Chasseur
A sweet cute young art student makes money in an unexpected way.
Sophie Fields-Patterson, second and more than somewhat estranged daughter of the fourth Earl of ****ingham, searched in her capacious art bag for a mirror and, bringing it up to eye level, made a few small fingertip adjustments to her "look". The swaying of the bus made this difficult but it was a minor impediment. Eventually, she nodded an approving glance towards her own reflection, confident that she had all in readiness as regards her face. Her flaming red hair, after all, was the main asset and carried the main responsibility for achieving her goals. Replacing the mirror with a sigh, she shut the bus out of her thoughts and tried generally not to think of her reduced circumstances, cabs now being a thing of the past... at least for the moment.
She was estranged not in the sense that her parents had disowned her, although they had found decidedly irksome her taste for riotous living before and after moving on from school to university and in the intervening "gap year". No, it was rather more in the sense that she had disowned them, them with their "having to move to more modest accommodations" and their "falling on hard times". It was all Daddy's fault, messing about with ethical investments and suchlike. Mummy had warned him against it. Better to stay with the good old petrochemicals and armaments stocks, she had said. Well, too bad. It was simply the case that the cheques had stopped coming and here was she at Cambridge, the first year of her Fine Arts course not even finished and with no better prospect than that of a student loan to finance her lifestyle from here on in.
Yes, it really was too bad - not at all what she was used to. Damned if next year she was going to put up with the kind of dingy and drab flat share arrangement she had seen beckoning. Damned also if she would tolerate further this in-college, cheek-by-jowl living with a crowd of oafish oiks, half of whom seemed to have come from state schools. Some of them even had intolerable northern accents. No, it was just too bad. Up with this she would not put. She had seen it all coming a while back. And, if nothing else, she was a planner. Where others dillied and dallied, agonising to the nth, she got on with things.
Never really a brilliant pupil, her family's money had bought exam success beyond her natural abilities and a "place at Cambridge", not the University, of course, but, well... you know. She made up for this by her sheer, go-getting decisiveness... what her erstwhile private school would call "splendid character"... and what many others might term "self-important effrontery". She was none too bothered, as a minor point of fact, about getting her degree. What she was far more interested in was image, attention and money. While others on her course might be diligently pursuing knowledge and excellence via long hours of study and practice, she would be far more direct: doing the rounds of certain London galleries and flaunting to their owners both her meagre artistic output to date... and herself, together with comcomitant, less meagre charms...
But hey ho, for the moment at least, it was the course which loomed large and the issue of how to keep body, soul and partying together during its attendance. She had this in hand. It was barely the end of May, with a number of weeks of the Summer Term still to go, and already she was on the case. She had made this bus journey and others like it a few times already, having researched the possibilities right back in the early part of the year. Nothing like getting ahead of the game. Hopefully, this trip would go as well as the previous times.
*******************
The lunchtime Service 391 bus crawled its way out into the Cambridge suburbs, stopping with annoying regularity, finally reaching its turning point at a small parade of shops serving a sprawling, private "legoland" housing development. Sophie and her bag now alighted and set off together in determined fashion for the pub which was its centrepiece. Sophie had chosen astutely. This estate was a stereotypical manifestation of the mid-range, housing-ladder hamster wheel which has both the middle and working classes of England in its thrall. No single house would be lived in for more than ten years. Onwards and upwards. Get ahead; move (literally) or die. The place swarmed with middle managers from the close-by "trade park" and "entrepreneurs" - i.e. the self-employed without a pension - who knew the price of everything, particularly property, but the value of very little... To Sophie, it was simply a hunting ground.
Inside, the pub had a hugely long, glitzy bar, as such places do, facing an enormous seating area with sofas, armchairs and low "coffee tables" - which very rarely felt the touch of a coffee cup - scattered around. Sophie rested against the bar, ordered a coke, and then turned to give the room and its contents her close attention. All artists of even slight worth have an eye for detail. It did not take her long to identify a target of interest. She strode off towards it, clutching her bag as ever, with a confident air. The first that the "target" knew of Sophie's interest was when she sat down next to it, completely uninvited, put on her most dazzling smile and, looking at it frankly and questioningly, said: 'You look fun...'
