Читать книгу Confessions - Various, Glenda Jackson - Страница 5

I work in a sex shop and, I have to admit, the job does have a lot of perks.

I got my job at The Shop through a friend of a friend. I don’t think anyone ever starts working in a sex shop because it’s a legitimate career choice. Or because they’ve applied through the normal channels that result in an applicant being offered a position. I think it’s always a case of the recommendation of a friend of a friend.

Ted knew I was looking for work. Richard told Ted that he had a vacancy at The Shop. Ted must have remembered the wrist-job I gave him the previous evening as a forfeit for a drinking game. And, consequently, Ted put my name forward and orchestrated an introduction.

Richard had reservations. ‘Women can put punters off,’ he explained.

‘I guess that’s possible,’ I agreed. ‘But isn’t it also likely a woman behind the counter might help improve sales?’

I started arguing about how it might make the shop more accessible to female customers, opening his market to an untapped fifty per cent share of the population. I started trying to tell Richard that his core client base of male customers might be more interested in obtaining a female perspective on the suitability of their purchases. He silenced me with a wave of his hand and told me I was talking too much sales bullshit. He said I didn’t know what the hell I was talking about. But he said he’d trial me with a three-month probation.

He said then that there were lots of perks to working in a sex shop. But, before he could explain what those perks were, he went strangely solemn and said, ‘There’s just one rule while you’re working in the shop.’

He spoke in such a peculiar fashion that I fell silent. It sounded like the moment when Bluebeard tells his new wife that she must never try to open the locked door to the seventh room. I urged Richard to continue.

‘You must never have sex with a customer for money.’

I should have balked. I should have told Richard that I didn’t have sex with anyone for money, let alone his grubby little customers in his seedy little shop. What the hell did he think I was? Instead, because I needed the job, I simply told him I would obey that rule.

It never occurred to me that it would be a difficult rule to obey.

All of which is how I ended up spending my evenings surrounded by the town’s largest selection of vibrators and a world-class collection of pornographic magazines and DVDs. I sat behind the counter from noon until ten o’clock at night. I was trying to look efficient but approachable. And I smiled for the steady supply of male customers who scurried furtively through the shop desperate to make their quick and anonymous purchases.

To my surprise, I discovered it was quite an arousing atmosphere.

There were dirty films constantly being played in the background.

Erotic films.

Pornographic movies.

Because I was expected to pick the films that were played, the movies were always those that I wanted to see. In the first few weeks my choices were fairly vanilla. I picked up the Horny Housewife films and the Adventurous Amateur titles. This changed to a broader interest as I experimented with various genres of movie. In later months I found I was picking some of the most depraved titles from the stockroom and happily enjoying them again and again. Whipping Girl remains one of my favourite films. Watching the hero slash a strap across that woman’s backside and seeing her cheeks marked with red stripes …

But I digress.

It’s enough to say that there’s something highly arousing about the sound of fake orgasms being repeated through every working hour of the day. Hearing that soundtrack is definitely one of the perks. And, while it might sound like an arrogant claim, I believe my experience in the shop has allowed me to become enough of a connoisseur to differentiate between the sound of fake orgasms and the sound of real ones.

I could try to be coy and prim and proper and pretend that I was never really affected by the noise. But the truth is it got me warm and moist and horny.

And that was just the background noise.

The magazines were even more stimulating.

Part of my duties involved making sure the magazines were displayed neatly. The shocking cover images startled me at first. They showed strikingly attractive women impaled on impossibly huge erections. They showed scenes of anal sex and lesbian sex and group sex. They were graphically illustrated with hundreds of glossy images. Every picture showed a sexual act recreated in rich and glorious detail.

I borrowed a copy of Pussy Hungry from the shelves and took it back to the counter. Marvelling at the pictures of female mouths devouring female genitals, I worked my way through it from cover to cover. By the time I had finished I was sitting in a puddle of my own arousal. The muscles of my sex were a cramp-like pain of unsatisfied frustration and need.

Two weeks into the job and I was masturbating while I sat at the till.

There was no one in the shop.

Behind me I could hear the sounds of a high-pitched bottle-blonde bimbo screeching her way to a fake climax. This was one of the main stars from Naughty Neighbours XIII, one of those vanilla films I favoured during my first weeks in the shop. And I was reading my way through a filthy story about a woman being spit-roasted in a magazine entitled 3-Way.

I was so horny my pussy muscles were clenching and convulsing in pre-orgasmic spasms. My pants felt as though they had stuck to the wet lips of my labia. I could drink in the gamey scent of my arousal with every breath. And I was desperate to suffer the release of a climax. The need had come over me like a compulsion. I had a desperate yearning to exorcise the arousal from my body.

