Free The Business of Pleasure by Justine Elyot Page B

that this is a very popular spot after dark, Charlotte.’
    ‘It is?’
    ‘Yes.’ Bryant laughed, genuinely surprised. ‘It’s quite well documented.’
    ‘I … look, I don’t do this kind of thing … at home. It’s just been fantasies up to now. I’ve had boyfriends, but it’s all been pretty … normal. Except in my head.’
    ‘Conventional on the outside, shameless on the inside,’ said Bryant. ‘Oh look. Visitors.’
    A car pulled up at the far end of the lay-by and four young men, strapping farmer types, shambled out on to the gravel.
    ‘Up to you, Charlotte,’ whispered Bryant – the words she never wanted to hear. ‘I can start the engine now and take you home. Or you can give them a little show. Which one?’
    Big moon faces were looming behind the toughened glass, squinting and peering. Charlotte looked down at her bisected breasts, at her still-parted thighs, at her tied hands. She looked abandoned and hot, especially viewing herself through their eyes. A lust object. Her pussy clenched and she shut her eyes for a few moments before opening them again, her decision made.
    The evening passed in a blur of headlamps and greedy eyes, strumming fingers and her own neck tossing from side to side as she made herself come for the entertainment of the local yokels, once by her own hand, twice by Bryant’s.
    She would never forget her final view as Bryant turned the key in the ignition, causing the spectators to scatter. Their faces, red and parched with lust as their fat fists tugged on their pricks, and at the end of the row, the red, lustful face of Jim Bennett, his froggy eyes bulging from his head.
    No need to write that letter of resignation then, she thought, as Bryant’s Bentley carried her effortlessly away from it all, towards a future that held infinite lascivious promise.

Down and Dirty
    I T’S ALMOST EMBARRASSING TO admit that this is my favourite fantasy. It is so commonplace, after all, and something plenty of women do every day and every night. If only I wasn’t such a freak, I’d have done it myself long ago. But I can’t bring myself to do it – I can’t get past the thought that he might be contaminated. Any amount of fungus might be blooming beneath his perfect skin. His broad chest could be full of deadly spores. I might put my lips up to his be kissed, only to find the sweetish stench of decay wafting from his mouth. Ulcers, sores, nail infections – all might hide inside a fashionable suit.
    I sound mad, I know. I’m quite aware that my scruples aren’t normal. Not everyone wears surgical gloves to leave the house; not everyone flinches if a person comes within half a foot of them; not everyone has a weekly spend of £150 on household detergents. And other people have sex. They touch each other. They give each other pleasure. I have not had an orgasm other than by my deeply-disinfected vibrator in five years – not since Gerry left, citing irreconcilable differences. He said I should be cryogenically frozen because nobody would be able to tell the difference. He said I could cosy up to a bottle of bleach if that’s what I wanted.
    It wasn’t what I wanted though. I don’t want to be this way. I want to feel a touch again, without fifty images of rotting flesh flashing before my eyes. That is why I dialled the Number. I suppose they are used to people asking for all kinds of perverted, disgusting stuff, but all I wanted was to pick up an attractive man in a bar and take him to bed. So simple, so dull in a way. But it would – perhaps – change my life.
    I received an email a week later, inviting me to London to choose a suitable candidate and to witness the many, many tests I had stipulated in my initial contact. The address I arrived at was in Harley Street, at the back of a large private practice. I was shown to a rather nicely furnished waiting room, where I was introduced to a gentleman in a suit. At least, I say I was introduced – he did not give me his name. He