Sometimes, in the middle of doing it, I find my mind drifting: trying to figure out how the hell I got here.

I’ll be on my knees in an alleyway, or squeezed into the footwell of a car that’s far too small for what the owner intended to do in it, and I’ll think: when you were 14, Molly, is this how you expected things to turn out? Tongue flat under a stranger’s cock, moaning and rubbing myself, about to cum as he fires his load into me, and clutching the few pound notes he pushed into my hand.

Did I expect this?

And I didn’t. I don’t know what I expected, but not this. But you know what: I don’t regret a thing.

Let me tell you how I got here, and maybe you’ll understand why I’m OK with it. Not just OK – I love it.

I guess, because you want to jerk off at this, I should describe myself aged 14. Honestly, don’t get overexcited too soon! I think I was pretty much average. Kinda pretty, brunette, but not a glamourous, glossy black hair – just slightly wavy, chestnut brown. I needed glasses but tried not to wear them, but that wasn’t because I was attempting to be sexy, it’s because I was a tomboy and glasses weren’t a good idea in a game of football with the kids at school.

My tits weren’t huge, by lips didn’t scream “blowjob”, my arse wasn’t spectacular. I wasn’t, in other words, some fantasy sex object like they always seem to be in erotic writing. I had long legs, which was a good feature, and I think I was “perky”: so those are good things I definitely had going for me. And I have always had a really nice curve from the bottom of my back into my arse, which it makes it stand out and looks great when I bend at the waist with my legs wide apart ... not that I did anything like that back then. That happened ... later ... wait and see.

I look at photos of myself aged 14, and I look like an excited puppy – bouncy, full of energy, and ready to play. I was an innocent.

I can’t remember exactly when it changed – when I stopped being innocent. Memory is a strange thing, and some stuff is indelibly marked on my mind’s eye, while other things (which you’d think were important) are hazy. So I can’t remember the date this happened, and I can’t even remember whether I was still 14, or just turned 15.

But I know exactly what happened, and exactly where.

Some friends and I went shopping in the local city centre, in northern England, pretty much every weekend. We weren’t rich – not very poor either – but we didn’t often buy much. A £5 top from Primark, or cheap makeup from Boots. One weekend, as usual, we had a McDonalds and hung out for a while, and then all went to catch various buses home.

My bus stop was right by the main train station, and I remember standing there for maybe 15 minutes, bored, looking around at the passing traffic. I didn’t have a phone – if I had, I’d have been staring at that, and none of this stuff would have happened. I can’t even imagine how different my life would be now.

But instead of looking at Facebook or texting friends, I was just stood, gazing into space. I remember seeing a girl across the road from me. Nobody was around here: it was the edge of the city centre, and a main route for traffic heading out to the suburbs, and other than passing traffic and a few people at bus stops, there was nobody here.

Just the girl.

She was maybe 25 or 30, with mousy-brown hair pulled up on top of her head, and tresses tumbling past her ears. She was wearing a mid-length coat that she hugged around herself, as though it was cold – but it was maybe 4pm in the summer, and the coat seemed out of place. Heels and heavily patterned stockings. Even from 50 feet away across the road, I could see her make-up looked ... well, it didn’t look like other people’s. There was too much of it, or it was too bright or dark, or it was badly applied or smeared, or something.

And she wasn’t heading anywhere, just ... walking. Slowly. Meandering, really.

She walked about 30 yards, stopped, looked up and down the street. She causally lit a cigarette, and then meandered back again, and stopped just where the railway lines crossed the main road. In the shadows, under the bridge, she ducked her head to look into a passing car and nodded. The car slowed, swung around and drove back. And then he turned again, drove past her a second time, and she nodded again. She strolled deeper into the shade under the bridge, and watched the car swing around again.

On the car’s third pass, she opened her coat and I saw she was basically naked underneath. Tiny microskirt and a bra, but nothing else. He stopped the car. She walked towards it ... And my bus arrived. Shit! English, double-decker bus, right between me and the scene unfolding in front of me. I was gutted. I’d worked out what the girl and car were doing, of course, and I wanted to see it all happen, even though I remember thinking “what IS going to happen?” I was an innocent, you see. Not a moron, but not exactly familiar with sex, other than the shower-head and the handle of a particularly well-endowed hairbrush that felt delightful.

I dashed onto the bus, sat by a window and looked out, but she’d already gone. And I knew, deep inside me, that she was probably already ... well ... what happens inside a car when a hooker gets in?

I didn’t know.

Where do they go? To a hotel, or a field to lie down, or do the do it in the car?

I didn’t know.

Does he pay her first, or after? Do they haggle?

I didn’t know.

Does he know her name? Does she ask his? Do they kiss?

I didn’t know. I didn’t even think much past kissing, for Christ’s sake. I didn’t know enough about this. I only knew it excited me.

