The Count of Monte CristoChapter 58 M Noirtier de Villefort
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”Can’t Buy Me Love”, ”Love Don’t Cost a Thing” – you know the songs; the ones dedicated to the prospect that love is a magical thing, independent of the sordid world of pounds, dollars, euros.
Of course they’re all ideological; handy ways of disguising the obvious fact that money impacts on love in the same way it impacts on the rest of our lives, or else how do you explain that spousal abuse and divorce increase in straightened economic times?
Every teenager knows that if money can’t buy you love, it can at least make you more attractive to a prospective partner – and get you more nookie in the meantime. Why be sentimental about it?
Look around. Does it really seem to you as if monogamous, ‘til death do us part relationships are the norm? Look at all the affairs people have, the divorce rate. Look at history. Ask yourself if it follows that just because two people love each other, they’re absolutely and unfailingly compatible in every way in a sexual sense. Is there really any reason to sentimentalize love and sex, other than for ideological reasons? I don’t think so.
Actually, don’t even get me started on the way people go on about how wrong it is to buy or sell sex; as if there was something virtuous about someone wearing their body down doing menial labour for the minimum wage, as opposed to making what they can with whatever assets they’ve got. But it follows, logically, from the myth that love and sex are (or should be) inextricably intertwined. If love is to be kept separate from Mammon, then it follows that sex should not be commodified either. The only problem with this is that it ignores reality.
Because we all believe in market forces these days, don’t we? Supply and demand and all that. If there’s a demand for a service, supply will follow. It always has. And I still don’t see how sex work is in any way more immoral than the way major corporations all want us to sell our souls these days; be loyal, lobotomized company people. Y’know?
What’s that? Buying sex is wrong because it’s all about power and dominance? In part it’s a symptom of inequality, I’ll give you that, but it’s actually tied in to another age old law: Opposites Attract. People who can afford to buy sex in the same way they buy other services don’t actually have to; their money will act as an aphrodisiac and get them sex anyway. No, the real, dirty little secret is that when rich people buy sex, it helps them balance their lives, gives them a way to balance the Olympian heights on which they dwell through a descent into some kind of netherworld, or at least a dirtier, seedier world – like Zeus descending to frolic with mortals. The lies they traffic in can be blissfully forgotten, at least for a while; “Love Don’t Cost a Thing” – until the divorce. The loftier the life; the more the opposite attracts. Why else do nice, middle class white kids go in for gangsta rap, or adopt some simulacrum of a bohemian lifestyle – at least until they gentrify the neighbourhoods they moved to, ruining the edginess that drew them there in the first place? Think about it.
Opposites attract isn’t just a theory. I’ve seen it in action. I’ve seen it with my boss.
I’d worked for a certain company for a while. It had been founded by the current boss’s grandfather, way back. The current boss was thus born into a world of wealth and privilege. For all I know she even went to finishing school. Truth be told, you’d think she was a bit of a bimbo to look at, but you underestimate her at your peril. Of course, for some reason the rich never seem to think that those of us at the bottom of the pile do any kind of work that merits a decent wage, in spite of the fact that they’d be sunk without us. I’d been at the company for three years, and was still hovering just above the minimum wage. That was when The Boss approached me.
Well, she demanded to see me. Naturally I thought I was about to be given the sack, or at the very least a good bollocking, though for what reason I wasn’t sure. She liked to flaunt her wealth discreetly – if that’s not a contradiction in terms. If she wasn’t laden with bling, you still knew that what little jewellery there was, and the smart outfit, had cost a bloody fortune. I stood there in my frayed and faded jeans and grubby shirt, hating that I felt inferior, even though I didn’t see any reason why I should.
“I have reason to believe that you’re the kind of man who can keep things to himself,” she said. She’d been sounding someone out about me. Why, I couldn’t imagine.
“Yeah, well, having a loose tongue can get you into all kinds of bother.”
“You also look like you know how to handle yourself if things get hairy,” The Boss went on.
“Where I come from, you don’t know how to handle yourself, you’re basically dead.”
This seemed to amuse The Boss. “And as with all your kind, I’m sure that money talks.”
I tried hard to ignore that patronizing ‘your kind’. “Depends,” I said. I mean, a man has his pride, right?
She fixed me with a good hard stare. “Playing hard to get, are we?”
I shrugged. “Depends what exactly we’re talking about.”
The Boss leaned back in her chair. “There’s a vacancy,” she said. “I need a new chauffeur.”
“Then advertise.” I shouldn’t have said it, but I was pissed off at these games, and The Boss’s air of superiority.
To my surprise, she said, “Very good! I had a hunch you’d be just the man for the job.”
“Why?”
The Boss’s demeanour changed again as she leaned forward. “Never mind that. Either you want the job or you don’t.”
“What does it involve? Other than the obvious.”
“Very good!” The Boss said again. Then, clasping her hands together and relaxing into her more benevolent role, “It involves five times your present salary, in exchange for your absolute silence. Whatever you should chance to witness, you must never breathe a word of it to any living soul. If you do, I will crush you like a cockroach.”
One thing rich people don’t get, is that when you’re at the bottom of the ladder already, threats like that are pretty fucking pointless. How much worse can it get? On the other hand, money may not buy you love, but it can definitely buy a man’s complicity. Five times what I earned was more money than I’d ever seen. I was thinking shady deals, overhearing things it would hurt The Boss if they were made public; backhanders, secret conversations with politicians, environmental chicanery, whatever. Still, a conscience is a luxury reserved for those who can afford it. “Monkey blind, deaf and mute,” I said.
“So we have a deal.” It wasn’t a question.
“Don’t you want me to take you for a spin first?” I said. “Make sure I’m up to snuff.”
She laughed. The Boss laughed like it was the funniest fucking thing she’d ever heard. Mind you, if you’ve been educated by nuns or whatever, maybe everything is funny by comparison.
