A Study in Shame Read online

  It seemed to be some sort of depot, with big colourful lorries moving in and out, some being loaded or unloaded, others parked in a long single rank that backed onto the river. I could even make out the names, mostly continental firms, and see the drivers, talking together, lounging by their trailers with mugs of tea in their hands or seated in their cabs. They looked like the sort of men who’d do me good, big no-nonsense men who’d enjoy me without worrying about anything but the pleasure they could take in my body. It would be deliciously shameful too, and risky, bent down in the front seat of a lorry cab, my blouse open so that the driver could fondle my breasts while I sucked him off, and, if we got caught, well, I’d just have to suck his mates as well.

  The thought sent a powerful shiver through my body, and again as I considered how easy it would be to make the fantasy into reality. All I had to do was make my way down to the street, stroll across to the depot, select my man and ask politely if I could suck his cock. He’d be surprised, but he’d accept and that would be that. In less than a quarter-of-an-hour I could have a nice fat penis swelling slowly to the motion of my lips and tongue while I played with myself down my knickers.

  Life’s never that simple. For a start, people would see me leave the building, so at the very least I’d have to take a roundabout route to reach the depot. Then there would almost certainly prove to be some nosy little security guard who wouldn’t let me in, or if I did get in and summoned up the courage to approach a man he’d no doubt turn out to be faithfully married and would turn me down. That wasn’t so bad though, because it would be deeply shameful to proposition somebody only to have him call me a slut and tell me to fuck off, and I could always have a second go.

  Or he might turn out to have a weedy little cock. They say size doesn’t matter, but a big well-formed cock is so much nicer than a small crooked one, just as a big well-formed man is so much nicer than a small crooked one. The problem is that you can’t guarantee a big well-formed man will have a big well-formed cock, so I’d probably end up sucking on a little wonky willy, and even the humiliation of having to go through with it wouldn’t make up for the lack of size. I’d just have to ask again. And there was another problem. They probably wouldn’t believe my offer was genuine, or, if they did, they’d assume I wanted to be paid.

  With that thought came a shock of humiliation far stronger than before. To ask a complete stranger if I could suck him off was bad enough, but to be offered money, and to take it, would be far more shameful. I wasn’t going to be offered a lot, either, not by a truck driver. A man had once stopped me in the street and offered a thousand pounds for sex. I’d slapped his face so hard his glasses came off. A trucker wasn’t going to offer a thousand pounds, maybe not even a hundred, certainly not for a blow job. Fifty? Twenty? Ten?

  Every time I lowered my price I felt a fresh shiver of excitement. To suck a man off for money would be unbearably humiliating, but the mere thought of doing it for ten pounds had me close to tears. I wanted to do it, but I didn’t dare. If I was found out I’d be sacked on the spot, and everybody was sure to find out. It was a great fantasy, but that was all.

  Yet surely there was no harm in taking a walk down towards the river? It was a lovely evening and I could put on something pretty but casual, something that showed enough of my legs to intrigue any sex-starved men I happened to pass but which wouldn’t raise an eyebrow from even the most censorious of my colleagues. After all, they all thought of me as a prude and would never, ever guess what was going on in my head.

  ‘Well, Morrison, what do you think? Shall I sit in and have another glass of wine over an old film, or shall I go out and pretend to myself that I’m a tart?’

  He didn’t answer, which was good enough for me.

  I pretended I was really going to do it, thinking the whole plan through and acting accordingly. The first thing was to dress the part, which was tricky. On the one hand I had to be able to get out of the building without arousing suspicion, but on the other I didn’t want the drivers to automatically assume I was the stuck-up little bitch everybody seems to take me for just because I’m tall and blonde and speak decent English.

  ‘What do you think, Morrison? How about my red dress with a hat but no knickers underneath? Yes, that feels right.’

  It did: acceptable, yet daring, with intriguing possibilities.

  ‘I do hope it isn’t windy, that’s all, because if it is my dress will blow up and everybody will see my bare bottom, and rather more. Wouldn’t that be embarrassing?’

