London Calling - James Craig [65]
Nicholas liked to party. His wife wasn’t expecting him home for another twelve hours and, for the first time in a long time, he could enjoy a little freedom.
Outside the car, the top floor of the garage was silent, bathed in an industrial yellow glow from the sporadic strip lighting dotted about the concrete ceiling. Most of the parking spaces were empty, and he had seen no other people since he arrived. Gripping the steering wheel, he rocked slowly backwards and forwards in his seat, feeling a huge surge of adrenaline as he thought about what was coming next.
Within half an hour, he would get to fuck a total stranger with abandon. This was always the best part of these sessions: the anticipation of imminent, guaranteed, greedy sex. Exotic sex. Strange sex. Degrading sex. Expensive sex. Sex that was all about him.
That was what Serenissima was all about.
Serenissima was a Swiss-based agency that he had been introduced to by a business contact in Zurich, three years ago. It was a ‘complete-experience agency’, and he used them every couple of months. Usually at the end of a tough business trip like this one, or when his regular life just became too boring for words.
The agency was invisible. It billed one of his trading partners in Liechtenstein, so that the cost was lost amongst the thousands of transactions that went through the books at his financial services boutique in St James’s every year.
He paid Serenissima to take control, and its slogan was No limits, no boundaries, no preconceptions. He set the time; they set the where and the how. And the who.
It could be anyone, male or female, aged eighteen to seventy. That was part of the delicious pleasure of the game: the freedom from choice. When you met your host, you could say ‘No, thank you’, of course. But if you ended it then and there, it was your loss … and your cost. He always accepted what he had paid for, and had found that there was an important lesson there, too – don’t prejudge things. The regulation-pretty girls were fine, but they were the least eager to please, the least imaginative and the least welcoming. On the other hand, the best session he’d ever had was with a sixteen-stone, sixty-two-year-old black lady who had jumped straight on to his dick and fucked him raw for three hours straight. He could barely walk for days afterwards. Thinking about it later, he’d decided that it was probably the best sex of his life, even better than the Peruvian triplets he’d enjoyed in Chiclayo one time. He’d tried to re-book her, but that was not allowed. Serenissima’s strict rule was that everything was a one-time-only arrangement.
Another agency rule was no artificial time limits – once you come, they go. He therefore knew all about the dangers of getting too excited too quickly. The one encounter where he had felt short-changed had lasted barely five minutes, from start to finish. The boy had deliberately brought him to a frenzy in record time. The little whore had then spat out his juices, got dressed and was out the door almost before Hogarth realised what had happened. It was, he thought ruefully afterwards, probably one of the most expensive blowjobs in history.
From then on he had always made sure that he got value for money. As part of his pre-Serenissima ritual, he now reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a packet of tissues. From a bag on the back seat, he fished out an Armenian porn mag that he had acquired on his trip, and propped it up against the dashboard. With a contented sigh, he unzipped his fly and got to work.
After a couple of minutes’ uncomplicated pleasure, he had completed the job. Dropping the used tissues out of the window, he felt sated, and wondered if he might not just go home. But, before he could reach a conclusion, there was a click, the passenger door opened, and a modest frame slid into the seat next to him. There was a glimpse of flesh and the sound