The doorbell rang at exactly one minute past 8pm. I opened the door to reveal what Helena meant by casual, and I wasn’t disappointed. It was an unseasonably warm evening for London in June, and Helena was wearing a sleeveless silky orange top and a pair of navy blue shorts, much shorter than one would expect for a woman nearing sixty, but Helena's legs could compare with a thirty-year-old's. A jacket was draped over a large black bag hanging from her shoulder. A pair of navy kitten heel peeptoes completed the outfit.
We kissed softly on the doorstep, and I invited Helena in. I had moved to a smaller house about a year after Mary died. Downstairs, I had the walls knocked out to form one big open space that served as a sitting room, dining room and kitchen. French doors on the back wall led out to a small landscaped garden. Upstairs was two bedrooms, two bathrooms and a small study.
"The house is gorgeous, James," Helena remarked. "And the garden looks marvellous ... can we dine out there?"
"That's what I was planning, unless you would be too cold," I replied. “I was planning to cook the steaks on the barbecue.”
"I'm sweltering, so yes. Let me see the garden,” she said, adding, “I hope you are not offended that I didn't ask to see the bedroom first!"
I laughed and accepted a gift of two bottles of Barolo "to go with red meat," Helena offered. I know a bit about wine, enough to realise that these bottles were certainly not cheap.
I served aperitifs and Helena joined me in the garden while I lit the Weber Kettle. We made small talk until I asked her about what she had done during the day.
“As I said on the telephone today, we need to talk about a lot of things,” Helena said somewhat nervously. “I suggest that we wait until you are done cooking. Is there anything I can do to help?”
She agreed to make a salad while I tended to the steaks and the vegetables that I was also grilling on the Weber. Roxy made an appearance in the garden, and Helena was surprised that a grumpy old man like me would have a cat. Roxy is fairly grumpy herself, but she soon made friends with Helena. About thirty minutes later, we sat down to a simple dinner outdoors, just as the sun was beginning to set.
Helena began the conversation. “This steak is sublime: it’s tender and perfectly cooked. But what I am really impressed with is a bloke who serves his guest vegetables rather than a mountain of chips!
“But I know that’s not what you want to hear,” she continued. “I know you have a lot of questions about me and about us. Why don’t you ask me a question, and then I’ll know where to start.”
I thought for a moment, as I was unprepared for this. So, I said what was on my mind.
“I guess this is two questions,” I finally replied, “but I would be interested in knowing a bit about your life until now and what you do for a living. You seem to know a lot about me from Emma and Sue, but I really do not know anything about you.”
This time Helena took a moment to consider what had been said and took another bite of her rib-eye. Then she began her story.
“I had a normal, almost idyllic childhood. I grew up in Norwich. I was bright and got good grades and my parents were very well-off, so I went to university, even though I didn’t have a clue as to what I wanted to do with my life. I decided to read French Literature at King’s College in London. I couldn’t wait to get away from Norwich, which I thought was pretty boring, and live in swinging London.
“London, and especially the university scene, in the early 1970s was a lot different than today. Unless you were a real geek, no one seemed to study much. Although I loved French literature and I actually went to some classes, I was more interested in wearing the shortest possible dresses, smoking the best weed I could find and generally living the high life.
“During my second year, I found a flat and needed a roommate, and that’s how I met Sue, Emma’s mother. She and I quickly became best friends and were nearly inseparable for the next two years. We got along because we were obsessed with sex. We were both very slender and attractive, and guys were easy to attract. We had boyfriends, but we did not take them seriously. What we really wanted was to get fucked ... I guess you would call it ‘casual sex’. We really did not care who we slept with, as long as we had a good time.
“I can’t tell you how many men I had sex with during my three years at university. Sue and I often competed for the same men but also for the most original place in which had sex. I did it in clubs, in open convertibles, in lifts, in loos, on the roof of our building and once even in St Paul’s Cathedral. One bloke would lick my cunt for hours while I was sitting in a chair in the library reading Flaubert. Sue managed to get laid in both Claridges and the Savoy on the same day.
