If you think our lives consist of endless debauchery, all day, every day… Nah. You’re more worldly-wise than that… Jutta still had a business to run. Staff needed attention and Koen was busy doing odd jobs in the hotel. I was cleaning rooms and did small paint jobs. The higher the perceived level of maintenance and upkeep of a hotel, the greater the potential increase in its selling price will be. The left wing of the second floor was empty, and unlikely to be reoccupied by hotel guests. So I cleaned those thoroughly together with Jutta. She meticulously inspected the room, and I might have occasionally skipped a spot on purpose where I knew she would look. As a result, she sent me to a corner of the room, forcing me to drop my panties and hold up my uniform skirt. The colour of my bottom hardly ever had a creamy white hue; instead, it typically resembled a fiery red. Sometimes she went to another room to clean and left me standing there with the door open. For anyone who passed to admire my red bum. The beautiful countryside lured the guests from the right wing away, leaving the rest second floor blissfully empty, much to my advantage.
Resembling a dark, modern-day Scheherazade, Koen and Jutta made it their nightly routine to compel me into reading from my deeply personal diary; they wanted me to face my innermost fears and secrets and so they listened intently every night until they felt they had achieved their goal.
Sunday, February 20, 1992
Alex is our gymnastics teacher. In America, he would be ‘coach’. In the Netherlands, we call him a physical education teacher. Like many of his colleagues, he is a bit of a macho man. Comes with the territory, I guess. Ex-marine, and now teaching the kids not to stay inside playing computer games all day, but to go outdoors and do something with your life and body. Alex is popular in school. The boys admire him for his macho attitude towards women and his physique and stamina. The girls drool over his body and the attention he is giving them.
Alex is a bad boy. And we girls love a bad boy. We love his confidence and we love the challenge of taming him. Because if we can cage him into a ring, he will be ours, gorgeous body and playful soul included. So we start with stolen glances and lingering moments, the kind that build up over time. There is potential between us, a flame waiting to be ignited if we both want to fan it. For a year, we did nothing more than teasing. Perhaps I showed him occasionally a bit more skin than was appropriate amongst co-workers.
By Dutch standards, our school is large, approximately 2900 students. Despite being scattered across several buildings, our school has so many teachers that they don’t fit into one teacher’s room. I have frequent contact with several colleagues, but I hardly know any of them. Those with whom you didn’t have functional contact on a daily basis were only faces with whom you have a meaningless chat at the coffee machine. Not only did female students drool when they see Alex, several teachers are also wide open to flirting with our gym teacher. Maybe that’s why I am flattered that he ignores most of them, yet always seems to have time and attention for me.
All harmless fun, of course. His quick wit makes every conversation interesting. In contrast to conversations with some of my older colleagues. Receiving an invitation to speak at a teaching conference in the beautiful city of Liege, Belgium, filled me with a profound sense of honour and privilege. I talked it over with Koen, and he encouraged me to stay there in a hotel for the entire duration of the conference, which lasts three days. So I did. To be present at this meeting, I had no choice but to take a leave of absence from my teaching. Our school doesn’t facilitate these ‘pleasure trips.’ Can you imagine my surprise when I ran into Alex in Liege? He is there doing some shopping for the Dutch Carnival and is going back to the Netherlands the next day. My lecture at the conference went brilliantly, receiving praise from foreign teachers who loved my approach. As I left the building, Alex patiently waits for me by the exit of the building. I’m still on a high adrenaline level because the speech went so well and I’m in the mood to celebrate. It is a rainy evening. In this French-speaking city, Alex and I, as compatriots, seek refuge from the rain and decide to celebrate with drinks at an upscale cafe, that Alex knows well.
Sitting side by side in the crowded place, I feel this unspoken connection again, a quiet understanding that seems to hang between us. As our conversation continued, the discussion smoothly transitioned from professional matters to more personal and informal topics of discussion. He shares stories about his past, his struggles, the parts of his life he rarely shares with anyone at school. I never planned on developing these feelings for him; it’s unexpected and unwelcome. I’m happily married to Koen, who is stable, kind, and my rock in many ways. But something in Alex’s vulnerability, in the way he looks at me, makes me feel… noticed. Important. Alive in a way, I haven’t been in a long time.
