Another odd request that sounded very tempting and lucrative from the onset was the personal slave fantasy. A client would phone and request to be my personal slave for anything from one day to a week. They wanted to be able to be completely and utterly at my beck and call. Mostly they wanted to clean my house from top to bottom, with an almost OCD attention to the smallest speck of mildew or dust. They would also mow and weed my garden and my guttering if that’s what I asked them to do. If I needed clothing alterations or ironing, nothing was too difficult, going to the shops for me, cooking the weekly meals; you name it, even cleaning the car was thrown in, all they asked in return was that I check up on them every twenty minutes or so, tell them that they were doing a half-arsed job, and to be more thorough. For this little fantasy that required no sex they’d pay me $200 a day. Once a month I’d get one of these calls, but I rarely took them up on it as I’m just not a domineering person, or overly critical. Plus I don’t trust strangers dusting and alphabetising my CD collection.
Once was enough for me. I had a gentleman arrive at eight fifteen am sharp with a ute full of cleaning products, ladders, lawn-mowers, edgers, industrial steamers, a box full of toothbrushes for the intricate corners. He would leave at seven fifteen pm, and didn’t stop for lunch but I threw him a muffin at one point and told him not to get crumbs on the carpet. He was very thankful for my benevolence. While he toiled away, I could find no fault in his work, it was immaculate. All I could think to complain about was his timing—what would ordinarily take me twenty minutes was taking him two hours. ‘Are you still working on this floor, why are you taking so long? Move faster, or I will kick your arse out of this house, I think you are just wasting my time, are you cleaning or playing with yourself?’
‘No, miss, I’m trying to clean it properly, it’s just so dirty.’
‘Are you calling me a slob? Stop complaining and get back to work and be quicker about it.’
If you played your role well these clients would beg to return every month and offer you more money for the privilege.
***
Golden showers were one of my no can do services. I put that little trick into my too hard basket. I tried, since the money was too good not to have a crack. Traditionally, the client will pay the time fee plus an extra $150 for the fantasy of the golden shower. My first attempt was when working in Felicity’s. The client rang ahead to confirm his order, which was not uncommon. This gave the girl time to fill up on fluids for a good half an hour. My beverage of choice was coffee.
I was raring to go half an hour before the client was due, damn my hummingbird-sized bladder. By the time he arrived, I was doing the two step all the way up the stairs, and I couldn’t get my clothes off quick enough, but my client wanted to play it slow and be seduced. No one had explained to me how this was supposed to go down. Was I supposed to lay a plastic sheet on the bed? I quickly caught on when he presented himself in the prone position in the spa. My bladder was so distended I was dying to unleash, so I straddled him and begged for release. Alas nothing would happen, I had a serious case of stage fright. To my surprise the client was lying in wait with his face just inches from my vagina. I decided that perhaps my bladder just needed a little probing, so I slipped the condom on and tried a little encouraging penile pressure.
Still no luck, but the client had blown his load, and no longer felt the thundering need to be naughty and brazen. He stood up and got out of the spa. But I was desperate not to return a penny of his hard-earned cash, so while he was dressing, I ran the shower above the spa. This was the trigger I needed.
‘Hey, John,’ I called out. He turned back to me in time to watch me release what felt like a litre and a half of what was once strong black coffee. I had fulfilled my end of the bargain, the client seemed happy, I was getting paid and to top it off I felt like I had lost three kilos. But this was not a practice that I wanted to make a regular feature in my sexual repertoire.
About once a month a client would phone and make inquiries about group sex and the charges. A lot of them believed that if I charged $400 per hour, the four friends could split the fee to $100 each. No, sir, you pay per dick! Or they could pay $100 to simply watch and not touch. That would usually eliminate fifty per cent of the punters. However, the other fifty per cent were determined to live out their fantasy of sharing a girl with their mates. It was hard work trying to please so many individuals, even if it was only two at a time, so I always maintained that the service was available but there was a one-hour minimum. This made for a great day’s income for me and the reality was that in any group of three or more there would always be at least one gentleman who suffered stage fright.
I was never abused in these situations, nor did I have one moment of fear. From the outset the clients were aware that there was another person in the house—though they never knew if that other person was female or male, plus they knew I had their cash and they wanted to get their money’s worth. They were made fully aware that I didn’t offer anal, and any attempt to break my rules would incur the wrath of my offsider. Or perhaps I had just been lucky. Most groups were simply happy to take turns, compare dick size, laugh at each other’s poor form, ejaculate and leave.