It was seven o'clock in the evening. Outside it was dark and dank. Thick clouds hung heavy, almost static in the night air, shrouding the sky and adding to the blackness of a moonless night. He had waited almost a week for such a night as this. Not long given it was February and such a night was to be expected. A night when few walked the streets and those that did, hurried along with collars turned high and heads sunk into shoulders; night when few would notice a shadow among so many others.
She was home. He could see her standing at the window, washing dishes at the sink. Small slim frame and bob-cut hair that almost appeared to be a halo as the light behind her shone through. He glanced up and down the street. It was time.
Stacey hummed absent-mindedly to the tune on the radio. The letterbox rattled loudly, making her jump. She dried her hands and walked through to the hallway. A large brown envelop lay on the floor. Puzzled, she picked it up. No name was inscribed on the front. She opened the door and peered out into the darkness to find the street deserted.
She carried the bulging envelop through to the kitchen and tipped the contents out onto the table. What greeted her immediately filled her with horror. A small gallery of pictures, good quality pictures by all accounts, if only they had been of anything except her. With a trembling hand she picked up the only piece of paper among the scattered pictures. A note: Meet me at The Lion and Pheasant, on Riverdale Lane at 9 o'clock. Ask for Room 4. If you want your secret to remain a secret, don't be late, I won't wait. COME ALONE. No name, nothing.
Riverdale Lane, a sleazy side of town, and a place she knew only by reputation. Her stomach knotted into a ball of fear. Next came the outrage. At first she was angry that anybody could do such a thing. Her anger turned from the perpetrator of the note to herself. Why had she been so stupid? It was a dumb question really, she knew why — times had been hard back then, really hard. Not much different for any other student in University from a poor background, worse if you were a guy, at least the girls had some options — and some options they were too! Private Escorting, which was just a polite way of saying prostitution, lap dancing, stripping, or nude photography, as she had chosen.
It wasn't supposed to have been a nude photo shoot, had she been approached directly with such an offer she would have turned it down flat. It was supposed to have been a private photo shoot for a Photographic Society, just a club of amateur photographers really. Mostly they took pictures of scenery, people in parks, families, wildlife etc. But then they decided they would like to have a pretty young female pose for them and had been on the lookout for a likely candidate.
Stacey had been sitting on a bench reading a book and enjoying the sunshine in the flower gardens of a local park. It was warm and peaceful afternoon with little distraction beyond the drone of bees busy among the flowers. A shadow had fallen across her, causing her to look up. Stacey found herself looking up at two geeky-looking middle aged men who very politely asked if they might take her picture with the backdrop of flowers. She was flattered by their request and could see no harm in meeting their request, so she agreed.
Later, while they talked to her, praising her on how photogenic she was, she learned of their club. Trying not to blush at their lavish praise, she allowed them to talk her into attending their club for a photo-shoot. It would be nothing pornographic they had assured her, and they even offered to pay her. It wasn't major money, but it was better than nothing. So Stacey had accepted the invitation.
It all started out friendly and innocent enough. There were about ten photographers that night as she recalled, a couple of them were women, which immediately put her at ease. They asked her to pose in various positions, none of which could be described as sexual, and she did indeed remain fully clothed.
They were a really friendly bunch, very courteous and respectable. They made her feel special under the gaze of so many cameras and she thoroughly enjoyed herself. Two or three hours later they took her to a pub, treated her to a few drinks and asked her if she would return, with a bikini. She didn't even have to think about it.
The next photo session started out innocent enough, though some of the poses became a little more erotic. They teased her a little, and she joined in the fun, laughing with them and sharing a joke. Before long they were asking her to slip the straps off her shoulder: click-click-click. She turned her back on them and removed her top altogether: click-click-click. And then a daring side profile, a twist of her shoulder here, a turn of her head there. The inevitable happened and she finished up in the buff with cameras whirling away. They paid her, quite handsomely as it turned out, but she declined any further invitations and the incident was soon forgotten, until now.
