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I wait anxiously in the diner, sipping my coffee as the summer sun pours through the window and warms my left leg through the thin yellow cotton of my skirt. It’s another scorching day, and sitting beside this huge plate glass window I’m beginning to feel like an ant beneath a magnifying glass.
I’ve felt on edge all morning, my hands sticky, my stomach churning. On the way here, I kept looking in the rear-view mirror, worried about being followed. Feeling a surge of relief whenever a car that might be following me turned off. I couldn’t help feeling that this could be a trick, a ruse to get me out in the open with my precious journal. Not that it actually belonged to me, of course.
I’ve been too nervous to eat anything since breakfast and my stomach gurgles loudly. I glance around to see if anyone noticed and wonder if I should get something to eat. Where was she? She texted to say she’d be here by one; I look at the slim gold watch that Jay gave me for my last birthday. It was already quarter past.
I look to my right, once again checking that my large black handbag is still sitting in the chair next to me and can’t resist reaching inside, checking that the journal is still safely inside it. It is, and I take out my cell phone instead, my thumb flicking the screen until I find her text.
“see you at 1, i’m 5 foot 8, dark hair, i’ll be carrying a large red beachbag, x”
I swirl the coffee grounds around the bottom of my cup and ponder how I ended up here, at this diner in the middle of nowhere, scanning the faces of the other customers, looking for a slim young woman in a denim jacket. My mind drifts back to when it had all started, the day I found the journal.
I rolled over in bed and reluctantly opened my eyes. Thin pearly slivers of silvery grey light squeezed through a gap in the new curtains and prodded me awake. We’d chosen the curtains last weekend along with the paint for the bedroom.
Hours spent debating the subtle differences between the seemingly endless shades of pale blue: “Mount Fuji”, “Dragonfly”, “Periwinkle”, “Laguna Bay”. After a while, they’d all started to look the same.
We’d only been in this house for a week. Jay had been offered a very well paid job as a lawyer in the city and, ever the dutiful wife, I’d agreed that he should take it even though it meant moving away from my family and the only town in which I’d ever lived.
We’d been high school sweethearts, and had gotten married just about as soon as we were old enough. My friends would always say, “How sweet!” whenever they were reminded of this, but lately I’d been wondering if what they really meant was: “How unusual! You mean you’ve only ever slept with one man? How old-fashioned!”
Our plan, if you could call it that, was that I’d sort out the house and garden in the short term then get a part-time job in a few months when we’d both settled into the area. I’m not sure why it was called Wilderness Road. It wasn’t a very suitable name for such a neat suburban area full of manicured lawns, expensive cars and well-pruned roses. The house was lovely; a three bedroom detached property with a large back garden. It did need some modernising though, and perhaps that’s why it was so reasonably priced. Or “Priced to sell” as the agent put it.
I lay there for a few minutes listening to the strange new sounds of the house: the distant roar of planes taking off from the airport, the gentle ticking of the radiators, the tree branches tapping against the window. That last noise reminded me that I’d have to find someone to cut the trees back. I had hopes of sunbathing in the back garden in summer and the trees were overgrown, casting the large patio in leafy shade.
It was half-past-seven, so we didn’t have to get up for another half-an-hour. I rolled over and wrapped my arms around the reassuringly warm solid bulk of Jay’s body. I felt his chest rising and falling. It occurred to me that we hadn’t made love since we’d moved in. I guess there was a lot on our minds and we’d fallen into bed every night exhausted, our minds constructing lists of things to do the next day.
I pressed my body against his, feeling his firm buttocks against my thighs, as I slowly ran a hand down over his skin, skimming the light fuzz of golden hair on his chest, then his firm, flat stomach, before cupping the warm bulge in his pyjama bottoms. He groaned as I gently squeezed him, feeling a little frisson of pleasure run through me as I felt his dormant cock swell beneath my fingers.
“Sorry, babe,” he groaned. “It’s my first full day in the office and I promised I’d be in early. Plus I’ve got to help you move the furniture before I go.”
I smiled, hiding my disappointment as he rolled over, pecked me on the cheek then slid out of bed. Soon I heard the expensive new shower we’d had installed running in the bathroom.