Anyway, I accepted the money and the conditions, of course I did. What do you take me for? The first couple of weeks there was absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. I drove The Boss to meetings and other engagements, and whatever conversations took place in the back of the car, nothing sounded remotely suspicious. I certainly wasn’t privy to any underhand dealings of any kind.
But then things changed. The meetings and stuff remained, but now I got to drive The Boss to a few other locations; places you wouldn’t expect a woman in her position to go. “Wait here,” she would say, leaving me to guard the car in some part of town where you wouldn’t necessarily expect it to remain unmolested. So I waited, leaning against the gleaming paintwork as I smoked interminable cigarettes and glared at the lowlife that cast inquisitive eyes in my direction. Shabby neon advertised cheap thrills. People uninhibited from drink shrieked and threw cartons of half-eaten food on the ground for seagulls to swoop in and carry off. The Boss would return after an hour or so, never once saying where she’d been, what she’d done or who she’d seen, and I didn’t ask. She was paying me for my silence, and the less I knew, the less trouble I’d have keeping my mouth shut.
My first pay check as a chauffeur convinced me that I’d made the right decision. Having lived on so little for so long, I had no idea what to spend it on, but that left me a fair bit to stash away in a savings account (something I’d never had before). Hell, at this rate I’d be able to afford the deposit on a house before I knew it, and get out of my scummy little flat overlooking an accident-prone stretch of flyover and an abandoned chemical plant.
A week into my second month was when I really came to understand The Boss’s need for discretion. She ordered the car round and got in the back. This time, instead of stating a destination, she gave directions.
“Yes, ma’m,” I replied to each one.
Not that there were many directions to give. Through town until we got to the motorway. Then the motorway until we’d left the sprawl of the metropolis behind us. We passed junction after junction until The Boss told me, “Exit at the next junction. Follow the signs to the truck stop.”
“Yes, ma’m.”
This was a new one. It was dark by now, but the expanse of the truck stop basked in a sodium glow. Huge juggernauts stood lined up along one side of the parking area. There was a building with a shop and a café, but The Boss ordered me to stop round the back. “Ma’m?” I said, switching the engine off.
“I’m not expecting any trouble,” The Boss said. “But I want you with me, just in case.”
She may not be expecting trouble, but it sounded ominous anyway. Was this it? Where the shady deals were arranged? Brown envelope, no questions asked, that kind of thing? “Yes, ma’m,” I said.
The Boss got out of the car without waiting for me to open the door for her. I followed, making sure to lock the car, which chirped happily. I still had no idea quite what this was all about, but for the first time doubts began to creep in.
There was one door set in the back of the square building. The sign on the door identified it as a men’s lavatory. There was no corresponding female lavatory, and it wasn’t hard to fathom that this was primarily for the benefit of truckers. So why did The Boss pull the door open and enter? I followed, feeling ill at ease.
Inside, there was the smell of a day’s worth of human waste. Truth be told it smelled no worse than the lift in my tower block, but I still didn’t get what we were doing there. “What now?” I said.
“We wait,” The Boss replied. “You over there.”
She pointed to the wall next to the door and I complied, arms folded across my chest. There was nothing out of the ordinary about the place; three cubicles off to one side, three porcelain urinals lined up along the back wall. There was everything out of the ordinary about the scene, as The Boss walked across to the central urinal, her high heels click-clacking against the floor, before she turned, standing so far back she was actually straddling the thing.
Even at this late stage, I couldn’t fathom what was going on. I had a million questions, but I’d long since decided it was best not to ask, to know. Besides, The Boss had said to wait.
Not that we had long to wait. When the door opened, I tensed, every muscle prepared for the trouble The Boss said she didn’t expect. The man who entered was big and burly, clearly overweight, with dirty jeans and a stained t-shirt.
He walked straight up to the central urinal, in spite of the fact that he could easily have chosen either of the others. I clenched my fists, but something about the situation was unnaturally composed, almost like a tableau. The man was standing in front of The Boss. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Am I in your way?”
And to my amazement she began to hitch up her skirt, lifting it past black stocking tops. At the same time the man was unzipping without a word. Though I couldn’t see, I knew his cock was coming out.
As if The Boss wasn’t there, he began to empty his bladder. I shifted slightly, seeing the curve of urine as it struck the porcelain. Then to my amazement, the jet rose, urine wetting black, satin knickers. I was ready to step in, but The Boss didn’t look as if she was keen for any interruptions, an amused, slightly cruel smile playing on her lips.
Having emptied his bladder, the man gave his dick a shake. “Oops,” he said. “Looks like I pissed your panties.”
“Then I’d better take them off,” The Boss said.
As she did just that, the man fiddled with his cock, bringing it up to full erection. The Boss smiled, but only with her mouth, turning as her skirt dropped back down. She placed one heeled foot on the urinal, gripping the pipes that ran up the wall with a hand and thrusting her arse back. The man lifted her skirt back up with one hand, guiding his cock with the other. There was no discussion, no asking of permission, just the man stuffing his sausage into The Boss.
The Boss gave a groan of depraved delight. My own cock stiffened at the sound, and it was all I could do not to unfold my arms to stuff my hand into my pocket.
“Aaaah, talk dirty to me!” The Boss demanded, as she stood there, letting the fat man drive his cock back and forth.
“Turn you on, does it, you little slag?” the man obliged. “Poor little rich girl, desperate for a proper shag for once.”
“Think you’re God’s gift to women, do you?” The Boss replied.
“Shut the fuck up and take it,” the man replied, grabbing The Boss’ pony tail and pushing her face up against the wall. “We both know all you want is a good hard fuck and a cunt load of spunk.”
I was prepared to intervene, but something told me the pair had previous with each other. Not least the way The Boss was moaning. There was another sound too. The sound natural lubrication made when cock pummelled into cunt. “Loving it, ain’t ya, ya little tart,” the man panted.
The door to the toilet was opening. A new man entered, who might have been the twin of the other, except he wore a beard. He went straight up to where the pair were rutting and grabbed hold of one of the Boss’s tits. “And here was me thinking you was one of them urban myths,” he said.