For Stacey the problem laid not so much in the photographs, but more about what was behind the note. Was it a threat? Probably, even though the note didn't indicate that. Could he, assuming it was a 'he', harm her? He most surely could, and undoubtedly knew it if he had gone to the trouble of finding her home address after all this time, if he had done that, it stood to reason he knew she could be got at. The bigger questions were who, and what did he want? Well in forty minutes time she would find out — forty-minutes!
She fled upstairs, quickly showered and changed. She never paused to ask herself why she showered, and may not have liked the answer if she had. She knew what was almost certainly going to happen when she arrived at The Lion and Pheasant, the pictures said it all, but what choice did she have?
Twenty-minutes later she was on the road, cocooned against the dark night in a bubble of metal and glass as she drove anxiously. With a racing heart and a blank mind as she tried not to think of what lay ahead, but concentrated on finding The Lion and Pheasant.
The car slowed as she squinted through the screen, peering at street names, moving on, finding another. She stopped and reversed a few feet. Riverdale Lane. She swung the car into a narrow back ally of a road with few streetlights. The street looked deserted as she crawled along, heading toward the one sign of life.
Stacey parked across the road with mounting trepidation. A dark, grime covered building towered before her. A place that had definitely seen better days. Her foot falls reverberated ominously around the street as she crossed the road and entered. The small reception hall was deserted and poorly lit. The place stank of stale beer and tobacco smoke. A narrow little counter occupied a corner beside the stairs. She glanced at the stairs and for a brief moment considered going straight up. It would be better if someone, anyone, knew she was here.
She rang the bell on the counter. A heavyset man walked out of the bar, he looked her up and down, surprise evident on his face. He was unused to seeing clients so expensively dressed, much less a woman.
"Can I help you miss?"
"Room four please."
His expression changed. He understood. A prostitute no less, he should have known. Still, they rarely appeared in his establishment looking so upmarket.
"Straight up the stairs darling," His tone changed, more of an equal, "You'll find four on your left."
Stacey thanked him politely and climbed up the stairs, glancing back once quickly to find him at the foot of the stairs, peering up at her as she climbed. Her footfalls intruded on the stillness surrounding her, adding to her frayed nerves. Rounding the top of the stairs, she heard a telephone ring somewhere down the corridor. It was answered. Maybe it was the Landlord announcing her arrival to the guest in number four.
She paused, peering down the dimly lit corridor. If she thought the excuse of a reception was poorly lit, the corridor was another matter. A single bulb provided the only light down the narrow landing space. The walls were grubby with peeling wallpaper and heavy cobwebs. She walked the landing, checking the rooms. Number four stood with the door slightly ajar. She knocked, once, and the light door swung back easily. She pushed it open nervously before stepping inside.
A single lamp lit the room. The room was bigger than she expected. An old wardrobe stood against one wall, its door missing. An ancient bed that sagged heavily in the middle took centre stage and on it were several enlarged pictures of Stacey in pose. There was a dresser on which sat the lamp. The curtains were closed at the window and in the darkest corner someone was sitting in a big old chair. Eyes were all that she could see.
"What do you want?" Her voice quivered, unable to disguise her tension.
She shuffled nervously. Not knowing what else to do or say.
"Strip!" The word sliced through the air like a sharp razor.
"What? No — I won't. I'll give you money, but I won't do that. Who are you anyway?"
"I said strip, you slut."
"How dare you call me a slut..."
"Mick... ?" His voice rang out loudly.
Stacey whirled; scared as a door across the landing was flung open and an obese man wearing a stained t-shirt ambled across into the doorway. He was a little too quick, a little too eager to appear at the door. It was staged. He had been expecting the call.
"See them pictures on the bed — pick one of them, anyone you like."
Stacey stepped back as Mick shuffled across to the bed. Her eyes darted sideways, at the figure she couldn't see in the shadows.
"Fucking-hell! These are good." Mick drooled, picking one off from the bed.
