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lowblow emma
Star
- Joined
- Sep 21, 2013
- Location
- London
That was client 8. Or could it be client 12. It was difficult to tell at this stage. They were both regulars and very similar in their habits.
It wasn’t until Sally moved in that I realised how little consideration modern architects and builders have for privacy or a good night’s sleep. Nor how much of my own activities had been heard through these walls. But that was something of the past now that my husband had died.
When Sally suggested moving in, I welcomed the company and, to be honest, the additional income she brought. After 35 years of a faithful marriage that began with me as a virgin, I had no idea how varied men were or how much you could learn from their bedroom noises. They were so distinctive that I gave the regulars numbers. Some rushed to their climax, while others took a leisurely stroll. Some varied their speed, while other just built up steadily. And then there the vocals. Some were silent, while others kept up a running commentary, and yet others emitted a variety of grunts and groans.
That’s how I’d know whether this was client number 8 or number 12. If it was 8, there would be a series of ohs and ahs, rising steadily in pitch. If it was 12, there would be a single – yes, there it was, one short grunt. It was client 12.
A few minutes later, I heard footsteps on the stairs. Sally always got the man out quickly – to make way for the next or, as she put, to maximise her throughput. Then there was a knock at my door and her head peered in.
‘That’s the last one. I’ll just have a quick shower and then call it a night.’
‘Good night, Sally,’ I called from my bed.
‘Oh by the way, I’m running low on condoms. I don’t suppose …’
‘OK, luv, I’ll pick some up on the way home tomorrow. Good night.’
‘Thanks. What would I do without you?’
‘You’d have to buy your own condoms for a start. Aren’t they cheaper off the internet?’
‘They are, but I always leave it too late.’
‘See you tomorrow, Sally, sleep tight.’
‘Good night, mom, sleep well.’
It wasn’t until Sally moved in that I realised how little consideration modern architects and builders have for privacy or a good night’s sleep. Nor how much of my own activities had been heard through these walls. But that was something of the past now that my husband had died.
When Sally suggested moving in, I welcomed the company and, to be honest, the additional income she brought. After 35 years of a faithful marriage that began with me as a virgin, I had no idea how varied men were or how much you could learn from their bedroom noises. They were so distinctive that I gave the regulars numbers. Some rushed to their climax, while others took a leisurely stroll. Some varied their speed, while other just built up steadily. And then there the vocals. Some were silent, while others kept up a running commentary, and yet others emitted a variety of grunts and groans.
That’s how I’d know whether this was client number 8 or number 12. If it was 8, there would be a series of ohs and ahs, rising steadily in pitch. If it was 12, there would be a single – yes, there it was, one short grunt. It was client 12.
A few minutes later, I heard footsteps on the stairs. Sally always got the man out quickly – to make way for the next or, as she put, to maximise her throughput. Then there was a knock at my door and her head peered in.
‘That’s the last one. I’ll just have a quick shower and then call it a night.’
‘Good night, Sally,’ I called from my bed.
‘Oh by the way, I’m running low on condoms. I don’t suppose …’
‘OK, luv, I’ll pick some up on the way home tomorrow. Good night.’
‘Thanks. What would I do without you?’
‘You’d have to buy your own condoms for a start. Aren’t they cheaper off the internet?’
‘They are, but I always leave it too late.’
‘See you tomorrow, Sally, sleep tight.’
‘Good night, mom, sleep well.’