  There was no wind, so I was quite safe, but the thought alone was embarrassing enough to add to the faint shaking of my fingers as I sorted out my dress and a pretty straw hat to go with it, an ensemble which would make it look as if I was going out on a casual dinner date. Next came my underwear and shoes.

  ‘Do you think I should wear a bra? I’d better, I suppose, people are sure to notice with my nipples so hard, but let’s make it something strapless. No stockings. My legs are smooth and I ought to show them off, while it’s best to keep things simple. Flats or heels? Flats are more sensible, and there’s less chance I’ll be taller than the man who buys me, but tarts wear heels.’

  I went for the heels, lipstick red to match my dress. Having a bra on but no knickers felt odd, and very dirty, leaving me nervous and excited as I looked myself over in the mirror. I looked cool, poised and perfectly respectable for a woman of my age, but in my head I was a tart and a cheap tart at that, the sort of girl who’d suck a stranger’s cock for a few pounds. Shades and a small red bag added the final touches and I was ready, but afraid to leave my flat and at the same time cross with myself because I knew perfectly well I didn’t have the guts to go through with it and get what I really wanted.

  In the end I had to force myself to leave, but nobody took the slightest notice. Nearly everybody had left anyway, and only Security even acknowledged me, with a polite remark as I signed out. I’d escaped, but I was sure I could feel their eyes on me as I crossed the plaza, watching me walk, curious at the way my dress fell against my skin without showing any evidence of underwear, realising I had no knickers on and chuckling together over what that implied.

  I felt good, for all my cowardice, naughty and free in a way I hadn’t for a very long time. The evening was warm and still, but fresh from rain the night before. I knew there was a pub on the riverfront beyond the depot I wanted to pass, the Wharfingers, although I’d never been there. That provided my excuse and I was soon walking alongside a long high fence with the depot beyond. A sign told me that it was a bonded warehouse, which meant Customs and Excise, high security and no chance whatsoever of getting in without a good reason.

  The discovery brought me both relief and regret but made it easier to enjoy my fantasy as I walked on. I was now opposite the row of parked lorries, and their drivers. Closer now, I could see that most of the lorries were French, Spanish or Italian, belonging to long-haul freight carriers specialising in wine and spirits. That meant they were a very long way indeed from their wives or girlfriends, and safely anonymous. Surely none of them would turn down the offer of a blow job and a grope?

  I walked straight into the huge man who had stepped out from behind a parked van, bounced back, tripped over an uneven paving stone and sat down hard on my bottom with my skirt up around my hips and my bare fanny on show to the world. Not that the world was watching, but he was: a giant of a man with a red beard and a blue boiler suit, his face set in surprise but his eyes locked firmly on the neatly trimmed triangle of fur between my legs for the split second before I’d managed to cover myself up. Both of us began to stammer apologies and I could feel the blood rushing to my face as I pulled myself to my feet and hurried on, only to slow almost immediately, with a single thought raging in my head, painfully embarrassing and yet too thrilling to be ignored. He’d seen my cunt.

  All I had to do was turn around and speak to him. I’d make a few light-hearted remarks, apologise for being so clumsy. He’d apologise in turn, agai
n, assuring me it was all his fault. We’d get talking. Maybe he’d offer to buy me a drink, and all the while he’d know I had no knickers on under my dress. He had to react, to take me into the back of his van or one of the alleys that led between the old warehouses across the road, where he’d make me suck his cock or pull up my dress and fuck me up against the wall. Nobody would ever know.

  I ran.

  Chapter Three

  Three large glasses of white wine later and I was wishing I hadn’t.

  ‘Oh, Lucinda, you are such a little coward.’

  I’d said it aloud but nobody paid any attention to me. The pub had been crowded when I got there, so much so that I’d been forced to perch myself on the low brick wall that fronted the river, with one arm on the railings and one bottom cheek on the bricks. It was far from comfortable but I felt I deserved it, a punishment for being so pathetic. I’d held it in my hands, the perfect opportunity to get what I needed and I’d chickened out. He’d been huge, maybe six foot six, and solidly built as well. There was a good chance he had a cock to match, a massive pole of pale smooth flesh rising from a nest of gingery hair.

