It’s a Friday night. I’m at the hotel, it’s 9pm and I’m half an hour late… The usual. My make-up’s done, not to heavy yet, and I’ve got on a basic outfit that won’t draw too much attention as I pass through reception. But I got my bag packed and the attention will come later. A quick scan of the room – have I got everything? I always forget something – but I think I’m good to go.
Ten minutes later and I’m in my boyfriend’s car, heading for his place. I’m not ready yet and he knows it, so he’s driving fast. Later I’m in his spare room, adding layer upon layer of make-up, fixing my long blonde hair into a high ponytail and checking that the glue holding the wig is secure – that’ll be important. My outfit’s changed, completely. I’ve been told I don’t need to wear heels, so I’m in my stocking feet. I reach into my bag and pull out a little plastic container. I tip out some powder onto the table and start to mash it up, two lines. It’s not coke, something different, something that makes me get in that mood my boyfriend loves. I love it more. Sniff. Sniff. It hurts, but it’ll pass. I take a little clutch purse, put in some make-up and my cigarettes, and go for the door.
We’re on the sofa, kissing, hard. It’s been a while. We’ve missed each other. There’s some porn on the TV, I’m beginning to get blissful. He stops. Says he’s got a treat for me. I sit up, grab for a cigarette and wait in anticipation. The images on the TV wash over me, I’m feeling good. Better than good. A minute later he returns. The box is big, and he slides over the ashtray to let it sit on the coffee table. I smile, a genuine smile of appreciation even before I know what it is. “Open it”, he says, and I do. Wow. My mind is blown. Is it what I think is it or, more accurately, what I think they are? I reach for one and lift it out. Supple, butter-soft leather in my hand. They’re long. Oh wow, the sensations of touch and chemicals are making me emotional. And hot. Physically, sexually. “Try them on”, he says, as if the idea never occurred to me. And it kinda didn’t. I undo the zip, the long, long zip. I place my right foot inside. It fits, perfectly, like I took that for granted. I stretch out my leg, reach down and start zipping upward. It seems to take forever. I repeat this with the second. I’ve had thigh boots in the past, but not like these. Not too tight, with a bit of room which is a look I love. No platform, a pointed toe. Five-inch spike heels. Zips to the top. Almost crotch high, but my stocking tops and the suspenders attached still visible. Vital. And leather. Beautiful, soft, sensual leather. Real leather, which he knows just makes me melt, makes me wanna fit the cliché, the leather-wearing slut. And I do. I love them. FLASH! He’s taken a photo, probably the most natural one we’ll get all night as I didn’t know it was coming. I’ll pose for all the rest, direct him. FLASH! And again. And again.
How do I show I’m grateful? Like I always do. Like I know he wants. On my knees. His laptop’s on, the camera set up already. He likes it, I like it. So we log on and we’re broadcasting. It’s brief though. And before I can bring us to where he both want to go, he pauses. We sit. “I love them”, I say. He knows. But he tells me they aren’t a gift, not really. I’m slightly confused, nothing unusual there. He smirks, charmingly, dangerously, and explains. Minutes later I’m back in the spare room, grabbing my jacket. It is cold, after all. Or so he says, with almost insincere concern. “And don’t forget your powder. You’ll want it.”
So we’re driving. It’s dark, has been for a few hours. And I have no idea where we’re going, though that’s not important. I assume we’re going to a quiet spot. Photos, videos, more. I’m right too, or will be, but only partially. Now we’re on the motorway – we’ve never done that before. I’m curious, but I trust him. Always. No sooner do I think that, we’re off the motorway again. I’m reading the signs, but they don’t make sense yet. Nor do his. And then we stop. It’s a car park, a big one, but almost empty. I look at him and he at me, his mischievous smirk on view. He talks, I listen. He explains, I sit and say nothing because I cannot think of anything to say. When he finishes, I’m still. My mind is racing. Excitement. Fear. He knows I’ve always wanted to do this, but he knows too that I’ve never had to actually consider it. We’ve done similar in the past, pretended, role-played. This is real. And so he says, to break the silence and break my lack of movement, “why don’t you do some lines? Big ones.” Because he knows. And to break the silence and break my lack of motion I reach for the clutch. On the dashboard. Mash. Lines. Sniff. Sniff. It hurts, but it’ll pass. And how. It’ll take three minutes, the second dose bringing me to the point of perfection. As it always does. Now I’m motionless for a different reason. The waves of euphoria crash around me. “Better?”, he asks. I giggle. “Look at me”, he says, softly. I look at him. My eyesight is distorted and I blink with exaggeration. He smirks again. He knows, but he asks anyway. “Eye wobbles?” I nod my head, giggle. My little phrase for what I’m experiencing. Short-hand for the overwhelming sensations and euphoria. “So”, he starts, “are you ready now?” I open the door.
