Corrected story (part of a paid task)

From: X (X@hotmail.co.uk)
Sent: 03 April 2011 00:08:16
To: Trick012@hotmail.co.uk

I

I emerge from Bond Street tube station, the clip-clop clip-clop of my heels carrying me up onto the drizzly London streets. Shivering, I pull my trenchcoat tighter around me, the wind picking up my coat and exposing the top of my seamed stockings and suspenders to any fucker who wanted a look.
Leaning against a coffee shop window I light a cigarette, my hands trembling with nerves. Selfridges looms in front of me, more imposing than usual. But then, this is not a usual visit. I breathe deeply, trying to find some hidden strength for the trial that awaits me inside. Shoppers around me stare, their practical autumn clothing sharply contrasted by my slutty attire. A man leers close, offering his lighter.
"Beautiful girl.. Can I help you with something?" He says, looking deep into my vacant eyes. I flinch and walk away quickly, extinguishing my cigarette with a scuffed heel and reaching into the pocket of my trench for my phone.

Sir, I have arrived. Will be making my way to the café to begin task at 2:30. X

II

'Is he here now, watching? Is he pleased with what he is seeing? Or am I alone..? If I get this done by 5 I might make the bank to pay my rent and get home in time to score..' My mind is buzzing as I push through the revolving doors into the whiteout, crushed into funhouse mirrors by a solid wall of tourists. Every shop-assistant seems to follow me with his eyes as I choke past the perfume counters and stop in front of the store map. The lines and text blur together.. I try to find the floor on which I will be found by my trick...
Making a guess, I procede up the escalators as instructed. The ascent is steep and I'm sure that the passengers below can see up my dress. Would this please my trick? I bet. Dirty little bastard. My black panties are the cheapest I could find, in case he asks to keep them. The only living souls who know what I am wearing beneath my coat are myself and my trick. Will he be awaiting me at my destination?

III

I finally arrive. There are five minutes until I'm scheduled to begin my display. I wonder if I'm on display already. I keep my head low, afraid to meet any pair of eyes and the scent of Jasmine comes off me in delicate waves with my sweat. I am nervous to make any mistake in case I find myself alone and he doesn't pay me on his way out.
Somewhere in the crowd my trick observes me in the shoe department, distractedly picking up 3-inch heels and taking glances in the mirror, hoping I don't look as sick as I'm starting to feel. Suddenly my phone beeps.

Good girl, I can see you. Pleased with what I have observed so far. Sir

A confused wave of junk sickness disorientates me for a moment. I feel like making a break for the toilets to do the shot I'd brought with me for afterwards. And I feel self-conscious, and afraid that he may disapprove of something I do or say and not pay me.
I make my way down the escalator to the Lingerie floor, feeling the presence of my trick behind me.

IV

I wander around the lingerie department, browsing the satins and silks, wondering if my trick he imagining them against the skin of his commodity. I can't concentrate on what I am seeing, I am overwhelmed by sensation and colour and the knowledge of being watched. I walk slowly trying not to trip, the sound of my heels on the polished floor drawing attention from casually dressed admirers. The shop girls gather in small groups, bitching about my seamed stockings and stripper heels. When they offer assistance I can bearly talk through my nausea.
The stupid displays in Agent Provocateur annoy me and I wonder if my trick is close and how soon I could get out of this fucking place. Am I an object of lust amongst these beautiful garments? Would my Master like to caress me with an ostrich feather or spank me with a calf-skin paddle? I feel insolent as I take glances at the huge mirrors, trying to glimpse my hidden observer.
A beautiful woven basque draws me into another room and I hold it to the light, admiring it's detail. I start to think this guy is some psycho time-waster and he wasn't going to show up. How the hell am I supposed to make up the £100 for my rent??

That's when I feel his breath on my neck.

V

"Don't turn around." He says.
I freeze, a bead of hot sweat trickling down the back of my neck. His breath is sickeningly close to my skin, sending shudders down my spine. He stands so close I can smell his repressed desire and the force of his tiny cock prodding my back over-whelms me with disgust.
"Well done slave, I'm impressed with what I have seen. Take off your dress and meet me at the bar in ten minutes."
"Ok..I mean..yes Sir" I stammer, wondering how this maniac standing right behind me with his dick jutting out must look to the shoppers and department staff. And then as quickly as he had arrived, my trick was gone.

VI

In the bathroom stall I press myself against the cool walls in my underwear, wonderfully alone for a minute. 'Only ten minutes and I'll be done, I'll appreciate it more then..' I tell myself repeatedly, belting my coat over bare flesh and breathing deeply, my hands in my pocket gripping my works tin.
I leave quickly and make my way to the bar where I shall get my money, finally. A fleeting need to escape almost makes me turn towards the exit but I know that the descision is no longer mine to make. I am drawn to him like a moth to a bulb.. (..Or to fire, to desire..)

VII

I meet him at the bar. Shopping fatigued surgery addicts stare at me blankly then look away. I force down 2 glasses of red wine because I can't find the strength to humour him anymore then leave when he finally gives me the envelope.
I turn back into Sailor in the over-lit bathroom, sit on the toilet-seat and have my well-deserved hit. I miss the bank. I make it home in time to score though.