As he spoke, a third man entered, slightly leaner than the others, but shabbily dressed; clearly one of the trucker fraternity.
“Shut up and use me,” The Boss was saying, her hand moving to the second man’s crotch to give a good hard squeeze.
The most recent arrival was bringing his cock out as he walked towards the little group. “Can anyone join in?” he asked.
“She’s just a fucking slag,” the man fucking The Boss said. “She’ll let anyone use her.”
It was obvious to me now why I’d been sworn to secrecy. If any of this came out, The Boss’s reputation would be in tatters. I was slightly relieved that I didn’t have to keep quiet about shady deals and the like. I mean, this was just adults doing what adults do; albeit an extremely dirty and risky version thereof. Besides, I was enjoying myself now, even if I wasn’t about to lose my menacing aspect by touching my swollen cock. I had a job to do, even if I didn’t think any muscle was going to be called upon.
The two newcomers both had their cocks out now. The Boss held them in her hands as they groped her tits through her blouse. The man behind her kept up the pace, but his heavy breathing was more the result of bad stamina than anything.
“Do you do blow-jobs?” one of the men asked.
“Try me!” The Boss replied. “But first I want this fucker to cum in me.” Then she was moaning again; moaning as I’d heard no woman moan before.
I knew The Boss loved being the centre of attention, but I’d hardly imagined that she liked attention such as this. The dirty, grubby men leered as they squeezed her tits. Did they have wives, girlfriends? It hardly seemed to matter. The first man had broken out into a sweat. His jellied stomach bounced as he gave The Boss every last inch of his cock. “Do it!” The Boss urged. “Fill my cunt with every last drop of spunk in your bollocks!”
Spoken in such a posh voice, the demand was irresistible. I could easily understand why the man suddenly grunted. “Take it!” he panted. “Fucking take my spunk, you dirty slag. Fucking take every last drop!”
As he pulled out he gave The Boss’s arse a slap. He must have given her quite a load, because as The Boss turned around to sit down on the urinal, the stuff was dripping out of her. The other two men immediately shoved their cocks up against her face.
Having had his pleasure, the first man was zipping up. He clearly didn’t care about sticking around to see what happened, making his way to the door, pausing only to say to me, “You’re the bodyguard, then.”
I nodded.
The man nodded in return. “Make sure you give her one, once those two are done with her.” And then he was gone. I was more convinced than ever that this wasn’t the first time he’d encountered The Boss. As for the other two, they seemed a different matter.
What I can say is that The Boss didn’t exactly put up a fight. On the contrary, her mouth opened willingly to admit the first of the cocks. At first she held the erection as she sucked on it, but soon she allowed the men to take charge, to take turns, holding her head in place as they fucked her face.
There was no cause for me to intervene, but still I resisted temptation, remaining with arms folded. There was slurping and grunting, and then The Boss kept up a steady, “Mmmmmmmm,” as the men continued taking their pleasure.
“Do you swallow?” one of the men asked.
The Boss didn’t. But she did sit there, holding her mouth open for the pair to ejaculate in her mouth before closing it and pushing their sperm out past her lips, drooling it all onto the floor. “Dirty slut,” Beardman said in parting, with a new squeeze of her tits.
Once the men had gone, I moved, still with arms folded, blocking the exit. I don’t know what had flown into me. I still don’t know if I was just keen to test The Boss. At any rate she understood the look in my eye, because she said, “Is that really a part of your job description?”
“You can’t expect a bloke to just stand and watch all that and not…”
The Boss gave a crooked little grin. Then she moved across to one of the wash basins, steadied herself with one hand and reached back to pull her skirt back up with the other. “Very well,” she said. “You can fuck me and cum in me. But it will come out of your pay packet.”
Fucking bitch. Hairy arsed truckers could just have their way with her, but loyal employees had to pay. Was that any way to treat the workers?
I could have declined, but I didn’t. I got my cock out, stuffed it up her and fucked her hard and, I admit, resentfully until I came.
“Obviously a man of many talents,” The Boss decided afterwards.
My cum was still dripping from her pussy when the door to the toilets opened again. Two men entered, one looking young and apprehensive, the other older, dressed in a flannel shirt and regulation jeans. He gave me a cursory glance, then said to The Boss, “’Ello ya randy slapper. Long time no see.”
I needn’t doubt that the two of them had previous, which was just as well, because with my swiftly softening dick out in the open I was no use to anyone. I tried to get back into character while The Boss turned to face the two men. “It’s good to see you too,” she said sardonically. “Who’s your friend.”
“This ‘ere’s Dave,” the man said. “I’m showing ‘im the ropes.” Then he turned to the younger man. “This ‘ere’s the best bit of cunt you’ll find at any truck stop in the UK.”
“Why settle for the UK?” The Boss asked. I stared, fascinated, as another blob of cum dripped from her onto the tiled floor.
“Get yer cock out, lad,” Flannel Man said. “This one can’t control herself once she sets eyes on a stiff cock.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” The Boss said.
Flannel Man just leered. Dave was looking apprehensive, but was unzipping nevertheless. Perhaps he always did as he was told. “Show us yer tits, love,” Flannel Man said. “If Dave’s not already ‘ard that’ll do it.”
“What if I don’t feel like it?” The Boss asked.
I was momentarily taken by the way she was facing up to Flannel Man, but when he went up to her, grabbed her blouse and ripped it open, I realised that it was all for show. Though I’d never set eyes on the man before, it was obvious this was a game they played.
There were buttons bouncing across the floor. I suddenly noticed how grimy his hands were when he yanked The Boss’s bra down and mauled perfectly shaped breasts.
“Have you any idea how much that blouse cost?” The Boss said.
“Yeah, well, you can afford it.” Flannel Man turned his head, looking at Dave, who had indeed produced a slightly half-hearted erection. “Good lad,” he said. “You’re in for a real treat.” Then, turning back to The Boss, “Now bend over and suck ‘is cock, ya ‘appy slapper. Ya know ya want to.”
