Monday, 9am

I wake with a ringing in my ears. Ding-ding-ding-ding-ding. Where is it coming from? And where am I?

The infuriating sound stops. I groan as my brain slowly reassembles reality, comes to terms with its unfamiliar surroundings. Clearly my fears that I would not sleep well were unfounded. I’ve never known such a comfortable bed. Such soft linen, especially after that bath, must have lulled me into slumber in five minutes flat.

Hooker school. It’s my first coherent thought. It’s day one. We’re starting for real now. My pulse quickens. What am I supposed to do? I roll over and glance across at Petra. She’s not much more awake than I am.

I start as I hear the door open. It’s a man. Perhaps in his fifties, but younger looking. There is something of Colin Firth about him. He is very smartly dressed. Almost over the top. His outfit borders on black tie. Even through my bleary eyes I notice the intense shine of his shoes. They do not look cheap.

He does not introduce himself. Instead he walks in with the confidence of somebody who is used to being obeyed. He seizes the curtains and pulls them open to reveal another blue-sky day. Then he turns to face us.

“Miss Stoycheva, Miss Carling. Good morning. You will report to the showers when you hear the bell in ten minutes. Bring your towels and toiletries only.”

With that, he crosses the room, walks out of the door and closes it behind him.

So this is it . I feel my nerves begin to dance as I awake fully to what he said, and how he said it. There was something in his authoritative manner that hinted at a testing morning. I hope desperately that someone will tell me what I’m supposed to do, every step of the way.

I look to Petra. Her hair’s in a bit of a state, but other than that she shows almost no effects of sleep. Experience tells me I’m probably not so lucky. She’s up and moving before I am; seems to have taken the orders in her stride. She seems unhurried but purposeful. She walks to the window and lights up a quick cigarette, turning her back on me as she looks out over the fields.

I look around, at a loss. The instructions were clear enough. The implication was that we’d undress here, wrap up in towels and then head down the hall to the bathroom. I just wish…I just wish Petra would do it first so I can copy what she does. She says she hasn’t been here before, but she’s in the game, ergo she’s my senior. But I don’t want to ask that cow for help.

I yawn, stretch and tentatively step out of bed. I’m in shorts and a t-shirt too. I guess there’s not much to do but take them off. I make for the wardrobe, wondering who that man was. I have a feeling we’ll cross paths again.

I’d prefer Petra not to walk in on me getting changed, so I’m quick once again. In just seconds I am wrapped up in one of the big, fluffy, white towels. And now, I’m not really sure what to do with myself.

I idle some time away looking through the clothes again, and wonder what I’ll wear today. What do you wear on your first day at school? Especially this sort of school? The school uniform seems logical enough, but isn’t that just silly? Then again, it’s one of very few things suitable for daytime use. This closet has been filled by a night owl, come to think of it.

I’m startled as Petra opens the door. Oh God, she’s already topless. She must have whipped off her t-shirt as she walked across the room. This woman is not shy. She gives me a cruel smile that says I know. She seems utterly comfortable, but I feel I must look away. I quickly push past her, mumbling apologies. Jesus, what are you sorry for? You’re so fucking English, Emma.

I sit waiting, on my bed. I did notice one thing: her breasts are not big. Of course they aren’t: she’s petite and perfectly-proportioned. But I do believe I have an edge on her in the boob department. Mine are ample and support themselves well: I’ve always been able to fill a tight top rather well.

Petra emerges, thankfully wrapped up in a towel just like I am. She comes over to my bed and sits down to wait with me.

“He did say something about another bell, right?” I ask.

“Yes, I think so…so we wait.”

“I wonder if it will be the same every morning…”

Petra just plays with her fingers, waiting. This is one seriously cold woman.

A few more awkward moments of silence. Then footsteps. We hear the bell come closer as it stops outside each room. A door slams in the distance.

We don’t wait for the infernal bell to come any closer, and step out into the dim hallway. A couple of towelled women, only their shoulders and calves bare, are already making their way to the bathroom. So it’s to be all of us, then. Crap. I keep my head down as we pass our waker and his bell.

The walk down the hall seems to take an eternity. I hear the sound of running water beyond the bathroom door. I popped here to go to the toilet before bed last night. I noticed then that this room was different: it was quite modern inside, and sparkling with cleanliness. It must have had a lot of work done and was one room that did look a little institutional. Including the open-plan shower area.

