| The Tally
Amy loved her job, but she had no illusions about what her job really
was. After all, you couldn't expect success if you pretended it was
anything else. She was a sex performer, and she was paid to have sex on
stage several times a night whenever it was her shift. And sex, whether on
stage, for film or in private, was still sex. It meant disrobing, it meant
groping and above all it meant penetration. That was what the punters
expected and what they were paying for. The art of it was in making the
sex as watchable as possible. And this meant that it had to be
entertaining, fully visible and as shocking as possible.
There was no sexual act she could think of that she wouldn't do, as long
as it left no marks which might appear in later performances in her shift.
She would have sex with one man, two men, several men. Equally as much,
she would have sex with an equal number of women. Her arse and would
take any object that would fit: animate or inanimate, fist, prick or
tongue. Only the laws of the land prevented her from extending her range to
include or children. The stage was her bed and her boudoir, and
she would take on all comers, both from the paying audience and from her
cast of co-stars.
She would herself out naked on the stage, or dressed in latex or
leather, her long golden brown hair flopping onto the stage, her freckled
face and shoulders lashed with semen, while behind her a cock pounded into
her arse and underneath the strapped-on dildo attached to one of her female
colleagues pushed more awkwardly into her cunt. Her smiling, grimacing
face, crumpled in ecstasy and excitement faced the audience, a face whose
oriental eyes and features inherited from her belied the
Celtic freckles and fair hair inherited from her Scottish father. Her body
was all her own, spared the need for surgical enhancement by the full round
apple contours of her and the slim frame kept trim and taut in the
gym. And her enthusiasm and ecstasy was all her own as well. The very
thought of what she was doing, in front of so many panting, gasping
punters, gave that extra erotic impetus which made her sexual acts the most
popular and eagerly awaited in the club.
And her sex life was as integral to her character as her sparkling
blue-grey eyes, and her small nose. She was surely obsessed. Every day
she would have sex with one, two or more people, and she didn't really
count those on stage. That, after all, was her job. It was not
necessarily at a time of her choosing and not necessarily with anyone of
her choosing. Not that she was that choosy. Well, she might be insofar as
any second or third time might be, but for first-time fucks, it was anyone
and everyone. And she kept a diary, which she'd started from when she was
oh! so young. And in this diary, she recorded every fuck, every sexual
act, but not those on stage, and awarded each one a coded description and a
mark out of ten.
She'd always done this. Some people's diaries are a record of their
innermost thoughts. An account of their feelings, their ambitions, their
worries and their happiness. Others are a more objective account of
events, perhaps noting people and places. Amy didn't even bother with
names. Even initials were suspect. After all, she couldn't expect to know
the name of everyone she'd had sex with. Her diary entries were brief and
to the point. She would mention gender, number and any especially
pertinent feature of the occasion. And then a mark out of ten.
Occasionally, she might add a comment, like 'Took too long', 'Tiny prick'
or 'Smelly'. And that was it. To anyone reading her diary, it might as
well be a shopping list.
She had her diary in front of her, cross-legged on her futon, while a
naked woman lay on her front beside her. Amy was smoking a cigarette,
while her fibre-tip pen hovered over the blank paper. It was a fresh page,
and she always kept a diary on unlined, unheaded pages, so she could get
several days' entries on one page. In the bathroom, she could see a hairy,
bare arse where a was washing semen off his groin. She smiled, and
entered the date in numbers, with a vertical slash between the day, month
and year columns. And then in her neat, tiny handwriting: "1M 1F 4/10".
Then she paused for thought before adding "Sloppy".
She turned back to the previous page which was dense with similar
entries, and took a note of the numbers at the side, which showed her
totals. It was proudly in four digits now. And she was even prouder of
the fact that the total for 'F' was fast approaching that for 'M'. So
proud that she mouthed it to herself: "One Thousand Seven Hundred and Forty
Three." At this rate, the 'F's would overtake the 'M's. And before she'd
reached the two thousand. And adding the 'F's to the 'M's. Why! That was
already over three thousand. That meant that for the ten years she'd been
sexually active, that had been on average, just under one a day. Of
course, she was making up for it now. One a day! God! That would be a
piss poor day. Normally she'd have three or four times that number. She
grinned to herself. She loved statistics. She didn't know why she did,
but somehow all these numbers added meaning and shape to her life.
