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0:13 A Close Shave for Melanie!

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After Lou’s so-called ‘infallible’ vetting procedure I’m more than a bit pissed off that Zahra and me were offered out to eight sex-starved soldiers. Yeah! I know we ended up having a great time but it could have been very different. So I’m gonna confront Lou with this and also explain why I gave away £1000 of her money. She has gone upmarket, so she now has an office with a secretary. OK – it’s actually a room above the pub with two desks - Lou behind one, smoking a cigarette in a long tortoiseshell holder, and Stas behind the other filing her nails. I’m ready for a confrontation as I fling open the door – but Lou is already around her wobbly desk, clutching a sheet of paper, kissing me insincerely on each cheek. “Melanie Darling! I’m so glad you came…I’ve just received an unusual request…I know it’s really short notice…but I don’t know who else to turn to…a client wants an escort…blonde hair…educated…and must be a fluent French speaker! I stop in my track – the ‘educated’ bit is intriguing – usually requests have descriptions like ‘slutty’ or ‘good foot jobber’ or ‘must have worn shoes all day’ but this is very different. Still – I am here for a confrontation until Lou says: “Because it’s such short notice it’s only fair I waive my commission!” I hesitate – for ‘commission’ read ‘pimping fee’ but I am already thinking how I can compensate Zahra so I grab the computer printout and flounce out.

So now I am walking along a hotel corridor with the familiar dread of pitching myself into the unknown. The guy said educated so I’m trying not to look like a two-bit tranny hooker. I must have littered my bed with at least a dozen outfits before plumping for a simple white blouse with a black silk pencil skirt and black patent high heel peep toe pumps. Zahra came round earlier and she managed to tease my blonde curls into something perched on top of my head, held in place by what seems like a dozen clips and a couple of knitting needles. I’m wearing a gold Albert chain around my neck with a matching bracelet and my lipstick and nails are a subtle strawberry colour. Standing outside the room I give myself a quick spray of Amouage Gold and knock on the door.

The client is in his sixties, long grey curly hair, open neck white shirt outside faded jeans and bare feet. He looks rather Bohemian and not at all threatening and I begin to relax. He is sitting in a hotel tub chair with his feet on another. He removes them and gestures to the empty chair. I sit down and cross my bare legs demurely. There is a round table next to him with an old book bound in red leather and an old-fashioned black leather doctor’s bag. He passes the book to me – ‘A season in Hell’ by Arthur Rimbaud – this tortured soul was the ‘enfant terrible’ of 19th Century French literature and his best works were completed in his teens. They are laden with doom and reflect his tortured affair with Paul Verlaine. This is going to be tortuous for me too as I know the prose is technically difficult. I open the thin volume, look at the text for a moment and hope my French is up to this, before I begin to read aloud: ‘Jadis, si me souviens bien… - Once, if my memory serves me well, my life was a banquet where every heart revealed itself, where every wine flowed.’ I am so concentrating on the difficult prose that I hardly notice that he has lifted my legs onto his lap. His fingers gently trace along the lines where shoe meets foot as I continue…’One evening I took beauty in my arms – and I thought her bitter – and I insulted her.’

His fingers probe inside the peep toes, under my own toes and I try to lose myself in this anguished poem. ‘I have a horror of all trades and crafts. Bosses and workers, all of them peasants, and common.’ He slips first one shoe off then the other and lays them reverently on the carpet as I continue: ‘Seek death with all your desires, and all selfishness, and all the seven deadly sins.’ He has one of my soles to his face, his breathing shallow and measured as he skims his nose over every inch of my foot. His breath seems to caress my flesh as he inhales my scent and, with a struggle, I concentrate on the poetry. ‘But orgies and the companionship of women were impossible for me.’ My other foot is in his lap so I start to seek him with my toes. I can feel the bulge beneath his trousers and run my foot up its length. He misses a beat and then continues with my foot, going over the same examination again but this time flicking his tongue in and out like a snake as he inhales. I have only recently added a new trick to my ‘foot job’ repertoire to I grasp his zip fastener between two toes and gently pull it towards me. I have to really multi-task as I figure the poetry is a big thing for him and I’m trying to read the lines and grip the tiny tag of the zip, finding it by touch alone. ‘The power of the poison twists my arms and legs, cripples me…’ I honestly don’t think he notices, so absorbed is he with my foot, when I finally succeed in opening his zip. He most definitely does when I slip my toes inside his shorts and he looks up from my other foot. Even I am not dextrous enough to take his cock out with one foot so I gently bend my knee and he releases my other foot. I keep reading, quite enjoying the prose, as I swiftly release his throbbing, hard cock. ‘A man who wants to mutilate himself is certainly damned…’

