Adventures of a London Call Boy (19 page)

Chapter Forty

After the two strange messages, I noticed a few other strange things that week: a big black BMW I'd never seen before parked on the street below the flat, whose driver never seemed to go anywhere. Also, I kept bumping into a big guy with a shaven head, in dark glasses and a suit, in several places around town. But there were no more messages, and I wondered whether it was a case of mistaken identity.

I saw Niamh for our special session. We met in a small but extremely plush hotel in Chelsea, up a side street and hidden behind darkened reception doors. I asked for her at reception – she had the penthouse suite under an assumed name, which Celeste had passed on earlier. Niamh was between assignments, and judging by the state of the once beautiful living room of the suite that she and her secret boyfriend seemed to have set about trashing, she had decided to spend her time off boozing, eating junk food and possibly breaking quite a few laws relating to controlled substances. But she was more pleased to see me than usual, and with a silk sheet knotted around her like a post-modern toga, with barely out-of-bed hair and smoky eye make-up, she was sexier than I'd expected.

‘My boyfriend's here. Do you want to meet him? Chad, do you want to meet Franco, he's a friend of Cellie.'

I couldn't quite work out why she got everyone's names wrong, but from the bedroom Chad emerged on cue. He was a pale-skinned, shaven-headed gym junkie in sweat pants and vest who looked like he spent all day shifting tyres and heavy car parts, but he was also strangely pleased to see me, dishing out a big high five and a series of elaborate handshakes.

‘Fran man, you ready to do this?'

I nodded. ‘It's what I do.'

Chad gave a raucous laugh and even Niamh giggled to herself – she seldom laughed.

‘Come on then, let's do it,' said Chad, enthusiastically.

As we headed through the white double doors into the wide bedroom, Niamh held both our hands. Before we'd reached the bed, she was pushing off Chad's vest while I removed her sheet-toga and began to massage her little breasts. We positioned ourselves on the bed, Niamh in the middle, facing Chad, with me behind her. I threw off my T-shirt and pressed against her, reaching round to play with her while she began to go down on Chad. I pushed her hips up so that I could lick her from behind, trying to ignore the thumbs-up gesture and broad grin that Chad periodically cast in my direction.

She was perfectly waxed – I'm guessing a condition of the profession – and licking her was a pleasure. She made very little sound, only the occasional whimper and wincing noise to let me know she was enjoying herself. As I pleasured her, I hitched off my trousers and shorts and found a condom, ready for the main event.

I noticed in front that Chad was going for it. He had Niamh's hair firmly grasped in his hands and was thrusting into her mouth, while she was reaching under him to play with his balls. Then her hand slipped back and she began to finger her clit as I licked her from behind.

With her pussy now dripping and Chad leaning back, eyes closed, struggling to contain himself, I decided that it was time. I slipped on the condom and used two fingers to guide myself in her. She gasped and, I think, may have bit Chad's dick as I penetrated her. He looked up and gave me another grin, while I held Niamh's slim hips and worked her from behind. The orgasm she'd begun on my tongue didn't take long to happen, and the sight of me screwing his girlfriend and the sound and sensation of her orgasm seemed to inspire Chad. Soon both of them were coming, Chad shooting into her mouth, while she let out muffled moans and called out my name.

Chad fell back on the bed while I carried on working away at Niamh from behind. With her hands free, she planted her arms, allowing me to tease her nipples and clitoris from behind, soon bringing her to a second orgasm. By now she seemed to have forgotten about her boyfriend, and was looking at me strangely over her shoulder.

‘Tell me what you want,' I said.

‘Let's swap round,' she said. I pulled out and she rolled over and round. She gripped my penis and mouthed it fully, seemingly enjoying the taste of her own juices on the rubber. I looked at Chad, giving him a thumbs-up, just as he'd given me. He gave me a rather forced smile, and with some effort, fluffed himself up to a second erection and shoe-horned himself into Niamh from behind.