Often when she was alone, she'd take out her diary and pore over the
days, looking at the progression on the total, smile at those days which
had been particularly eventful where her tally had increased by the most,
and perhaps frown at the relatively low scores that might be associated
with it. She had very high standards. A seven was pretty good. And not
given lightly. An eight was rare. A nine rarer still. And a ten. Well!
Could that even exist?
Often she wondered about what would have happened if she'd included her
on-stage sex in her total. What would that have done? And would that be
cheating? Would that make her an entry into the Guinness Book of Records?
But they didn't really have that kind of thing in there. Or did they? She
wasn't sure. But she wasn't sure she'd want her photograph or name in
something like that. It was bad enough pretending to her Mum that all the
money she was earning and the lovely down-town flat she'd bought cash down
had somehow come as a result of exercising the skills she'd gained at
secretarial college. And her divorced father. It was bad enough that he
knew where she lived and still sent her cards at Christmas and on her
Birthday. What would happen if he knew more about what his darling
daughter did for a living, for whom he'd paid her an allowance for
so many years?
Getting fresh sexual partners wasn't as easy as all that. After all,
Amy had soon exhausted all those at the night club. And not just the other
performers, whether male or female. There was the janitor, the ticket
clerks, the manager and that woman who did the fancy backdrops. There were
the people in the audience for sure, but the management weren't too keen on
their paying customers getting too familiar with the goods. They might not
want to continue paying for the pleasure of just seeing them.
Amy was a regular visitor at a number of cafes, bars and clubs where she
could be sure of finding someone, male or female, or both, just the one, or
several at the same time, with whom she could increment her tally of fresh
conquests, whether at their place (preferred) or at hers (if necessary) or
perhaps some other place (as long as she didn't have to pay for it!).
Of course she had to be careful. Especially with the men. You heard
such stories! She kept a handbag full of condoms. All different shapes
and sizes and flavours. Ribbed and nobbled and smooth. And sometimes,
especially when there were three or more men, you just couldn't risk taking
them back or letting them take you back. Then the back of the car, or a
dark alley-way, or whatever. It just had to do. Not so good for the
actual sex, but more than compensated by the extra notches it scored.
Couples were fine. Two couples a little more risky, but not by too much.
But women. No problem at all! If only more of them were willing!
Naturally, the more indiscriminate you were then the worse the sex. The
number of ones and twos she'd had to award. And the zeros! When it was
sex in only the most technical sense. But it still counted. That was the
main thing. It might be crap, but it was clothes off, genitals in place,
and a bit of sweat. But it counted.
Inevitably, the best sex came from her colleagues. They were after all
professionals. They knew what to do and they knew how to give pleasure.
And they were the lucky ones who got the chance to do it again, even though
it didn't count against the total. But then you had to have some pleasure
in your life. And she recorded them, and awarded them the sevens or even
eights that made it all worth while.
So whenever a new or a new started working at the club, Amy
took especial interest in them, even though she'd invariably had sex with
them on stage before they were able to get entered properly as a proper
fuck back her own flat or even at theirs. Those were the good ones.
That's when she was able to truly enjoy herself, the sweat streaming down
the hard, muscular contours of her limbs, her mouth musky and sour from the
taste of sexual fluids, her stretched and sore from their thrusting,
groping and stroking.
And so it was that Amy was particularly looking forward to a night of
real passion when Lucinda started working at the club. And Lucinda was her
real name as well. Not one of those made-up names like some of the adopted. And even some of the men. Not Savannah, Asia, Chesty or Satin.
And such a pretty as well. She salivated at just the thought of her,
as Lucinda nervously entered the changing room in her unusually drab
clothes. A blouse, a skirt and woollen tights. Her shoes were flat and
dull, and her dark brown shoulder-length hair was actually tied back with a
dull green hair band. Fuck! Do people really dress like that. Amy
usually wore clothes only just on the right side of decency, made from
latex or satin or silk, to encourage lustful thoughts and proclaim her
intentions. Amy couldn't wait until this could strip off to be sure
that her body matched the beauty of her well-scrubbed face, free of
mascara, eye-liner or lipstick. You wouldn't have imagined her as a sex
However, Bob, the stage manager, assured the that this indeed was
what Lucinda was. She'd previously been working as the Garotta A-Go-Go on
the east side of town, but she'd fallen out with the management who kept on
wanting her to do things she hadn't wanted to do. But, as he reminded
them, their loss was a gain for the Hardcore Heaven.
"And what won't she do?" wondered Dirk Dongle, whose prick had a special
place in Amy's arse, as he never tired of reminding her.