I open the door ahead of Petra, glad that I’m not the first one inside. The showers have been switched on, steam rising from the floor, but none of the girls is under one yet. In fact, they all seem to be waiting for someone else to go first. There’s a nervous energy in the room as the others mill about uncertainly near the benches that run along the wall opposite the shower entrance. There are towel hooks above the benches; some are hanging their toiletry bags up.

My heart is absolutely thudding now. I can be very naughty when I’m with someone I feel comfortable with, but I’ve always managed to avoid this kind of situation in locker rooms. Not that I mind women’s bodies…it’s just that I feel a bit shy and awkward about it.

But here, it doesn’t look like there’s going to be a choice.

My wish comes true as Petra leads by example. Without ceremony she picks out her soaps, undoes her towel and steps into the shower like some kind of Viking goddess. There’s that arse again. Lilia, whose plump boobs look fake on her smallish body, follows suit. And gradually the herd musters itself to do the same. Towels are lost, and now naked strangers tiptoe, coy, towards the hot water.

I am nearly the last one in. Nobody has said a word. Meeting a new group of people is awkward enough clothed, and doing it bare only brings on more paralysis. Still, I feel a ripple of excitement at the naughtiness of it all.

I pick a shower head. They’re closer together than I’d noticed, and it appears that there are exactly twelve of them. I’m wedged in between an unusually tall brunette and a cute little girl with shoulder-length curls dyed orangey red. Both are already running soapy hands across their skin.  

Only now do I notice the men. Christ, they must have been here all along. They’re sat on comfortable armchairs on what looks like a viewing gallery, just above the towel hooks. You just wouldn’t notice them until you were standing under a shower. Neither of them is the man who woke us this morning. They’re more casual, in shirts and jackets but without ties, like it’s dress-down Friday. I can’t see much more than that through the steam. So this is our wake-up. Suddenly I want to die.

I look away from their gaze, and catch the eyes of one or two other girls. Clearly they are as surprised as I am. A couple have made pathetic attempts to cover their breasts, but we’re all rooted to the spot. I feel more naked than naked. Exposed and embarrassed to a point I’ve never explored before. But I know there is no place to go. Not if I want to last a morning in this place.

Pretend they’re not there, Emma, that’s it.

And so I begin to wash. It’s difficult, because I can’t truly forget their probing eyes. I avoid bending over, and face the wall as I quickly run my fingers over my genitals. Just then I notice dispensers on the wall: special soap for just that area. Probably wise, I suppose. I smirk to myself, in spite of everything, and rub down there again.

The other girls are slowly beginning to relax. Most have realised they can’t hide themselves. One of them, opposite me, is still looking particularly uptight though. I watch her as I wash my hair. She is the most spectacular blue-eyed blonde, sports a ponytail, toned figure and skin just one tiny shade browner than pale. She’s still trying to hide herself, seems to have lost interest in washing. There’s a faraway look in her eyes.

Suddenly she makes to leave the shower, one arm across her nipples and another hiding her pubic hair, shaking her bowed head. She races to her towel, flings it around her and scuttles out of the room. It is not a natural exit, and I’m not sure this is staged. I don’t think she can take it. I am not sure I can blame her. And I wonder what will happen to her.

I watch Petra. She is lathering herself nonchalantly, efficient and rhythmic. She must know she has watchers, but she makes no special effort to cover herself. She even bends over as she reaches down to wash her legs. I don’t get the feeling it’s for their benefit; I just don’t think she is bothered. I suspect she may have stripped for a living.

Great, now I’m thinking about bending over for the men. And I’m soaping up my breasts. Stop it, girl, what’s wrong with you? Nope, they’re firming up. Fuck. Can anyone see? Think of something else! Anything! I quickly take my hands away and let the water rinse my tits clean, but a glance down reveals what I can feel: you could hang a key ring off those.

I finish up as fast as I can, switch of my taps and scurry to my towel. I rub myself down quickly, all too aware that they’re right above me. Other girls are making for the door too, now. I glance up as I wrap up in my towel and let myself out: the two men are unmoved.

Monday, 9.25am

I’m sitting on my bed, wrapped in my towel, just trying to catch my breath. Did I just shower with 12 other girls while two men watched us? It must have been: I definitely saw that blonde run out. I’m surprised I didn’t do the same.

