like my fingernails and underwear so it looked pretty good. Roland tied a pink strap around my wrists so my hands were tied behind my back. I felt completely restrained and helpless, and even a little panicky because I thought that if I had to run (e.g. if there was a fire, or someone was in the building) then I wouldn’t be able to move.

“If you really want to, you can get out of that,” he told me, and I felt calmer as I surreptitiously tried my bonds and realised this was true and my hands were much freer than it appeared. Roland had me kneel on the sofa, my hands bound and knickers pulled down so that my freshly spanked behind was displayed. He took lots of photographs of me bound and bent over. He tried to put bunny ears on me but they kept falling off; I was able to readjust them sometimes, though with difficulty, even with my hands bound (if I contorted myself). He took photos of me kneeling over the arm of the sofa and kneeling on the carpet with my front on the sofa. I think he took around 200 photos.

Then he removed the door handle and said “You can get out but nobody can get inside, because the only way in is with this.” He put it on the windowsill. Roland went out into the large space outside the door which was empty apart from debris and stuff from the renovation. He came back, knocked and I opened the door; he was dragging what he called a “carpentry bench” that the workmen had left behind. It was about 60cm long and 50cm wide, with four sturdy black metal legs.

I felt intriuged as I looked at it, and a tad apprehensive, but mostly just impatient to be tied over it. Roland configured his video camera.

I walked over to the carpentry bench and he bent me over it; “All the way over,” he said, and my hands were nearly touching the ground. He started pulling out snaking lentghs and loops of bright pink and purple rope from his bag of goodies. “It’s bondage rope,” he said. “I got it in a shop in Soho.” He tied my legs, and I eased my arms into a position so they wereroughly symmetrically positioned and easier to be restrained. I was a little nervous because I’d never been tied up or even handcuffed before. Although I wasn’t deliberately paying attention, it was obvious to me that Roland was tying very loose, easily untied knots, using big loops instead of single strands. (I know nothing of knot-tying, but I rather suspect that my instincts lead me to observe details when they percieve a potentially threatening situation, especially as regards freedom of movement.)

Roland pulled something else out of his goodie-bag and it was a flogger/cat o’ nine-tails. Its pink and blue stripey design, and its tails, reminded me of the flail in my story (“Kemet”). I said so.

Roland moved behind me.

“Why am I being spanked?” I asked, grinning.

“Do you want a list?” he said, savouring the words.

“Yes. List it to the camera.”

“You are being spanked,” he declared, “For offering to post pornographic drawings, for lying to that guy through emails that you were going to commit suicide, and he was worried and called the police, and for agreeing to sell me your virginity. Your first time.”

 

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Afterwards

We talked some more – musing over how the film would be done, discussing ideas, and also chatting about other things like Creationism, the Epic of Gilgamesh and world stuff/current events. It was very much like talking online with him on the art site, where this whole Virgin/Whore dichotomy idea had been born through our messages about the double standard and its creation of the dichotomy, as expressed in many ancient religions and texts such as the Bible (and, more recently, in the works of de Sade: Juliet v Justine). Roland thinks that de Sade “places pleasure (philosophically) where Nietzsche places the will, and the rest follows inexorably both through feeling and through logic.”

Roland had said online that he wanted to do photographs of me in a brothel for his project “the Virgin in the Whorehouse” which we’ll probably do along with the virginity film, or after. When I told him about looking into selling my virginity on adultwork.com (a site which my friend had told me that his friend, a sex worker, used) he said a girl who wants to sell her virginity is surely “the perfect VirginWhore”  He also said “you are a piquant combination of a pure body and an impure mind; the fantasies and curiosities of the Virgin conspiring inevitably to bring about her own Fall of her own volition, and for her own pleasure. Whether that pleasure be physical, material, spiritual, artistic or all of these at once. If man-meal you would have yourself be, then these pleasures are the exquisite spices that make it worth paying for – and, indeed, consuming. It is a very human story, an old story”.

