Chapter 11: Greta

Men have always been willing to pay for sex, and the Germans have made sure that the experience is as efficient, as reliable, and as comfortable as a BMW car. Prostitution is legal in Germany but there are very few streetwalkers, and none in Celle. The whores in the town work in brothels or bars, where they have to be registered and are subject to regular medical inspections. All brothels are regulated, registered, inspected, and probably more importantly, taxed. These taxes help pay for the local police, who make regular checks to ensure that there are no sex slaves, under-age girls, drug dealing or gangsters involved in establishments like The Copper Kettle. The girls get employment, without being exploited or diseased, their customers get value for money and not AIDS, and the state gets some revenue. Everyone is happy, except for gangsters, pox doctors, and feminists.

The Copper Kettle was at the forefront of technology when it came to customer service. Each table had a telephone, with which you ordered your drinks, and anything else you fancied that was on the menu. I picked up the phone; the light on my table came on, as did my table's indicator behind the bar.

"Schnapps, Becks, und Greta, jetz!" This was barked out in my authoritative German voice.
'Jawohl, Mein Herr. ' Came the prompt reply. Speak like that to bar staff in Britain and you would probably end up with a knuckle sandwich, or a Liverpool handshake.
A few moments later Greta approached my table; it was dim in the Kettle, –so maybe Clarky wasn't such a moron after all–and she didn't recognise me until after she had set down the tray and sat down herself. When she saw who it was fear flamed in her face.

"Don't worry, Greta," I said soothingly, "I'm here for pleasure, not business."
The relief that swept over her face made her look years younger, and I realised that she was quite an attractive woman; she must have been really something in her younger days. Not that it would have mattered if she had a face like a back of a bus as I was in 'jump on a frog' mode.

"I've not seen Jazzer since you took him back." She spoke quickly, as if fearing bad cop would suddenly appear.

Jazzer was still visiting the Kettle most nights, but now it was to get into Ushi's knickers as soon as she finished work, and I'm sure that they were both enjoying the experience immensely.

"I'm only here to give you a right good stuffing." I spoke in English, but Greta must have got the gist of my message as she smiled, warmly and widely. "What have you chosen from off the menu, or would you rather take me home and have it for free?"

"You're a working girl, and I wouldn't want you to go without proper pay for a proper evening's work."
I didn't want to get too personal with her, however tempting the offer might be. My intention was to keep my relationship with her on a purely business footing. She smiled her thanks, and then indicated the menu.

I should explain that, with typical Teutonic efficiency, each table at the Copper Kettle had a menu detailing the prices of all the drink, food, and sexual deviance on offer. I looked at the sexual menu, which included a number of perversions I'd never heard of, along with many of old, well-loved standards. All were priced in 30 minutes slots. You chose a number -- 'I'll have 30 minutes of 22, followed by an hour of 17, please, ' -- and gave your order in via the telephone.
The bar staff would then check availability. 'Sorry sir, 17 is off until 1 a.m. Will 14 do in lieu?'
When your order was ready you paid at the bar and then took your 'purchase' upstairs.

I leaned across the table and held Greta's hands, which were soft and smooth, and said, with absolute sincerity. "What I want is for us to fuck each others brains out."
She smiled sweetly."In that case may I recommend number four, for one hour?"

After I had paid at the bar we practically ran up the stairs; the plush carpet finished on the first turn in the staircase and her high heels beat a tattoo on the bare boards–-as later they would beat a tattoo on my bare arse—but I'm anticipating. The upper corridor smelt of perfume, sex and sweat; while from behind doors along the corridor came yelps, groans, moans, shrieks, squeals, shouts, and the sound of bare flesh being punished. It was quite a turn on really, not that I needed turning on; I was as randy as a rabid rabbit. We stumbled through the door of our room, a cosy space dominated by a king-size bed. The carpet seemed thick enough for a floor shag, but I hoped it had been cleaned since last being used for that purpose.

Greta was out of her skirt and undoing her blouse whilst I was still getting my shoes off. I always take my shoes off first, as it's a bugger trying to get your trousers and shreddies off over them. She faced me, her full, heavy, tits swaying in her bra, and pulled me to her, thrusting her tongue into my mouth. Whores don't usually go in for kissing their customers, and it came as a welcome surprise. I eagerly reciprocated, and as our tongues slithered together I undid her bra at the same time. How about that for multitasking? I transferred my mouth to her tits and sucked on her flesh. She rubbed herself against my crotch, and said in a throaty purr." I can feel your peter getting ready to fuck."

My penis hadn't been referred to as 'peter' since my time with Annalise, and I had an instant recall of her. I deflated like a Zeppelin caught in a hail of machine gun fire, thinking I was defaming her memory by being with a whore, conveniently forgetting that Annalise had been a bar girl and part time whore herself. What does that say about the male psyche?
Greta looked worried. "Serge, what is wrong?" She must have misheard when Jazzer addressed me as 'Sarge'.

"Nothing; but call it a prick in future."
She continued to rub her body against me, and life soon returned to the underpants department.

"Serge, I shall suck your pe ... prick." Greta undid my belt and pulled my trousers and pants off in one go. I stepped out of them–- I couldn't have done that with my shoes on–- and John Thomas, glistening in anticipation, rose slowly to the occasion.
Greta knelt before me and her soft hands and wet warm mouth soon had JT at full strength. She continued sucking, stroking, squeezing, and bobbing her head up and down, for a few more moments.
Eventually she pulled her mouth away from a proudly rampant John Thomas and looked up at me. "I like prick; now it is ready for fucking."

She got onto the bed, laid on her back with her legs open and motioned for me to pull down her knickers. As I got hold of the waist band and started to yank them off they tore like paper – of which they were made — with a satisfying and sexy ripping sound.
Greta laughed at the amazed look on my face."You men love to rip panties off. Now fuck me good."
I looked in the side locker for a condom. Although these girls were inspected weekly customers were instructed to wear them.

"You don't need a gummy," Greta said. "I'm clean, and you're the first since my examination."
That was OK by me, but she was dry, and I wasn't sure if she wanted licking. I stuck my face into her nicely trimmed bush and kissed her cunt lips. Quick licking up and down, followed by my tongue flicking at her clit, didn't raise any objection, nor any sounds of pleasure from her. I know that whores seldom if ever cum when working, so I thought, 'Bugger it, I'll do what Gino Frascetti would do, just fuck her for my own enjoyment.'