“When Sue and I found a guy we both really liked, we would do him together. Sue would usually get on top of his cock, riding cowgirl, while I would sit on his face. I’ve never been that interested in girls, but Sue back then really liked to kiss me and play with my boobs. I didn’t mind. The guy couldn’t see a thing, since my ass was covering his eyes, but he would still think it was the greatest experience he had ever had!
Sue and I also competed to see who could wear the most provocative outfit in public. I may have won that won. We went to a club in Soho one night, and I wore a mini-dress that was completely see-through. It left nothing to the imagination. I started out wearing just a little g-string underneath, but Sue bet me a bottle of champagne that I wouldn’t dare taking it off. So I did. I got really drunk, and Sue told me the next day that I would lift the dress up to my waist when I was dancing.
“Mummy and Daddy really didn’t have a clue, or so I thought. They were already fairly old when Mummy had me, and I was a spoiled only child. By this time, Daddy had done some kind of business deal that made him filthy rich. He retired, and he and Mummy travelled most of the time. Daddy loved travelling, and he would travel on his own when Mummy decided she wanted to spend some time at home.
“I would call them often to say I needed money, and they would send me twice as much as I asked for. After the cheque would arrive, Sue and I would go to Biba or a shop in Knightsbridge on a Saturday afternoon. I would think nothing of dropping several hundred pounds on clothes. That was a huge amount of money in those days.
“All was fine until the end of my third year at King’s. The good news is that I graduated with a second-class degree in a subject that qualified me for virtually no job. The bad news was that Sue met Howard.
“Howard, Emma’s father, was a nice guy, and I guess he still probably is, but he was also really straight. He was studying law and disapproved of everything that I did. Unfortunately, Sue - despite the fact that she had screwed hundreds of guys over the past three years - decided that it was time to settle down and that Howard was a particularly good catch. His parents were rich, and Howard was going places professionally. I am not sure if Sue ever really loved Howard, but she had convinced herself that she did.
“Howard and Sue got married a month after they graduated. Howard was training with one of the big law firms, and Sue got a job in fashion marketing until she had Emma. Sue and I still saw each other, but it was clear that Howard hated me, and Sue was happy to do anything to please him. We drifted away
“I was lost. I lost my best friend, I missed university life, and then Mummy and Daddy were killed in an auto accident while driving too quickly in Italy. I was really sad, and while I knew I would inherit a lot, I was already worried that I would just spend it on clothes or, worse, snort it up my nose. Daddy must have thought the same, because he gave much of his money to charity and set up a trust fund for me so that I would not inherit much until I turned 30, nine years into the future. I would get a bit of income in the meantime, but much less than I had at university. I did nothing for about six months but fuck and take drugs until I was dead broke. I had to find a job.
“Since I spoke French fluently, I decided to move to Paris. I found a little flat I could afford in Montparnasse and tried to get a job. I was a secretary for two weeks, but I got the sack because I never got my then-cute ass in the office until 10am because I was busy screwing some boy that I met the night before. The same thing happened when I worked in a bar: I spent too much time trying to seduce the men and not enough time serving drinks.
“One night, I was sitting alone in a cafe, wondering whether I should move back to boring Norwich, when I saw one of my father’s former business associates. Clive was on a business trip and had nothing to do for the evening, so he treated me to dinner. What I did not realise is that Clive was a complete bastard and was expecting ‘payment’ from me in exchange for a fancy meal, So, even though he was at least 40 years older than I was, we went back to his hotel. He told me I looked kinky, probably because I was wearing a short skirt and not wearing a bra. So, I got on top of him, fucked him hard until I came and then pissed all over him. I ended the evening by spanking his fat, wrinkly ass.
Clive must have loved it, because two days later he called me.
