There's Nothing Quite Like A Birthday Present

 

Especially if you are the Present! I hadn't looked at this Blog for nearly six months, maybe writing about Walter took something out of me, I don't know; or maybe the previous Post which was about my 13th Birthday dredged up too many bad memories, I don't know about that either. But someone asked me how I can remember so much detail, especially in view of the drink and drugs, and there's lots I don't remember, and there's lots that gets jumbled and mixed up in my head, but there's also things that I can recall with absolute clarity, and they are probably the places and people that I write about, and sometimes, once I start writing, other things emerge and I begin to remember more things I'd completely forgotten but once I've posted something, I never look at it again; I've got it out of my system and can let it go; last night was exceptional, and I'll tell you why: a friend had been talking about birthdays, her daughter's and her own, and her husband's. Well, the daughter is almost thirteen and I thought I remembered writing about mine, so I wanted to check up and I was right; but the most vivid flashbacks I experienced when my friend was talking about her family, were of a Birthday Party a few days after mine.

Before it, there were a couple of normal nights (it's funny now to look back from my present life and remember what I thought was normal) out on the streets trying to catch the eye of a guy driving past, or a pedestrian punter, though people walking there weren't so common and most of our pick-ups were guys in cars or vans; you could tell by the speed (or slowness) who was looking for business, and once he stopped and you went to the kerb to talk to him through the open window, you sussed out who was ok, who would pay with no quibble, who might want extras that could be risky. Usually one of the other girls would take a note of the car's reg. just in case. The weather was pretty good and business was brisk for all of us. Jump in, round the corner to a car park which was really just

an unlit patch of tarmac. Hand-job, blow-job, or a quick shag, either in the car or standing up, whatever he wanted. £5 extra for no condom and nearly all of them paid the extra! We were a cheap bunch of girls – our rates were as low as our self-esteem and the profits came from the volume of business and the turn-over. A far cry from Hotel girls or those doing House Calls who were paid by the hour and usually just turned one or two tricks a night. With us it was in and out in

minutes and back on the pavement within ten minutes of getting in the car and hoping another would stop soon. We each usually got somewhere between ten and twenty a night, and if we got as many as thirty we got a bonus: a pill that sent you floating through the next twelve hours! And sometimes a regular, and we had quite a lot of them, not guys who came every night, but maybe twice or even three times a week, would give us a tip, that went inside our shoes or boots so that we could keep it for ourselves. Not that we got much chance to spend it.

Anyway, the Party! it was a couple who had both of their birthdays just a few days apart, so usually combined them and celebrated each other. But this time, they were both 45 and had been together for 25 years, though only married 20, and wanted to make it Special – for themselves; I gathered they had a couple of kids who were at University or College or something, anyway, they were celebrating their joint Birthdays by themselves. Only, not really!

I don't know how they contacted my Owner, maybe they asked around, or saw the stickers that used to be plastered all over phone boxes in City Centres, or what the papers now call Red Light Districts, but however it was, they did, or he did – or probably more likely she did – and they apparently wanted a young girl and a couple of guys about their own age. I think my owner had contacts with Strip Clubs and Gay Bars, so the guys probably came from one of them, most likely bouncers just doing a bit on the side for cash; and me. We were their Birthday Presents for the night.

And they had it all worked out – or she had. She definately wore the trousers in that house, made the arrangements and gave the orders. And she had lots of permutations worked out. She was an attractive woman, and as soon as we arrived, she told the guys to relax while she told me what was going on. It was a big house with four large bedrooms and a couple in the roof space, with dormer windows and sloping ceilings. She took me to one of them where she had lots of outfits she wanted me to wear at different times, She gave me a drink to help me get into the mood, and told me about herself and her marriage.

She said it was a Cuckold marriage – which I'd never heard of. She explained that her husband had a very small cock, and that was why she had ordered two guys with big ones,
She said she treated her husband – who was devoted to her, as a kind of slave. She had fucked his Best man on their wedding night, to set the scene and establish her husband's own position. He loved her absolutely and accepted her terms. He never got to fuck her, but usually he got fucked by whoever her current lover was. The two children were by two of her lovers – she wasn't sure who, there were usually two or three on the go at any one time, but certainly not her husband's. She said her name was Jasmine – though I later found out it was Jenny – and her husband was Gary.