‘I can see that's why you're the professional, man,' he said. Niamh gave a sort of muffled laugh that vibrated pleasurably down my shaft. Chad was clearly not being paid for his services, and pounded away mechanically at her from behind, knocking her head against my stomach a few times, before coming, tensing his muscles and staring at her arse in concentration. I held off, even as her sucking grew more intense. Once he'd finished, Niamh moved back.

‘Go on, you can come now,' she said.

‘Hey Chad,' I said to my fallen comrade. ‘I think you owe her one.' He sat up and nodded enthusiastically. Soon, he was working his fingers over her shaven pussy, pleasuring her clit and lips, and fingering her where he'd just come. As she became more aroused, I reached down and pulled on her pointy nipples, and with the peak of her third orgasm I relaxed and let her sucking bring me to climax, holding her firmly by the scruff of the neck as I ejaculated into the condom deep in her mouth.

The three of us fell back on the bed. Chad started clapping. Niamh reached around on the floor for some cigarettes.

‘Smoke?' she said.

‘Good work, man, good work,' said Chad, taking a smoke from his girlfriend. Of the three of us, he seemed most pleased with the scenario. It was clearly his idea – Niamh had gone along with it, and seemed to have taken pleasure from it, but I realised that she was a malleable girl, and finding out what she really wanted would have been a long and difficult project, possibly even beyond me.

I took my money and left them – Niamh was phoning someone to organise a delivery of something that might have been pizza, or something else altogether. As I walked out of the hotel, giving a thumbs-up to the porter, while wondering whether I wanted to make Niamh a pet project, I noticed that both the black BMW and the big man in the sit were outside.

I stopped, within eyeshot of the hotel, and called Celeste.

‘Celeste, are you alright?' I asked.

She sounded like I'd interrupted her at a bad moment.

‘Yes. Why? What do you want?'

‘Nothing strange going on that I should know about?'

‘No. Look, can you call later?'

I hung up and surveyed the scene. It was definitely the same car, and it was definitely the same thug. Luckily, a taxi passed almost immediately, and I hailed it and ducked inside. I had the driver take me on a long route, passing by a friend's house and even stopping for a few minutes outside Archie's flat by the Heath. Although the BMW followed at first, at some stage it must have dropped off, or got lost, and so by the time I got home I had lost my tail.

Chapter Forty-one

Back at the flat, Celeste was hiding away in her bedroom. I checked a few texts, updated a few things on my website and sorted out the details of a couple of assignments. My efforts with Niamh and Chad, the most demanding secret celebrity couple in Christendom, had worn me out, and once I'd showered I found myself dozing in front of a wildlife documentary. The life of a call boy is not all rock 'n' roll and non-stop parties, let me add.

As I dozed, I found myself drifting off into a weird semi-daydream about Niamh and her life, something like the orgy scene in
Eyes Wide Shut
. The switch was that it involved people with familiar faces, including the big thug in the suit and a couple of Celeste's boyfriends. It was a strange image: a vast dark gothic hall, halfway between a Cathedral and the stateroom of a royal palace, and I was standing there, naked, in a wide arc of other men, about twenty in total. Some of us, myself included, had on Venetian carnival masks. In front of us, a few women were lined up: Celeste, Niamh, J., a couple of other clients. There were other women too, wearing masks. All of them had long satin robes in a deep shade of purple.

It worked like this: we stood still, facing each other, and in turn, on cue from an invisible voice, the women would each pick one, or two, or even three of us. The powerful female voice from somewhere off stage then instructed the men to make themselves erect. They did, and then the men were either led away or rejected. I was chosen, weirdly, by Celeste, along with an older guy I've never met before. She simply pointed at him, and then at me.

