She never knew how many men fucked her that day. All she
could remember was the pain and the indignity - and,
finally, her own total surrender...
Helena de Barrie was a stunning looking woman, aged
in her mid thirties but appearing much younger. She was
tall, blonde and obviously wealthy. Everything about her,
make-up, jewellery, clothes and most of all, her bearing,
was high class.
And everything about the shabby square in which she
stood was squalid.
She gazed at the entrance of the building and
glanced again at the piece of paper, which had guided her
here. It was unmistakably the place where she had been told
to come.
She pulled the sable coat about her, wondering
briefly how the girls nearby could bear the cold wearing
such skimpy gear, then she went up the steps and entered
through the dowdy doors, noting the uncleaned windows with
distaste.
Facing her was a long corridor, drab and dirty,
with tattered linoleum flooring and cream painted walls,
which had long since faded to a dirty grey colour. At the
far end was a lift. On one side ran a long counter and
behind it was a scruffy, middle-aged man reading a magazine.
He glanced at Helena and she saw his eyes widen but then he
looked back at his magazine.
She walked towards him and stood in front of the
counter as he studied the magazine without showing any sign
that he knew she was there. The magazine was pornographic; a
picture of a naked black girl lying back on a tartan rug,
opening her legs to a white, straw haired male whose penis
was erect.
With icy courtesy she introduced herself.
“I am Lady Helena de Barrie. I have an appointment
with a Mr. Marcus.”
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