Amy loved her job, but she had no illusions about what her job really was. After all, you couldn't expect success if you pretended it was anything else. She was a sex performer, and she was paid to have sex on stage several times a night whenever it was her shift. And sex, whether on stage, for film or in private, was still sex. It meant disrobing, it meant groping and above all it meant penetration. That was what the punters expected and what they were paying for. The art of it was in making the sex as watchable as possible. And this meant that it had to be entertaining, fully visible and as shocking as possible.
There was no sexual act she could think of that she wouldn't do, as long as it left no marks which might appear in later performances in her shift. She would have sex with one man, two men, several men. Equally as much, she would have sex with an equal number of women. Her arse and cunt would take any object that would fit: animate or inanimate, fist, prick or tongue. Only the laws of the land prevented her from extending her range to include animals or children. The stage was her bed and her boudoir, and she would take on all comers, both from the paying audience and from her cast of co-stars.
She would stretch herself out naked on the stage, or dressed in latex or leather, her long golden brown hair flopping onto the stage, her freckled face and shoulders lashed with semen, while behind her a cock pounded into her arse and underneath the strapped-on dildo attached to one of her female colleagues pushed more awkwardly into her cunt. Her smiling, grimacing face, crumpled in ecstasy and excitement faced the audience, a face whose oriental eyes and features inherited from her Chinese mother belied the Celtic freckles and fair hair inherited from her Scottish father. Her body was all her own, spared the need for surgical enhancement by the full round apple contours of her breasts and the slim frame kept trim and taut in the gym. And her enthusiasm and ecstasy was all her own as well. The very thought of what she was doing, in front of so many panting, gasping punters, gave that extra erotic impetus which made her sexual acts the most popular and eagerly awaited in the club.
And her sex life was as integral to her character as her sparkling blue-grey eyes, and her small nose. She was surely obsessed. Every day she would have sex with one, two or more people, and she didn't really count those on stage. That, after all, was her job. It was not necessarily at a time of her choosing and not necessarily with anyone of her choosing. Not that she was that choosy. Well, she might be insofar as any second or third time might be, but for first-time fucks, it was anyone and everyone. And she kept a diary, which she'd started from when she was oh! so young. And in this diary, she recorded every fuck, every sexual act, but not those on stage, and awarded each one a coded description and a mark out of ten.
She'd always done this. Some people's diaries are a record of their innermost thoughts. An account of their feelings, their ambitions, their worries and their happiness. Others are a more objective account of events, perhaps noting people and places. Amy didn't even bother with names. Even initials were suspect. After all, she couldn't expect to know the name of everyone she'd had sex with. Her diary entries were brief and to the point. She would mention gender, number and any especially pertinent feature of the occasion. And then a mark out of ten. Occasionally, she might add a comment, like 'Took too long', 'Tiny prick' or 'Smelly'. And that was it. To anyone reading her diary, it might as well be a shopping list.
She had her diary in front of her, cross-legged on her futon, while a naked woman lay on her front beside her. Amy was smoking a cigarette, while her fibre-tip pen hovered over the blank paper. It was a fresh page, and she always kept a diary on unlined, unheaded pages, so she could get several days' entries on one page. In the bathroom, she could see a hairy, bare arse where a man was washing semen off his groin. She smiled, and entered the date in numbers, with a vertical slash between the day, month and year columns. And then in her neat, tiny handwriting: "1M 1F 4/10". Then she paused for thought before adding "Sloppy".
She turned back to the previous page which was dense with similar entries, and took a note of the numbers at the side, which showed her totals. It was proudly in four digits now. And she was even prouder of the fact that the total for 'F' was fast approaching that for 'M'. So proud that she mouthed it to herself: "One Thousand Seven Hundred and Forty Three." At this rate, the 'F's would overtake the 'M's. And before she'd reached the two thousand. And adding the 'F's to the 'M's. Why! That was already over three thousand. That meant that for the ten years she'd been sexually active, that had been on average, just under one a day. Of course, she was making up for it now. One a day! God! That would be a piss poor day. Normally she'd have three or four times that number. She grinned to herself. She loved statistics. She didn't know why she did, but somehow all these numbers added meaning and shape to her life.
Often when she was alone, she'd take out her diary and pore over the days, looking at the progression on the total, smile at those days which had been particularly eventful where her tally had increased by the most, and perhaps frown at the relatively low scores that might be associated with it. She had very high standards. A seven was pretty good. And not given lightly. An eight was rare. A nine rarer still. And a ten. Well! Could that even exist?
Often she wondered about what would have happened if she'd included her on-stage sex in her total. What would that have done? And would that be cheating? Would that make her an entry into the Guinness Book of Records? But they didn't really have that kind of thing in there. Or did they? She wasn't sure. But she wasn't sure she'd want her photograph or name in something like that. It was bad enough pretending to her Mum that all the money she was earning and the lovely down-town flat she'd bought cash down had somehow come as a result of exercising the skills she'd gained at secretarial college. And her divorced father. It was bad enough that he knew where she lived and still sent her cards at Christmas and on her Birthday. What would happen if he knew more about what his darling daughter did for a living, for whom he'd paid her mother an allowance for so many years?
Getting fresh sexual partners wasn't as easy as all that. After all, Amy had soon exhausted all those at the night club. And not just the other performers, whether male or female. There was the janitor, the ticket clerks, the manager and that woman who did the fancy backdrops. There were the people in the audience for sure, but the management weren't too keen on their paying customers getting too familiar with the goods. They might not want to continue paying for the pleasure of just seeing them.
Amy was a regular visitor at a number of cafès, bars and clubs where she could be sure of finding someone, male or female, or both, just the one, or several at the same time, with whom she could increment her tally of fresh conquests, whether at their place (preferred) or at hers (if necessary) or perhaps some other place (as long as she didn't have to pay for it!).
Of course she had to be careful. Especially with the men. You heard such stories! She kept a handbag full of condoms. All different shapes and sizes and flavours. Ribbed and nobbled and smooth. And sometimes, especially when there were three or more men, you just couldn't risk taking them back or letting them take you back. Then the back of the car, or a dark alley-way, or whatever. It just had to do. Not so good for the actual sex, but more than compensated by the extra notches it scored. Couples were fine. Two couples a little more risky, but not by too much. But women. No problem at all! If only more of them were willing!
Naturally, the more indiscriminate you were then the worse the sex. The number of ones and twos she'd had to award. And the zeros! When it was sex in only the most technical sense. But it still counted. That was the main thing. It might be crap, but it was clothes off, genitals in place, and a bit of sweat. But it counted.
Inevitably, the best sex came from her colleagues. They were after all professionals. They knew what to do and they knew how to give pleasure. And they were the lucky ones who got the chance to do it again, even though it didn't count against the total. But then you had to have some pleasure in your life. And she recorded them, and awarded them the sevens or even eights that made it all worth while.
So whenever a new girl or a new man started working at the club, Amy took especial interest in them, even though she'd invariably had sex with them on stage before they were able to get entered properly as a proper fuck back her own flat or even at theirs. Those were the good ones. That's when she was able to truly enjoy herself, the sweat streaming down the hard, muscular contours of her limbs, her mouth musky and sour from the taste of sexual fluids, her cunt stretched and sore from their thrusting, groping and stroking.
.... There is more of this story ...