It was only then that I realised I was soaking wet. Not just a bit damp, but absolutely dripping. My inner thighs were sticky, and I felt I could almost smell my sex. My nipples too: rock hard. I was tense with sexual thoughts, and the moment I got home I ran to my bedroom and fucked myself with the handle of the hairbrush for about an hour.

A week passed. I was in school, and couldn’t do anything, but all I thought about ... I mean all I thought about, was that girl. Not the man in the car, just her. How she walked. How she dressed. How she smoked. At the time, I didn’t smoke, but in an instantly I knew I wanted to. I didn’t wear heels, but I knew I would buy some that weekend.

Because the other thing I knew was, I was going back there. I wasn’t going shopping with friends; I was going on my own to buy something that looked as slutty and naughty as that girl did, or as much as I thought I could get away with. My mum would wash them and see them, and I thought it was probably OK for me to dress more girly – she was always encouraging me to be more feminine, and stop being such a tomboy. But my dad ... he was as dry as an old stick, a nice guy but timid and rigid and judgemental about everything. I’d have to be careful to buy things that were sexy enough to fulfil my fantasy, but not so slutty that mum would complain.

And I was definitely going to buy cigarettes and find somewhere to hide and learn to smoke them. You have to be 16 to buy cigarettes in England, but I thought if I dressed sexier first, I could look older and then buy cigarettes. And then I’d learn to smoke, and that would make me look and feel as great as that prostitute looked. Closer to the fantasy.

But most of all, this weekend I was going to watch the prostitutes. And that’s exactly what I did. From that weekend onwards, in fact, all I did, pretty much every weekend for about a year, was go to my local city centre and walk where the hookers were.

Of course, I was 15, and even in the high heels that my mum LOVED but my dad tutted at, I wasn’t passing for a whore. Even when I bought ankle boots and a short skirt that made my legs look amazing, and even when I wore more makeup than I’d ever worn in my life (which wasn’t much, let’s be honest).

Even when I dressed in all that, and had mastered sexily smoking and rolling my hips as I sauntered., nobody stopped their car to ask me for sex.

Because, even though I didn’t really admit it to myself, after a couple of months, that’s basically what I wanted to happen: a car to stop and proposition me. Another step in the fantasy. I wanted to hear what the men said to hookers, cos I had no clue.

I knew I would put my hand on my chest, gasp, act shocked and say, “NO WAY” and run, but I also knew that if a car did stop, it would be ammunition for my frankly enormous masturbation habit. Whoever asked would be seared onto my brain, and no matter how old or ugly he was, he would be the thing I wanked to from then on.

I knew all this, and I knew I’d run, and I knew it would scare me a bit, but I wanted it anyway; and the fact that it hadn’t happened yet just made me more and more frustrated.

I decided I needed to up my game. I went shopping again, and this time I bought knee-high socks and a tartan skirt. Don’t ask me why: it just seemed sexy to me. My real school uniform was as sexy as a toad, but I knew men loved girls in sexy schoolgirl outfits, so – without being overt about it – I basically bought one, or the closest thing I dared.

Mum loved the skirt. She said it made my legs look amazing, and she was glad I dressed that way. She wasn’t wild about my smoking, but she smoked too, so we now had something to do – stand in the garden and smoke, and talk about clothes, which a year earlier I’d hated! We talked about clothes and make-up, and about men (she was obsessed with George Clooney, and after a while talked about him pretty explicitly). But she disapproved of my make-up. I wasn’t that I was wearing too much, it was that it was the same old crap I’d bought before, more liberally applied. She said it wasn’t good enough, wasn’t the right look to go with the new clothes. She said I should get a make-over. And she said she’d pay.

So – next major life event! Mum took me shopping in the same city centre. We drove into town, and went to Boots and found somebody to do a proper make-over for me. Make-up tests, choosing lipsticks ... and mum was amazing. She picked out really glossy, dark colours which made my mouth look really alluring, and she encouraged the girl on the make-up counter to try richer, darker colours that made me look, well, like a bimbo! I’m dark haired, but light skinned, and the new colours brought my entire shade down, made me look tanned and glossy and lustrous. I loved it. We even bought hair dyes, to make my chestnut colouring into a profoundly jet black.

I felt 1000% better as we walked back to the car, a cigarette at my lips, shimmying my hips, with my long legs on display and my mum proudly by my side. I got looks, and those looks made me feel deeply sexual and valuable. I felt like I had an actual identity: it was all built around sex, but it was mine, and I loved the new “me” I was becoming.

Mum and I got in the car, and headed home, straight through the red-light district. We stopped at traffic lights. I was trying to glance around, quite subtly, to see if any of the familiar faces I’d got to know were working at 3:00 on a Saturday afternoon. Even after about a year, I still loved to look at them. And mum saw me looking.

