The Exhibition
Introduction:
The boxes of sex toys was not really what the men were there to see.
The Exhibition
“They’ll go ga-ga over you in this costume.”
The man holding up what looked like a body stocking was my “manager” for the day. I’d worked once before with Gary and liked him. He wasn’t all business, but didn’t spend too much time trying to hit on the girls either. Not that I don’t like being hit on! If he helps me get into the costume I’ll be disappointed if he doesn’t cop a feel or three. And he knows it. Squeezing my tits and rubbing my naked pussy lips is the minimum required to show he really does think I’m as attractive as he says. But if he starts fingering me, getting my juices flowing and my hopes up, then we both know I’ll be more than just enjoying it. I’ll be wanting more when the show’s over. And I’m only one of the six girls he’s “handling”.
Sometimes these guys are gay, like some male ballet dancers. I knew Gary was a bi, but with a leaning toward pussy. It’s sort of fun working with a guy who’d like to sink his erection into my fanny but also has experience being on the receiving end. So many guys seemed to think the girl doesn’t also want to enjoy it. Actually, if I ever get to have sex with him I think I’d like to start with pussy sex. I have this urge to feel his manhood inside my baby hole.
I usually like to start with vaginal sex except when I was being “branded”. I don’t know how common an expression that is. It means that a “master” type is “making” you his sex slave, though usually not exclusively. I had a six month job working for a “Gentleman’s Bond” club, “Bond” as in “Bondage”. In that state, prostitution was technically illegal, but this operation was pretty high class. I got paid and men got to fuck me. But they called me an actress and I was supposed to be part of a “show”. My partners, however, were paying for the privilege to “perform” with me.
It was a private club and once inside the closed doors we dropped all the euphemisms. I was simply a sex toy and the men, my masters. We didn’t use condoms but everyone had to get tested for VD once a week and every time after sex with an outsider. That second part applied mostly to the guys. The girls like me were getting fucked so much on the job that we didn’t have the time, energy, or desire for boyfriends. Unlike regular prostitution, the club provided a very satisfying and varied experience for the females. The club usually had about six of us for the forty members. In less than a month I got to know all forty dicks pretty well and also the men attached to them. I got “branded” by every member almost immediately. It doesn’t hurt, though you pretend it does, and it would if you didn’t already have your asshole well stretched and lubed. You bend over, your new master mounts you and sinks his dick into your heinie right to the hilt on the first stroke. It does sort of take a girl’s breath away. You whimper and pretend he’s hurting you. But I loved it every time, especially the delightful feeling of being naughty for enjoying it so much. When a man brands you, you suddenly want to be his sex slave in the worst way.
I’m not sure exactly why I quit after six months. I hadn’t previously done prostitution, but after six months, being a whore seemed to lose some of the glamor. And there were rumors that we might get investigated. But mostly the club seemed to like cycling in new faces and pussies and, face it, new heinies. They gave you a bonus when you quit if you had worked for four months. But the bonus didn’t increase if you worked for more than four months. In a way it was an incentive to leave on a timely basis and on good terms. I had never enjoyed any other half year of my life nearly as much. And I learned to really love kinky sex.
I’m not sure how I decided to go to Europe, but with a fat savings account it seemed a nice idea. When I started looking for work I didn’t need the money. Mostly I needed to get fucked, and needed more than just a single boyfriend to do the fucking. But prostitution, while legal, is also regulated. Anyone who isn’t an EU citizen has a hard time getting a work permit, even as a whore. I discovered that Brussels was less regulated, and for “shows” the producers would hire an uninhibited American girl. Without actually saying it was a job requirement they actually wanted you to have some positive experience in prostitution. They were looking for girls who loved being exhibitionists, and could smile sweetly if a customer got more friendly than he should.
The first time I’d worked with Gary had been another one of these “Erotic” trade shows. Most of the guys bought a few things, but there was also a high admission charge. Inside there were a lot of girls like me, attractive, naked, and trying to sell the items. Actually, you always wore something, but it usually left your tits and crotch exposed. You got a good fee for just being there. If you were friendly to the customers you got asked back. If you sold stuff, you got a hefty commission. I quickly discovered that a barter system was in full swing without any overt haggling. The men weren’t supposed to touch your exposed genitals, or even your tits, but did surreptitiously if you let them. I like getting fingered so it was a win-win. The men felt obliged to buy something, and the ones who sank a finger deep inside me usually bought the more expensive items. It was funny because they could have gotten laid by the regular whores at the brothels for what the evening was costing them. But they seemed to like the venue and I wasn’t complaining, even though it wasn’t nearly as satisfying as any night at the club. I usually went home horny as hell, wanting in the worst way to have five lovers in bed with me.