I was wearing jeans.

A part of me wanted to scrabble with the belt – unfasten that. Scrabble with the buttons – unfasten those. Scrabble with the zip – and then tug the jeans down to my hips so I had unfettered access to myself. But I didn’t have the time or the patience. The need within me was an urgent one and I had no desire to be sat with my jeans and panties wrenched down to my thighs while I frigged myself to an awkward and uncomfortable climax.

I parted my thighs and pushed my fist between my legs. I pressed it hard against the seat of the chair. The base of my thumb jutted towards me and I rubbed myself against it. It only took a roll of my hips, a roll as though I was riding against a broad and rigid cock, and the first tremors of a climax began to shiver through my body. As soon as I realised what I was doing, as soon as I privately acknowledged that I was wanking in the shop, the excitement grew even more intense.

It was behaviour as bold as exhibitionism or outdoor sex. It was behaviour as depraved as anything I had ever done in my life – and no one had ever called me a prude when it came to sex – and it was totally exhilarating.

I rocked my hips slowly back and forth.

The seam at the crotch of my jeans was a rock-hard ridge that pressed against my clitoris. The sensation dithered between an absolute agony and a furious, satisfying delight. Grinding harder and faster against my own wrist and the seam of the jeans, I rubbed myself to a slow and deliberate climax.

The explosion began in the tips of my toes. It was a tingle of pure pleasure that trembled through my legs and caused the muscles in my thighs to spasm. It travelled up to the centre of my sex and culminated in a warm wet eruption between my thighs. I stifled a groan of satisfaction and allowed the ripples of pleasure to eddy through my body.

I was still shivering when the shop’s bell rang and a customer walked in.

I blushed, as though he could have known what I’d been doing. My heart hammered. Each pounding beat made me feel as though I’d been caught in the act. I imagined that I looked dishevelled and ravaged, although the truth was that I probably had a little colour in my cheeks and no other obvious symptoms of satisfaction. Nevertheless, we studied one another until the customer rushed out of the shop without making a purchase.

And I told myself I would never do it again.

Jilling myself in the job had been too risky and I couldn’t face the embarrassment or the consequences of being caught doing something so depraved. And yet, while those arguments made sense, the next morning I dressed in a skirt rather than jeans.

I didn’t even realise why I’d made such a fashion choice until I was browsing through another of the magazines that I happened to have pulled from the shelves: Back Door Sluts.

This was a magazine about anal sex.

It showed glossy pictures of feminine backsides being spread by thick throbbing cocks. Some of the pictures showed dual penetration. Two massive cocks slid side by side into one woman. Those pictures left me breathless with a hungry desire to be the woman in the picture. I could imagine myself being the subject of so much hot, sweaty intimacy. The thought had me close to melting.

I glanced towards the shop’s collection of vibrators with an avaricious eye.

It was the largest selection of dildos and plastic cocks that I had ever seen. I wasn’t even sure where my thoughts were going as I studied them, except for the fact that I was thinking about the perks of the job. I was close to doubling over with a violent sexual need.

I teased a hand against my bare thigh.

That was all that was needed to have me desperate for more.

Within a moment my hand had slipped beneath the hem of my skirt. I tugged the sopping crotch of my panties to one side. And then I was caressing the moist split of my sex and was only seconds away from climaxing.

Wearing a skirt made it easier to bring myself off.

I could draw slow and lazy circles against the thrust of my clitoris. I could slide one finger, and then two, in and out of the warm, syrupy heat of my pussy. Wearing a skirt made it simple for me to squeeze the bud of my clitoris and wring a searing climax from its centre.

I came with a growl of bitter satisfaction.

Maddeningly, after a week, I realised that I needed more.

I took a modest-sized vibrator from the shelves. By a stroke of unprecedented good fortune, I happened to have brought a pair of batteries into the shop with me that day. I think it was the same subconscious stroke of unprecedented good fortune that had me wearing skirts to work each morning. The batteries fitted into the vibrator. Within seconds it was buzzing brightly in my hands. I covered it with a condom and then slipped it inside my pussy.

I was so wet there was no resistance. The buzzing length of plastic simply pushed its way into my cunt.

I almost climaxed from the thrill of that sensation alone. And I held my breath for a moment, savouring the dizzying rush of pleasure that came from the throbbing and pulsing sensations that shot through my pussy.

By the end of that day, I was weak-kneed from suffering multiple climaxes. That was one hell of a perk.