On instruction from the invisible voice, and with a few strokes of the hand, my cock stood to attention. I was led away by a tall, slim woman, masked and robed like the others. From her body shape, I thought she might be Niamh, but I couldn't be sure: she had long, slim legs, her robe clung to her pert buttocks and her shoulder blades were almost showing through her robe. She took me out of the hall and up a wood-panelled, carpeted stairway, leading to a long corridor of rooms over the main hall. As she walked up the stairs, I admired her ankles and wondered what pleasures awaited.

She showed me a door, opened it, and I passed through into a side room, the other man following me in. Celeste was waiting for us. She slipped off the robe and I saw her naked apart from the tiniest of black G-strings. We've been on beach holidays together, and I've seen her pretty much naked on a few occasions, but in the dream the sight of her slim figure so barely covered turned me on even more. Alongside me, the older man, wearing a black and white harlequin mask, was playing with himself as Celeste reclined on a velvet coach.

Celeste gestured to him, a ‘come hither' signal, and he walked over to her. I couldn't see the mask I had on, only the round eyeholes through which I was staring. Celeste leant forward and began to suck the man's dick. I could only see his buttocks, pumping away, with her small hands reaching round to grip them, her mass of hair visible the other side of him.

After a while, the man turned round and gestured with his head for me to join them. I was uneasy about a threesome involving my flatmate, but given the circumstances, didn't quite feel able to resist. As I approached, I could see through the glass arches into other rooms, and over the reclining Celeste down into the hall. Alongside us, groups of people were fucking frantically: an energetic threesome to my right, and next door, two couples were both screwing while watching the other two screw. Down below, in the hall, a mass orgy had broken out: there were couples and threes and moresomes rutting on sofas and on the thick carpet; in every case, the women were outnumbered by men.

The sight aroused me even more, and I stepped forward, hoping Celeste would take me in her mouth with the other man. But as I leant in, I felt a sudden blow to the side of my head.

It was Celeste. Not the Celeste of the dream, but the real-life Celeste, who had hit me round the head with a pillow.

‘You randy bastard. You're insatiable.'

‘What?' I said, shocked and disorientated by being suddenly awoken. Celeste was perched over me, feet on the sofa, almost the exact reverse of the position she'd adopted with me and the other man in the dream.

‘You've just been on a date, and you're having a dirty dream on my sofa.'

I checked my position: I was leaning back, erection clearly visible in my trousers, and had been about to thrust in my sleep. Caught red-handed, or rather, erect-dicked.

‘You'll never guess what I was dreaming about,' I said, smiling.

‘I don't want to know, you grubby …'

I'd like to say that she was interrupted by a knock at the door, but it would be truer to say that the door collapsed.

We both turned, as a deafening crash invaded the flat.

‘What the …?' I began.

In the space where the doorframe had been, I could see the big thug and someone who looked rather a lot like the driver of the BMW. The big man dropped the massive wall-banger he'd used to smash in the door, and pulled out a rubber cosh from inside his suit coat. Celeste screamed and hid behind me.

From outside in the corridor, there came a voice.

‘Mr Aleixandre, I presume,' it said. It sounded Eastern European, perhaps Russian.

‘Yes. Who the hell are you?'

The third man was smaller than the other two, also smartly dressed, all in black, with his dark hair neatly gelled back. He didn't need to tell me what he did for a living, or, more precisely, what the people who had to work for him did for a living.

Nor did I need him to tell me that I was in big trouble.

Chapter Forty-two

There were a few moments of silence, broken occasionally by the sound of falling carpentry.

I eyed the intruders; Celeste whimpered quietly behind me, and the little pimp gave me a long, satisfied grin.

‘Let me guess, Frenchy. Training her up as well?'

‘I'm sorry?' I said, after a pause.

‘We know what you do, Mr Aleixandre. These poor girls, exploiting them like you do.'

His accent was as thick as borscht, but more difficult to understand was what on earth he was on about. I narrowed my eyes and tried to make sense of what seemed to be a very strange accusation.

‘Sorry, Mr, erm, Mr, what is your name?'

‘You can call me Wilson.'

‘Wilson?' I repeated.