I wrote to him: “Oh to be a Victorian, to transform in an instant from angel in the house into fallen woman! The American Tragedy of the beautiful, intelligent young sluts the psychiatrists fled from in horror when they percieved the sexuality of the 1950s/60s woman. Maybe they knew, even then, that the repression was falling; maybe they glimpsed in their unmarried pregnant patients’ eyes the courage and adventurousness of their innocent daughters.”

I include snippets of these conversations because I believe they form a backdrop to our arrangement, and are perhaps the reasons for this deal – without any connection through writing I doubt the deal would have happened, because for Roland sex is all to do with the mind and the mind is the greatest sexual organ. And so it is with me as well, I think.

Anyway, we continued talking and I remember thinking that I probably look hot eating the icecream (not that I was attempting to do so in a hot way; just not shovelling it in as I would do if I was at home). I eat lots of icecream and 5-6 bars of chocolate per day as well as coffee, hot chocolate and crisps; I’ve never dieted in my life. I was feeling sort of mentally dizzy after he said £8000 because although I’ve always wanted to sell my virginity, I never truly imagined I’d succeed!  And I would have, if necessary, sold it for £4000 or even £3000; (but then since Roland would be seeing me after getting my virginity and giving me the rest then, you could say that the virginity itself was being sold for £4k). Before he paid the bill, I went to the toilet to jump up and down and go “YES!YES!YES!” in private and look at my beautiful self in the mirror. I’m not one of those squealing fashion-slave divas who spends an eternity getting ready. In fact, I’ve never had my nails done professionally or been waxed; I only go to the hairdressers if I want highlights and trim my hair myself. And I LOVE LOVE my style which, although it incorporates the trends, is not at all dependent on the latest look (though I usually will have one or two items of clothing that reflect the latest look.) But, despite only taking about 5-10 minutes each morning to get ready, I always look fabulous. I’ve had total strangers from teens to little old ladies and accountants come up to me in the street and compliment my cheapo outfits that I buy in Internacionale, Primark, New Look and at best Topshop, Bank, Dorothy Perkins, Next and Republic. Anyway, I jumped up and down for a while before actually using the toilet and then staring at myself in the mirror and my reflection looked radiant and golden. I thought, ‘I have to tell Lochlan’ (my best friend) but my phone, Fire, wasn’t with me or I would have right then. I may have said “8000! You did it! You did it! Yes! Yes! 8000” but I’m not sure; my memory is very fuzzy at this point because this was the best moment of my life, and the fact that I was experiencing the best moment of my life in a toilet cubicle didn’t bother me at all. After a bit more screaming, I went back outside and Roland and I walked to his car (it’s a BMW convertible and, as he says, it’s a boy car with muscles. I won’t describe it further though). We had the run the last hundred metres to beat the traffic warden, which we managed by one minute.

 

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The Deal

Roland’s mention of his art quest reminded me of what he said online: “I see you also as a lovely muse, someone with whom to create or inspire art – erotic art. I see what happens sexually between us as part of that art. It is surely appropriate that an artist pays his muses. And this payment does not – alone – make them whores.” I had suggested we film it, and I knew this idea appealed to him.

“If I could film it,” he said now, looking at me steadily, “And take photographs – if I could make some art out of it – a work of art, not just a porn film…I would look at the sex as part of that art…”

“Yeah, anyone can make a porno,” I said, “Two 12 year old neds could make a good porn film. It would have a narrative. And,” I added, dispensing with the hushed voice “It would not be just that one second, the goods would be yours for a whole day. If you saw my second-last message…” Roland nodded. “Yeah, just no big permanent marks. Small ones are okay.”

He grinned at me, amused and a little surprised. “You want a reminder, don’t you!” he said.

“I don’t want a reminder, I just wouldn’t mind one,” I smiled. “And now there’s a deal you won’t get anywhere else.”

He nodded.

“So, how good are you at negotiation?” he asked, looking right at me.

I smiled instantly. “We-ell, I tricked the Chief of Police of the entire […] district into admitting he’d lied and that police on his force had been corrupt – that was to do with the local authority thing I told you about. I was 18 then. So that should tell you something about my skills.”

