Free The Further Adventures of a London Call Girl by Belle de Jour

said. He had asked, before booking the appointment.
    He put his drink on the table and unsheathed the other foot, turning its underside towards him, running his thumb along its length. ‘Ticklish?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Good.’ His warm fingers pressed lightly on the top of my foot. ‘Clean?’
    ‘As per instructions,’ I said. I had worried that not wearing stockings might make them a little sweaty in transit, but if this was the case he did not seem to mind. ‘Why no stockings?’
    ‘I’m not interested in your legs,’ he said, nuzzling the undersides of both feet together.
    Fair enough. I’m indifferent to them myself. S removed his clothes and spent the next twenty minutes on the floor, shuffling his naked body under my feet as I held my legs bent, thighs raised from the seat. He especially lingered with my feet over his face. But he was not a toe-sucker, and seemed to prefer that I keep the feet together.
    Having discerned that he didn’t want me to do very much, my eyes wandered towards the window. The curtains were open but a sheer privacy curtain was drawn. There was street noise outside, but we were fairly high up, so nothing was distinct. And the sound of his back moving over the carpet. I wondered if he wouldn’t get burns. My feet were over his face again, and he moved his head from side to side.
    ‘Wmmph hmmph mmph mmp,’ he said.
    ‘Pardon?’
    ‘Wiggle your toes.’ Finally, he brought the two feet down to his crotch, cupping them round his balls as he masturbated.
    ‘Nails,’ he said. ‘Dig the nails.’ I dug the nails. He came. Lifting my soles off him, I could see the pink crescents some of the nails had left in his thigh. I held the feet in midair again as he tended to the mess with a baby wipe, then he dressed and poured me another drink. We turned on the television and watched a gardening show.
    vendredi, le 5 novembre
    Flagrant violation of company policy #2: Did not wash up own tea mug.
    My approach to tea is this: as I’ll be having something like my body volume in tea per day, it makes no sense to wash the mug with soap and hot water each time. It’s my mug, and my tea, and I’ll get round to washing up when I get round to it.
    Not everyone sees my point of view on this. Came back from lunch to find mug not on end of desk, where I had left it. Searched for the better part of half an hour before discovering it half full of soap in the tea room drying rack. Returned to desk and note in a tell-tale cramped North American hand:
    YOUR MOTHER DOES NOT WORK HERE
CLEAN UP AFTER YOURSELF
    Idly wondered whether someone whose mother did work here would have been exempt from such advice.
    samedi, le 6 novembre
    ‘So what are you up to today?’ the neighbour asked.
    Trying to avoid men with girlfriends, unless it’s a business arrangement? ‘Nothing special.’
    ‘Well, why don’t you come round – I’ve been needing to get out into the hills for a weekend, and was thinking Dartmoor.’
    Er, what about his girlfriend? ‘What about your girlfriend?’
    ‘She’s visiting relatives in Spain.’ I said nothing. Was he really going to be as casual as that, and not even apologise for not telling me about her earlier? ‘Come on, it would be great fun.’ Yes, indeed he was.
    And yet I couldn’t see that good a reason for saying no. I’d justified having married clients, after all, by thinking it was their business, not mine. And to be honest I didn’t think the neighbour was particularly boyfriend material. Quite apart from the fact that he already was, to someone else. After Dr C, after the Boy, what with the thoughts I’d been thinking lately about previous relationships, it wasn’t a good time for me to be leaping into something serious. So what, really, was the problem? ‘I’ll be over soon.’
    I sat on the sofa in his flat while he packed. Photos, his and hers; books, his and hers; a double desk; little cushions scattered everywhere, definitely the girlfriend’s. Resisted using