By the end of the month, I had acquired a collection of different-sized vibrators and dildos and plugs from the shop’s shelves. Sometimes I would use two at the same time. I’d have a plug nestled inside my anus and a dithering vibrator throbbing through my pussy. I tried to imagine what it would be like to serve a customer while those delicious sensations were pounding through me. The idea was so exciting it always brought me to a shuddering explosion of pleasure. I could picture myself struggling to appear calm and unaffected on the exterior while creaming myself internally. The idea was so stimulating I would explode as soon as the image filled my thoughts.

And, when I first did manage to serve a customer while impaled on two plastic cocks, I only just managed to hold back my screams of euphoria.

It went on for a month before I got caught.

Richard paid an unexpected visit to the shop.

He came in while I was frigging myself to a slow climax over the pages of No Holes Barred. Fortunately I wasn’t using any of the plugs or dildos that day. I had only slipped my moist and eager fingers against the slippery folds of my sex. I tried to pretend I wasn’t doing anything. I tried to casually slip my hand away from beneath my skirt but he gave me an understanding wink.

‘This place gets everyone like that,’ he assured me. As an afterthought he added, ‘Just make sure you never have sex with a customer for money.’

I heard the words.

But this time they didn’t make me as angry as they had on that first day.

‘Do you really think I’m likely to do that?’ I asked.

He shrugged. ‘If one of the punters catches you wanking he’ll likely make an offer. And I realise that I’m only just paying minimum wage, so I don’t doubt you’ll be tempted. But I can’t let you carry on working here if I catch you doing that.’

He went on to explain that it could mean he’d lose his licence as an adult bookseller, and that a store clerk whoring herself to the punters was likely to cut into his profits. He went on to point out that there was a noticeboard of business cards behind the till, each one advertising the services of someone local who was willing to exchange sex for cash.

I’d seen the noticeboard on previous occasions and had marvelled at the number of exotic names on there, but I didn’t have time to discuss it with Richard. I was busy assuring him that I had no intention of fucking anyone for money. And I wanted him to hurry out of the shop so I could finish rubbing myself to climax.

He had an erection, I noticed.

It jutted at the front of his pants and I guessed it had come about because he had seen me rubbing myself off. He asked what magazine I’d been reading and, when I showed him No Holes Barred, I noticed his erection grew more pronounced. The temptation to reach out and stroke his hard-on was almost irresistible. He was standing so close I wouldn’t have had to stretch to touch the bulge at the front of his pants and slide my hand up and down him.

And, from what I could see, he looked to have a decent size on him. He wasn’t as well built as the men in the magazines I’d been reading, or the ones in the films that I’d been watching. But he looked to have large enough equipment to satisfy. And I was thinking about his equipment when he left the shop. As soon as he was out of the door I rubbed myself to a delicious climax.

And, in the embarrassed aftermath, I vowed that I wouldn’t get into the habit of wanking while I was at work. I should have been mortified that my boss had caught me with my fingers inside my own honey-pot. The fact that I was untroubled by the encounter made me wonder what sort of depraved slut I had become.

The next day I wore a shorter skirt.

I found myself a copy of Cock Addict.

And that was the day when I got caught wanking by one of the customers.

I was busy rubbing myself to a leisurely climax when the bell went. There was a butt-plug inside my anus but I hadn’t got round to pressing a vibrator into my cunt. After lubricating the butt-plug and easing it into place, I had only been able to slide my lube-smeared fingers against the greasy lips of my sex. And, when the bell over the door jangled to announce a customer, I figured it was time for me to have some proper fun.

At first I thought it would be Richard again.

I was curious to know how he would react to me wanking him to a climax while I rubbed myself off. Since he’d caught me the previous day, and raised no objections to my indiscretion, I thought I could carry on. I could maybe greet him with a cheeky opening like, ‘Thank God you’re here. I’ve been desperate for some cock all morning.’

But this customer was a stranger – someone I’d never seen before.

He cast a furtive glance towards me.

I stared boldly back at him. I was in a zone of arousal where nothing mattered other than my satisfaction. I raised a glistening finger to my lips and then licked it slowly. My tongue traced the tip of the nail. Then I enveloped the finger with my mouth, sucking it as though it was a cock.

Mesmerised, the customer simply stared.

I let the finger move from my mouth and then slipped it down between my legs. The customer couldn’t see what was going on. The counter spoiled his view. But I have no doubt his imagination was furnishing him with every horny detail of my finger stroking at the wet lips of my pussy.

I never broke eye contact with him. All the time that he stood in the doorway, I stared at him with a passion and intensity that left him in no doubt that I was enjoying a rush of personal pleasure.