I felt embarrassed and pretended I was looking at the bridge or some stupid shit. But mum ... Well, my mum is amazing. The lights changed, and mum indicated and turned left, off our route, and straight into the red-light area. Left again, up a side-street, and another turning until we saw girls on a corner.

And mum slowed – not to a stop, or even a crawl, but definitely slowed – and said, “There they are Molly”.

And then sped off.

The silence that followed lasted about 3 lifetimes, and when I got home, I had to wank myself into a coma, I was so hot. I had the hairbrush in my throat, and my fingers in my cunt, and I was at it for ages. I’d been practicing sucking the hairbrush for a while, because it felt like something a sexual person like me should know how to do. I hadn’t had sex, but I was, in my mind, as sexy as those hookers, and I wanted to know how to do it. So in went the hairbrush, and I frigged myself stupid.

And when I eventually emerged from my room, I found mum, flushed, emerging from hers, and we shared a knowing little glance before heading off in separate directions.

That weekend, I went back to the city and bought a dildo and got my nose pierced. Mum loved the piercing.

With mum seeming to be OK about my new look, my clothes got sluttier, and dad started to complain openly about them. No girl of his ... You’re not going out ... Put some clothes on ... It’s not right, and your age. All that shit.

But mum just told him to shut up. No fucking about, just “Shut up Simon”. It’s a woman’s right to choose what she looks like, she said. And she reminded him that that it wasn’t as though he was a saint: he loved to look at hot girls, and she knew his type (I didn’t know what that meant ... keep reading, I find out). So, mum said, it’s hypocritical to stop Mol looking like she wants to - why shouldn’t his own family look like the girls he wanks to?

I laughed out loud at that, and dad went bright red and hunched in his chair, uncomfortable as hell.

Big row, but mum won, because mum’s awesome, and I felt emboldened to buy more short skirts, tights with suspender-style tops, higher heels. I still really wanted a coat like the one the original hooker had flashed open at the car, but I could never find one, but I found a mock animal-skin jacket that looked amazing.

I was now walking around on Saturdays with a new sense of sexual confidence and sluttiness ... but still, nobody had stopped for me, which was my dream!

All that changed after Mum announced that I was getting older, and shouldn’t have to come home at 8pm. I could stay until the last bus, which was 11. Dad almost worked up the courage to complain, but mum and I just stared at him, and he sighed, resigned to his place.

So finally, on Saturdays, I got to be in the red-light area after dark, when the streets were busy.

And finally, a car stopped.

I can picture exactly where I was walking. Deep under the bridge, by the streetlights, and it was raining. The pavement was glossy, and a car stopped, blinding me in its lights. Blue Vauxhall. My cunt twitched as he wound down his window, but I kept walking because in my mind I wasn’t actually a hooker, I was just a fantasy. I hadn’t done anything wrong. I was playing a game, and of course if anybody asked me to get in the car with them, I’d say no. If I kept on walking, nobody could accuse me of being a prostitute, and nobody could arrest me. If I said no, or ignored him, or shrieked and acted offended, I could deny everything that I was doing.

All I had to do was say no.

“Are you working?”, he asked.

“Yes”.

The door opened. I didn’t even pause. He didn’t speak, he drove into an industrial estate and found a dark spot – clearly done this before. He stopped, left the engine running, and said “You look nice”.

Thanks.

Right now, I can’t remember what he looked like. Maybe 40? Not fat, not thin, pretty indistinct. Weirdly, I remember a lot about the car’s interior, cos I was just staring at the dashboard in panic. My mouth was dry, I needed a drink of water, or a smoke, or something to calm me down. I don’t know if I was horny, I was too nervous to even tell any more.

I didn’t know what to do next, I hadn’t really thought about it.

He said, “Thirty for oral?” and I nodded, and he lifted his arse off the seat and pulled his pants down, and then somehow – don’t remember moving - I was knelt on the passenger seat and his cock was in my mouth. My first ever blowjob. I remember his dick was hotter and thicker than I’d imagined. I’d done fantasy blowjobs on the hairbrush - or later the dildo I’d bought - over and over again, but that’s a lump of latex, and this ... this was a real cock. It was warm and soft, and pulsed. It was heavier than I’d imagined – I could feel its weight resting on my tongue. And it was thrillingly, incredibly alive.

I had no problem swallowing it down. It wasn’t tiny, not huge either, but after practicing with a 10-inch dildo or my hairbrush handle while I wanked 5 times a day for literally months, I easily deepthroated him. He groaned, and his fingers wrapped into a fist in my hair.

