for free. More than that, I would have paid him if I’d thought he would have fucked me for the money.
But Peter was a rich college boy with no need for the little money I could have scraped together. He was tall and dark and boyishly good-looking. A wealthy relative had left him an endowment that made him seem like a lottery winner on the campus. And, to my frustration, Peter and I had fallen into the trap of being platonic best friends rather than passionate lovers.
I’d spend study nights round at his apartment and he’d provide pizza and bottles of cheap lager. I kept promising myself that I’d make a move but it never seemed like the right time. It wasn’t until there came a night when we were both amicably drunk that I plucked up the courage to say something bold.
We’d been watching an old movie on TV: Pretty Woman. It’s the film where Julia Roberts plays a whore to Richard Gere’s client. As sex was a main topic throughout the film, I took the opportunity to ask Peter if he’d ever paid for sex.
He laughed. It was a strong sound that made me yearn for him. Swigging from his bottle he said, ‘I’ve never paid for sex. What about you?’
I shook my head. I had expected to catch myself blushing but I seemed beyond embarrassment. ‘Women don’t pay for sex,’ I reminded him. ‘Women are the ones who get paid.’
He considered this and then nodded as though my point made sense. ‘Then I’ll rephrase the question. Have you ever been paid to have sex?’
I studied him levelly. ‘Are you offering?’
He laughed again. This time I saw it was bashful laughter. He clearly sensed we were overstepping the boundaries of our platonic relationship. And, whilst that was something he had been trying to avoid, it was a barrier I was desperate to breach.
‘Are you offering?’ I repeated. ‘I won’t be offended if you try to put a price on the contents of my pants. You never know. It might be more affordable than you think.’
His cheeks were touched by twin spots of colour. It was quite endearing. ‘I couldn’t afford someone as classy as you.’
‘Are you sure? Why don’t you put some notes in my hand and see what happens?’
His mouth worked soundlessly for a moment. His eyes shone with a smile that made me desperate for him. And I could see that he was seriously considering my suggestion.
‘Put some notes in my hand,’ I urged, ‘and I’ll tell you what I’m prepared to do for that amount of money. There’s only you and I in the flat this evening so I’m sure this conversation won’t go any further.’
We were sitting in the kitchen of his apartment. It was surprisingly tidy, but that was only because Peter could afford for a cleaner to visit twice a week. A glass-topped table was between us and I watched him reach into the pockets of his jeans as he struggled to find cash.
His hands were shaking.
I wasn’t entirely sure, but I thought it looked like he was already sporting a modest erection that thrust at the zipper of his jeans.
In that moment the dynamics of our relationship changed.
We’d been platonic friends before. Now, Peter saw me as someone sexual. More than that, if he produced enough notes, he would see me as someone sexual that he could possess. The thought melted my loins. All that was needed was for me to maintain my integrity and be a whore – not a slut.
Peter deserved more than a mere slut.
‘Here,’ he said quickly. He pulled out a five-pound note and put it in my upturned palm.
I sneered. ‘I wouldn’t even look at your cock for that much. I certainly wouldn’t do anything sexual for a fiver.’
But, even as I said the words, there was a tremor in my voice. And I was sure that Peter had heard as much. To cover my embarrassment, I lifted the note to my nostrils and pretended to study it closely.
That was when the smell first hit me.
There is a distinctive scent to a five-pound note. It smells of sex. It reminds me of the musky scent I can catch on the gusset of my panties at the end of the day. It’s a lingering aroma of arousal that taints each well-thumbed banknote. As I drank in the fragrance of the five-pound note that Peter had placed in my hand I found the intoxicating aroma had already started to make my pussy muscles clench.
Peter passed me a twenty.
He said nothing. There was only the brittle stiffness of a crisp note touching my palm. As the silence dragged on he eventually asked, ‘What would you do for that?’
I yawned, feigning a boredom I had never felt in Peter’s company. A boredom I could never feel. ‘Double it,’ I said idly, ‘and I’ll suck your cock.’
The words were strong enough to wrench the air from the room.
Peter swallowed. There was a moment when I thought I’d gone too far.
And then he was fumbling in his pockets trying to find more money.
I lowered my voice to a sultry whisper. ‘Do you want to feel my lips around your cock?’ I asked. ‘I could suck you so hard for fifty pounds that you’d swear it was the best investment you ever made.’
Through the glass-topped table I could see the bulge at the front of his pants had grown considerably. Peter made no attempt to hide his arousal as he rummaged through his pockets in the search for more cash.
‘That suh-sounds pretty guh-good,’ he stammered.
‘For one hundred you can slide your cock inside me,’ I murmured. ‘My pussy is so wet for you now I think I’d drown you with it.’
I shifted in my seat so that he noticed I was wearing a short tartan skirt. It was a short tartan skirt that was visible through the glass-topped table.
He went still.
I placed my hand on the hem of the skirt and began to draw it slowly upwards. Peter’s eyes grew wider as the skirt moved higher. His mouth hung open and then he was drawing a tongue across his lips and swallowing with obvious, urgent need.
I couldn’t stop myself from grinning.
His gaze was fixed on my thighs. The hem of the skirt had crept so high that, I knew, it would be possible for him to see the white cotton crotch of my panties. I wondered if the panties looked as moist as they felt. Talking about money, and threatening to suck Peter’s cock, had made my inner muscles flow with fluid need for him. I could imagine the white centre panel of the panties was silvered with the dew from my eager sex.
I slipped the fingers of my right hand away from the hem of the skirt and brushed a fingernail against the gusset of my panties. The tickle of my own touch was almost enough to make me climax.
I snatched a staggered breath. And I held myself rigid for fear of suffering an orgasm before we’d properly done anything together.
Peter raised his gaze to study my eyes.
‘A hundred pounds and you can slide your cock in here,’ I told him. Without allowing myself
