This is a story from John Griffiths.

RISQUÉ BUSINESS

Maddy was well into her daily ritual, steadily jogging the quieter back streets around her apartment block, when the text message arrived. Carefully weaving a path around uneven paving stones, carelessly placed wheelie-bins and re-cycling bags, some of which had already been attacked by urban foxes during the night, she read the message with barely a break in step. It was from the agency.

Tonight 7pm Hotel Bristol Alma Street

                    Room 101. Confirm. Jake

Maddy, in her early twenties, would have been considered quite pretty in the right sort of lighting. Now, without the benefit of make-up, bathed in perspiration and in the full glare of the morning sun, her face would hardly merit a second glance.

It wasn’t, however, her face that was her fortune. Curvaceous, bordering perilously on the edge of plumpness, she tried to maintain a delicate balance with her early morning jogging sessions. She had never found it difficult to find work through the agency and hoped that would continue; it was the incentive she needed to put her-self through this daily torment, pounding the pavements, hating every exhausting, sweaty moment.

Her apartment, though small, was neat and well-kept and was located in that part of the city that formed a buffer between the deprived and despairing, and those that appeared to have-it-all situated on the higher ground, literally looking down on their less fortunate neighbours. Maddy was driven in her desire to aspire to those dizzy heights: to soar and prosper, just like them. Jogging was simply the price she had to pay.

There had been problems, of course. Hating the restrictions of school, she had never buckled down, spent more time playing truant than she had studying and, as a result, had left school in her mid-teens without a single qualification and virtually unemployable; at least in any of those jobs she felt she deserved. It was at this point that she had left the clinging comfort of her home and her loving parents for the unknown opportunities she felt awaited her in the bustling city.

Now, as she jogged along, the heavy metal music she loved bombarding her ears from the mobile she was almost permanently linked to, she could reflect on the fact that she was doing pretty well for herself: the little nest-egg put away for that dream house up on the hill growing satisfactorily week by week. Hopeless at maths at school, she now knew to the penny just what her investments were earning her and that put an extra spring in her step.

It hadn’t always been like this. Her introduction to city life and her naivety had led her down some very dark alleys in those early days, but she was a quick learner, had a steely inner strength and was a natural survivor. Also, she met Madame Arlette just when she needed the support and guidance of a mature, sophisticated, very persuasive, older woman. It was at this point that her fortune turned. Her father would have been horrified if he had known, of course, but when she assured him that she was ‘something in the city’ he had  pressed her no further.

How did Maddy spend her time as ’something in the city?’ During daylight hours she was in great demand at ‘stag-does’, office leaving parties and any other functions where a little titillation was required for an all male gathering. Her mother’s strong Catholic faith had given her the idea to perform as ‘Sister Sarah, a stripper-gram Nun’ in full regalia; the resulting look of shock and surprise on the target’s face being half the fun.

The text message she had received was for something altogether different. That evening she was collected from her apartment by one of the regular agency driver- escorts, one she knew well and felt comfortable with. She had donned her costume carefully in her apartment; the calf-length black boots with the ridiculously high heels, the fishnet tights emphasising her long legs, the wasp-waisted black basque pulling in and pushing out in all the appropriate places to make the most of her voluptuous figure and, finally, the long, clinging, black, silken gloves. Satisfied that her make-up of thick eye-liner and black lipstick complemented her costume perfectly, she had wrapped a long black cape around herself ready for her lift through the busy evening streets.

This evening her escort was Jeremy, outwardly a big black bruiser but just a pussy-cat really, with whom she felt perfectly safe. Keeping up a running commentary on everything and everyone about them, his banter helped suppress the little knot of nervousness she always experienced when meeting a new client and the time passed quickly, finding Maddy reasonably relaxed as they pulled into the car park of the Hotel Bristol.

They both entered the hotel without resorting to any sort of subterfuge; the hotel receptionists were also well looked after by their agency and hardly glanced in their direction as they made straight for the lift.

Standing outside room 101, Maddy took off her cape and passed it to Jeremy. He accepted it with his enormous grin and she knew he  would linger in the vicinity in case she met with any problem. Taking a large bag from him containing all her ‘props’; her hand-cuffs, silken ropes, candles and all the other paraphernalia she had found necessary over the years, she drew herself up to her full height, took a long, deep breath and rapped loudly on the door with the handle of the cane she was carrying. In that instant she was transformed into ‘Madame Severity’, a convincingly authentic ‘dominatrix’.

With hardly a pause, the bedroom door opened to disclose her new client.

‘MADDY.’

‘DADDY.’, they shrieked in horrified unison.

© John Griffiths 2017

 

 

 

Advertisements

One thought on “RISQUÉ BUSINESS

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s