"Well, men, basically," Bob told them. "She won't do at all. So,
that's you out, Dirk. Otherwise, she'll do everything. And I know. I've
seen her. She's fucking good. She'll do anal and double penetration and
fisting and even pissing. I've heard she'd even done on-stage shitting,
but as you know we don't do that until it's really late. And she gets the
crowd going. She's a fucking draw. We expect to get a lot of the
Garotta's crowd down here. And that can't be bad!"
"She don't look much," sniffed Mandy, a tall India with a weird
tattoo on her arse.
"She wears proper gear on stage," Bob assured them. "She's not like
that naturist who wouldn't even wear heels on stage."
Amy liked the sound of this girl. And as top-ranking she knew that
she'd be the one to get first taste of her. And then back to her place
afterwards, she reckoned, maybe just the two of them, without inviting back
one of the other girls, even Ebony, the Jamaican who she normally
always had time for, even if extra sex with her didn't officially count.
And if she was that good, well, maybe she'd be an eight. Or even a nine!
But that would be too much of a good thing.
And so it was to be. But not before Amy's appetite had been whetted
with a bit of double penetration from Dirk and Handy Andy, underneath the
strobes, in front of the early evening audience. Amy blew kisses at some
of the regulars and some new ones she'd never seen before, while Dirk's
prick thrust in and out of her arse, and she lowered and raised her crotch
on Andy's ever-reliable ten-inch prick. It was a good night. There was a
good atmosphere. She grinned avariciously at the pile of notes that were
scattered on the stage and were being added to as the punters tossed more
towards her. She'd get her normal 50%, while the two would have to
split the other half between them. A good night's haul, and the night was
still oh! so very young.
Back in the dressing room, she watched as Lucinda exchanged her drab
clothes for stocking, heels and a tight latex skirt which just about hid
the splendid melons of her and obscured only the tiniest of thongs.
She stood behind Lucinda, and placed her hands on the girl's bare
shoulders, and smiled at her reflection in the mirror with its newly
applied bright lipstick. "It's going to be so good, isn't it?" she
Without comment, Lucinda raised her hands to her shoulders and firmly
removed Amy's hands, which rather startled her. She smiled sadly. "I'm
sure it will be." Then she turned her head round and looked into Amy's
face. "You will be gentle with me, won't you? At least at first."
Amy was too put back by Lucinda's rejection of her very innocent
advances to do anything but nod. "Yes, of course," she replied, as an
uncharacteristic warmth spread over her cheeks. How dare Lucinda! Was she
going to be as much a cold fish on stage?
However, such fears were misplaced, when the lights went up on the two
girls as they came on stage to the excited whoops of the audience. As soon
as they were in action, Lucinda was as warm and intimate as a could
be. An expert improviser, sensing Amy's most sensual spots, and neither
hurried nor too slow. Just right, in fact. The two stripped each other on
stage. The were pulled down, the dress was hauled up, hands
groped over breast, back and even the precious shoulders. Their tongues
waggled at a distance, and then with warmth and passion, their mouths
interlocked while their hands felt around each other's spine and bottom.
And soon the fingers, tongues and teeth were on each other's and
anus. Amy was suitably impressed. Although, unlike her, Lucinda clearly
never shaved her pubic hairs or even trimmed them, they were perfectly
shaped and not too long. And in amongst the hairs were the beautiful folds
of a perfect vagina, which kept its glory inside rather than dropping it
out like so many of the other girls. Especially Corrie's. That couldn't hold anything in, let alone her cunt. And that lovely puckered
anus. And the flavour of it. Bittersweet to the taste and rich in odour.
Just as she preferred.
But true to her word, Amy probed only with her fingers, and left it up
to Lucinda to do the penetration, which she did efficiently and expertly
with the clear purple dildo that was provided for the job. And Amy didn't
know where it came from, but even with the audience whooping at her, all
she was really conscious of was Lucinda and her fingers and the way it made
her ache from pleasure. More so than Handy Andy or even Georgy
Porgy had ever been able to do with the real thing.
As they left, the stage, Amy quickly kissed Lucinda full on the lips.
"That was fucking great!" She said. "You're a real fucking professional."
Lucinda carefully wiped her lips with the back of her hand and made no
Amy wasn't that easily put off. "So, after we've finished, are you
coming back with me? To my place. I've got a great flat, you know. And a
really big comfortable bed. And then we can carry on where we've just left
Lucinda frowned. "Are you asking me back to your flat to have sex with
you?" she asked flatly.
Amy smiled broadly. "Of course. It'd be such good fun!"