“ ‘Helena,’ he said in his pompous, business-like tone, ‘I really enjoyed our evening together. You are a very intelligent and intriguing young woman, and I must admit that you are aces in bed. I want to look out for your best interests on behalf of your late father, so would you be so kind as to meet me for lunch tomorrow?’
“I figured I could piss on him again for a free lunch, so I met up with Clive. Thankfully I did not have to fuck him again. Instead, he gave me the details of a local firm which he said was looking for an entry-level employee. The card said simply ‘Agence Internationale’ with an address and telephone number. He told me that he had set up an appointment for me with the managing director, M. Vincent, for Wednesday at 10am. Clive told me to dress smartly and to keep an open mind. He paid for lunch, kissed me on the cheek and told me he would call soon to see how the interview went.
“I figured that M. Vincent was looking for a secretary or a clerk, so I went to the office, which was in a classy building near the Place Vendome. I wore a navy blue suit, a white blouse and sensible shoes to make a good impression. The office was posh, but I was surprised that the magazines in the reception area were Playboy and Lui, not Paris Match or Time.
“Jean-Claude Vincent greeted me moments later. He wore possibly the most expensive-looking suit I had even seen and was devastatingly handsome, even though he had to be well over sixty. We shook hands and went back to his office.
“ ‘Do you know much about Agence Internationale, Mlle Abbott?’ he asked me in his perfect but heavily accented English. I hadn’t a clue, so he smiled and explained. ‘Agence Internationale is a service organisation with offices in most major European cities, New York, Washington and Hong Kong. We offer services to businessmen, usually when they are travelling, but sometimes also in the cities in which they live.’
“He paused, so I naturally asked what kind of services the company offered.
“Jean-Claude explained: ‘We offer companionship ... basically what you would consider prostitution. Wealthy businessmen when travelling often seek the services of women - especially younger, beautiful women - to help compensate for the fact that they are lonely and do not have access to the marital bed. Also, the rules that men follow when at home often do not apply when they are away.
“‘So, we are always looking for attractive, intelligent women who would be willing - for proper compensation, of course - to provide these certain services to gentlemen.
“I was young and naive, so I blurted out: ‘How much are these gentlemen willing to pay for these services?’
“Jean-Claude laughed heartily and told me: ‘Fortunately for me, and perhaps you, a lot. As we are an international business, we set all of our prices in US dollars. Our lowest rate is $80 per hour, although most of our clients prefer to spend several hours or an entire evening with a companion. For an entire evening, the minimum would be approximately $500 for our least expensive girls. Some of our top girls would expect $2,500 per evening, even more if they are travelling with the client.’
“I couldn’t believe it. In today’s money, Agence Internationale was charging almost $400 an hour minimum. And, for the top girls, Jean-Claude wanted more than $8,000 for twelve hours of ‘work’! One part of me wanted to ask, ‘Where do I sign up?’ and another part of me said ‘Listen Mate, I don’t want to be a whore.’
“But what Jean-Claude said to me next really took me by surprise.
“ ‘Of course, by now you realise that M. Carroll, Clive, is a client of ours,’ Jean-Claude explained. ‘He told me that, based on a recent encounter, he believed you would be well-suited for our line of work. However, what M. Carroll did not know is that you have been on our radar for quite some time, long before he spoke to me earlier this week.
“ ‘We never disclose any information about our clients. If we did so, we would be out of business in a day. However, now that he is sadly no longer with us, I must tell you that your father was probably my oldest and best client. He travelled often on business and during his brief retirement. He used our services at least monthly and sometimes much for frequently in many cities for at least ten years.’
“I was shocked to say the least, but there was more.”
“ ‘I would have drinks or dinner with your father whenever he was in Paris and sometimes in other cities. He was a good client and a great friend. He often spoke of you, especially once you moved to London. He was worried about your lifestyle, not that he necessarily disapproved. In fact, I think he was proud of your so-called independence. However, he was concerned for your safety, and he sometimes engaged a private detective to monitor your activities.