This all sounded so weird to me, but events showed it was true enough. She told me that she and Gary had no secrets from one another, she involved him whenever she had sex with one of her lovers – often he would lie underneath her while she was fucked, so that he could lick her clitoris and the other man's cock, and after she had been well fucked, her lover would throat fuck Gary, or fuck his bum, or both – often the bum first and then the mouth, so that Gary could taste his own bum, which seemed really perverse to me but, hey, each to their own, and it soon became clear to me that Gary was indeed devoted to her and did whatever she told him to do, happy to serve her.

First it was straightforward. One of the guys, Tom, fucked me while Jasmine, the other guy and Gary, watched and fondled each other and Jasmine sucked Neil; then Neil fucked Jasmine while she sat on Gary's face and watched. Then Tom fucked the Jasmine, while Neil fucked me and it was my turn to sit on Gary's face, after which Neil fucked Gary's throat and Neil fucked his bum; then Neil and Tom spit-roasted me and that lasted a while, cos they swapped ends after they'd both cum inside me, so first off it was Neil in my mouth and Tom in my See You Next Tuesday, then they changed ends like in tennis on TV.

After that, it got more interesting. Neil fucked her, she riding him like a reverse cowgirl, 
while Gary licked and sucked her clitoris which meant he was also licking and sucking at the shaft of Neil's cock while Jasmine bounced up and down on it and I sucked Jasmine at the same time as Tom fucked me. And then, Jasmine and I exchanged places: Tom fucked me, Gary sucked me and him, Jasmine fucked Gary with a strap-on while Neil fucked her, and on and on, and I've lost track of the other permutations, but do remember Neil and Tom spit-roasting the husband again while Jasmine fucked me with the strap-on, Tom and Neil both fucking me again – one in my bum and the other in my See You Next Tuesday, while I sucked Jasmine who sat on Gary's face and snogged the other guys in turn. There must have been more but I'd be lying if I guessed what they were. I do remember clearly that Tom, who was a black guy, from the Caribbean, had a really big cock which delighted Jasmine, but was quite pain in the bum for me. Jasmine enjoyed being fucked in the bum, and liked another guy in her See You Next Tuesday at the same time. I never liked it, but you had to go along with whatever the Punters wanted.

Their enthusiasm never waned – helped by Viagra – though obviously they could only cum at intervals. All of this was bare-back and by the time morning came, we were all drenched in sweat and bodily fluids, the beds were a mess, but both Jasmine and Gary said they'd had the best birthday party of their lives. Neil and Tom got cash in hand and were delighted with that, or so they said. Payment for me had been made to my owner, who picked us up by car and drove us home – dropped Neil and Tom at their places and then took me back to the flat, which seemed dingy after the nice house where the party took place. I slept all day, but had to be ready for work again at night. My owner told me that the punters had been well pleased and he hoped that they would tell all their friends and we (he always used 'we') could expect more bookings.

It was a lot easier for me than standing about in the cold and rain waiting for a car to stop and business to be agreed, which is always the worst part – well, that and not knowing what kind of guys the drivers might be or whether one of them might turn out to be a slasher!

When I said that was 'the worst part' in fact there couldn't be a worst part cos there wasn't a best part. Being a Sex slave – and I use that term deliberately, as I'll explain – is different from being a Prostitute, though that is probably how punters thought of us, maybe even Child Prostitutes, if they wanted to admit that to themselves, because we certainly weren't Sex Workers. We had no choice in the matter. I recently watched the documentary about the girls involved in the Rochdale or Rotherham child sexual abuse cases, and, like them, we were invisible. Not that no-one knew about us – obviously the punters knew about us, and the police, some of whom got free shags to turn a blind eye, others probably got pay-offs, and lots probably didn't give a fuck about us. But I don't know why, except that we were at the bottom of the heap, no-one wanted to get involved, no-one wanted to lift the stone and expose what was going on, and probably get into a whole load of shit as a result.