I was half expecting The Boss to object, but this time she didn’t. She just bent forwards, took the young man’s cock between her fingers and guided it to her mouth.
Her skirt had come back down, but Flannel Man soon had it back up, after first extracting his own throbbing gristle. He regarded The Boss’s round buttocks for a moment before raising an arm and bringing his hand down. “A good ‘ard slap for a right slapper,” he said, the sound of flesh on flesh bouncing against the ceramic tiles. Then his hand was up against her labia. “I’d warm you up,” he said, “but since other gents have been here already, I reckon their spunk’ll do as lubrication.”
I couldn’t see the exact point of entry, but it was obvious from the gasp The Boss gave that she was penetrated. “Stuff ‘er face proper like,” Flannel Man instructed his accomplice. “Likes it rough, does Little Miss Scuzz ‘Ore. You wouldn’t think so to look at ‘er, but that’s ‘ow it is.”
As the man’s thrusts accelerated, I found myself beginning to enjoy the sight. Don’t get me wrong; if The Boss had given the slightest indication, I would have acted the bodyguard the way I assumed she expected me to. The thing was, it was becoming perfectly obvious to me that things would have to get really nasty before I was expected to intervene.
So I watched as Flannel Man became the third man to pound The Boss’s pussy that evening. If Dave wasn’t quite going at The Boss the way Flannel Man had instructed, I got the feeling she was compensating by shoving her mouth down on him as much as he was pushing into her. There was gasping and grunting, and then the slapping of flesh was augmented with a new slap to The Boss’s buttocks.
Then the door opened. Four men entered, quickly forming a semi-circle, various builds and ages and degrees of facial hair, but all of them in the same casual truckerwear as the others. They watched as Dave and Flannel Man continued porking The Boss. Flannel Man seemed to enjoy the attention, panting, “Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! Love’s it from both ends, she does, fucking nympho slut.”
Then he was pulling his cock out. He wanked it fast, using his free hand to pull on the hem of one of The Boss’s stockings, draining his cock against her thigh so that his slippery seed ran down inside the nylon. “That’s my posh cumslut,” he breathed, giving her arse a slap. “You are a dirty cumslut, ain’t ya, slapper?”
The Boss came off Dave’s cock, twisting her head. Before she had time to speak, Flannel Man was up by her head, twisting it back round and holding it. “Ever cum on a woman’s face before, Dave?” he asked. The younger man shook his head. “Well now’s yer chance. Go on lad, facialize the cumslut!”
As the young man rubbed his swollen meat up against The Boss’s cheek, the other four men crowded round. Their hands were all over her and under her, grabbing at her tits. Dave was crying out loud, actually sounding like he was crying when he ejaculated. In the mayhem it was hard to see anything, but when he was done I got a glimpse of the Boss’s face with a glaze of sperm down one side. She looked in my direction, but nothing in her demeanour suggested that she wanted me to intervene, though what good I would have been against four hulking men, I’m not sure. It wasn’t like I was packing heat.
Now that Flannel Man and Dave were done with her, the other four men got in a groove. “On your knees, slut!” one of them barked. They crowded round, and within seconds The Boss had mouth and hands fully occupied.
“Be seeing ya, yer randy slapper,” Flannel Man cried out as he and Dave left, leaving The Boss to attend fully to the four throbbing dicks that were being pushed up against her face.
After that, The Boss gave up any pretence at reluctance. The men surrounded her, manhandling her into positions where they could use her any which way they liked. There was squelching and flesh slapping. Hands were all over her, grabbing and groping and pinching and slapping. Hard cocks rubbed up against her and invaded her holes. I watched as she was fucked up against the wash basin, the men taking turns, as those not currently fucking her groped her and slapped her tits, one even spitting at her.
Then there was the language. I’m not sure any names they didn’t call her actually exist. And yet whenever I caught sight of her face, all I could see was a depraved gleam in her eye that told me all I needed to know about how much she was enjoying it.
When the men left, she was a bedraggled spectacle. Everything had vanished from her body except stockings, shoes, her necklace and a bucketload of spunk. There was more cum on her nylons, and Dave’s load on her face had been balanced out. There were blotches of sperm on her breasts, and the stuff was dripping from her abused cunt.
The Boss gathered up her ripped blouse and bra, piss-stained skirt (which had somehow ended up in one of the urinals) and piss-soaked panties. “I think it’s time to go home,” she said calmly.
As soon as we were back in the car, The Boss sat in the back, legs spread, rubbing herself, still covered in the product of male satisfaction. I watched her satisfy herself over and over in the rear view mirror. I lost count of how many times she climaxed as we sped towards her penthouse flat. I was enjoying myself; enjoying knowing how very different her private urges were to her public image. If only people knew!
Before we reached our destination, she pulled out a towel from a large storage compartment and wiped herself down before re-applying her make-up. An expensive coat came out, and I realised that it had been kept there for this very purpose. When she emerged from the car, nobody could tell that she was naked underneath. “I expect the car to be spotless tomorrow morning,” she told me. “Inside and out. Pick me up at seven thirty. I have an important meeting to prepare for.” Cleaning the car was easier said than done, but somehow I managed it.
As instructed, I said nothing to any living soul about what had happened. It was far from the last time I would drive The Boss to a place like that, but it was the only time I ever touched her myself. When it came right down to it, I wanted the money more than I wanted her.
A few years later The Boss married, but it was clearly more a merging of assets than anything, because she continued to satisfy her sexual appetites as she always had, with undiminished frequency.
Me? I acquired a house and a wife and eventually a couple of really great kids. My wife and I are still very much in love fifteen years on, but I’m under no illusion; there’s no way my wife would have married me if I’d still been living in a scummy flat on the minimum wage.