The costume he was holding up was a body stocking and as naughty as they come. The last time, I’d worn a padded under bra, a bikini bottom outline, stocking, heels, and full length nylon gloves. In a body stocking I wouldn’t need gloves and nylon stockings. Gary help me get into the body glove, giving me a polite fondling. I sighed and wished he’d cross the line, penetrate one of my orifices, take me to bed after the show, whatever. Brief as his touch on my pussy lips had been I still got so turned on that I wet his hand. He put it to his nose and smiled.
“The customers will love you.”
When I caught my breath I took a minute to study the outfit. I loved being naked in the midst of clothed male strangers. These outfits usually made a girl feel even more naked than simply wearing her birthday suit. The crotch opening was bordered by a thin elastic cord. Instead of one opening it was technically two, separated by a short cord. Access to my asshole was wide open, but the cord around my pussy lips gathered them into a visual offering. My protruding labia became more than normally sensitive, as Gary’s touch had demonstrated. And last time, I’d gotten groped almost a hundred times in five hours. There was also elastic around the tit openings. But it wasn’t tight and didn’t reshape me as my breasts pushed through the opening. Gary had said I probably benefited less from push up under bras than any of the other girls. By this he meant that my tits were already shaped the way these open nipple supports were trying to make them. So this time he decided to give me an outfit that didn’t go with an underbra. In fact, my natural size C shape was so close to perfect that men were always squeezing my tits expecting to feel implants. Perhaps I like being naked partly because I look so good naked. But with a heavy bra under a tight sweater, lots of girls can look as shapely as me. In the club I almost never wore anything other than bands on my wrists, ankles, and neck for the bondage.
Two hours into the show I’d been groped a lot and made a fair amount of commissions. By doing one of these a week I was living modestly on the income without dipping into my savings. I liked knowing that I still had a good, untouched cushion. Mostly I needed sex, not cash. I was almost ready to go back to the US where I could more easily ply the only trade I’d ever practiced. Forget the four years of college, though maybe some day I’d try to use my degree for something. In the meantime, while I was still young and attractive, I wanted to enjoy the fact.
“I’ll pay you a hundred if you let me write something small under your right nipple.”
Speaking to me in English was not strange. The men came from all over, and even some of the girls didn’t speak French. It wasn’t uncommon for whores and clients to converse in English even when English wasn’t the native language of either one. A hundred meant a hundred Euros, at that time about $140 US. I didn’t need the money, but it was a fair offer. He was holding a ball point pen, and the ink would wear off in a few days or immediately if I scrubbed it off. My concern was what to do with the money. The only pockets I had were the ones men were playing with. The man seemed to realize this because he was holding an envelope. I answered in a fey mood.
“Make it look neat like a tattoo, and don’t hurt me,” I said, taking the bills and the envelope.
I couldn’t see what he was writing without a mirror, but didn’t much care. Some of the girls wore fake tattoos, for shows like this, that were extremely crude. It seemed to encourage the “tips”. True to my request he didn’t press into my soft flesh any harder than necessary. And he was taking his time, being careful, so I assumed he was being neat. Of course, he was holding my nipple to keep my tit steady, a fact I was delightfully aware of. What a slut I am! Getting turned on just because a man is holding my nipple, as if having my pussy lips fondled for hours wasn’t enough! He was actually writing well below my nipple, and on the under curve of my tit his message to others wouldn’t be seen all that well.
The strange thing was, he seemed to be writing from right to left. Maybe it was Hebrew. I decided I’d look at it before scrubbing it off. It occurred to me I’d put no time or space limit on the agreement. I suppose he could have intended to write the entire Lord’s Prayer, but he didn’t seem like the type who’d cheat like that. Nor the type who’d write anything so much a downer as religious verse. I would smile if I saw in the mirror something like “This slut needs fucking” but not at all happy if it said “Thou shall not ..” Suddenly I realized why he was writing backwards. He wanted me to read it, not other people! Now I really wanted to see what was written on the under side of my right breast. When he was done I put the money carefully under the counter.
In the remaining hours I almost forgot the incident. No one who hadn’t seen him marking me even seemed to notice the results of his work. I did remember to take the money, however, when I went home. I was tired and frustrated. The evening had actually been fun, but I had no one to sleep with. You weren’t supposed to exchange phone numbers, but I would have given mine out if I liked the way the guy looked. I guess none of the guys realized that such an attractive female as myself could also be so hard up for hard sex. I stripped and was about to step into the shower when I realized I was about to wash off the message. So instead I went to the mirror to see what he had written. It was a line of numbers with the words “please call” written backwards and quite readable in the mirror. I called and he answered and I asked him if he was still up and would he like to come over and he said yes.
YES!!! I wouldn’t have to spend the night alone!
