On Demand

Another lunch hour, another conference, but this time I was dressed for the occasion in my highest heels, my tightest skirt, my sharpest jacket over a lacy camisole. My eyes cruised the bar while I slunk over to order a drink. Not a coffee this time; they can sour the breath so – this time I would go for a cocktail. Something fruity.

I leant over the counter, wiggling my bum out at the rest of the room. The stuttery waiter was lurking in the background stacking glasses in the washer and he smirked at the barman, a sleazy-looking character, when he swaggered up to ask me if he could help.

'Oh, I'm sure you can,' I said, releasing the inner vixen in full effect. 'What I really fancy just now is a Sloe Comfortable Screw.'

The barman double-took; I had to have a stern word with myself to stifle the unvampish giggle struggling to escape my Bitch Red lips. Then his lip flipped up at an Elvis-like angle, his eyes glazed over slightly and he leant right down.

'I'm sure that can be arranged,' he smarmed. Creepy as he was, there was something primitively attractive about him, though he severely overestimated his own charms. 'Or maybe a Screaming Orgasm?'

Much as I enjoy repetition of this beach-holiday-classic conversation, I was not after shagging the man, so I toned down my performance for his benefit.

'Oh no, I don't think so,' I said primly. 'But I do want an umbrella and a sparkler. The full tarty works, if you can manage that.'

His eyes narrowed and he began shaking ice with venomous purpose. I took advantage of his preoccupation to scope out the room again. Knots of business people in twos and threes were drifting in, beginning to line the counter. Some of them tried to catch my eye; even more so when I took a seat on a high bar stool and sipped at my glass of neon-orange slapper juice. Stocking tops in sight, I unbuttoned and removed my jacket, leaving my shoulders bare and my bra visible beneath the fluttery scrap of camisole. I took a straw from a dispenser on the counter top and began to suck the drink up, pouting my lips.

The barman was barely able to serve the other customers, such was his distraction. I was watching him fumble with a bowl of complimentary olives when a voice behind me caused me to spin around.

'How much for half an hour?'

He was not my type. Shortish, balding, the beginnings of a paunch. But, perversely, the idea of being available to the first bidder was exciting enough to overcome my personal tastes.

I looked him up and down and smiled. 'I don't charge,' I said.

He raised his eyebrows. 'I'm sorry, I got the wrong idea,' he said apologetically, holding up his hands and backing away.

'No, no,' I whispered, beckoning him back. 'I mean, if you can persuade me it will be worth my while, I'll give you a freebie.'

He was motionless for a while, staring at my cleavage consideringly.

'I'm not sure I understand,' he said at last. 'Come and sit with me and tell me what you mean.'

I followed him to an alcove and plonked myself on the cream leather banquette beside him.

'So you aren't a working girl?' he opened, taking a draught of his lager and regarding me enquiringly.

'Oh, I am a working girl,' I contradicted him, deciding to get into character. 'But I'm off-duty at the moment. It was a long night.'

'Oh.' The man chuckled with relief. 'I thought I might have offended you there. So . . . you aren't available then?'

'I'm available to the right client,' I told him. 'Although I had a few earlier on, none of them were up to much. Definitely a case of business rather than pleasure.'

'Really?' The man puffed up his chest a little, clearly preparing to convince me of his Real Man status. 'So you . . . you enjoy your work?'

'Oh, yes, I love it,' I told him, sucking on my straw again. 'Do you? Are you here for the conference?'

'Yes.' He shook his head. 'I like my work, but I hate these dos. Bloody icebreakers,

meetings about meetings and all that. I'm dreading this afternoon – role-playing, would you believe?'

'Oh, I like role-playing,' I protested. 'How about we do a little one now, just to get you in the mood?'

'You're quite something, you know,' he said, almost nervously. The power of knowing that this man wanted me, feared rejection from me, would probably go to some lengths to have me, was intoxicating. I felt like Cleopatra.

'Thank you. So are you up for it?'

'Depends what ''it'' is. What's my brief?'

'You're a wealthy businessman. I'm a prostitute.'