We leave the cafe and end up in a fancy restaurant to have dinner. We talk. Perhaps I’m sharing more intimate details than I should have. It has been a long time since I drank this much. I wasn’t drunk, mind you. Just pleasantly… buzzed. As our conversation slips into daring territory, unnoticed, the air thickens with a silent energy, a heady mix of desire and nervous excitement.
“I can’t believe you never have visited the red-light district in Amsterdam.” He is a tease. “What are your thoughts on prostitutes, in general?”
“Never thought about it, really.” I lie. “I guess how most women I know feel about it. In today’s society, sex workers can provide companionship, emotional support, and physical intimacy for men seeking connection.”
“You don’t believe there is shame associated with being a sex worker, right?” He asks, with a twinkle in his eyes.
“No,” I say honestly. “I wouldn’t treat a friend of mine differently if she was one.” His hand on the table was grazing mine. His beautiful eyes fixed on me. Suddenly, he let go of my hand and pulls his wallet from his jacket. He takes out a five euro bill from the wallet and lays that out on the table in front of me.
“Now, I’m not Richard Gere, but you sure are pretty enough to pass for Julia Roberts. So if I were to ask you to be my pretty girl for the night, would five euros be enough to stay with me tonight? Not as my respected fellow teacher, but as my whore for the night?” He asked provocatively, his eyes blazing in mine. There is no way I’m going any further. I know the risks. I have seen affairs unravel lives. This has gone far enough. I stand up and take a step to the exit. Alex stands up as well and blocks my way. I know what I should do: turn away, go home to Koen, and remind myself of married life. How kind and generous Koen is. But instead, I find myself closing the gap between us, feeling his lips against mine. As my heart pounds in my chest, my mind is overwhelmed with countless reasons to retreat from his arms. But my body betrays me. Even I can smell my femininity. He takes a small step back to release my bruised lips. Boldly, he folds the five euro bill and slips it through my cleavage, tucking the money into my bra. The spot where his fingers brushed my breast is ablaze, a fiery reminder of his brief contact.
I suddenly remember we are in a restaurant. Making a scene, kissing next to our table. The tables next to us watch with great interest how a handsome man pays his call girl with a scandalous small amount of money. Five euros will get you a cup of coffee. So I can make a bigger fool of myself by shouting and screaming ‘rape’ in this place or I can go with him to the parking lot. I should have done the first, of course. I would have, if the whole whore fantasy wasn’t one of my recurring regular masturbation scenes. One that results guaranteed without fail in a very satisfying orgasm.
He pays on our way out for dinner. That means I’ll be the first one out of the parking lot. Sinners and adulterers alike are now drenched by the Belgian downpour. Perhaps the shock of a cold shower will help me recall a promise I made, my brain being clouded by alcohol. What am I doing? The five euro bill burns a hole in my bra. Before I could come to my senses, my handsome gym teacher was standing beside me.
“I don’t think I can…” I say. He interrupts me by kissing me in a very dominant, macho kind of way. This guy can teach Casanova a thing or two about kissing. Our kiss lasted until I feel the rain soaking my bra. I have never have had a kiss that lasted for 10 or 15 minutes straight without catching my breath.
“We shouldn’t, Alex, this is a bad…”
He cut me off once again. He lifts me like a groom carrying his bride to his car. “I paid good money for you whore, don’t you back out on me now.” I shouldn’t get aroused by him calling me a whore. But I creamed hearing those words. I never hear the word sex worker or prostitute when I masturbate. Dirty whore, streetwalker, hussy and tramp, those were the words that get my motor running.
He takes me to his hotel. We did not talk much. The rain soaked us through and through. I’m drenched IN my underwear as well. In the elevator, he tells me to take my bra off. I obeyed him without protest. I’m his now. My money fell on the floor. I look at him, as if he needs to tell me where to put it. He takes the fiver out of my hands. Before him, I stand. He tugs my panties to the side and delicately slides with his index finger the bill deep into my wetness. He’s still on his knees in front of me when the elevator bell rang and we arrive at the twelfth floor.