I got up, slipped on my dressing gown, and made us both breakfast as I heard him moving about upstairs, putting on the stylish new suit I’d bought for his birthday. He was from almanbahis yeni giriş a traditional, religious family who believed that it was the wife’s duty to be at home, cooking and cleaning, and I’d easily slipped into the habit of making him breakfast in the mornings. It seemed the least I could do as he was the one with the full-time job.
I knew his parents expected us to have children in the next couple of years. They hadn’t said anything explicitly, it was just subtle hints, here and there. Saying how much they enjoyed his brother’s family, that kind of thing. I wasn’t so sure though. I was only twenty-six and felt that there was plenty of time to start a family.
After he’d finished his scrambled eggs, we went back upstairs. Today I’d planned to start painting the bedroom and needed his help shifting all the furniture over to one side of the room. It was when we were shifting the chest of drawers that it happened, although I wouldn’t realise how significant it was until later. We’d just started moving it by awkwardly rocking it back and forwards, when I heard a muffled thump over our grunts.
“What’s this?” Jay said, reaching behind and pulling out a dusty A4-sized black notebook. It must have been trapped in the narrow gap between the back of the chest of drawers and the wall.
“Looks like a diary or something, I’ll have a look later,” I said, taking it from him and tossing it onto the mound of clothes on the bed.
I didn’t think any more about it until the late afternoon after I’d finished painting the empty half of the room. I’d tidied up and was sitting on the edge of the bed whilst trying to decide whether to take a shower now or start preparing tonight’s dinner first.
I picked up the notepad, turning it over in my hand whilst I sipped my tea. It was very thick, spiral bound and inside its cover it read: “If found, please return to Roxy Walker”. I was sure that the previous tenant had been called Abigail Walker. Maybe it belonged to her sister?
When I leafed through it, I found pages and pages crammed full of small, neat, feminine handwriting. I flicked through the first few pages and started reading one at random.
Sometimes I look back at my life and wonder how I ended up in this profession. I guess there wasn’t any one point where I consciously decided on this life, just a series of small, perhaps questionable, decisions that led me here. I wonder if I’d make the same decisions given another chance. If there was a beginning, I suppose it started when I decided to take that job behind the bar at the strip club. At the time, I was a drama student, struggling to pay my rent and although the pay wasn’t great, the tips seemed amazing. It was after I made friends with some of the girls working the poles that I found out that they were earning ten times more than me.
I became closest to a girl called ‘Starr’, a vivacious girl with a cheeky gap-toothed smile, cornflower blue eyes and a distinctive tattoo of a crescent moon and stars on one shoulder.
She was a real favourite with the customers with long, raven-black hair, that whipped around her head as she danced. Her real name was Susan and it was her who, one drunken night, gave me my stage name: Roxy. She was the one who taught me most about how to please women too, but that’s another story!
That job and my education in drama and acting certainly helps now. Most of my clients come through recommendations and they expect a certain level of performance from me. Take “F”, for example. He had a recurring fantasy about being a ‘peeping tom’. He told me that when he was sixteen his mother remarried and they were joined by his new stepfather and his daughter who was a few years older than him. Apparently, his stepsister wasn’t shy about showing off her body, wandering in and out of the bathroom dressed in just a towel or sunbathing in the garden in a tiny bikini. He had fond memories of catching glimpses of her semi-naked through her half-open bedroom door and it had left him with a lifelong obsession with voyeurism.
I wondered if I should stop reading, but curiosity quickly got the better of me. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to read a little further.
He paid me handsomely to indulge his fantasy. He’d book a room in one of the better downtown hotels and text me a room number and time on the day. He wasn’t very specific about what he wanted me to wear as long as it was ‘classy’ and ‘feminine’. Usually, I’d wear some kind of smart but sexy office wear, typically a dark, tight, knee-length skirt and a white silk blouse. Underneath I’d be wearing the black stockings and lacy underwear that he always insisted on. Invariably, he’d want to see me quite late in the evening, typically around eleven and in my mind, I’d be pretending to be returning from a late night at a conference, an office girl alone in a hotel room in the big city.
The door, of course, would be unlocked. I’d lock it behind me then place my purse on the bed, trying my best to ignore the half-open wardrobe door behind which, almanbahis I knew F would be hiding and watching. It sounds creepy (I suppose in retrospect, it is creepy!), but my mobile was always within reach and was set up so that with a single button-press it would send a text to Terry who was outside, waiting patiently in the car park, my very own guardian angel.
