Chapter 28 #2
Josh chuckles. “You’ve made it at last,” he says.
“This is crazy,” I say and push open the door.
There’s a makeup area, with a mirror with bright lights all around it. A small shower cubicle, hair dryer, and… cans of Coke, bottles of water, and a bowl full of sweets.
“Nice,” josh says, taking one of the seats.
“I feel like a bloody star,” I say, taking the seat in front of the mirror.
My gothic makeup is already in place, but I tie a loose bun in my long black hair, making it slightly dishevelled like it would be after a long shift at the supermarket.
My work uniform feels starchy over my lacy underwear.
I feel encased by the old sensations of dread as I twirl for myself in one of the full length mirrors.
It’s hard to believe this used to be my life.
“Do I look ok?” I ask Josh.
“Hmm, maybe more makeup?”
I check in the mirror. Accentuate and exaggerate. “You’re right.”
I apply more lipstick, big and bright. And thicken up my catflicks and blush my cheeks.
“Too much? I look like a clown.”
“No, you don’t. You look hot as all fuck.”
A glance at the clock. It’s nearly time. I grab a couple of sweets and glug down some Coke before we set off with my cases to the wings of the stage.
I sneak a peek out at the venue, my jaw dropping at the scale of the place. I catch a glimpse of the balcony I sat at with Mum and Dad. It feels light years away.
I can do this, I tell myself. I’m performing my own story. The plot is an easy one to remember.
I’m as ready for the action as I’ll ever be when the spotlights start up and beam like beacons, so bright.
I feel like a tiny mouse in my supermarket uniform as I hunch my shoulders and step out into the centre of stage.
The lights largely block out my view of the seating area, but when I squint, I can see a solitary shadowy figure sitting there, right in the middle of the front row.
And so my story begins.
All over again.
My name is Ella, I say to the fake crowd. And my life is a scrabble for pennies!
With that announcement, I let myself run free and trust in the Gods of good fortune that I’m a good enough actress to expose my vulnerable self onstage.
I rush like a crazy thing as I act out stacking shelves, hurling fake insults at myself as I work like a trojan from the past. Faster, Ella!
The half priced stock is still waiting. There’s a pallet in the back.
Call to checkout number four! Why haven’t you unloaded the gift wrap, Ella?
Where are the cans of chopped tomatoes, Ella?
The shelf is almost empty! Get a fucking grip, girl!
I drop to my knees on the floor, my hands over my ears as I let out a scream that echoes around the empty theatre. A wail from the heart as I revisit the pain of trying to live up to a work bully’s expectations, while the man who claimed to love me smashed my heart to pieces and left me all alone.
I get to my feet again, slowly. A glance to the wings and I see Josh in the shadows holding two thumbs-up. So far so good. I stand before the empty seats and breathe deeply, regaining my composure.
And then begins my show.
Act one is where I strip myself bare down to my lacy underwear for the first time, nervous after having just signed up as an entertainer.
I grab a simple dildo from the props at the side of the stage, and re-enact my first proposal. Sucking the shaft with a vigour, then dropping to the floor and fucking myself with a simple in and out, with a dulled expression on my face.
It was boring.
Too boring.
I hope my performance conveys the truth as I finish up and give a thank you to the invisible client on stage with me.
Act two is where I grow more confident.
I present myself in a tight black dress, laughing and smiling at imaginary clients before I suck off dildos like I mean it this time. My head bobbing in a fervour.
I fuck myself in the right spot to get me rampant. I bare my tits and tug at my nipples, and let the real sensations wash over me. Thinking back to my early experiences and how much fun I had as I ticked off the first boxes on the Naughty List.
I get down on all fours at the front of the stage and bare my asshole, and finger myself in the spotlight. I spit on a dildo and slide it between my spread cheeks, moaning with true meaning as I dialogue with imaginary clients.
Take it all you filthy slut.
Yes, sir, I’ll take everything you’ve got to give.
And then, I come for the guy in the front row.
The bright lights blur overhead, and I am lost in the highs of the sensations. The smile on my face is all real as the reams of clients I’ve been with zip in clips behind my eyes.
So many experiences. So much fun.
So much money.
I tell the audience that, too.
My commentary is all real as I tick the boxes on an imaginary laptop, and profess I’m going to hit the top of the hardcorer tree one day.
This is crazy. The whole experience is crazy. A blur of fantasy and reality that is so surreal, I feel I’m looking in on myself from afar.
I offer a striptease from a tight latex dress for my next number. I perform with a confident smile as I double fuck myself and squirt all over the wooden stage floor, without giving a shit for the consequences.
And I’m grinning now, because in the aftermath I can hear the guy in the front row, his heavy breaths, and I’m sure he’s jerking off.
I retreat to the side of the stage and rush into my college uniform after that scene, skipping back into the spotlight with a backpack on my back.
Daddy! I say. Daddy, I’m home!
I picture Daddy in my mind while I’m performing.
His amazing silver fox hair and the way he washes me with a flannel in the bathtub.
I suck a realistic fleshy dildo and tell Daddy how much I love his cock.
I wipe myself clean like he would, and tell him I’m a good girl. A good girl who knows she’s been bad.
By now I’m beaming. Ella coming to life.
The Ella that I am today is coming to the forefront as I find my real identity, free after years of suppression.
Next, I go for the stretch play. I whimper as I use the fake fist on my pussy. I’m groaning like a real fucking slut as I shove the knuckles in and pump it in and out.
Yes, yes, more! Please, yes!
I tell the audience what a slut I’ve become. How my world is shining. How my bank balance is growing along with my confidence.