So everything you’re constantly told about the relationship between love, sex and money; forget it. Trust me. I’ve been around the seedier sides of town enough to know that it’s complete bollocks. Maybe you think that’s cynical, but me, I just think it’s the way it is.
Of course they’re all ideological; handy ways of disguising the obvious fact that money impacts on love in the same way it impacts on the rest of our lives, or else how do you explain that spousal abuse and divorce increase in straightened economic times?
Every teenager knows that if money can’t buy you love, it can at least make you more attractive to a prospective partner – and get you more nookie in the meantime. Why be sentimental about it?
Look around. Does it really seem to you as if monogamous, ‘til death do us part relationships are the norm? Look at all the affairs people have, the divorce rate. Look at history. Ask yourself if it follows that just because two people love each other, they’re absolutely and unfailingly compatible in every way in a sexual sense. Is there really any reason to sentimentalize love and sex, other than for ideological reasons? I don’t think so.
Actually, don’t even get me started on the way people go on about how wrong it is to buy or sell sex; as if there was something virtuous about someone wearing their body down doing menial labour for the minimum wage, as opposed to making what they can with whatever assets they’ve got. But it follows, logically, from the myth that love and sex are (or should be) inextricably intertwined. If love is to be kept separate from Mammon, then it follows that sex should not be commodified either. The only problem with this is that it ignores reality.
Because we all believe in market forces these days, don’t we? Supply and demand and all that. If there’s a demand for a service, supply will follow. It always has. And I still don’t see how sex work is in any way more immoral than the way major corporations all want us to sell our souls these days; be loyal, lobotomized company people. Y’know?
What’s that? Buying sex is wrong because it’s all about power and dominance? In part it’s a symptom of inequality, I’ll give you that, but it’s actually tied in to another age old law: Opposites Attract. People who can afford to buy sex in the same way they buy other services don’t actually have to; their money will act as an aphrodisiac and get them sex anyway. No, the real, dirty little secret is that when rich people buy sex, it helps them balance their lives, gives them a way to balance the Olympian heights on which they dwell through a descent into some kind of netherworld, or at least a dirtier, seedier world – like Zeus descending to frolic with mortals. The lies they traffic in can be blissfully forgotten, at least for a while; “Love Don’t Cost a Thing” – until the divorce. The loftier the life; the more the opposite attracts. Why else do nice, middle class white kids go in for gangsta rap, or adopt some simulacrum of a bohemian lifestyle – at least until they gentrify the neighbourhoods they moved to, ruining the edginess that drew them there in the first place? Think about it.
Opposites attract isn’t just a theory. I’ve seen it in action. I’ve seen it with my boss.
I’d worked for a certain company for a while. It had been founded by the current boss’s grandfather, way back. The current boss was thus born into a world of wealth and privilege. For all I know she even went to finishing school. Truth be told, you’d think she was a bit of a bimbo to look at, but you underestimate her at your peril. Of course, for some reason the rich never seem to think that those of us at the bottom of the pile do any kind of work that merits a decent wage, in spite of the fact that they’d be sunk without us. I’d been at the company for three years, and was still hovering just above the minimum wage. That was when The Boss approached me.
Well, she demanded to see me. Naturally I thought I was about to be given the sack, or at the very least a good bollocking, though for what reason I wasn’t sure. She liked to flaunt her wealth discreetly – if that’s not a contradiction in terms. If she wasn’t laden with bling, you still knew that what little jewellery there was, and the smart outfit, had cost a bloody fortune. I stood there in my frayed and faded jeans and grubby shirt, hating that I felt inferior, even though I didn’t see any reason why I should.
“I have reason to believe that you’re the kind of man who can keep things to himself,” she said. She’d been sounding someone out about me. Why, I couldn’t imagine.
“Yeah, well, having a loose tongue can get you into all kinds of bother.”
“You also look like you know how to handle yourself if things get hairy,” The Boss went on.
“Where I come from, you don’t know how to handle yourself, you’re basically dead.”
This seemed to amuse The Boss. “And as with all your kind, I’m sure that money talks.”
I tried hard to ignore that patronizing ‘your kind’. “Depends,” I said. I mean, a man has his pride, right?
She fixed me with a good hard stare. “Playing hard to get, are we?”
I shrugged. “Depends what exactly we’re talking about.”
The Boss leaned back in her chair. “There’s a vacancy,” she said. “I need a new chauffeur.”
“Then advertise.” I shouldn’t have said it, but I was pissed off at these games, and The Boss’s air of superiority.
To my surprise, she said, “Very good! I had a hunch you’d be just the man for the job.”
“Why?”
The Boss’s demeanour changed again as she leaned forward. “Never mind that. Either you want the job or you don’t.”
“What does it involve? Other than the obvious.”
“Very good!” The Boss said again. Then, clasping her hands together and relaxing into her more benevolent role, “It involves five times your present salary, in exchange for your absolute silence. Whatever you should chance to witness, you must never breathe a word of it to any living soul. If you do, I will crush you like a cockroach.”
One thing rich people don’t get, is that when you’re at the bottom of the ladder already, threats like that are pretty fucking pointless. How much worse can it get? On the other hand, money may not buy you love, but it can definitely buy a man’s complicity. Five times what I earned was more money than I’d ever seen. I was thinking shady deals, overhearing things it would hurt The Boss if they were made public; backhanders, secret conversations with politicians, environmental chicanery, whatever. Still, a conscience is a luxury reserved for those who can afford it. “Monkey blind, deaf and mute,” I said.
“So we have a deal.” It wasn’t a question.
“Don’t you want me to take you for a spin first?” I said. “Make sure I’m up to snuff.”
She laughed. The Boss laughed like it was the funniest fucking thing she’d ever heard. Mind you, if you’ve been educated by nuns or whatever, maybe everything is funny by comparison.
Anyway, I accepted the money and the conditions, of course I did. What do you take me for? The first couple of weeks there was absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. I drove The Boss to meetings and other engagements, and whatever conversations took place in the back of the car, nothing sounded remotely suspicious. I certainly wasn’t privy to any underhand dealings of any kind.