F would always organise the room to his liking, adjusting the lighting so that the wardrobe was in darkness with a pool of light in the centre of the room. It reminded me of being back on-stage at the strip club. I’d go through the pantomime of yawning and stretching as I took off my earrings and fake, black-rimmed glasses, pretending I was getting ready to collapse on the large double bed, which dominated one corner.
The girls at the club had taught me that the ‘tease’ was more important than the ‘strip’. I’d casually stroll around the room, untying my long, dark hair and shaking it loose. I might pause to examine my makeup in the mirror or smooth the tight skirt over my curves, gradually building the anticipation.
He liked me to look a little arrogant, maybe even a little dominant, so I’d be fairly liberal with the makeup, crimson lipstick clinging to my plump lips and mascara to emphasize my dark eyes. Perhaps a little blusher to highlight my cheekbones. Usually, there was a full-length mirror nearby, so I could watch myself slowly unbuttoning my blouse. Just the distant sound of the traffic below and the bassy thump from a nightclub across the street breaking the silence as I undid the buttons one-by-one then slid it down over the smooth skin of my shoulders.
Then I’d reach behind and slowly, inch-by-inch, unfasten the discrete little zipper of my sensible office skirt. I’d almost be able to feel his hot gaze burning into me as I slid the clinging material over my swaying hips until it formed a dark pool around my ankles. Stepping out of it, I’d be clad in just my stockings and underwear. I’d normally wear his favourites: black hold-ups and a lacy crimson bra and pants set. Not necessarily what I’d choose myself, but it was his money.
I’d take my time, reminding myself not to rush this part. I might pretend to brush my hair in the mirror or stare out of a gap in the curtains at the traffic below, all the time feeling his intense gaze following the soft curves of my body, willing me to remove the few remaining scraps of lace. If I was feeling naughty, I might stand in front of the mirror and slowly run my hands over my body as my hips gyrated to some distant beat, all those moves I’d learned at the club coming instinctively.
Finally, I’d sit on the bed and run my hands up over my legs. I’m quite proud of my legs, I think they’re my best feature and heels always make them look even longer and slimmer. He always insisted that I kept them on throughout my performance.
I guess I must be a bit of an exhibitionist because I’d always feel little electric sparks of pleasure as I ran my fingers slowly down over the sheer black nylon of my stockings, leaning forward towards the wardrobe and giving him an excellent view of my cleavage. Then slowly back up until they encountered the little patch of bare pink skin between stocking top and panties. In my head, I’d be an office girl desperately in need of some stress-relief at the end of a long day. I’d slowly caress my semi-naked body, all the time ignoring the faint rustling noise from the closet which indicated how much he was enjoying my performance.
They aren’t huge, but I’m perfectly happy with my perky C-cup boobs. I would be able to hear faint contented groan as I reached behind and unclipped my bra, sliding it over my arms and casting it aside. Just to tease him a little more I might slowly run my fingers over them, examining the little indentations left by the tight cups. Making my nipples nice and hard for him, I knew he liked that.
By now, he’d normally be groaning more loudly, my signal for the next phase of his fantasy.
“Hey! Is there someone in there?” I’d exclaim, feigning surprise as I strode over and kicked the door fully open, exposing F crouched in the shadows, his face flushed, his jeans open, his fist wrapped around his throbbing shaft.
“Sorry Miss,” he’d say, his expression an odd mixture of fear and excitement as he looked up at me.
“Get out here! What are you doing in there? I’m calling reception right now,” I’d shout, as I grabbed his t-shirt and dragged him out into the light.
“Please don’t! I’m so sorry, I work here, I was just cleaning your room when I heard you come in so I hid,” he’d stammer, still on his knees.
“You’ve been spying on me?” I’d say, my hands crossed over my naked breasts.
“I’m sorry, I couldn’t help myself.”
“You’ve been watching me undress, have you, pervert?”
“I’m so sorry, I’ll just go, ok?” I’d pause here, slowly looking him up and down as if considering what to do next.
“Well, you’ve seen me naked, I think it’s my turn now.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“You almanbahis adres heard me, get your clothes off.”
He wouldn’t take much persuading. I’d sit on the bed, arms folded across my boobs, a stern expression on my face as I watched him quickly strip down to his shorts, his thick cock pressing urgently against his white undies. I’d point at the floor and give a little nod of approval as he knelt before me obediently.
“Were you masturbating in there?”
“No! I mean, maybe a little.”