He nodded.

‘Sorry, look, I'm not sure what I'm being accused of here.'

‘Wilson' turned to his men. On cue, they ran at me, while Celeste ran for her bedroom, slamming, locking and then, by the sounds of things, heavily barricading the door.

Struggling was useless: the big man was a monster, and without needing to use his weapon, he had me in an iron grip in seconds. The other man grabbed my kicking feet and in seconds I was hoisted bodily into the air.

‘What the fuck do you want?' I managed to shout.

‘Please, my French friend, there's no need for foulness.'

‘Look, I'm not fucking French, what's this about?' I said as they carried me to the window.

‘Oh shit,' I shouted, as the window was opened. Soon, I had a view of the street: upside down, held by the ankles, suspended over the pavement to the disbelief of passers-by below. I launched into a tirade of swearing and abuse, flailing my arms about in an attempt to strike a blow or catch a grip on anything that wasn't air.

‘Please don't struggle, Mr Aleixandre,' said the pimp. ‘This is simply a message. From now on, your girls work for us, OK?'

‘OK, OK,' I said, still not quite knowing what I was agreeing to. But in a second, I was back inside, dropped on my head and dazed, before the men hurried out through the open door.

‘What on earth did he mean,' I asked myself, as the stars began to clear from in front of my eyes, ‘my girls?'

After a while, I heard the sounds of hasty deconstruction coming from Cel's room. She emerged, patting her hair and trying to look calm.

‘They're gone, right?' she said, breathlessly.

‘Yes. You really are a coward.'

‘They could have done anything to me.'

I grumbled to myself and struggled to my feet.

‘What do you think they wanted? What was he talking about, “your girls”?' I asked her.

‘I think I know,' she said. ‘He thinks I'm a prostitute. He thinks your clients are prostitutes. And that you're a pimp.'

‘What?' I said in disbelief. ‘This is all because you look like a posh hooker?'

‘Thanks, Cesc. Thanks a lot. I don't, anyway. But some of your girls do.'

I thought for a second. She was right. I'd suspected that J. might have been an ex-pro, and that Raven could very easily carry out the same services she demanded from me on other men for a significant fee. And I didn't want to imagine the sort of things Niamh might do to seal contracts, in her bored and expressionless sort of way.

‘This is a problem, isn't it? Do you think that a simple explanation would do?'

Celeste gave me a cold look.

‘They'll be back. And you can't give them what they're after.'

‘Well obviously. Because they've got the whole thing on arse over head.'

I looked around the room, wondering if there was anything I could use to defend myself in case they called again. I weighed up my chances with a cricket bat against the two thugs.

‘How long do you think they've been tailing me for?'

‘I saw that car a couple of weeks ago, I suppose,' said Celeste. And then, reluctantly, she looked up and told me.

‘They spoke to me first.'

‘What?' I said.

‘I didn't want to tell you. They'd been following me for a while. First they told me to tell you that I work for them. But I didn't know what they were talking about. So I didn't say anything. They're obviously idiots as well as thugs.' Celeste wiped a tear away from her eye. It had obviously been an emotional few days.

‘Shit,' I said. ‘This could put me out of business.'

‘Cesc, I think business is the least of your worries.'

Luckily, Celeste had insurance, so we had the door fixed that afternoon, as well as calling in a locksmith to fit some heavier bolts and a set of massive bars down both sides of the frame on the flat and the street door. Celeste phoned a couple of friends of hers, and I called a couple of clients, keeping details to the minimum, to make sure no one else had had a similar visit. Fortunately, it seemed the thugs had kept their attentions to a minimum.

Celeste and I talked about the thugs. After much discussion, we concluded that they must be local and perhaps pretty small scale newcomers: Mr So-Called Wilson was menacing me, who he thought was a small-time pimp, and he only had a standing crew of three. But even if they were small-time, they were a lot bigger-time than me. Cricket bat or no cricket bat, I needed help.