Gilbert Martin - Confessions of an English Maid

Before opening the door for me to leave, she detained me a moment in the hall.

“Listen dearie,” she murmured in low, wheedling tones, “I forgot to mention… I don't suppose it will make any difference… but I've got a special class of trade here… this isn't a French house exactly, but you know how it is… most of my best paying regulars like it a little out of the ordinary… you understand. All the other girls here do it You won't mind that, will you dearie?”

Ah! As I digested this bizarre announcement, which fully explained the cajolements and flattery and alluring promises, the woman watched my face anxiously, as though to read therein some sign which would tell her whether the bird was going to fly off affrighted or remain in the trap.

For a long moment I stood pensively silent. I knew from the dejected aspect of the place, the sallow-faced girls, the tarnished furniture, that the type of men who frequented it would be far, far different from those I was accustomed to dealing with. Up to the present, my cock-sucking inclinations had been exercised voluntarily, to satisfy my own sexual cravings. Here, I would be obliged to do it, whether I felt so inclined or not. I hesitated uncertainly, and then, with a gesture of indifference, replied:

“I'll give them what they want.”

And thus, with six short words, did I seal my pact with hell, and bind myself henceforward to madden the brains of men and corrode their souls with the bittersweet poison of my sucking lips.