Luke Bradbury - For Hire - The Intimate Adventures of a Gigolo

She bit her lip, as though she was trying to stop herself quivering. It wasn’t working.

It wasn’t exactly as if she had much alternative—unless she wanted to begin all over again. Standing here for another few hours certainly wasn’t my idea of a good time.

Then Julie rallied, as if making a new plan. ‘No,’ she reassured herself, her voice stronger now. ‘I can make something of this.’

She picked up a scalpel and began to lever it under the remaining edges of the casing. Her other hand was round the cock-shield as if she was using it as a handle to steady herself. The cast came away from my lower half without any trouble at all.

She settled it down on the floor in front of her knees. Her whole face beamed.

‘Go and get yourself a shower, Luke, while I finish off here.’

I slung my clothes back on and headed back to the house. The golden light in its windows promised warmth against the late afternoon’s growing darkness.

My entire body savoured the rush of hot water. My limbs relaxed and shifted in pleasure like they had just woken up. I closed my eyes and stood directly beneath the shower nozzle and raised my head to let the water pour over me.

I opened them again at the sudden opening of the curtain. Julie stepped into the cubicle, as naked as I was. This was more like it. I didn’t know if it was her plan all along—whether this was exactly why she’d ordered me in the first place. For the art, and then the show afterwards. I couldn’t care less, to be frank. I was only happy to oblige.

Julie’s hands once more glided all over my body, her touch mixing with the streams of water. I pulled her to me, wrapped my arms around her and kissed her. She slipped beyond my grasp.

Julie looked longingly at my hardened cock. Again . Her eyes flickered up to meet mine at the very same moment that her hands encircled my dick.

‘I’m going down,’ she cackled, dropping to her knees and drawing my prick between her dripping wet lips. Her tongue flickered to greet me.

The rush of water seemed to get louder around us. Who cared where my cock had dragged me to this time? The pleasure was all mine.

February

Eva, her husband Lars, and I came at exactly the same time.

God, I am so on top of my game.

My eyes met Eva’s beneath me. Hers shone with raw bliss.

She flicked a look across at Lars, sitting low down in his armchair, still collecting himself. Eva wanted him to have the pleasure of her pleasure. Apart from the sex, I wasn’t needed at all.

Fine by me, love.

Eva’s arm reached out to stroke her husband’s leg. I didn’t have to turn to look at Lars. From the look of love his wife was giving him, I knew his scheme had worked for him as much as for Eva.

Because Lars had hired me as her birthday surprise. On top of the suite at the Dorchester Hotel he’d booked especially. Eva had had no idea I’d be turning up as her extra treat.

The surprise had made things a bit awkward to begin with. I’d been hired before by this pair when they came up to London from Cornwall. But since Eva hadn’t been expecting me, I couldn’t help wondering as I travelled upstairs whether she’d be in the mood. Suppose she was looking forward to a night alone with Lars? Though I was sure I’d be fine once she’d clocked me and realized what was coming to her.

Fortunately, as soon as I’d stepped into the suite, I could tell that we were all on the same page. Lars had made sure of that.

‘Ta-da!’ he’d announced, raising his glass of champagne to his wife: ‘My present to you, darling. Luke. For you to unwrap.’

I’d bowed as dashingly as I could. ‘Happy Birthday, Eva,’ I’d beamed.

She’d made a point of looking me up and down, the smile creeping up her face topped by the sheer lust blazing from her eyes.

‘Just what I’ve always wanted,’ she’d laughed.

Eva released herself from my hold, slipped out of the bed and crept on to her husband’s lap. Lars enfolded her in a bear hug and buried his face in her coppered brown hair.

Eva was a slight woman in her mid-thirties, with a sleek figure and cute neat ass that just begged a guy to run his hands over its contours. Lars was a few years older than his wife, and far taller than me. I’d presumed that I was doing well as a six-footer. Yet he was lean and must have been close to seven foot, and a brunette like Eva. When we’d first met a month or so ago, I’d been surprised to learn these two were Norwegians. With my blondish hair, I looked more Scandinavian than either of them.

I didn’t want to look as if I was gawping at them entwined in each other, so I stared out of our sixthfloor window towards the shadowy treetops of Hyde Park, shaking in the wind. An image of the Dorchester’s phallic tower flickered through my mind. I smirked to myself. Lars was sure making a statement when he’d booked this place for our rendezvous.

I’d done the job I’d been hired for—to be hors d’oeuvre to Lars’s main course. I collected my clothes, nodded my ‘She’s all yours’ at him over her shoulder, and got a grin and a ‘Thanks, mate’ in return. Creeping into the sitting room to dress, I let myself out.

I took the lift down to the ground floor, satisfied that I’d left a couple of clients pleased with my service. Happy Birthday to you, doll!

I checked my watch as I hotfooted it across the lobby. It had just turned midnight and I needed to get home. There were people milling around the reception area but I took no notice. I’d pick my scooter up from round the side of the hotel and head back to my bed. I’d had a run of late nights this past week and needed to catch up on the zeds.

I stepped out of the main doors behind a glamorouslooking couple who were being snapped by a barrage of paparazzi. As I turned left out of the hotel, I took a quick look back. I instantly recognized the two of them. She was Shelley Yates, an American movie starlet who I’d read in yesterday’s paper was in town for the release of her new film. And on her arm was Guy Raynor, an English pop star who was last year’s cool thing and sure needed the publicity now . You couldn’t tell if the pairing up meant anything to either of them, but they were milking the attention for all they were worth.

Good luck to ’em.

But I was too damn tired to desire such sparkle at this time of night. I walked away from the cameras, down the side road, stepped onto my scooter and was away from there.

As far as I was concerned, Sunday was meant for lounging around, maybe watching the football on the box in the afternoon. I’d benefited from my lie-in and was in the mood for not doing very much at all.

The Girls seemed to have the same idea—I could hear them pottering around as I pulled on my jeans and a T-shirt and cut across the hall to make myself some brunch.

Carrie was sitting at the kitchen table, the dregs of her own breakfast strewn around her. She’d pushed her plate and the jars of jam and marmalade out of her way and was engrossed in her Sunday redtop.

I started to prepare my own breakfast, putting bread in the grill and cracking a couple of eggs into the pan. Carrie looked up from her paper as I hovered beside the oven.

‘You had another night on the tiles? I didn’t hear you come in last night.’

I was unsure whether this was Carrie’s way of finding out my business. Since I’d moved in earlier in the month, I’d managed to fob my three new flatmates off about what I actually got up to, but I was very aware that that was going to be more difficult to get away with the longer I lived here. But for now, I was prepared to put that aside and only cross that awkward bridge when I came to it.