Adventures of a London Call Boy by Ben Franckx Page A

woman.’
    â€˜Which one?’
    â€˜The one who texted me. The one who got my details from the other one.’
    She looked at me quizzically, trying to pick out the identities.
    â€˜Thanks Cesc, that’s helpful.’
    â€˜You know. The girl who got my number from the, from the first woman who paid me.’
    â€˜Right,’ she said, fiddling with an unlit cigarette. ‘And what? She paid you to let her beat you up.’
    â€˜Sort of. She was into some, well, relatively heavy stuff. And she had quite a lot of kit.’
    â€˜I thought it was men who paid women for that sort of stuff.’
    â€˜Well so did I. But she paid up. She did some quite painful things though. I think I was worth it.’
    â€˜Right. You really are a pervert, Cesc.’
    â€˜That’s unfair. This was strictly professional.’
    But Celeste, in a way, had a point. Although being singed and having your testicles tied to the ceiling is painful and really rather surprising, I’m fairly sure that I’ve done other things just as strange for no financial reward. Perhaps not quite as painful. But despite her protestations, I also had my fun. I suspect that she might have been letting me have a little reward, and that our activities could become progressively more extreme.
    As my mind wandered, I heard myself asking Celeste, ‘Do you know if sexual injuries are covered by insurance?’
    She paused midway through a sip of her coffee.
    â€˜You’ve gone mad. All that testosterone has wiped your brain. You’re the first person ever to be mentally afflicted by excessive sex.’
    â€˜I’m sure neither half of that is true.’
    As I thought about it, I did realise the contradiction. The raven-haired woman had paid me a not insignificant sum of money to dish out something that many men would very happily have paid the same if not more to receive. Given all her kit, I even wondered if it might be one of those hobbies that balanced itself out: for every one of me, there was an equivalent client. She was certainly professional in her approach, if you can apply those terms to consensual sexual tortures.
    What was more: I’d actually really enjoyed myself and was extremely glad I hadn’t chosen the vanilla door, or whatever she called it. Sex is about intense sensations, and these were certainly that. There is no pleasure without pain, and in some circumstances, it seemed, raising the pain raised the pleasure. Although I didn’t imagine that all my sexual encounters should necessarily be quite so, well, unique.
    â€˜Are you going to see her again?’ asked Celeste.
    â€˜Yes. Same time next week.’
    â€˜Is she paying you again?’
    â€˜So it would seem.’
    And the curious thing was, I would certainly have gone back for free. Despite the age gap, she was striking, and clearly loved sex, albeit in a fairly novel form. A lot of men would have been put off by having to put themselves in such a vulnerable position, or simply by the pain. It didn’t bother me, and the thought of her underneath or towering over me turned me on enormously.
    â€˜What about the other one?’ asked Celeste, interrupting my daydreaming.
    â€˜What about her?’
    â€˜Are you seeing her again?’
    â€˜Yes. I think so. It’s slightly more complicated, as technically I’m seeking work, and, also technically, she’s sort of responsible for supervising that entire aspect of the local economy. But I don’t think it will be a problem. I need to get a real job, anyway. I can’t keep signing on for ever, it’s depressing.’
    â€˜So much so it’s accentuated your sex problems,’ she said.
    â€˜Thanks. You’re all heart. Anyway, if I get many more assignments, I can sign myself off, as I won’t need the money.’
    â€˜Won’t they get suspicious?’
    â€˜No. I think I can probably claim that some friends of the family are