*******************
For Sophie, it was generally hard not to appear bored... but she knew this was a mood killer and tried her best to avoid letting on. The punters did not appreciate it. Sometimes they tipped... and you had to bear that bit extra in mind. The particular punter thrusting into her at the moment was as much of a stereotype as the place in which she had picked him up. Married seven to ten years, a brace of kids, probably over-achieving but undervalued at work and under-serviced by his wife. The perfect recipe. She could spot them a mile off. They all had that not-quite-happy-with life look. Occasionally they would resist the dangled bait of something fifteen years younger than the wife. Mostly they did not. The eye-catching red locks usually did the trick. A nice little living for Sophie with little by way of consequences.
Yes, generally it was uninspiring stuff. A quick, less than satisfying prodding as perceived from Sophie's angle, followed by post-coital angst about whether spouse might suddenly make an early return from work, followed by payment and panicky farewells. That was the usual run of things. This customer, mind you, was actually something of a refreshing change. He seemed to be concerned about whether she was enjoying things. His equipment was... well... pretty substantial and he used it to good effect, varying his "angle of attack" and his rate and depth of thrusting. Suddenly, he grabbed her legs and, placing them over his arms, began to hammer into her at twice the previous speed.
This was really something and... oh... he... oh... OH GOD...!!! She was unable to prevent the wail as something stern and in-command in his eyes took her over the edge... a dive which she was normally in the habit of faking...
A breathless couple of minutes later found her orgasming again... to her utter and compete amazement. All right, she had only been "working" in this way for a month or so, but this was something new. It was not so much that she liked this man - there was nothing notably special about him - but he simply had this look of total desire in his eyes... desire for her and somehow insistent that she respond. Her body did so accordingly and almost automatically.
After he came, an event which did not last long and which she scarcely noticed, so lost in wonderment was she over what was happening to her, the pair of them collapsed back onto the marital bed in sweaty exhaustion. It was after a few moments that she decided she needed time to think, time to herself.
'Love, care to go and make us a cup of tea? I'm happy for Round Two if you are... no extra charge.'
The target duly disappeared downstairs and Sophie found herself thinking in overdrive. Even the sight of her naked self, reflected in the dressing table mirror opposite and looking uncannily like a hungrier version of Manet's "Olympia", did nothing to cut across her thoughts. All right, so this guy was good. He made her feel... different. If she could get him somehow to ditch wife and kiddies, she could live without any need to pay for food or accommodation for a couple of years... hmm...
...before, of course, ditching him.
...but he had that plebeian accent and lack of refinement...
...and she would have to invite friends to...
...suburbia, for God's sake...
No, out of the question. Interesting or not, he was not the stuff of her ambitions. Back to reality. Back to the day job. Quickly she grabbed her bag and padded nakedly and soundlessly across the carpet to the dressing table. This was where the goodies were usually to be found. Disappointed by the contents of the first few drawers, she hit the mother lode in the bottom one. Predictably tacky and tasteless, the jewellery nevertheless was abundant, gemstone-ridden and weighty with the yellow metal.
Not bothering to sort through it owing to the pressure of time - she could hear the sound of cups being stirred down below - she emptied the contents directly into her art bag and deposited her own thong in it as a fond keepsake for the lady of the house before refitting it. Hurriedly, she re-assumed the position back in the large and comfortable, king-sized bed just as the sound of steps began to echo up the stairs."
No point in refusing a nice cup of tea, so graciously provided.
And, if it came to that, no point in not enjoying herself just a bit longer.
A further couple of thunderous orgasms later, she found the agreed £50 note being duly pressed into her hand... and another £5 for being such a good girl. Frankly, she regarded both of these as being mere tips compared with the four to five hundred she would probably make when hocking the goods in London. Not the insured value, of course, but good enough.
Ah, London... so many jewellers and pawnbrokers taking second hand stuff in London... no questions asked... only an hour on the train from Cambridge... and the chance to drop in on Chelsea friends after...
This haul was only par for the course. As she rode the bus back to studentland, she pondered the relative merits of the couple of upmarket, city-centre flats which the agent had shown her around the day before. Spacious, elegant flats... flats ideal for holding parties... and definitely not encumbered by bourgeois mediocrity or the persistent parfum of industrial estates.
It would be fun choosing...
... and one had to survive, did one not?
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