  ‘You little idiot!’

  A couple at the table nearest to me glanced across. She looked concerned. He looked amused. I gave them a frosty look, something I’m told comes naturally to me, and got up. The place was busy to say the least, with used plates and empty glasses everywhere, but I still took mine back to the bar and thanked the girl who’d served me. Polite behaviour was a habit drummed into me across the years until it was instinctive.

  I didn’t take the direct route back to the building, because it meant passing the depot and I couldn’t bear the thought that the man might still be there and I knew I still didn’t have the courage to ask for what I wanted, or even talk to him in the hope that he would take the lead. As I reached the top of the alley that led down to the pub, I could see straight down the road. He was still there, loading boxes into his van, two at a time, his massive shoulders working under his shirt.

  ‘Go on, Lucinda, you can do it!’

  At that moment a second man appeared from beyond the van, older, balding and carrying a clipboard. I gave up. Evidently it wasn’t my evening. I crossed the road and started up an alley lined with little shops and restaurants, thinking all the while. He’d seen my cunt, a big rough man, a man like a Viking. That was another of my favourite fantasies, to be caught alone on a beach by Viking raiders. I’d imagine being picked up by the biggest of them, slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, carried on board their longship, stripped, fucked.

  That was how the big man ought to have handled me. One peep between my legs and the outcome would have been decided. He’d have reached down, lifted me with the same ease he handled the boxes he’d been loading and put me over his shoulder with my bum in the air. I’d have struggled, just for form’s sake, beating my fists on his back and telling him to put me down, calling him a beast and a bastard. His response would have been to flip up my dress and show off my knickerless bottom to the world, with my cunt showing between my thighs.

  I’d have been dumped unceremoniously into the van, spread out on the floor with my legs apart. He’d have unzipped his boiler suit to pull out a truly massive set of balls and a monstrous cock, already half stiff. I’d have surrendered at the mere sight, taking him in my mouth as he straddled me. As I sucked he’d have pulled my dress up, taking my bra with it, to leave me spread naked beneath him in nothing but my bright-red heels and the dishevelled mess of my pretty clothes. Anybody who happened to pass would have been able to see, but I’d have kept my legs open, making a thoroughly rude show of myself.

  When he was hard he’d have entered me, sliding easily in up my wet hole and making the show I was giving to the crowd now gathered in the street ruder still. My legs would be rolled up, my penetrated cunt stretched taut on the shaft of his massive cock as he pumped into me with his balls slapping between my well-spread bottom cheeks and the tight glistening hole of my anus exposed to the vulgar stares.

  ‘That would be so nice.’

  This time there was nobody to hear me talking to myself. The light was beginning to fade and there were only a few people about, with most of the shops shut. One wasn’t, a curious-looking place with the single large window painted bright pink and decorated with a single word in gaudy gold paint – Harlot. It was a sex shop, the Pink Pussycat, and I found myself automatically quickening my step as I thought of dirty old men leering at pictures and videos of naked girls. Fifty yards on I stopped.

  There was a café and I ordered a double espresso, sipping at the hot dark liquid as I pretended not to be looking at the door of the sex shop. An idea had occurred to me. I needed to make up for my cowardice. I even felt I needed to be punished in some shameful way. I badly needed to be naughty. What better way than forcing myself to go into the Pink Pussycat and purchase some embarrassing article?

  I’d be safe, as long as nobody who knew me saw me go in or come out, and the chances had to be tiny. There was still a risk, but that was as exciting as it was frightening and it also stirred something rebellious within me. I had to do it.

  ‘Go on, Lucinda, you little coward. It’s the perfect punishment.’

  It was, so horribly embarrassing that it would be sure to bring my already powerful arousal to the point at which I could no longer hold back. Maybe they’d have crotchless panties, cheaply made in scarlet nylon, the sort of tacky garment no decent woman would ever wear. I’d buy them, from an assistant who’d be trying to stifle his amusement and lust as he imagined me wearing them, my bottom no more than half covered by the hopelessly inadequate triangle of see-through red nylon at the back, the lips of my cunt peeping out from the slit at the front. He’d be some slick grubby-minded type, his head full of dirty thoughts as he eyed me up and down. Maybe he’d even proposition me, and I would turn him down, although the shame of it would be a wonderful addition to my punishment.