“ ‘So, your father knew all about your recreational activities, and told me a lot of stories about your exploits. One time, he showed me a rather grainy film of a young woman performing oral sex on a gentleman in St James Park on a Saturday evening. Would you like to see it?’
“ ‘No, I don’t think I need to,” I stammered, trying to regain whatever dignity I thought I still had. “‘I believe I remember the occasion.’”
“Jean-Claude laughed heartily. ‘Well said, Mlle Abbott. I am not here to embarrass you. But I would like to know if you would consider an offer of employment. Yes, I know it must be a shock to learn that your father knew of your amorous activities. If it is any consolation, he told me your mother was not aware. She thought you were in the library reading Proust most of the time.
“ ‘I would like to recommend that you spend the rest of this morning speaking to my assistant, Mlle Roche, but you can call her Francoise. She recently retired from, how do I say this, active duty, and she now has a purely administrative role. She can give you more information. Then, I would like to see you again on Friday morning so - if you are agreeable - we can discuss terms of employment and other details.’
“I went down the hall to another office, where I meet the most beautiful woman I had even seen. I cannot possibly describe Francoise. Think of a woman you believe is a ‘ten’ and she was at least a ‘fifteen’. She wore a black designer dress, very short, that clung to her curves as if it has been moulded to her figure. She had the longest legs imaginable.
“Francoise greeted me warmly and for the next hour told me what it took to be a high-priced hooker. She then treated me to lunch, where we drank two bottles of wine. She was getting me drunk on purpose, but I no longer cared. I was hooked on being a hooker. I loved sex, and now I was going to make a lot of money doing what I did best.
“‘If you could fuck M. Carroll, then you can fuck anyone,’ Francoise whispered to me while we were having coffee. ‘I slept with him many times, and he is a fat pig.’ She oinked and then giggled uncontrollably when I told him that I had pissed all over Clive. ‘You are a natural,’ she told me.
“So, on Friday, I met Jean-Claude again to accept whatever offer he was making. I wore a very tight dress along with my best bra and knickers since I figured I would have to fuck him on the spot. Jean-Claude, however, assured me that he never had sex with his employees - ‘not good for business’. Francoise would set up a training programme for me that would take several weeks. During that time, I would be paid a salary. Once I began working, I would keep forty-five percent of my fees to start. My hourly fees would likely rise as I gained experience. After a year, my take would increase to fifty-five percent.
"Because Agence Internationale charged top rates, its girls had to be skilled courtesans. So, while I had great experience giving blow jobs, Francoise show me how to do it better. I had sex with some of the finest gigolos in Paris and the Rome, who told me how to move. I learned to dress like a glamourous Parisian lady, not a young bird from London. I learned how to seduce a man, how to dine in a three-star restaurant, how to dance, how to act nonchalantly no matter what a client asked, how to say no without the man knowing it and, basically, how to be a whore. It was hard work, but practice helped make perfect! After just a couple of days, I knew I could do it and I knew I would love it."* * *
By now, it was after 10pm and we had long finished dinner. We had drunk the first bottle of wine and most of the second. It was now dark and the automatic lighting in the garden had switched on. And, all the time, I had listened without interrupting.
“You get what you ask for,” Helena said. “You wanted to know about my past and what business I was in, and now you know. Let’s go in, because I’m getting slightly chilly. If you are not ready to chuck me out into the street, let’s have another drink and I will try to finish my story speedily. Then we can discuss the future.”
I was certainly not ready to ‘chuck’ Helena out into the street. She helped me put the dishes in the dishwasher, and I poured two glasses of cognac. We reclined on opposite ends of my sofa, with her bare feet in my lap, softly rubbing against my soft cock. Roxy found an empty spot between us and shut her eyes.
Helena took a sip of cognac and continued where she had left off ... To be continued ...
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with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.
<a href="https://www.lushstories.com/stories/mature/helena-part-3-helenas-story.aspx">Helena (Part 3) - Helena's Story</a>