It looks like we will have to grow up fast in this place. Will I be up to it? I think again of my ex-colleagues slaving in front of their computer screens, and conclude that I am certainly going to give it my best shot. Anything but that.

I feel the need to compare notes with someone, but get a sinking feeling when I realise I have only Petra for company. And she’s disappeared inside the wardrobe. No doubt picking out some figure hugging dress for the day.

The thought of wearing the school uniform comes back to me. We were told to choose from that wardrobe. And it does make sense. Plus, it gives me a tiny thrill to think of myself in it.

Monday, 10.30am

“Good morning Emma, I’m Miss Jackson. I’ll be your mentor this week and can’t wait for us to get started. I’ve heard some good things about you already.”

The woman standing across the desk from me can’t seem to wipe the smile from her face. She must be around forty, and looks a touch eccentric. Her hair cropped is short and dyed bright blonde. Red-rimmed glasses, a pink blouse and a bulky stud in each ear give her something of a theatrical look. She’s pretty slight, with no bust to speak of, and not especially attractive. But she looks truly comfortable in her own skin.

She shakes my hand and motions me to sit. I smile back at her and smooth my skirt before taking a seat. I wonder what qualifies her to ‘mentor’ here.

“I like your choice of outfit today,” she remarks, looking me up and down. “Very appropriate. I think you might be the first to try that on day one.”

I try not to blush, but I’m glad to hear I’m doing something right.

“Thanks! It kind of made sense to me…first day of school and all that…”

“My thoughts exactly. And you’re very sexy in that, young lady. Now, in your own words, what made you want to come here?”

I cough nervously. In spite of the otherworldly shower experience and the reaction to my outfit, I still can’t quite bring myself to reference hooker training directly.

“Well, I lost my job a week or so ago…well, I walked out actually. And then…I guess I was open to ideas, and a friend of a friend told me about…you know…this.”

Miss Jackson smiles at me.

“You can say it, Emma, it’s okay. You’re training to be a prostitute. A sexy, irresistible and highly-skilled prostitute.”

I nod, grimace and look down at my knees. The words still jar. But my mind flooded with images, too, when she said ‘sexy’ and ‘irresistible’. I think I see Charles again. Jesus, Emma, do you want this or not?

“Now, having told you how lovely you look in those clothes, I’m now going to ask you to remove them.”

I look up at her, shocked. She’s dead-pan.

“Please stand up and take everything off. You can put your clothes on the chair.”

I try not to sigh out loud. They want me naked again? I think my leg starts to twitch, but I stand up. You can do this. Don’t show her you’re scared.

“OK.” I try to give her a convincing smile. “Any particular order…?”

She waves my question away: “Relax, girl, it’s not a striptease. I just need you naked. It’s a logical starting point, don’t you think?”

I nod, and pull off my schoolgirl slipper-shoes. Then the long socks: first the left, then the right. My bare feet feel sticky against the varnished wooden floor. I unbutton my blouse and slip it off my shoulders. I have to force myself to stay facing her. Then I undo the clip on my little grey skirt, and add to the pile on the chair.

I am down to my underwear now. I’ve put on some of the lingerie provided in my drawer. As instructed. Lacy white bra and panties, relatively modest. The air feels close in here. Muggy, even a little moist. I reach behind my back and unhook my bra, freeing my breasts. She sits back in her chair, seems to like what she sees. But I avoid her eye as I step out of my panties and place the lingerie on the chair.

And now I stand up tall, hands behind my back. And I’m fucking naked again. Probably balancing on the outsides of my feet, like I do when I’m nervous.

“That’s lovely, Emma. Really, you’re quite beautiful.”

I feel a tiny wave of calm wash over me.

“You’ll get used to this kind of thing, trust me,” she says, getting up and walking around the desk towards me. “You’re doing well. I’ve seen girls go to pieces.”

“Er, yes. Actually…I think I saw one struggle in the shower this morning. Maybe?”

“You did, Emma. It’s a real shame but Cassie won’t be staying with us. She decided it wasn’t for her. Pity: as you will have noticed, she was a real emerald. And such a beautiful Irish accent too.”

She’s standing right in front of me now. I’m kind of glad we have something to talk about that isn’t me.

“So…we’re down to eleven?” I ask, stupidly looking at her shoulder blades.

“That’s right, you’re a select group! Now keep still while I take a nice look at you.”

