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The difficulties of our task with the anti-trafficking agency preoccupied me.

Globalization had familiarized us all with the idea that world markets were a good thing in themselves. We got food and goods from across the globe, why not sex too? Most of us accepted the idea that sex work could empower women, which made it difficult to say that sex work per se was wrong, and easy for many to accept the idea that foreign women came to the UK and Europe in the same way as other workers, to better their lot. If you ever saw some of the women we dealt with, then you’d know that was crap, but of course, most people didn’t, and it was easy to doubt some of the lurid details.

But just as I was labouring these points with my wife, Sarah, Emm piped up.

‘Oh Pix, you over- think stuff. Some girls, like me, love sex and submission, leave us alone, and concentrate on the ones the bastards exploit!’

It was hard to disagree with Emm, whose fund of common sense was massive. But it remained the case that the context was a difficult one. If money was king, if morality was relative, and if there was no sense of shared values, then we were reduced to relying on the letter of the Law, which was not always adequate given the scale of the offences. My view was that we would be better employed going after those who originated the problem rather than the low-level operatives it was easier to arrest. They were two a penny, and no sooner had we locked one up than another two replaced them.

That was how we had ended up in a penthouse suite in a hotel close to Tower Bridge. The Bayswater business had been followed up with a series of initiatives organised by Ekaterina, Emm’s Russian Oligarch Mistress, which had put us on the map as her agents, and resulted in an invitation to a summit meeting. Emm expressed surprise at the number of women involved in trafficking at a high level when most of the operatives we had dealt with were male.

‘Well, while I am all in favour of women outpacing men, I could,’ I said, ‘want a better area in which that was true.’

Of course, as I explained, heterosexual women were far less likely than men to be distracted by the goods on offer, which gave us some sort of edge.

‘I like edging,’ Emm said, her mind, as usual, going straight to her main preoccupation in life … the satisfaction of her libido.

She had not heard from her new lover, Aly, in more than a week, and as she had agreed to forego orgasms until they met again, Emm was certainly conscious of edges. No table was safe in her company.

‘It’s Beylikdüzü escort not funny Pix,’ she protested, ‘I need to cum a lot, I am used to three or four times a day, and I have not cum for ten days, twenty hours and fifteen minutes. It isn’t right, I demand my rights.’

I had to explain to the darling girl that orgasms were not covered by the UN Charter on Human Rights.

‘I’m confused, Pix,’ she said, ‘we work for the UN, and it is my right to continual orgasms, so why is it not in their Charter. How do we get it inserted? Oh, Pix, I need something inserting, my asshole will close up at this rate, and what will Ekaterina say?’

‘Darling,’ I smiled, ‘have you told Ekaterina about Aly yet?’

‘I will, I will, but until she replies to my 400 emails and 300 texts, I can’t be sure.’

I tried arguing that one could take a lack of response to that level of activity as an indication of her state of interest, but apophatic arguments puzzled Emm, as, indeed, did the idea that she did not have the right to an orgasm whenever she wanted one. To my pointing out that there was nothing to stop her bringing herself off, she said:

‘That’s disgusting, Pix, that’s for saddos like you before you got lucky with Sarah. I have a responsibility to help as many women as possible bring me to orgasm as often as possible; it is their right.’

As always with the dear girl, there was no arguing with a logic so impeccably, and implacably, pursued. Within Emm’s thought world it all made sense. She was dimly conscious that others did not agree, but being generous, put it down to their inferior intellectual equipment, and the inadequacies of their wardrobe and/or breast size.

The meeting room had a good view of Tower Bridge, and the Chair called us to order.

‘Now, we’re here to talk about the threat posed to our operations by this new UN task force, AUNTIE. This Agency is actively trying to disrupt our market activities and we need to take it out. Ah, but first,’ said the brittle, bottle blonde in the black business suit, ‘ let’s introduce ourselves.’

Nice to see, I thought, that good meeting etiquette was maintained among crooks.

Emm and I introduced ourselves as representing Ekaterina, which, given the scale of her operations and her wealth, conferred on us instant kudos. It was the size of Emm’s tits and the colour of her hair which conferred on her a degree of interest from Miss Sinn, the Greek representative at the meeting.

In days gone by, I confess I’d have been rather interested Beylikdüzü escort in the aptly named Miss Sinn myself. She oozed class – and sex. Her Versace suit was exquisitely tailored to her figure – and what a figure.