Now this is a chance to pause, to catch up on the details. So… I’m sitting in a car with my boyfriend. I’m wearing too much leather, or too little if you think like I do. The boots are new and as I caressed them on our drive I felt the stirrings of slutdom. The rest helped too. The suspenders, the torn fishnets, the tiny leather shorts, the see-through top. And, maybe more than anything, the red leather biker jacket. It all works together, if you’re hoping to achieve the look I want to achieve. Of course there’s more. The long red nails. The lashes, the smoky eyes, the blush and the deep red lipstick with too much liner. The five-inch hoop earrings and matching gold accessories. And that blonde ponytail. We had talked about this before and done many similar things. In conversation, I had pushed and pushed. Wanting more and more. But now it’s a reality. Actually real. And I have a target. The boots cost £150. I must make that back. Before me the windswept car park. And the lorries. Instructions are relayed. I open the door.
The cold hit hits me like a slap, awakening my senses. Slightly. I stagger for a moment. The heels, the high, combining to unsettle me and yet make me more certain. And I love how I feel right now. My legs tingle. My heart races. My breathing shallow, and fast. I feel like I can do anything, especially things I shouldn’t. I want to do this and take my first confident step. And then I stop. He’s called me back. My clutch, my cigarettes. Of course. Actually I could do with one right now and he wants to see me smoke one too. As I walk. I see he’s got the cameras ready. Both of them. I light the long, slim menthol and set out again.
The cold. It feels amazing, taking the edge of the chemically induced heat within me. But it’s cold and I flick up the collar on my jacket and wrap it around me and hold it with my left hand, the cigarette smouldering in my right. But now I sober. Momentarily. Before me the lorries, looming invitingly, frighteningly, long and big and suggestive. Thoughts flash. Cock, cum, hot, sleaze, danger, police, cold, doubt. But immediately, before I can pause, another wave of euphoria hits, hard, and I continue.
I continue. The night is still and my heels make me conspicuous. The sound seeps out into the open expanse around me. I’m exposed. I’m obvious. My purpose is clear and the reasons for my being here cannot be misinterpreted by anyone who can see. But there is no-one to see. Not yet. I continue and I arrive at the first line of lorries, parked side by side. I remember my instructions, even if my head’s a little cloudy. I stop. I reach for my purse, my cigarettes. I remember my instructions. I light one, moments after extinguishing the previous. I know I’m being watched. Not yet by those I need, but by one I want. In the car, two cameras, their unthinking eyes on me. I inhale. I exhale. I catch a whiff of my perfume. Another trigger. Euphoria. And I start to walk again.
Two rows. Side by side, cab facing cab. The formation creating a catwalk of sorts. Or a gutter. The buyers are elevated but hidden by curtains. Some leak light from behind. Maybe 20 in total, but my eyes can’t focus long enough to tell. I inhale. I exhale. I walk. Heels on tarmac, the rustle of leather. I should be scared, and somewhere, deep down, I am. But the fear is hidden, lost with my inhibitions, supressed by chemicals which pulse now, through me. Thoughts flash. Cock, cum, hot, sleaze. Money. And nothing else. I inhale. I exhale. A curtain twitches. More light. I keep walking, my eyes still struggling to focus. I hear something. I turn, I look, but I don’t see. Faint still, but louder, I hear it again. Human. I turn again and see it now. A hand, an arm. Gesturing. I walk towards it. My heart’s beating, hard. I can feel it. Each beat causing an effect. Euphoria. I have attention. I have opportunity. I walk, one foot in front of the other, one foot over the other. A strut of sorts and I’m at the cab. My head is cloudy, but I remember my instructions. The passenger door opens and a hand reaches down. I smile. I’m in.