And with that, she touches me breasts. One in each hand. I breathe in sharply. I’m not offended, just taken aback. Her hands are warm, but they feel rough, more like those of a man. She gives them a gentle squeeze, then lets go.

“Ah, Emma, I have a feeling the men will like to have these in their hands. Classic shape and size, and all natural. You couldn’t do better with surgery. Lucky girl!”

She walks around behind me, slowly. Takes in every angle, pauses as if to sniff the air around my body. Behind me now, I hear her take a step back.

“Yes, yes, I can see that they were right. Your reputation precedes you, young lady. Stunning cheeks. Oh, they’ll get some attention alright. You have no idea how much potential you’ve got.”

If she’s trying to build me up and relax me, she’s doing a good job.

“Now if you can just bend over for me.”

Okay, there goes the relaxation. Nice one, lady. You can’t turn back now. Do you want to run scared like the Irish chick?

“Let’s have your feet apart…that’s right….all the way down now, hold onto your ankles. Wonderful.”

I’m trembling a little, but whether it’s the awkward position or the newness of it all I’m not sure. And I thought I felt exposed in the shower! My bits must be looking her straight in the eye. I hope she’s happy.

“Oh, Emma! I’m lost for words!”

I gather she’s impressed again. Should I say something? All I can manage from down here is a grunt. Probably not great.

For some reason the office comes back to my mind. If they could see me now, bent double with my naked arse under inspection! I’m not quite sure if it’s an improvement, but it’s certainly different.

“Now don’t move, just spread your legs a little wider.”

I do as I’m told, imagining God knows what. But all I hear is what sounds like her taking something out of her pocket. She takes a step forward, I sense her close behind me. I can see her shoes through my legs. There’s a pause, but she doesn’t touch me. I’m on tenterhooks, fearing the unexpected. And then I hear her step back.

“Up you get!”

I stand up straight again. She gives me a light slap on the bum as she passes me and walks back to her desk, still flashing a toothy smile at me. I wonder if she might be a lesbian. She does look the part.

“I’d like you to stay nude, Emma, but please have a seat on the other chair.”

Clearly I am going to be getting plenty of practice in my birthday suit. But if I keep getting reactions like hers, I might just get used to it. I sit down on the wooden chair, crossing my legs and placing my hands on the arms.

“I like to know exactly what I’ll be working with, you see. If all goes well, at the end of two weeks, you’ll be ready to do a shoot with our photographer. Photos that will sell you to clients.”

I nod again. Pretend I didn’t hear the word ‘sell’.

“So Emma, your training follows a loose basic structure. The first three or four days are an assessment of where you’re at. That means testing you, seeing how you react to situations. We find this far more useful than asking you to fill out some silly forms.”

I gulp. I guess I’ve had a couple of those tests already, then. And nobody could be naïve enough not to figure out what might be coming next.

“Some of these situations you can imagine, others may be less familiar. We don’t believe in preparing you for them, because we want to gauge your natural responses and get a feel for your experience levels. There is no need to try and impress. You won’t see me all the time, but I will have my sources. You won’t encounter anyone whose opinion I don’t trust implicitly.”

I shiver a little at the implication of her deliberately vague words. I feel ridiculous, sitting here stripped, cool wood against my bare bottom, listening to such talk. I wonder if I am about to wake up, sweating and wet at the crotch.

“Later in the week, assuming all goes well, we’ll meet here again and formulate a plan for the rest of your training. That means deciding where we want to focus our efforts, and why. Much will depend on your strengths, preferences and aptitudes. You’ll have a full say in which way we go and how we examine you in the last couple of days. Between now and then, though, the important thing is for you to enjoy yourself.”

Without warning my mind clogs with the image of me naked, blindfolded and bent over this very chair. Footsteps heavy with intent, behind me. The sound of a zip.

“Emma? Cuckoo! I like that you’re dreaming already, but come back to the room.” She winks at me.

Shit, was I that obvious? Suddenly I begin to worry about the state of this chair when I stand up.

“Sorry,” I smile. I can’t hide much from this lady, that’s for sure. I cross my legs the other way, relieved that I don’t feel any trace of moisture. Stopped just in time, I guess.

“Don’t apologize,” says Miss Jackson. “Now, as I said, we’re not interested in ticking boxes at this stage, but a candid chat does help me understand who you are. I’d like to hear about your sex life. In your own words.”

The full ebook is available free via jamesgreyauthor.com