She was one of the few people I’d seen who could give Emm a run for her money. Admittedly, Miss Sinn’s blondeness came from a bottle and not from poppa (like Emm), and her tits seemed almost too perfect (although as we were to discover, they were all her own). She favoured cruel-heeled shoes, but she was drop-dead gorgeous and, to judge by the way she looked at Emm, an exception to the rule about these women being straight.

It was, I reflected, gratifying that the Agency had its intended targets worried enough to be the subject of a special meeting, but it clearly created the probability that its agents would be targeted; and that, as an alarmed Emm squeaked later: ‘that’s us!’ But as I pointed out at the debrief back at Headquarters, we at least knew we had them worried and had an inside track to their tactics.

As we mingled afterwards, Miss Sinn made a (queen)beeline to Emm.

‘Hi,’ she said, with an American accent, ‘I’m Angie, Sinn by name and Sin by nature. And you, you gorgeous piece of blonde ass, why have you brought your daughter to work?’

Emm giggled.

‘I’m Emm, and I like your tits, and think your shoes are ace, and oh yes, this is Pix, she is my assistant, aren’t you, tiny tits?’

Emm liked her little joke, and to be fair, the first thousand times I had heard it, it had been mildly something or other; now it was just water off the proverbial duck’s back.

‘You a lez too, tiny?’

Four foot ten is not a height that merits the phrase about pulling oneself up to one’s full height, but if it were, I would have, if that makes sense.

‘Yes, as it happens.’

‘Good, I may need a spare girl if Emm runs out of juice, and tiny tits woild make a change.’

‘Well, Miss Sinn, you don’t know Emm if you think that’s a possibility, but I am happy to tag along,’ I replied.

Back at her suite, she was no sooner through the door than she grabbed Emm, pulled her to her, squeezing her ass, and kissed her passionately. Emm responded in kind.

Reflecting that this was going to be interesting and that I was unlikely to be needed, I settled myself down and poured a Gin and Tonic.

Angie had Emm down to her underwear in what I would have called record time – except for the fact that Angie was already in that state, and braless with it.

Angie gripped Escort Beylikdüzü Emm’s cunt, a low blow which was assured of success, but Emm kept it together sufficiently to bite on Angie’s nipples, which, to judge by the latter’s response, was the right approach. They fell, together on the bed, the last of their underwear vanishing in the process.

If I’d have filmed it, I’d have had a lesbian classic on my hands.

I had taken Angie for a domme, and she had taken Emm for a submissive, but Emm was competitive, and her pride had been stung with that comment about running out of juice. It was, no doubt for that reason that she was eating Angie’s cunt as though determined to suck it dry.

Angie was flung back on the bed, her glorious breasts on show, her dark pink nipples stiff and demanding the attention they were getting from Emm’s fingers, which were pulling on them as though intent on milking her. She sucked noisily at Angie’s beautiful bald cunt. Until the tit massage, Angie had held her own, or to be accurate, Emm’s own, but the speed and skill of Emm’s assault persuaded her to lie back and enjoy it.

If sex were an Olympic competition, this would have been the final with the gold medalists from the last two finals. But it was clear that Emm had the advantage now. Her fingers were in Angie’s cunt – I could hear the squelching – and moving furiously. Angie’s legs were over Emm’s shoulders, which was allowing the latter to tongue her rosebud. Some primal instinct prompted Emm to smack Angie’s ass. That did it.

‘Yes, fuck, yes, I want it, I am a fucking dirty bitch, hurt me!’

Always obedient, Emm obliged, slapping her gorgeous ass. The more she did it, and the faster her finger moved, the more noise Angie made. Her orgasm, when it came, was fast, overwhelming and wet. Emm was the only woman I knew who actually squirted; I now knew another. As she gushed, Emm lapped her nectar, not letting up on the spanking. That made Angie have at least two more orgasms. There was no sign of her running out of juice.

She swiftly slid down the bed, positioning herself under Emm’s cunt, and ate her as though cunt was going out of fashion. She lapped at Emm’s inner lips, furiously thrusting three fingers in her wet cunt, which made Emm fall forward, her big tits thrust towards me. She looked glorious. As Angie assaulted her rosebud, Emm lost it – squirting and pissing on Angie’s face.

Nothing deterred, Angie obliged as Emm had, by continuing the assault.

As they used to say in the newspaper, I made my excuses and left. It was clear that the marathon would endure for hours. Indeed, as Emm texted me at six the following morning.

‘Still at it, but the UK is in the lead!’

I had no idea she was that patriotic. I turned over and kissed Sarah. But that is another story.

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