As soon as he has sprung from his shorts, he retrieves my foot and commences to lick it all over, sucking on each of my toes, sliding the painted nails between his lips and gently nibbling my heels. My foot is sticky and wet as he releases it and immediately replaces it with the other. My wet foot slides easily over his cock and it swells, as I gently stroke it. ‘I ought to have a special hell for my anger, a hell for my pride, a hell for sex, a whole symphony of hells.’ Eventually I have the two cleanest feet in the Northern Hemisphere and he releases my other foot. I immediately bend my legs and place both my soles over his shaft and slide my wet feet up and down, I knead his shiny purple tip with my prehensile toes, taking the shiny clear precum from him and transferring it to my arches where it is rubbed into the rest of his cock as I stroke him ever faster. He opens the black bag as I read on. I only watch with half an eye as he takes a bottle of water, a white container and a small brush from the bag and lays them on the table. However, my heart misses a beat as he unfolds a gleaming steel cutthroat razor and sharpens it on a leather strop. My voice falters as he finishes and tests the edge on the hairs on his hand. This is my worst nightmare, alone in a hotel room with some demented Hell-inspired slasher. I try to pull my feet free but he holds one ankle and nods first at the book then at his cock. Petrified I continue in a quavering voice. ‘I am the slave of the Infernal Bridegroom, the one who seduced the foolish virgins.’

I continue to read as he wets the brush then lathers up in the white ceramic container. Then he dabs the white foam on the sole of my foot and I almost cum in my panties there and then. It is the most exquisite sensual feeling as he covers my foot with foam, the soft bristles finding their way into every tiny crack and crevice. I can barely concentrate on the Gothic verses of Rimbaud’s epic. ‘I envied the bliss of animals – moles, the slumber of virginity.’ Then I catch the flash of overhead light on the steel blade and I hold my breath. It is all I can do to keep caressing his cock with my free foot as I expect the searing pain at any time. Instead he proceeds to slowly and carefully shave every inch of my foot with the cutthroat. The feel of the blade on my sole as it scrapes the foam away is unbelievable and my own cock is slippery with copious amounts of leaking precum. I know there is nothing to shave but the feeling of the razor is simply orgasmic and I stroke him with renewed vigour as I squirm in my seat, stimulating my own cock. ‘I am an automaton now – reading without seeing...’

He finishes one foot and starts on the other. My shaved foot is tingling, every single nerve ending stimulated. He has even shaved between my toes without so much as a tiny nick on the soft flesh. My foot caresses his cock which is engorged with blood, the blue veins standing proud as he nears his climax. Even above my own voice I can hear the soft scrape of the razor as he removes the soap from my heel in intricate little movements. I steal a glance at him and he is totally absorbed in the task. I try to bring the prose to its crescendo in time with his tumescent cock. ‘Oh! Poor dear soul, eternity then might not be lost!’ He is shaving the soft flesh on the inside of my foot and it is all I can do not to move as the sensation is so overpowering. It is taking all my self-control to keep my foot still in his hand, countering the stroking of its twin and my butt wriggling in the chair, bringing on my own orgasm. ‘Through what crime, by what fault did I deserve my present weakness?’

At last he slides the razor under my arch one last time and I curve my foot reflexively like I’m wearing a high heel shoe. He releases my foot, it is pink and glowing like it has been freshly scrubbed. Both feet unite and they cup his cock between their soles and stroke him, squeezing his hard shaft between the tingling flesh. I climax first – he is the client and I am supposed to pleasure him - so a tiny squeal is the only indication of my ecstasy - as my writhing slows and I savour the hot wetness between my legs. His own climax follows immediately as I reach the last verse of the poem. His penis swells and he grunts as he thrusts his pelvis towards me and the first jet of cum shoots straight up my skirt onto the front of my panties, to join the spreading wetness of my own orgasm. With another gasp, the second joins it then a third before the subsequent jets lose their power and come to rest over the inside of my thighs. I am still grasping his pumping cock as I utter the final sentence. ‘I went through women’s hell over there; - and I will be able now to possess the truth within one body and one soul.’

Without a word he kisses each foot, replaces my shoes and I return the book. I straighten my skirt, aware of the jizz that is slowly making its way down the inside of my thighs in gooey rivulets. I stand expectantly in front of him still eyeing the razor nervously. I’m going to stand my ground because this is business – but I need not have worried. Out of the black bag he draws a fold of notes, places them in the book and hands it to me. I take it and his thumb momentarily presses mine to the book. It is the only intimate gesture of the evening and is as close to speaking to me as he is going to get. It must mean something but I’m not sure, so I curtsey, bid him ‘au revoir’ and leave the room. I get to the lift before I check my earnings. No wonder Lou was happy to waive her ‘placement fee’. I can see from the thin wedge of notes that I will have earned far less than I normally get out of bed for – let alone into bed! The guy obviously wanted me to have the book so I flick through the pages expecting some hidden stash of money. There is nothing and I idly turn to the frontspiece - and my eyes widen. The book is dated 1873. It is a first edition of Rimbaud’s work. I think I read somewhere that there were only 500 of the books printed. If I am right, this is worth a small fortune. If I give it to Lou she will only use it to stop her desk wobbling – best that Melanie keeps it!

Love

Melanie

xxxx



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