Lucinda carefully sat down on her chair by the mirror, still with a
frown on her face. She looked up at Amy. "I'm very flattered, er, Amy,"
she said politely. "And, no offence. You are a very attractive girl. And
I'm sure your feelings are genuine. But, er, Amy. I'm afraid, it's out of
And then Lucinda turned her head to face her reflection, ignoring Amy
while she tidied up the lipstick on her mouth.
Amy wasn't that easily put off. "You can't be meaning that! I mean,
you were pretty much game on the stage. Why can't we do the same thing
more intimately and more privately? I know you'd enjoy it."
"Amy." Said Lucinda firmly and not facing Amy at all. "What I do on
stage and do for a living is one thing. And what I do when I'm not on
stage and not doing it for a living is another. Please accept that, and
I'm sure we'll get on fine."
For the second time that evening, and for only the second time she could
ever recall in her entire memory, Amy reddened from the humiliation of
rejection. She attempted to say something, but her tongue, despite still
tasting of Lucinda's vulva, was somehow tied and she lost all ability for
coherent response. Without a word, she wandered off to her own chair by
the mirror and studied her own freckled face, damp strands of hair
plastered to the forehead, with its oriental eyes and full lips, and
tried to reassure herself that in some way that she'd never before
suspected she was not after all unattractive.
How could it be that anyone, male or female, would not succumb to her
beauty? Especially a woman who only moments ago was clearly enjoying her
body, and whose stated preference was indeed for women and not for at
all. What strange thing was this? And had she done anything to deserve
Amy wasn't a who gave up easily, and she still had two more
appearances with Lucinda that evening to look forward to; but in both
cases, it was the same. On stage, Lucinda was passionate, sensual and
sexy. In no way did she seem abashed or reluctant, expressing her joy
unambiguously as Amy penetrated her with a dildo or licked her clitoris.
Her passion didn't seem to be at all feigned, and she still managed to
synchronise her sexual activity to the slow, loud beating of the music in
the night club, somehow unfazed by the pressure of all the male eyes on
And then, off stage, she showed no interest in Amy at all, who
endeavoured to repeat her entreaties that Lucinda should come back with
her, but meeting only with a polite refusal. Amy was disappointed. She'd
been so looking forward to her new conquest, and it just wasn't to be. And
so, despite the lateness of the hour, when she finished work for the
evening, she headed off to a night club she knew to pick someone up,
anyone, it didn't matter.
The two and skinny she picked up weren't that bad. In fact,
she'd awarded them a six, despite the fact that there were so off their
faces that they really made no objection to the indignities she put them
through. Amy wasn't even sure the had ever had sex with each other
before, let alone any other woman. But they gamely took dildos into their
cunts and arses, and showed a fair bit of enthusiasm, even though they did
fall asleep rather too promptly after they had climaxed. As Amy noted '2F'
in her diary, and incremented her total of women conquests accordingly, she
still felt empty and unsatisfied. Neither of them were as good or as
beautiful or as passionate as Lucinda, who she remembered so fondly.
Neither of them could be rated as the nine that Amy was convinced that sex
with Lucinda would have scored. But she set aside her diary, locked it in
a drawer with a little key, and nestled on her bed between the two girls,
and sighed. Tomorrow was another day, and Amy was used to getting her way.
However, Lucinda was more of a challenge than even Amy could crack.
However much she pleaded and begged and cajoled, Lucinda was steadily
adamant that sex on stage was one thing, but off-stage was another. "I
mean, don't you have any other girlfriends you can spend the night with?"
Lucinda inquired ingenuously a few days later.
Amy sighed resignedly. She'd already resorted to having a night with
the pesky Candy on an evening when her disappointment at not bedding
Lucinda had most distressed her. Not that Candy was that bad. She had a
lovely smooth crotch and was always very energetic, but sex with her in no
way improved her total and was not really what she was looking for.
And at the same time, sex on stage was just as passionate and orgasmic
as ever. Amy found herself particularly looking forward to these moments
of ecstasy more than the sex she had in the evening in the comfort and
luxury of her bed in her luxurious apartment with whoever it was that she'd
picked up for the evening. But she found she was taking out her
frustration in Lucinda's rejection in harder and more aggressive sex. She
pissed on Lucinda one evening, even though it wasn't in the script. She
forced her fist deep inside Lucinda's until the squirmed. She
nibbled and bit her clitoris and nipples while Lucinda gasped as much from
pain, if not more so, than for pleasure. She pushed larger and larger
dildos into Lucinda's orifices to the amazement and satisfaction of the
audience who cheered loudly at the extent of the punishment that was being
Amy even tried to tempt Lucinda back with the promise of an evening out
with no sex at all, but Lucinda wasn't having any of it. "Much as I like
you, Amy," she said, wiping the mascara off her face," I just don't trust
you. As soon as you can, you'll find an excuse to go back to your
apartment, and then you'll slip off your clothes, lock the door and try
seducing me. I'm afraid that's a temptation, I'd rather not have to face."