In my mind’s eye I was naked with him and we were both alone and savouring the satisfying tease of my fingers on my cunt. I moved the finger away. I beckoned him to approach. And then I licked my pussy juices from the knuckle.

He walked closer to the counter.

I lowered the finger back to my wetness.

When he was close enough I pulled back the hem of my skirt so he could see what I was doing. The dark bush of my pubes devoured the tips of my fingers. The rich scent of my sex filled the shop. The squelch of two fingers sliding in and out of my sex was almost as loud as the background noise of porn-movie soundtrack.

The customer sighed.

I could see the thrust of the erection inside his pants. It was satisfying to think I had been the cause of his excitement. I began to rub myself with even more ferocity as I realised how much he wanted me.

He reached out a hand, as though he was going to caress my thigh.

And then he seemed to think better of it.

I came with a barely muted shriek of satisfaction. I clutched at the counter with my one free hand. My vision misted crimson as the rush of pleasure flooded through me.

The customer’s erection throbbed inside his pants.

Almost immediately a black patch of wetness stained the front of his jeans. His mouth fell open in a small O of surprise. And then it broke into a grin as he appraised me with a newfound respect.

‘That was one of the horniest things I’ve ever seen in my life,’ the customer told me. He slammed down two ten-pound notes on the counter and headed for the door.

‘What’s that for?’ I asked.

‘My way of saying thank you,’ he said. Then the bell was jangling behind him.

And, while I knew it couldn’t technically be described as exchanging sex for money, when I picked up the notes and stuffed them into my purse, I realised I was running the risk of breaking Richard’s one rule of employment.

The next day I didn’t bother wearing panties.

I didn’t even need a magazine, although I found a copy of Wet and began to work my way through the pages. When Richard came in and found me masturbating, I didn’t even bother stopping.

‘You’re enjoying your work here,’ he observed wryly.

‘Get over here. Get your cock out.’ I was at that delicious stage of arousal where I could only spit the words. The ferocity of my passion had transformed my speech into insistent grunts.

Obligingly, Richard walked over to the counter where I stood. He didn’t get his cock out but he made no objection when I tugged down the zip on his jeans and then extricated his length through the gaping hole of the fly.

His flesh was violently warm. When my fingers touched him I could feel the throbbing pulse of his excitement beneath the steely surface of his erection.

‘Jesus,’ Richard muttered. ‘I didn’t expect this.’

I said nothing. I squeezed my clit. I continued to rub the hyper-sensitive surface and then slip a finger in and out between my oily lips. And I rolled my other fist back and forth along the length of his cock.

It was as satisfying as I’d expected. His size was larger than average, but not as daunting as those featured in the magazines and DVDs I’d been watching. I could imagine him filling me easily and completely if he bent me over the counter and decided to ride me until I screamed through an orgasm.

That thought was pushing me towards the brink of a climax when the bell over the shop’s door rang.

The customer who had watched me the day before stood in the doorway. He saw that I was tugging at Richard’s cock and he smiled tightly.

I gave him a heavy wink and then blew him a kiss.

It was all that he needed.

He looked set to say something, and then he drew a deep breath. I saw him stare down at his pants as another dark stain began to spread across the front. He glanced up at me and shook his head in rueful disbelief.

As I continued to stroke my fist back and forth along Richard’s cock, the customer slammed two tens on the counter.

‘It’s worth coming in here just to see you,’ he told me.

And then the bell was jangling behind him.

‘I thought I told you not to have sex with the customers,’ Richard growled.

His cock remained rigid. The single eye stared at me with blind fury. I tightened my grip around him and continued to stroke slowly back and forth.

‘It’s not really having sex with customers if they just see me wanking, is it?’

Richard looked set to argue the point.

I moved my lips around his cock and sucked lightly on the end of his shaft. He tasted of sweet saltiness. The flavour made my cunt clutch greedily around my fingers. Eventually, I moved my lips away.

‘Give me a second chance,’ I urged. ‘And I’ll make sure you get greeted like this every day that I’m working here.’

He groaned. ‘You drive a hard bargain,’ he murmured. ‘But, under the arrangement you’ve just suggested, I’m prepared to overlook the matter this once.’

I took his cock into my mouth and nodded. And swallowed.

***

That was three years ago and I’ve been working here ever since.

As I say, the job has a lot of perks. Seeing Richard every other day is only one of them. Welcoming a steady clientele of customers who are happy to pay good money for the pleasure of watching me play with myself is another perk. Of course, I know I can’t stay in this job forever. But I’m determined to stay in this position until something better comes along. And, if anything better ever does come my way, you’ll be the first to find out.