Nope. In front of the elevator, there is no elderly couple waiting. There is not a soul to be seen, but I hear footsteps in the hall. Here stands the adulteress with her bra in her hands. My breasts were prominently visible in my dress and the payment for fucking me buried deep in my cunt. Alex looks up to me with that arrogance that many of the women teachers in school find so annoying. We went to the end of the corridor. A walk of shame with hard nipples. The door is not yet closed behind us, and he was already kissing me, his muscular arms around me. I pushed him away.
“I don’t kiss on the mouth,” I said like the whore I was supposed to be. His grin split his face. “Anal is 100 euros more, and if you don’t use a raincoat on your dick, I’m out of here.” I added. It was one of my favourite lines when I diddled my clit.
“Do you want to have a shower first?” he asked.
“No, but I want you to have one.”
“Why don’t we save water and have a shower together?”
So we did. Seeing the size of his dick confirmed one of my prejudices about macho-men. How do I say this gently? Deep throating this man will be easy. There was no way he can make me gag. I wash his body. His gorgeous, muscular arms and neck. His calves and thighs. No doubt everything about this man exuded power. Except, of course, the hidden parts of his body. I take his stiff member in my mouth and give him one of my famous tongue baths. He pulls my long hair into a ponytail and holds it in his left hand. He guides me gently over to his cock, moving back and forth. His right hand plays a little with my tits. They appreciate being noticed. It takes me about 3 or 4 minutes to make him cum in my mouth. I didn’t swallow like the good girl I am, but showed his creamy load on my tongue before I swallowed all of it. Like the good whore I am. He moans and tries to kiss me again. Perhaps he wasn’t so cocky after all. Lots of cocky men lose their bravado once their cock is out there in plain view.
Men with a small cock are usually quite good in compensation. It says so in Cosmo. He was a good pussy muncher, and both foreplay and after play were good. He was good. Sometimes very good. He makes me cum several times, and that boosts his self confidence. His stamina is excellent. There are lots of positions he can’t do because of the size of his member. He performs a good doggie, and I show him rabbit ears. He is not all that familiar with me holding my knees close to my ears. I make him come twice. The woman in me loves the after play that lasted almost an hour, caressing and kissing every inch of my body, the whore in me – not so much. We both fell asleep soon after we were done. Dirty, sweaty and tired.
As soon as he had showered and was wearing fresh, clean clothes, his cockiness returned instantly. A thin layer to cover our bodies is often enough for our confidence to leak through. I have asked myself before I went to sleep why I was so disappointed and regretted my decision to go with him. After he told me I was going down with him to have breakfast together and do the real walk of shame, I suddenly understand why I was here.
“I need to go back to my hotel. My clothes are still there. I need some clean clothes if I want to go to the teachers’ conference today,” I said.
He looks at me. “What if we play truant today and we visit the red-light district in Amsterdam?” He looks like a naughty schoolboy with the devilish grin of his. My heart starts pounding again. “I would buy you a proper whore’s outfit so I can parade you and the tourists have something to gawk over before they go home.”
Damn. This guy had an eerie understanding of my deepest hidden desires. “It’s a marvellous idea, but we can’t, of course. My career is ruined if people from school recognise me. If they see you strolling down the Wallen, people will grin and say, you are a cool guy. If they see me dressed as a whore or act like one, I will be only a teacher until my next school day. Double standards, of course, but it’s just the way it is.”
“But if I could find a solution that no-one with recognise you, would you go?”
“Perhaps. Most likely, yes. But I don’t want to take the risk. It’s not worth it.”