“Let’s see it then. Show me what you were doing, you sicko.”
I’d always feel myself becoming a little hotter at the sight of his lovely cock saluting my nakedness. I’m always a professional but I’m only human and the sight of him looking up at me as he wrapped his fingers around his thick shaft slowly stroking himself to full hardness always made me feel a little aroused. He had quite a nice penis, not that long but quite thick. I quite liked that helpless, desperate look in his eyes, as if he couldn’t help but stroke himself for me.
“That’s it, stroke it for me,” I’d say as I ran a hand through my long, dark hair and caressed my soft, perky boobs.
“Yes,” he’d gasp, his dark eyes hungrily devouring my semi-naked flesh.
“Stroke that lovely hard cock, you bad boy,” I’d insist, making myself shudder by rolling one of my tight little nipples between thumb and forefinger.
He’d watch me, watching him. His hand moving faster, his breathing becoming more ragged, the juices oozing from the swollen head of his straining cock. I’d spread my legs wide, as I started to caress myself through my scandalously thin lace panties, my fingers moving in slow circles as I made myself wet for him.
“What’s your name?”
“F-,” he’d gasp, his eyes locked on my fingers as I ran my hands over my naked flesh.
“That’s a lovely big cock, F-, it’s making me awfully horny.”
“Oh God!” he’d moan, his hand jerking his thick shaft faster.
“You’re making me all wet. Do you want to see?” I’d ask, sliding a finger along the damp gusset of my lacy red knickers tracing the swollen folds of my pussy as he feverishly stroked his prick.
“Oh God, yes,” he’d say breathlessly, his eyes restlessly flicking between my legs and my panties.
I’d smile as I spread my legs even wider then hook my skimpy panties to one side, allowing him a glimpse of the moist, puffy lips beneath.
“Can you see how wet I am, F-?” I’d say, using my fingers to ease my wet labia apart, showing him my most intimate parts, the glistening pink inner lips, my little clit standing to attention.
“Yes,” he’d gasp hotly, leaning forward, his eyes sparkling darkly. He’d still be on his knees, the tip of his cock brushing against my shin.
“Ah, ah! Not too close,” I’d say, the toe of my shoe dimpling his chest muscle as I eased him back.
“I can’t help it! You’re so hot!” he’d gasp, still stroking his cock feverishly.
“That’s it! Faster!” I’d insist.
“Oh God, I’m going to come!” he’d wail helplessly.
“That’s it! Come for me, you naughty boy, come all over my legs!” I’d order.
He’d be pumping his fist furiously now, and with a final strangled cry he’d always climax at this point, his body convulsing, his head thrown back, his hot spunk jetting over my stockings, pearly white against the sheer black.
By the time he’d recovered, I’d already have pulled my blouse and skirt back on, mopped his spunk from my leg with a tissue and collected my things. He’d watch me standing over his spent body, as he gasped for breath, his hand still wrapped around his deflated dick.
“Here, you can have these,” I’d say as I rolled my panties into a little tangled ball of damp lace and tossed them on the floor next to him.
Phew! My head spun as I put the journal down and returned to the bland reality of my half-painted bedroom. What the heck was this? A diary of a call girl? Notes made by a writer of erotic novels? Or maybe just the secret fantasies of a suburban housewife?
Later, when we have having dinner, Jay paused as he lifted a forkful of beef casserole towards his mouth.
“So what was that book we found behind the chest of drawers?”
I put my hand over my mouth, pretending to be chewing whilst I considered my answer. There was no reason he shouldn’t know but instinctively, I knew I wanted to keep it to myself. I wanted it to be my little secret. I justified my dishonesty by telling myself that it was unfair to let another person into the author’s intimate thoughts, especially a man.
“Oh, it was nothing, just an old diary,” I said. It was the first time I’d lie to Jay about the journal. But not the last.
The next morning I woke up early again in our half-finished bedroom, the faint smell of paint still lingering despite us keeping the windows open all evening. After discovering and reading the journal the day before, I woke up in a playful mood. I rolled over and wrapped my body around Jay’s. He was wearing an old pair of pyjamas and I started to see if I could unbutton his shirt without waking him. Today was his birthday. We’d gone out shopping at the weekend and then I’d bought him dinner and we’d explored the nightlife of the city centre together. Although he wasn’t expecting a present today, I knew he would be expecting something else.
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