But then things changed. The meetings and stuff remained, but now I got to drive The Boss to a few other locations; places you wouldn’t expect a woman in her position to go. “Wait here,” she would say, leaving me to guard the car in some part of town where you wouldn’t necessarily expect it to remain unmolested. So I waited, leaning against the gleaming paintwork as I smoked interminable cigarettes and glared at the lowlife that cast inquisitive eyes in my direction. Shabby neon advertised cheap thrills. People uninhibited from drink shrieked and threw cartons of half-eaten food on the ground for seagulls to swoop in and carry off. The Boss would return after an hour or so, never once saying where she’d been, what she’d done or who she’d seen, and I didn’t ask. She was paying me for my silence, and the less I knew, the less trouble I’d have keeping my mouth shut.
My first pay check as a chauffeur convinced me that I’d made the right decision. Having lived on so little for so long, I had no idea what to spend it on, but that left me a fair bit to stash away in a savings account (something I’d never had before). Hell, at this rate I’d be able to afford the deposit on a house before I knew it, and get out of my scummy little flat overlooking an accident-prone stretch of flyover and an abandoned chemical plant.
A week into my second month was when I really came to understand The Boss’s need for discretion. She ordered the car round and got in the back. This time, instead of stating a destination, she gave directions.
“Yes, ma’m,” I replied to each one.
Not that there were many directions to give. Through town until we got to the motorway. Then the motorway until we’d left the sprawl of the metropolis behind us. We passed junction after junction until The Boss told me, “Exit at the next junction. Follow the signs to the truck stop.”
“Yes, ma’m.”
This was a new one. It was dark by now, but the expanse of the truck stop basked in a sodium glow. Huge juggernauts stood lined up along one side of the parking area. There was a building with a shop and a café, but The Boss ordered me to stop round the back. “Ma’m?” I said, switching the engine off.
“I’m not expecting any trouble,” The Boss said. “But I want you with me, just in case.”
She may not be expecting trouble, but it sounded ominous anyway. Was this it? Where the shady deals were arranged? Brown envelope, no questions asked, that kind of thing? “Yes, ma’m,” I said.
The Boss got out of the car without waiting for me to open the door for her. I followed, making sure to lock the car, which chirped happily. I still had no idea quite what this was all about, but for the first time doubts began to creep in.
There was one door set in the back of the square building. The sign on the door identified it as a men’s lavatory. There was no corresponding female lavatory, and it wasn’t hard to fathom that this was primarily for the benefit of truckers. So why did The Boss pull the door open and enter? I followed, feeling ill at ease.
Inside, there was the smell of a day’s worth of human waste. Truth be told it smelled no worse than the lift in my tower block, but I still didn’t get what we were doing there. “What now?” I said.
“We wait,” The Boss replied. “You over there.”
She pointed to the wall next to the door and I complied, arms folded across my chest. There was nothing out of the ordinary about the place; three cubicles off to one side, three porcelain urinals lined up along the back wall. There was everything out of the ordinary about the scene, as The Boss walked across to the central urinal, her high heels click-clacking against the floor, before she turned, standing so far back she was actually straddling the thing.
Even at this late stage, I couldn’t fathom what was going on. I had a million questions, but I’d long since decided it was best not to ask, to know. Besides, The Boss had said to wait.
Not that we had long to wait. When the door opened, I tensed, every muscle prepared for the trouble The Boss said she didn’t expect. The man who entered was big and burly, clearly overweight, with dirty jeans and a stained t-shirt.
He walked straight up to the central urinal, in spite of the fact that he could easily have chosen either of the others. I clenched my fists, but something about the situation was unnaturally composed, almost like a tableau. The man was standing in front of The Boss. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Am I in your way?”
And to my amazement she began to hitch up her skirt, lifting it past black stocking tops. At the same time the man was unzipping without a word. Though I couldn’t see, I knew his cock was coming out.
As if The Boss wasn’t there, he began to empty his bladder. I shifted slightly, seeing the curve of urine as it struck the porcelain. Then to my amazement, the jet rose, urine wetting black, satin knickers. I was ready to step in, but The Boss didn’t look as if she was keen for any interruptions, an amused, slightly cruel smile playing on her lips.
Having emptied his bladder, the man gave his dick a shake. “Oops,” he said. “Looks like I pissed your panties.”
“Then I’d better take them off,” The Boss said.
As she did just that, the man fiddled with his cock, bringing it up to full erection. The Boss smiled, but only with her mouth, turning as her skirt dropped back down. She placed one heeled foot on the urinal, gripping the pipes that ran up the wall with a hand and thrusting her arse back. The man lifted her skirt back up with one hand, guiding his cock with the other. There was no discussion, no asking of permission, just the man stuffing his sausage into The Boss.
The Boss gave a groan of depraved delight. My own cock stiffened at the sound, and it was all I could do not to unfold my arms to stuff my hand into my pocket.
“Aaaah, talk dirty to me!” The Boss demanded, as she stood there, letting the fat man drive his cock back and forth.
“Turn you on, does it, you little slag?” the man obliged. “Poor little rich girl, desperate for a proper shag for once.”
“Think you’re God’s gift to women, do you?” The Boss replied.
“Shut the fuck up and take it,” the man replied, grabbing The Boss’ pony tail and pushing her face up against the wall. “We both know all you want is a good hard fuck and a cunt load of spunk.”
I was prepared to intervene, but something told me the pair had previous with each other. Not least the way The Boss was moaning. There was another sound too. The sound natural lubrication made when cock pummelled into cunt. “Loving it, ain’t ya, ya little tart,” the man panted.
The door to the toilet was opening. A new man entered, who might have been the twin of the other, except he wore a beard. He went straight up to where the pair were rutting and grabbed hold of one of the Boss’s tits. “And here was me thinking you was one of them urban myths,” he said.