Amy blushed. That was precisely what she'd intended to do. She'd even
rehearsed her lines.
"Please just accept that I don't want to have sex with you anywhere but
on the stage," Lucinda continued severely. "My body and soul belongs
elsewhere. Sex is not something for me that I intend to enjoy other than
on the stage."
But Amy was obsessed. And she'd never been obsessed before. Not since
she was a schoolgirl and had a crush on her Chemistry teacher, who when
they'd finally got together turned out to be such a horrible
disappointment. But she was sure that Lucinda wouldn't be a disappointment.
And she found her thinking about the all the time, even when she was
enjoying sex with other people. In fact, one day on stage, as Lucinda's
tongue probed her and her fingers her breasts, she found herself
saying out loud: "I love you! I love you!" And then hoping no one had
heard. Sex on stage was one thing. Love was quite definitely another.
But she was in love. She even got to love Lucinda's appalling taste in
clothes. The very frumpishness and plainness of it was in itself a cause
for celebration. She would look longingly at Lucinda, at her scrubbed face
and tied-back hair, imagining the two of them on her mattress, while she
confessed her love and divulged the truth of her diary-keeping. And then
the two of them would entwine lengthwise on the bed, arms and legs
interlocked, as she would confess all her secrets and her longings. And
soon the sun would rise and shine on the two of them, lying in serene
bliss, and Amy would never need to make love to anyone else. Well, not for
a few days anyway.
And her diary would read '1F. 10/10.Heavenly!'
And so it was, after an afternoon session, that Amy actually followed
Lucinda out of the building, keeping her distance so that Lucinda wouldn't
see her trailing her, although a like her, in her thigh-length boots
and skin-tight dress was not going to be the sort to merge unnoticed in any
crowd. And Lucinda led her on such a long trail uptown. Several stops on
the subway, past several dismal blocks of decrepit apartments, around the
back of a depressing paint factory and then to a large Catholic church
which Amy could see Lucinda enter.
Amy very rarely went into churches. In fact, never at all as a rule.
And a Roman Catholic one. Well! What would her Calvinist have
thought? But Amy hurried in and found herself alone. It was forbidding
and to Amy not at all welcoming. All around were paintings and sculptures
and carved cricifixes and row upon row of pews, but no sign of Lucinda.
She had vanished altogether. Amy cursed herself. Clearly, Lucinda had
seen Amy behind her and had taken the opportunity to slip into a church
just to get away from her.
Amy left the church, lit a cigarette and sat on a bench in the church
grounds reflecting on the futility of her passion and making plans for the
rest of the day. Perhaps she'd go to a bar. Pick up a couple of men.
Have a good fuck somewhere. She noticed rather a few people around her,
mostly men, dressed in very poor quality clothes. In fact, some of them
were distinctly ragged. Couldn't they afford anything better? But then
she spotted a sign. 'Soup Kitchen' it read. What did that mean? Was it
some kind of rock club or a strange kind of cafe.
But, no, it was actually a place for vagrants to gather to be fed soup
and bread and whatever. Fuck! How sordid! Amy sat on the bench
fascinated. Poverty was something she'd never really known, and she'd
often been disgusted by the sight of beggars and the like on the subway.
However, there was a bit of excitement amongst the vagrants who all
gathered by a door at the side of the church. And then a rather elderly
nun appeared carrying a large cauldron, which she placed on the ground.
Like feeding at the zoo, thought Amy sourly, as a couple of other
nuns emerged behind the first nun carrying cups and some clear plastic bags
full of sandwiches.
The nuns weren't so bad looking. Quite thin, and from what Amy could
see, probably quite attractive underneath their gowns. And then one of
them looked up in her direction, and with a start Amy now understood. That
sweet face. That strange slightly beatific smile. Lucinda was a nun.
Amy glanced at a carved crucifix over the church sign, in the afternoon
shadow of the church itself. Now she knew, and the sadness and waste of it
hurt her. Now she knew to whom Lucinda's body and soul belonged.