I tell the audience how proud I am of being a hooker and entertaining people. Of living out people’s fantasies with them night after night.
The bottle of fake blood makes it so easy to act out my proposals with Mr Monthly – fucking my bleeding cunt on my period. I let the fake blood drip all over my bare tits, and giggle at an imaginary client licking it clean, eating out my pussy that I spread for him.
Next comes my terror at running and hiding from a client as he chases me through the darkness. It gets my breaths hitching in my throat.
Don’t hurt me, please, no!
I display the true reality of how that kind of fear turns to pleasure. How much my wet cunt reveals the truth behind the words as my adrenaline spikes.
And finally, at the climax to the performance, I change into my evening dress, striding tall on my stilettos as I grin like the proud slut I am today.
I hitch up my skirt and show my stocking clad legs to the viewer in the front row. I tease him with a wink, and tell him I’m now an expensive woman who will fulfil any dream he’s ever had.
Because I’m top of the Naughty List.
Just like I was destined to be.
I’ve made myself a name, and I’m living the high life, with a stretched pussy, and a used asshole, happy to drink golden piss like champagne.
My name is Ella, I say, repeating the line from the beginning. And now, instead of scrabbling for pennies, my life is filled with gold.
I’m beyond nervous when I take my final bow, my heart pounding to a different kind of tune now I’m waiting for the verdict. At least I can say I’ve given it my all, like I have done for every single proposal since the day I started.
The seconds are some of the longest of my life as I await the verdict. A panicked part of me thinks I’ve goofed up and should have gone for a horny Alice in Wonderland or something, but when the first clap of the applause sounds out, it’s like I’ve won the fucking lottery.
I bow again with a huge fucking smile on my face as the shadow of the man in the front row rises to his feet.
“Encore!” he shouts. “Bravo, Ella! Encore!”
He wants the encore!
Holy shit, I hope he’s ready for it…
I saved the most extreme until last.
It takes me a few minutes to prepare for this one while the applause continues. I’m naked when I reappear from the side of the stage, having torn my evening dress off from over my head.
I’m carrying a glass cooking bowl, full of chopped up nettles, a pair of blue latex gloves and my torture implements laid on top.
I drop to my knees, and my breaths are hitched like crazy when I bind my tits, and strike myself with a flogger, begging for more, more, more from an imaginary crowd.
I hurt myself like I mean it. I clamp myself so tight it will feel sore for days.
I submit to imaginary, faceless forces, as I have so many times before. I give myself over to their will.
And then, finally, I snap on the latex gloves, shuffle my ass to the edge of the stage, and make a show of picking up a whole bunch of nettles before I rub them all over my pink bound tits.
Damn it fucking stings like a bastard. But that’s ok because I can clearly hear that my voyeur client is jerking off again.
I rove them over my body, leaving a trail of slicing stings that I hope my client sees from the front row, and then I play with my slit, spreading my pussy lips so he can see the nettles working their venomous magic on my clit.
I question myself, but only for a moment before I decide to go all in.
Shall I really do this? Shall I?
There is only one answer to that question.
I’m a quaking bag of nerves as I succumb to the moment and push some of those stinging leaves into my battered pussy. My wail is all real as I pick up a dildo and fuck myself through the pain.
Making myself come is a beautiful nightmare. Performing this for a client will be burnt into my memory until the end of my days.
So, there we have it. I come for the final time on the West End stage.
The encore is done and I’m tortured, stung like crazy, a dirty squirting mess.
I hope my client will never forget this show. Because I sure won’t.
My name is Ella, I say once I’m back on my feet. And I am a filth hungry whore.
I free the nettles from my pussy the very moment the fresh round of applause starts up. I’m jittery this time as I grin and jokingly curse, gathering my things together as soon as I’ve unbound my tits.
I take another bow, my skin a blotchy canvas as I hold up a hand to him.
“Thank you!” I proclaim. “Thank you so much!”
And then I retreat to the side of the stage like any regular performer would do, straight into Josh’s waiting arms.
“Fucking hell, baby,” he says. “I’ve got a raging hard-on.”
“Your dick will have to wait. Get me into that shower.”
We hurry back to the dressing room and I’m the shower quick sticks, pulling the remaining nettles from my burning pussy while Josh holds the shower head, aiming cold water at me while I breathe through the pain.
Five minutes of that and I’m feeling numb enough for Josh to finger some cream into me. Christ, what a relief.
It’s only when I step out of the shower cubicle that we both notice the huge bunch of flowers, and the card propped against it with one word written on it. Bravo!
“Wow,” I say to Josh. “I really do feel like a star.”
“You were incredible, baby. Just like I knew you would be.”
Josh takes my cases and I grab the gorgeous flowers, dressed back up in my evening gown with a furry jacket over the top.
What a bizarre experience. But what a fulfilling one.
The guard outside bids us a good evening and the review pings through just as we get in the car.
I could squeal in utter delight when it’s a five starrer.
What a performance. Truly excellent. A no holds barred display of soul and body, with an authenticity off the scale. Beautiful. Exceptional. Divine in its purity.
If you ever need a career change, consider acting, my dearest. You have a natural aptitude for it.
And thank you for an encore that I will never forget. A much deserved bonus is coming your way.
“Check your account,” Josh says.
I call up my account and his payment is there, minus the Agency’s cut – along with a ten grand bonus.
“Wow! Ten grand for a cunt full of nettles.”
“Impressive,” Josh says. “And I’ve still got a hard-on, by the way. Maybe I should give you some more cream when we get home.”
“Sounds good to me,” I tell him as we drive off.
Seems like I nailed it good.
I only hope User 4197 books me again someday, because ideas for other shows are already brewing.