When I say that some police officers got Freebies or back-handers, I'm not just meaning constables or sergeants. There were senior officers involved, along with local government officials and councillors. There are plenty of respectable, married, men in all walks of life – doctors, politicians, teachers, lawyers, journalists, ministers – who like having sex with young girls, boys too, I suppose, and when there is the opportunity for them to get a bit of the action, the last thing they are going to do is blow the whistle on themselves, or risk losing out on their own fun. And as no-one else knew who we were. our own families, there was no-one to put pressure on someone who could have done something about it. The Yorkshire girls were on the margins of society and were described as making a Lifestyle Choice to hang around with older men and have sex with them, as though that absolved the men from breaking the law. We weren't even on the margins of society, we were no-where on the page, we simply didn't exist at all. No-one cared about us, we didn't exist.
I think we all blamed our families because they didn't save us, therefore they didn't want us, didn't care about us. We were far from home, none of us came from Glasgow, our families had no knowledge of our whereabouts, and even the men who had first groomed and abused us probably had no idea either. Probably they had forgotten about us too – they would already have found new girls to take our places and who cares about last year's toys once they have been thrown away?

But the real significance for me about that Birthday Party was that it was the first time a woman had been involved, as a customer, and she had used me every bit as much as the guys. I'd known for a long time that the men saw us girls as toys, living sex-dolls, to fuck and throw away like used condoms. And now I realised that a lot of women probably saw us in exactly the same way. That was a shock – especially when they weren't simply other girls, but actually directed the action the way she had. It made me realise just how alone we girls really were – there was no-one we could turn to, we couldn't trust anyone else, and to be honest, we didn't trust each other much either.

Anyway. for me the significant outcome was that I was sold on to a guy called Malcolm – I don't think any of them used their real names with us so I don't suppose he was really Malcolm. But it was something that Jasmin was behind. Malcolm mainly dealt in girls from about 9 or 10 to 12. He was happy to overlook the fact that I had just turned 13 because I looked younger. I was quite small and petite so he could pass me off as whatever the punter wanted. It was a move to a different part of the City, on the South Side which has a lot of posh areas as well as The Gorbals, which has been cleaned up since it's No Mean City infamy as a haunt of villains and Glesca Hard Men, though there were still plenty of them, but by this time they wore suits and had offices and business portfolios and probably had other people to do the carving!

Malcolm had a large house in it's own grounds, where we slept, but we worked in a simple tenement above a Barbershop, which is how the punters accessed us, through a door off the back-shop and up the stairs: three Room-and-Kitchen flats on each of the four upper floors, and each flat had a bedroom, a kitchen/living room and a small newly installed bathroom/toilet, for the convenience of the girls and the punters, one girl in each flat, with a retired prostitute as her 'Grannie' or Minder, and for the time I worked for Malcolm, my Grannie was Betty, an Irish woman of about 50 or 60 or maybe even thirty, and burnt-out – this was where we supposedly lived and the entire arrangement kept up the pretence that there was no Brothel on the premises; we were in the tenement from 8am till midnight (or till morning if the punter was prepared to pay the 'night-rate') and each assignation was between 15 minutes and an hour, priced for each quarter of an hour. Needless to say, most of our customers opted for the hour in advance and made the most of it, and there were quite a few well-to-do men who spent a whole day each week with one or other of us.

Malcolm took the view – or at least how he put it to us – that he was meeting a social need, that Society wrongly pilloried and persecuted men who found the attractions of young girls overwhelming and, if he did not cater to them, they might find life so unbearable that they would be driven to molesting or abducting innocent girls from the streets and that would only lead to suffering for both men and girls. He clearly didn't consider us innocent or suffering. We were simply the goods he rented out as a man might hire a suit for a wedding, or a car for a day or weekend' Goods and chattels. That was us. Day in, Day out, Night after Night!