Roland frowned, and I knew he was thinking about the local authority in another town and how they had lied about my family.

“That was pretty impressive, right?” I said, grinning.

“What’s the first rule of negotiation?” he said suddenly.

I thought for a bit, a little smile on my face and looking hot while I was thinking (as I always do if I use this particular ‘thinking’ expression). I said, “I think it would be always to keep the end goal in your mind. Because as long as you don’t forget your goal, you will make a good negotiation.”

“That’s very true.”

“So what do you think is the first rule of negotiation?” I said.

He thought for a bit. “I would say, don’t be the first to name a price. Because then the other person can change it or lower it or debate it.”

That made me smile. “I already broke that one, didn’t I? Like I said I wasn’t after as much as those other girls got.[4k; 8k and 100k]”

“How much are your student debts?” he said.

“I think eight thousand, but it might be like twelve thousand now because they changed it.” [Actually now I know it would have been 10k if they had not changed it, but after changing it it is now 12k. Which doesn’t matter anyway because I doubt Roland would have given me 10k or 12k; or if he had, he might have asked for more stuff in return.And as this venture is not actually prompted by student debts, it doesn’t really matter.]

“I’ll give you eight thousand,” he said, “Provided that we film it; we’ll do some spanking, bondage and some shots to establish the narrative. So it might take three or four times before we actually consummate it And you continue seeing me after the consummation, for photographs and some more spanking and sex.”

I put my dessert spoon in my mouth and sucked off the icecream. It was the best raspberry ice cream I’d ever had.

I said, semi-truthfully, “I don’t know if I’d be here after we consummate it because I might go travelling. I’m not going to say I certainly will be here if I might not.”

“Well, let’s say four thousand for the virginity, and a further four thousand for if you want to continue,” he said.

“Yeah, I think that’d be easier,” I nodded.

We agreed that he’d pay me £1000 each time he saw me; I wanted this method of installments, rather than a lump sum, because it meant that if either of us wanted to back out, it would be easy to do so without negotiating how much was owed or how much of the deal had been fulfilled.

“And,” I said, “I would want something in advance; it doesn’t have to be much.”

“Like a deposit,” Roland smiled.

“Yeah – like I’m a Ferrari.”

 

 

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The Tower: How it started

So, it’s 1:17 am, I’ve finished all my exams, the summer is unrolling itself in front of me. And I’m lying here looking at the screen and wondering how on earth I’m going to get all my thoughts, facts and, well, everything onto WordPress in chronological order. This is a fun experiment, blogging, but I want to get it right. I’m known for being able to write well; I’ve had stuff published. So I don’t want this attempt to be a major screw-up, do I? Anyway, does chronological order matter – the film scriptwriters don’t seem to think so with their love affair with flashbacks. But let’s try for a little chronology here. I suppose it all really started in the Tower.

The Tower is a restaurant on top of the National Museum of Scotland in Edinburgh (it’s a great museum, by the way, you should go if you’re ever in Edinburgh.) Anyway I’d never been in a restaurant that expensive (from the perspective of students) before; I’m pretty sure I saw food that was £70 and that was a main course, excluding the starter. But I digress.

The Tower restaurant where we made the deal.

I was nearly at the museum but had to turn and come all the way back around, to avoid being spotted (for reasons not connected to this.) Roland had booked a table for us and it was lovely being in this restaurant because I’d never had this before, and it’s nice being treated as you deserve, I suppose. I’m not trying to say I’m a good person, just that I’m a pretty young girl and should be treated like a lady. (Yeah, I’m a spoilt bitch, as you guessed.) I hadn’t had time to flick my hair or reapply lippy/apply lipgloss or eyeliner after my exam (because of an incident unconnected to this) but it didn’t bother me Roland seeing me this way because I’m beautiful, even though my so-called hair has a life of its own. We were sitting talking, and it was kind of flirty; it was fun talking about these things in code in this restaurant. I had chicken – it was delicious.

