Call Me Sarah

Call Me Sarah

Fiction & Poetry

Voters Rating 8 / 1000



Needs must.

And Sophie, a pretty British girl in New York, has simple needs: a job, money, and a shag.

Simple needs, maybe, but Sophie has a talent for making life complicated. Her relaxed attitude to time-keeping at work, a decidedly un-American approach to lunchtime menus (what’s wrong with a couple of drinks to leaven the midday load anyway?) and general disdain for the corporate ethic see her quickly relieved of her job as a functionary in a minor Manhattan publishing house.

Her acrimonious departure (why shouldn’t she tell the tossers in H-fucking-R the way the world really works?) ensures that Sophie’s prospects of getting another job, or money - or a shag, come to that - are distinctly limited.

But what Sophie can’t get, her alter ego certainly can. Sophie adopts a new persona who can claim her needs as of right. She becomes a call girl. One who asks her clients to call her… Sarah.

At first, all goes thrillingly well - orgasmically well, even. But there’s so much more to the life of a call girl than sex and money. As Sarah soon discovers, it’s a tough and complicated job.

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I couldn’t believe they’d fired me!  What’s worse, I couldn’t even walk out of the office and shuffle down a New York City street, looking sad and holding a cardboard box with a plant in it, like the people do in the movies when they get fired.  The bastards didn’t even give me a cardboard box!  Or a plant!  They just asked me to sign loads of stuff and told me to hand in my security pass on my way out.

I was officially broke, like on a level of broke I’d never experienced before.  I’d nearly spent all of last month’s rent money.  Not on rent, but on an over-priced handbag.  I was so fucked.  And that’s when it dawned on me…  I didn’t have a proper friend in this city to turn to now. I was so utterly fucked.  Which meant I was truly and utterly double-fucked because I was also on my own.  It’s not like my friends Deirdre or the gays were even answering their phones, and I doubted any of them were in the position to lend me money, or sound career advice anyway…  That, and I still wasn’t sure if they were the ‘rallying round in a crisis’-type of friends anyway (Plus a crisis might not be appropriate in these delicate early stages of friendship, it might put them off me). 

And I absolutely, absolutely couldn’t confide in anyone from back home about my current catastrophe, since they were all so jealous of how fantastic my new life here in New York was.  I couldn’t possibly let them down now.  xxxx

Worse than the lack of money, worse than the lack of friends to turn to, I hadn’t had a shag in for-fucking-ever.  Not since the taxi driver guy, and that was ages ago.  Upon reflection, I think my lack of shagging was what was affecting my work performance.  Maybe I should have mentioned that in my Evaluation and Performance Review meeting?  Thinking about it, they didn’t even offer me a lawyer to plead my case to...  Weren’t they legally obliged to provide me with legal representation in such circumstances?  Or is that only when you get arrested?  Whatever, I didn’t even have anyone with me to read all the stuff I’d just signed.  I’ve never understood anything written in small print.  I’m sure I was just agreeing that I’d been fired, and not to sue them or something.  I should sue them! 

I needed money.  I needed a shag.  I needed someone to be nice to me. 

This was America, the land of opportunity.  The land where no-one knew me. 

So that night I decided to become a call girl.

* * * * *

My outfit for my first evening as a working girl had been chosen with much thought and care.  It consisted of a knee-length pencil skirt with a thick metal zip running down the back, from top to bottom.  From my experience, this skirt, or to be specific, the skirt’s top-to-bottom zipper, tends to provoke a particular reaction in a man.  It was raw provocation.  Whether you are a leg man or an arse man, your focus would be drawn to the top of the zip, or the bottom.  And if your preference is neither a long leg, or a curvy bum, then it would have to be a nice pair of tits, which is why I wore a black fitted corset-style top. The corset shape nipped me in at the waist and had my breasts bursting out of the top.  Credit for my cleavage was very much thanks to push-up bra engineering, giving an optical illusion of a hefty heaving bosom in the form of two half moons. 

The look was complimented by fishnet stockings (of course) and black stilettos (what else?), the former having a black seam running down the back and the latter having a metal zip also running down the back of the (very high) heel.

I put a slim cut black blazer jacket on to finish the look.

I was dressed to be undressed.  Balancing on the fine line between slutty and sexy, cheap date or expensive whore.

Long sip, deep breath and I was out the door.

* * * * *

He asked if I minded if he sat in the back of the car next to me.  I shook my head no and shifted over as he got out of the driver's seat and opened the passenger door and came to sit beside me.  He put his right arm around me and playfully pulled at my hair, running it between his fingers, playing with it and pulling it, making me arch my back for him to have his fingers reach the end of my hair and feel my bra strap through my cotton shirt. 

He asked me again if I was okay.  I answered by opening my legs and told him to feel how soaking wet my pussy was.  I could hardly breathe with how much I wanted him, and how much of a slut he must be thinking I am.  This turned me on even more. I wanted it rough and hard, with torn buttons and bitten nipples.  I was going to be the horny dirty promiscuous girl that he imagined white women to be from the porn he'd presumably been brought up on. 

His left hand reached down in between my open legs, deftly moving my silk knickers to one side and he began to furiously finger me, while his right hand was still pulling my hair, so hard that it made my head lean back, and my breasts rise up, letting him know how much my nipples desperately wanted to be pinched and pulled.

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