I remember my instructions. Just. Suck only. Mouth or face. Best you can get. A small contribution. I’m in and I stay in. Sleaze. Cock. Hot. The stench of sweat (not mine). Sleaze. Words, rough words from his mouth. Another trigger. Euphoria. Cum. A big load, a small contribution. And I’m out.
I inhale. I exhale. And I walk again. Another sound, another gesture. I’m in. More sweat, more sleaze, more cum. Another contribution. And repeat, again. And again.
I walk again. Reality is beginning to creep back. I’m done, I think, and I start to walk back, back down this catwalk of tarmac and empty wrappers. My heels on the tarmac, grating now. Conspicuous in a bad way. I’m almost out, but there a twitch. A curtain. I’m walking that way as it is, so I skirt closer to the lorry in question. The window’s down, on this cold, cold night, but the curtain’s still drawn. I stop, I wait, I’m not staying. A twitch. The curtain goes back. A head. A face. A quiet voice. “Busy?” I shrug, I smile. I’m in.
Not like the others. Not quite. A talker, the first of the evening. I like that, I like to talk. He asks if I’m ok. I am. He asks if I’m on something. I am. He seems to approve. I ask if I can do some, and he says yes. Dashboard. Powder. Mash. Lines. Sniff. Sniff. He likes what he sees and as I draw back and let my head rest against the seat his hand moves in. My heart beats, my body pulses and my eyes wobble. He talks, says a word. A trigger. Euphoria. We talk still, though move closer. My instructions are remembered but garbled. I think he understands. He lights a cigarette and I ask if I can too. I inhale. I exhale. We talk.
Talk turns to business. To needs and wants. He wants and I need. But not here, in the cab. Not for what he wants. Not for what I need. He steps out and walks around to my open door. I had made to leave but stopped, my eyes unfocused and my legs unsteady. He leads me down. But no romance, not in this. He leads me to the back of his lorry. He stands, his back to the large metal doors, leaning in. I crouch. I fumble, he helps and his trousers are open. His hands on my head, pushing. My ponytail pulled, tight. His words rough. His sweat, his stench. The cold. All triggers. Euphoria. Bliss. Overwhelming. I remember my instructions, just. I stop. I reach into a pocket and pull out a piece of paper, handing it to him. I explain, it’s garbled, he laughs with little sound and less humour. But he does it anyway. His phone out, recording. I am lost. I am lost in a sea of sweat and euphoria, stench and bliss. Sleaze and cold. More words, more triggers, more pulses, more flashes. The intensity overwhelms me and for the first time I falter. I slip back, on my hands, his grip preventing anything worse. I regain myself, as much as I can. I’m on my knees now. I worry about my boots and then instantly forget. I remember my instructions. Mouth or face. Oh yeah. Face. That’s why we’re here, out the back, out of the cab where things can be spilled without consequence. I continue. His hands back in place and his words harsher than before. His words, his hands, the cold. He lets go and I lean in. He’s close, I know the signs. The words, the sweat, the stench. And now his moans, mixed with the words. My jacket, slipped off one shoulder so I grab it. The rustle of leather. My collar up. The sound of his hand, moving frantically. Triggers, all triggers. And as it builds, he shoots. Everything he said it’d be. More. Again and again it strikes my face. The heat, the smell, the stench. The sound, the moans and the words. Triggers, so many triggers. Euphoria. Crescendo. His phone flashes. I look but can’t focus. I pose without moving, incapable, held. A big load and a small contribution. He leaves. I stand, eventually. I weave but do not falter. Slutdom attained. All that matters, nothing but triggers. Euphoria.
I inhale. I exhale. I walk. Heels on tarmac, the sound of accomplishment. I return to the car and open the door. But there are photos to take, ruined make-up and a blissful face. Stained skin and stained leather. As we drive I rest my head back against the seat. He hands me the cameras and I hold one, then the other. Slut, whore, she looks like me. She inhales. She exhales. She walks. She crouches. A sound, not human, and he laughs. He hands me his phone. Slut, whore, she looks like me. The image is focused but my eyes are not. An image from an unknown number. Her skin is stained and her leather is stained, like mine. Her face blissful. My boyfriend laughs, the crumpled cash on the dashboard, the remnants of powder. I run my finger along it and suck. A hand on my thigh. He laughs. Rough words. We drive. And triggers. All are triggers as I rest my head. Euphoria.