I was wearing a long floaty opaque top with an embellished collar over a tight gold vest top and grey Aztec-print leggings. Roland is above average in looks, though not what I go for, and I was looking at him and thinking to myself ‘How on earth can you do this, you’re not attracted to him even one percent??’ but then I thought, ‘Kalika, you can do anything for money.’ And besides, he had a PhD, wasn’t fat, was tall, and was definetly someone I could talk to and connect with – we’re actually very similar in some ways. Even though he had a receding hairline and could’ve lost a couple of pounds, he wasn’t unattractive or wrinkly. So it wasn’t like he was totally unworthy of me or anything like that – in fact I like him. So why did I feel disgusted at the thought of it, since I genuinely liked this guy in every way except a sexual way? I decided that I must be even more interesting than I thought I was. If only we could control who we were attracted to! But then that is not true prostitution, is it, if you do for money what you would willingly do for free? That’s unfair to the client. I smiled and relaxed as I realised this.

I told Roland this, and he wasn’t surprised that I wasn’t attracted to him. I think he was amused by me saying that if I was it would not be true prostitution.

And the more we talked, the less disgusted I felt, as I realised how alike we were and the weird thing is, there was not one awkward moment.

Think about it.

We’d met in real life once, two weeks ago, to do a nude photoshoot and afterwards he spanked me (as we’d discussed online, or I wouldn’t have agreed to it. And come to think of it, he wouldn’t have done it, probably.) After that, I’d asked him if he wanted to buy my virginity online. Well, I didn’t ask just like that; I have well-honed social, negotiation and manipulation skills, though I deployed only the barest fraction of these skills to ask him this. He said yes and I said, good (that is what those messages boil down to, if you take out all the crap and posturing). Then he says, basically, that since we’re doing lunch tommorrow before he drives me to his company, Luxor Engineering, to spank and video me, we could talk about this over lunch.

So here we are. I’m very happy because I know my negotiation skills ensure me a good deal, even if I’ll be going up against a businessman. (Though my default state is being very happy, so this may not account for much.)

And it’s great; it feels right; I’m happy being here with Roland. If I were hearing about someone else doing this, I’d expect a lot of pauses and wondering what to say next. But that didn’t happen. We talked about all kinds of stuff; art, relationships, the stupidity of conspiracy theories, spanking, my BDSM political satire story; my other spanking story; America; stuff. When he mentioned he had bunny ears for me to be photographed in in his office after lunch, this oldguy in a red jumper stares and glares at him; it was hilarious.

I leaned forward and whispered that the oldyguy had given him a disgusted look; Roland said “I don’t really care what others think of me,” and sneaked a couple of glances over at him.

“So, what made you want to sell it?” he asked.

“I’ve always wanted to, since a couple years ago,” I said, looking directly at him. “Like, I think abstinence [the Christian ritual practice of not having sex until the night of marriage, similarly to Muslim and Middle Eastern/Asian cultural practice] is very erotic, but selling it is pretty sexy too…It’s just something I want to do.”

He said that he can understand why abstince can be sexy. “And of course, you’ve been doing something similar,” he pointed out. (Which is true; I am indeed sort of abstinent, but not until marriage. I am abstinent until either my virginity is sold or I find a guy who will “rape” me after a night of debasement, spanking, poop/pee desperation, enemas, diapers, babying, etc.) Being abstinent is, indeed, extremely sexual.

I told him about an abstinence indoctrination programme I saw once on a Christian channel and how very erotic it was (I disagree with its emphasis on female purity, its degradation of female sexuality and its perpetuating of the double standard, but abstinence as a concept is HOT!) and how Christian programs especially those which address fornication are wonderful to masturbate to; this made him laugh a lot.

Then we get onto dessert (icecream and sorbet, yum!) and start talking about selling virginity. Roland tells me, as he did online, that as an artist he’s interested in the art: making a film out of it and doing photography. The sex is only a part of the art, and it is the latter that he would pay for.

 

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