Read Online Fishnet by Kirstin Innes - Free Book Online

on the floor. ‘I’d like to see you undress.’
    I was thinking, I haven’t been able to count the money yet. I was thinking, I haven’t done the lube yet.
    He sat down on the bed, looking at me, and I stood in front of him, and pulled at the zip on my dress. It stuck for the first few seconds, and I had to wrestle with it, trying to keep smiling, swaying my hips a little to distract him. Cheap fucking thing. It came, eventually, and I let it swish down around me, stepped out of it. See through panties and a half balcony bra, so this man, this stranger was now pretty much seeing me naked.
    He didn’t say anything, his face didn’t change, but heunzipped the front of his trousers and pulled himself out, already mostly hard.
    â€˜Would you like me to suck your cock?’
    â€˜Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m right in thinking I don’t need to wear a condom?’
    â€˜Not for oral, no,’ I said, like that was what I always said.
    Eyes closed, and it’s just like giving any other blowjob. Could be someone I’d met in a bar. Could be a new boyfriend. I was touched that he’d washed it.
    We spoke in these clipped, formal sentences, both of us. Like neither of us were there for the conversation, so what was the point in pretending? Made sense. He helped me in a way, that wee skinny Irishman, because my response would have been to crack jokes, to ease things through a bit. And of course, with some clients you can do that, and it’s great, but the first time, this one, he helped me pare everything right down, establish a rhythm and a way of being in the room. It wasn’t a kindness to me, he was just a customer, waiting for a service; I was the provider, that was the point.
    It didn’t occur to me until afterwards that I’d crossed over, that I’d actually done it, that I was now not one of us .
    Anyway. Ooh. Yowza, has this blog got serious, right? For being such good and patient little pervs, you can have a sneak preview of my new panties. I do love my bum.

    Tags: clients memories irish outcalls | Comments (3)

Two
    Back
    The first time I noticed what Rona could do was the year after the divorce. Mum was renting out the house while she travelled; Dad had moved to a tiny suburb on the outside of the city. The sort of place that had probably once been a village in its own right, co-opted into the city by bypasses and Tescos and housing schemes.
    It was February, the air was sharp and good for you; we’d just started having to put an extra jumper on under our coats. Thirteen. She was thirteen, for fucksake, probably hadn’t even started her periods yet (not that I’d know).
    There were five of us at my school who lived out that way, the only ones. Me and Rona, Jenna Anderson in the fifth year and her wee brother, and Malcy Lamont. If we made it in time, which we usually didn’t, we could catch the school bus, the one put on by three city centre schools for a disparate bunch: kids from village schemes and the part-timers staying with the parent who made less money.
    Anyway, that day we were on time; weren’t going to shamble shamefaced into first period as usual to everyone mock-tutting, James Gibson pointing and going oooooh! Crossed the road and I went to grab her hand out of instinct. She glared right up at me.
    â€˜I’m not a baby,’ she hissed. ‘And there’s no bloody traffic.’
    Screw her. I was in a good mood that day. We sat down in the wee shelter and I leaned out the one window where someone had punched the scratched Plexiglas away completely, grinned up the hill, still a bit heathered, the sky above it blinking off the last of the sunrise.
    Rona was thirteen, but she already had more chest than I’d ever get. Not that I knew that at the time, still clinging to old JudyBlume tales of hope and late development. Even in uniform I was nobody’s fantasy of a schoolgirl; I’ve never really worked out