  ‘Go on, Lucinda, just do it.’

  I swallowed my coffee, spent a moment blinking my eyes and gasping for breath as I struggled to cope with the near-scalding liquid, and got up. There was a cash machine directly across the road, so I couldn’t make excuses to myself about not using my card in the shop.

  With the money in my bag I found the street empty for a hundred yards in either direction, so there was no way to back out by pretending I might be recognised either. It still took all my courage to walk those few short yards and push in through the door to the shop, but I did it.

  ‘Can I help you, miss?’

  She was small, tattooed and pierced, with startling green and blue hair like the plumage of some exotic bird, and as far from the image of the lecherous male I’d been imagining as it was possible to be. I could no more buy tarty knickers from her than from my own mother. There was no shortage of them though, three large stands festooned with the things, in dozens of designs and several colours, each labelled: saucy scarlet, bitch black, virgin white. I glanced around, desperate to find something, anything that didn’t imply that I was after dirty, smutty sex.

  ‘We’ve got some great deals on sex aids.’

  ‘Oh.’

  I walked across to the glass-fronted cabinet she was indicating. It seemed rude not to. Inside were some of the most grotesque objects I had ever seen, great bulky monstrosities made of hard black rubber and so large it was impossible to imagine them having any relevance to the human form at all. A neatly written sign in front of the three nearest informed me that they were butt plugs: the Butch, which I couldn’t have got in my mouth, never mind up my bottom; the Bully, which would have made an elephant sit up and take notice; and the Bastard, which was quite simply insane. The names suggested they were designed for gay men, to my immense relief.

  On the shelf below was a selection of vibrators, which were positively calming after the butt plugs. Most were ugly plastic things covered in embarrassing bumps and oddly shaped protrusions, but a few were stainless steel and really qu
ite elegant, also reassuringly expensive. The assistant was looking at me hopefully and I realised I ought to say something, if only to find myself an excuse to leave.

  ‘Do these come with a warranty? The steel ones.’

  ‘Three years, but, believe me, they’ll last you a lifetime. Let me show you.’

  I stepped back in alarm, not at all sure what she meant, although it wouldn’t have been the first time I’d been told to pull up my clothes to have a vibrator applied to my pussy. As it was, she merely unlocked the case, selected the largest of the stainless-steel ones, pushed the switch up to maximum and passed it to me. It was buzzing like a hive of angry bees and sent vibrations right up my arm, and further, making the muscles of my belly tighten. My reaction must have showed on my face, because she smiled and I found myself blushing hot as she took the vibrator back.

  ‘Good, isn’t it? But these are much cleverer. Just let me get it out of the harness.’

  She ducked down to the lowest shelf, where there were several complicated harnesses made out of leather straps, each with a large dildo protruding from the front. I knew perfectly well what they were for, having had homemade versions used on me more than once, and found my blushes growing hotter still as she went on. ‘It’s a complete system; three sizes of vibrating dildo, harness, detachable cuffs, head harness and dildo gag, but you can buy the bits separately and the vibrators are the best. Here.’

  She was holding it out to me, a vibrator made in the shape of a big black cock, very much like the one I imagined Morrison might have, complete with a pair of fat rubber balls. I took it, unable to control my shivering as my hand closed on the thick hard shaft, and then she turned it on. The vibrations were so strong I immediately let go and jumped back in surprise.

  She laughed as she picked it up. ‘It gets people like that. Or there’s the thrust setting.’

  An adjustment of the switch and the thing began to thrust in and out, a sight at once so obscene and so compelling that I found myself giggling nervously. I was going to have to buy it, because it was now going to be more embarrassing to make my excuses and leave than to go through with it, after the effort she’d made to be helpful. Besides, I desperately needed the awful thing applied to my cunt.