I desperately wanted to rub my cunt now, but my hands were on his lap, holding my weight, and for some bizarre reason I felt embarrassed to do anything so sexual as touching myself in front of a stranger, even though his dick was delicious in my mouth. He tensed and quivered, and I slurped and made drooling noises like I’d seen in porn. He leaked into my mouth, and at the time I remember thinking he was pissing and thinking ... well, it seems I’m OK with that! But it was actually precum, something I’d heard about but had no idea could be so copious.

I wanted to take his cock out and lick it, but he had hold of me and was fucking me now. I remember looking around as he hit the back of my throat, because from down there all I could see was his pants, shirt and gritty pubes; but as I glanced I saw a bottle of water in the door pocket, and I thought “Christ I want a drink after this” because I’d been so parched with nerves.

But then he grunted, and jerked, and my mouth was flooded. I swallowed some, and more of it drooled out and onto his balls and his thigh. He let go of my hair, and I realised my scalp was starting to hurt but I hadn’t noticed. I was breathing heavily, and didn’t really want to look in his eyes just yet, so I stayed down there, and licked the cum off him and ate it. Turns out, men love this. I didn’t have any idea, I was just trying to avoid conversation.

He hadn’t given me money. I forgot to ask. I was about to get out of the car a mile from where he picked me up, in a place I didn’t know, when he said “Don’t you want paying, then”, and I made a nervous laugh and took the cash, and realised I needed to stay in his car for the journey back.

I didn’t care about the cash: I just wanted to fuck everybody in the world at once. I’ve been chasing that sexual high ever since.

He drove me back to where he’d picked me up, and I smoked about 3 cigarettes waiting for the bus, hoping they’d disguise the smell of cum before I got home.

It was Tuesday before I told my mum. I know, it sounds mad to tell your mum, but I did.

We were smoking in the garden, and because it was always easy to talk to her about clothes and makeup, I asked her about lipstick that doesn’t smudge. She gave me a knowing look and asked who I was kissing, and I giggled and didn’t answer. She asked again, a little more seriously, and I said, “I’m not kissing anybody”. I don’t know why, but I must have slightly emphasised “kissing”, because after a pause she said, “Well ... what are you doing with somebody then”?

I didn’t say a word, I just looked at my patent leather pumps and smoked. She started to speak, then stopped and peeked in through the French doors to see if dad was in the kitchen, and then she whispered, “Are you doing it safely?”

What?

“Sex”

Mum!! I’m not ... I haven’t had sex!

“Oral sex, then”

I didn’t say anything, just stared at my shoes and hoped an alien spaceship would beam me up and do terrible experiments on me. Anything was better that this conversation.

She smiled and hugged me and said “It’s OK Molly, we’ve all done it, you didn’t invent blowjobs. But who is it?”

I said, like a stroppy teenager hiding the truth, “I dunno” and walked to my room in a huff.

Ten minutes later, she came to see me. I could tell she was concerned or serious, because she entered my room very slowly, and stood by the door, while sat by my mirror doing my makeup, and pretending she wasn’t there.

She said, “What do you mean ‘I dunno’?”

I just ignored her and kept applying lipstick. Fuck it, I thought, I know it’s Tuesday and I have school tomorrow, but fuck it: I’m not staying home if this is how it’s gonna be, and I could be chasing a delirious thrill in the red-light area. Fuck it, I’m getting slutty and going out.

She asked again – what did I mean by “I dunno”.

And I snapped. “I don’t fucking know, OK! Just some guy”

She sat down on my bed. I didn’t get a sense she was angry, but I knew I looked guilty, and I felt flushed. I wasn’t feeling guilty, but I knew I should be, and that in itself made me feel guilty. I think I started to cry. She said, kindly, “It’s OK Mol, whatever you did ... as long as it doesn’t hurt you and you like it, it’s OK”.

I was definitely crying now. I sat on the bed next to her and after a moment I reached out to my bag. I pulled out the £30 and pushed it into her hand. And we say silently for what felt like hours, mum frowning slightly at the cash crumpled in her hand.

She nodded to the money and said, “Do you want me to look after this?”

I shrugged, Yeah, unable to look at her for more than an instant.

She took a deep breath and said, “Do you want me to look after all of it”

And without saying a word, we’d both admitted I was hooking. And she’d told me she wasn’t going to stop it.

She said “You can have it back any time you want to buy something. Y’know, something ... nice”.

And she looked at my skirt and stockings. Nice. Nice like that.

After she left, I was soaked again. I was horny a lot of the time now, but I remember thinking: I was definitely NOT horny when the conversation started, and definitely AM horny now. Does that mean ... and it sounds mad now, cos it’s so obvious ... does that mean the IDEA of being a hooker turns me on?

Well ... duuuuh.

We didn’t tell dad, of course. Not that he’d have the power to do much. Mum gave me a lift to the city centre at 5pm at the weekend. I changed clothes in the car, so I could wear the sluttiest things I owned – the things that I knew would made dad angry, and then make him wank in the bathroom.