“Let’s go”, he says, suddenly energetic. And so we drive in his Ford Mondeo Cabrio, a fast sports car, to Amsterdam. This is my first ride in a sports car ever. The first time I was in a cabriolet with the roof open at 140 km per hour. Because I am still wearing the low-cut dress I wore to the presentation yesterday, my hands are quite full as I attempt to keep myself covered from the wind that is playing havoc with my dress. In spite of all of this, I loved it. Koen is a very safe driver, and one of those guys that enters the freeway on the most right lane, and stayed there most of the time, doing 100 km/hour maximum. I understood why, of course. The car crash was fatal for both his parents, who were likely burned alive as they couldn’t escape. I never faulted him for driving as safely as he did. The thrill of speeding towards Amsterdam at a record pace, feeling the wind against my skin, it was… exhilarating.
In Amsterdam we went to one of those seedy shops where they sell lingerie and all kinds of sex toys to foreigners that can’t buy them at home. He buys me a red mini dress. Mini dress, as in just reaching over my butt, mini. Long sleeves of transparent lace. Only the bare essentials are covered by the red lycra. Red lace held the rest of the dress together. It screams: whore. Even more so when we bought a 12 cm high heels in a matching colour. Fuck me pumps, I think it is called. My wallet was still back in Liege, so Alex paid 155 euro for the shoes. Finally, we buy one of those traditional Venetian masks, beautiful and it covers most of my face.
“We don’t need to carry anything,” Alex declared, unceremoniously discarding my expensive lecture dress into the trash, leaving me speechless. With no money on me, clothes that hardly cover anything, I feel more vulnerable than ever. He must have visited me in my dreams, or perhaps my dreams were so common Nancy Friday already has written about it. Getting rid of my dress is an essential part of my fantasy. He put his arm around my shoulders in the most possessive manner one can think of.
And I lean against him, like the whore I am.
Our walk through the red-light district provided a spectacle of contrasts: the women, gazing out from behind the windows, their expressions inscrutable, and the tourists, mouths agape, their reactions ranging from shocked curiosity to open-mouthed wonder. People look at me as if they are guessing my price. Walking back to his car, he suddenly leads me into a small alley and pushes me against the wall, kissing me like a madman. I kiss him back with equal fervour. He rips my thin panties apart and tries to fuck me like he was Mickey Rourke in 9½ weeks. This guy watched too many seedy movies. Breaking News: A man with a small dick cannot fuck you with your back deliciously hurting from the bricks behind you. So we have to resort to a quick doggie-style fuck, and that was even more humiliating.
I came. Hard. So did he.
We walked to his car.
“I’m heading home. Want me to drive you to your house?” he says, his voice serious. There is a moment of sheer panic, a moment of absolute terror. It never even crossed my mind that he had no intention of taking me back to Belgium again. I can’t face Koen this way, in a whore’s dress with another man’s semen dripping along my leg. With no money to pay for a train ride back. With inhuman strength, I try to hold back peeing in my non-existent panties.
He belly laughed. “You should see your face!” he hiccupped. “Of course I will bring you back.” The ride back is not pleasant. Shame and Quilt fought like gladiators until they both fell to the ground, mortally wounded. The goodbye is cold and harsh. We would be colleagues in school, but nothing more from now on. That much is clear.
Fortunately, Koen behaves like his normal self. Full of admiration for his wife, that gave an impressive speech at the teachers’ convention.
I closed the diary. “I was certain I’d escaped detection during our affair in Amsterdam, convinced my secret was safe. It wasn’t until I read ‘Good Girl’ that I realised you knew.”
Koen quenched my curiosity. “Rita, one of my major clients, saw you. Do you recall her? She was a familiar face at business gatherings. Despite my insistence that she had misidentified you, her thorough description of your appearance left little room for doubt that she had truly seen you. It was at a school party I’d attended, years later, I recognised the person who was with you from her description. Her assumption was that we were undergoing the process of dissolving our marriage. I could effectively clear up the misunderstanding that had occurred.”
Oh, I remembered Rita. A horny home wrecker and a predator. Koen had been her target for a long time. She was rich, had tits that looked good in the dresses she wore. Fortunately, Koen wasn’t an ass-man. If he had been, I would have lost him to her. She had an ass that was the envy of many women. What was she doing in the Red-Light district, huh?
On bu-si-ness I suppose!