As he spoke, a third man entered, slightly leaner than the others, but shabbily dressed; clearly one of the trucker fraternity.
“Shut up and use me,” The Boss was saying, her hand moving to the second man’s crotch to give a good hard squeeze.
The most recent arrival was bringing his cock out as he walked towards the little group. “Can anyone join in?” he asked.
“She’s just a fucking slag,” the man fucking The Boss said. “She’ll let anyone use her.”
It was obvious to me now why I’d been sworn to secrecy. If any of this came out, The Boss’s reputation would be in tatters. I was slightly relieved that I didn’t have to keep quiet about shady deals and the like. I mean, this was just adults doing what adults do; albeit an extremely dirty and risky version thereof. Besides, I was enjoying myself now, even if I wasn’t about to lose my menacing aspect by touching my swollen cock. I had a job to do, even if I didn’t think any muscle was going to be called upon.
The two newcomers both had their cocks out now. The Boss held them in her hands as they groped her tits through her blouse. The man behind her kept up the pace, but his heavy breathing was more the result of bad stamina than anything.
“Do you do blow-jobs?” one of the men asked.
“Try me!” The Boss replied. “But first I want this fucker to cum in me.” Then she was moaning again; moaning as I’d heard no woman moan before.
I knew The Boss loved being the centre of attention, but I’d hardly imagined that she liked attention such as this. The dirty, grubby men leered as they squeezed her tits. Did they have wives, girlfriends? It hardly seemed to matter. The first man had broken out into a sweat. His jellied stomach bounced as he gave The Boss every last inch of his cock. “Do it!” The Boss urged. “Fill my cunt with every last drop of spunk in your bollocks!”
Spoken in such a posh voice, the demand was irresistible. I could easily understand why the man suddenly grunted. “Take it!” he panted. “Fucking take my spunk, you dirty slag. Fucking take every last drop!”
As he pulled out he gave The Boss’s arse a slap. He must have given her quite a load, because as The Boss turned around to sit down on the urinal, the stuff was dripping out of her. The other two men immediately shoved their cocks up against her face.
Having had his pleasure, the first man was zipping up. He clearly didn’t care about sticking around to see what happened, making his way to the door, pausing only to say to me, “You’re the bodyguard, then.”
I nodded.
The man nodded in return. “Make sure you give her one, once those two are done with her.” And then he was gone. I was more convinced than ever that this wasn’t the first time he’d encountered The Boss. As for the other two, they seemed a different matter.
What I can say is that The Boss didn’t exactly put up a fight. On the contrary, her mouth opened willingly to admit the first of the cocks. At first she held the erection as she sucked on it, but soon she allowed the men to take charge, to take turns, holding her head in place as they fucked her face.
There was no cause for me to intervene, but still I resisted temptation, remaining with arms folded. There was slurping and grunting, and then The Boss kept up a steady, “Mmmmmmmm,” as the men continued taking their pleasure.
“Do you swallow?” one of the men asked.
The Boss didn’t. But she did sit there, holding her mouth open for the pair to ejaculate in her mouth before closing it and pushing their sperm out past her lips, drooling it all onto the floor. “Dirty slut,” Beardman said in parting, with a new squeeze of her tits.
Once the men had gone, I moved, still with arms folded, blocking the exit. I don’t know what had flown into me. I still don’t know if I was just keen to test The Boss. At any rate she understood the look in my eye, because she said, “Is that really a part of your job description?”
“You can’t expect a bloke to just stand and watch all that and not…”
The Boss gave a crooked little grin. Then she moved across to one of the wash basins, steadied herself with one hand and reached back to pull her skirt back up with the other. “Very well,” she said. “You can fuck me and cum in me. But it will come out of your pay packet.”
Fucking bitch. Hairy arsed truckers could just have their way with her, but loyal employees had to pay. Was that any way to treat the workers?
I could have declined, but I didn’t. I got my cock out, stuffed it up her and fucked her hard and, I admit, resentfully until I came.
“Obviously a man of many talents,” The Boss decided afterwards.
My cum was still dripping from her pussy when the door to the toilets opened again. Two men entered, one looking young and apprehensive, the other older, dressed in a flannel shirt and regulation jeans. He gave me a cursory glance, then said to The Boss, “’Ello ya randy slapper. Long time no see.”
I needn’t doubt that the two of them had previous, which was just as well, because with my swiftly softening dick out in the open I was no use to anyone. I tried to get back into character while The Boss turned to face the two men. “It’s good to see you too,” she said sardonically. “Who’s your friend.”
“This ‘ere’s Dave,” the man said. “I’m showing ‘im the ropes.” Then he turned to the younger man. “This ‘ere’s the best bit of cunt you’ll find at any truck stop in the UK.”
“Why settle for the UK?” The Boss asked. I stared, fascinated, as another blob of cum dripped from her onto the tiled floor.
“Get yer cock out, lad,” Flannel Man said. “This one can’t control herself once she sets eyes on a stiff cock.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” The Boss said.
Flannel Man just leered. Dave was looking apprehensive, but was unzipping nevertheless. Perhaps he always did as he was told. “Show us yer tits, love,” Flannel Man said. “If Dave’s not already ‘ard that’ll do it.”
“What if I don’t feel like it?” The Boss asked.
I was momentarily taken by the way she was facing up to Flannel Man, but when he went up to her, grabbed her blouse and ripped it open, I realised that it was all for show. Though I’d never set eyes on the man before, it was obvious this was a game they played.
There were buttons bouncing across the floor. I suddenly noticed how grimy his hands were when he yanked The Boss’s bra down and mauled perfectly shaped breasts.
“Have you any idea how much that blouse cost?” The Boss said.
“Yeah, well, you can afford it.” Flannel Man turned his head, looking at Dave, who had indeed produced a slightly half-hearted erection. “Good lad,” he said. “You’re in for a real treat.” Then, turning back to The Boss, “Now bend over and suck ‘is cock, ya ‘appy slapper. Ya know ya want to.”