"You like it?"
"Like it? She's fucking hot."
"Now look at her — not the picture, her."
Mick looked across at Stacey and she felt her skin crawl.
"That's her in the picture. You want it, it's yours, and you can keep it."
"Now piss off and close the door."
Mick's eyes bounced between the picture in his hand and Stacey standing in the middle of the room as he trundled out, closing the door behind him.
"Strip or everyone in this place will get one, and that's just the start of it. How far do you think you'll get, top of the stairs maybe? Even the front door, but you'll never make it to the street. Now strip you whore."
In the end there was an inevitability about it. She had known all along it would come to this. She didn't fight it and she didn't argue. Mick across the hall already had her picture, and there would be others waiting just as eagerly. She took her coat off and tossed it over the end of the bed. Keeping her back toward him, she began to undo the buttons down her blouse.
"Hold it. Face me, so I can see."
She turned to face him as she pulled the blouse from the waist of her skirt. She tried to ignore him, pretend like he wasn't there as she unbuttoned her cuffs. Without any semblance of ceremony, she pulled her blouse off and laid it out across her coat. She kicked her high heels off as she unclasped her skirt, riding the zip down and allowing the skirt to glide down to her ankles. She stooped to pick it up, folding it carefully and laying it on the pile.
Movement. She looked up sharply to catch him raising his hips from the chair, shoving his trousers and underwear down to expose his thin white thighs. His shirt-tails parted at the middle to reveal his semi-hard cock. He closed his hand about himself and began to play his hand along it in slow easy strokes.
The sight of him both disgusted her and faintly thrilled her at the same time. She had never seen a man masturbate before. It was like one of those urban myths — you knew it happened — you just never got to see it. His eyes locked on her, watching and waiting.
Impassively she reached up behind and unclasped her bra, letting the straps ride down her shoulders and fall away from her breasts. Her dark nipples stood out like two targets for his eyes. With as much casualness as she could muster, she pitched her bra on top of her other clothes. Her gaze returned to his pumping hand, growing in pace, sliding effortlessly over his hard cock.
Her heart was beating faster now and his cock was getting bigger. His eyes remained fixed on the thin cotton shield at the top of her thighs as she hooked her fingers into the waist of her panties. They flipped down, turning inside out as they travelled her thighs. She stepped out of them, keeping her gaze on his cock as she dropped her panties on the small pile of her clothes.
She turned to face him, naked and strangely warm. Her nipples felt swollen even at her own humiliation. Her eyes jumped to his and she experienced an odd tingle as she saw his intense gaze fix on the thin line of hair concealing her groove. She inadvertently tensed her thighs, trying to deny and disassociate herself from the growing warmth. He saw.
"Play with yourself."
Her fingers hovered reluctantly, spreading slightly as they slowly moved round from her hip to reach down her body, relaxing her thighs, granting access as she caressed her sex. Her eyes returned to his cock as her middle finger found the channel of her sex and slipped easily down. He was bigger now, much bigger. His head bulging dark purple, slit gaping as he gripped himself fiercely in his hand and pulled back and forth.
This was so revolting and depraved, yet so incalculably stimulating watching him pumping his cock through his hand. She was growing wet, her fingers slick with her own arousal. She pressed her finger against her clit, it felt so good there.
A small gob of seminal fluid leaked from the slit of his cock, glistening in the poor light. Mesmerised she watched, knowing he was getting close now. Her breath was coming faster, her fingers felt good between her thighs. There was no deny it, her body was responding even if her brain was not. A small guttural moan escaped her lips, startling her as she clamped her mouth shut.
"Stop!" He ordered breathlessly. His own hand held his straining cock. "Get over here and suck my cock. Let me see what a slut you are."
Stacey felt a surge of conflict well up within her, an urge to defy him, and through it came a sense of calm. She had known it would come to this or something worse. You didn't send a pile of naked pictures and demand a meeting without something like this in mind.