I was half expecting The Boss to object, but this time she didn’t. She just bent forwards, took the young man’s cock between her fingers and guided it to her mouth.
Her skirt had come back down, but Flannel Man soon had it back up, after first extracting his own throbbing gristle. He regarded The Boss’s round buttocks for a moment before raising an arm and bringing his hand down. “A good ‘ard slap for a right slapper,” he said, the sound of flesh on flesh bouncing against the ceramic tiles. Then his hand was up against her labia. “I’d warm you up,” he said, “but since other gents have been here already, I reckon their spunk’ll do as lubrication.”
I couldn’t see the exact point of entry, but it was obvious from the gasp The Boss gave that she was penetrated. “Stuff ‘er face proper like,” Flannel Man instructed his accomplice. “Likes it rough, does Little Miss Scuzz ‘Ore. You wouldn’t think so to look at ‘er, but that’s ‘ow it is.”
As the man’s thrusts accelerated, I found myself beginning to enjoy the sight. Don’t get me wrong; if The Boss had given the slightest indication, I would have acted the bodyguard the way I assumed she expected me to. The thing was, it was becoming perfectly obvious to me that things would have to get really nasty before I was expected to intervene.
So I watched as Flannel Man became the third man to pound The Boss’s pussy that evening. If Dave wasn’t quite going at The Boss the way Flannel Man had instructed, I got the feeling she was compensating by shoving her mouth down on him as much as he was pushing into her. There was gasping and grunting, and then the slapping of flesh was augmented with a new slap to The Boss’s buttocks.
Then the door opened. Four men entered, quickly forming a semi-circle, various builds and ages and degrees of facial hair, but all of them in the same casual truckerwear as the others. They watched as Dave and Flannel Man continued porking The Boss. Flannel Man seemed to enjoy the attention, panting, “Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! Love’s it from both ends, she does, fucking nympho slut.”
Then he was pulling his cock out. He wanked it fast, using his free hand to pull on the hem of one of The Boss’s stockings, draining his cock against her thigh so that his slippery seed ran down inside the nylon. “That’s my posh cumslut,” he breathed, giving her arse a slap. “You are a dirty cumslut, ain’t ya, slapper?”
The Boss came off Dave’s cock, twisting her head. Before she had time to speak, Flannel Man was up by her head, twisting it back round and holding it. “Ever cum on a woman’s face before, Dave?” he asked. The younger man shook his head. “Well now’s yer chance. Go on lad, facialize the cumslut!”
As the young man rubbed his swollen meat up against The Boss’s cheek, the other four men crowded round. Their hands were all over her and under her, grabbing at her tits. Dave was crying out loud, actually sounding like he was crying when he ejaculated. In the mayhem it was hard to see anything, but when he was done I got a glimpse of the Boss’s face with a glaze of sperm down one side. She looked in my direction, but nothing in her demeanour suggested that she wanted me to intervene, though what good I would have been against four hulking men, I’m not sure. It wasn’t like I was packing heat.
Now that Flannel Man and Dave were done with her, the other four men got in a groove. “On your knees, slut!” one of them barked. They crowded round, and within seconds The Boss had mouth and hands fully occupied.
“Be seeing ya, yer randy slapper,” Flannel Man cried out as he and Dave left, leaving The Boss to attend fully to the four throbbing dicks that were being pushed up against her face.
After that, The Boss gave up any pretence at reluctance. The men surrounded her, manhandling her into positions where they could use her any which way they liked. There was squelching and flesh slapping. Hands were all over her, grabbing and groping and pinching and slapping. Hard cocks rubbed up against her and invaded her holes. I watched as she was fucked up against the wash basin, the men taking turns, as those not currently fucking her groped her and slapped her tits, one even spitting at her.
Then there was the language. I’m not sure any names they didn’t call her actually exist. And yet whenever I caught sight of her face, all I could see was a depraved gleam in her eye that told me all I needed to know about how much she was enjoying it.
When the men left, she was a bedraggled spectacle. Everything had vanished from her body except stockings, shoes, her necklace and a bucketload of spunk. There was more cum on her nylons, and Dave’s load on her face had been balanced out. There were blotches of sperm on her breasts, and the stuff was dripping from her abused cunt.
The Boss gathered up her ripped blouse and bra, piss-stained skirt (which had somehow ended up in one of the urinals) and piss-soaked panties. “I think it’s time to go home,” she said calmly.
As soon as we were back in the car, The Boss sat in the back, legs spread, rubbing herself, still covered in the product of male satisfaction. I watched her satisfy herself over and over in the rear view mirror. I lost count of how many times she climaxed as we sped towards her penthouse flat. I was enjoying myself; enjoying knowing how very different her private urges were to her public image. If only people knew!
Before we reached our destination, she pulled out a towel from a large storage compartment and wiped herself down before re-applying her make-up. An expensive coat came out, and I realised that it had been kept there for this very purpose. When she emerged from the car, nobody could tell that she was naked underneath. “I expect the car to be spotless tomorrow morning,” she told me. “Inside and out. Pick me up at seven thirty. I have an important meeting to prepare for.” Cleaning the car was easier said than done, but somehow I managed it.
As instructed, I said nothing to any living soul about what had happened. It was far from the last time I would drive The Boss to a place like that, but it was the only time I ever touched her myself. When it came right down to it, I wanted the money more than I wanted her.
A few years later The Boss married, but it was clearly more a merging of assets than anything, because she continued to satisfy her sexual appetites as she always had, with undiminished frequency.
Me? I acquired a house and a wife and eventually a couple of really great kids. My wife and I are still very much in love fifteen years on, but I’m under no illusion; there’s no way my wife would have married me if I’d still been living in a scummy flat on the minimum wage.
So everything you’re constantly told about the relationship between love, sex and money; forget it. Trust me. I’ve been around the seedier sides of town enough to know that it’s complete bollocks. Maybe you think that’s cynical, but me, I just think it’s the way it is.
Bree
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