The place was seedy but there again they always are. The wallpaper was brown and peeling under the weight of years of nicotine. No one lived here. This was a working environment. Through the corridor into the bar area. Clientele gaped in amazement, that "what will my wife say" look that I'd seen a million times before.

Some spotty kid took a swing at me with a pool cue. I ducked, then felled him with a right cross to the bridge of his nose. He looked perplexed as he looked up at me from the floor, swore beyond his age, smeared away the first trickle of blood. I enjoy this job. A tirade of abuse and innocence kept coming in youthful arrogance.

"Shut it. You're nicked son." To add emphasis to my statement I kicked at his groin and made painful contact. The problem with having both a nose bleed and balls on fire is that you just don't know what wound to lick first. A room full of people, not a single witness. I really do like this job. My sergeant dragged him away and no doubt the lads would add to his woes in the back of the van. We hate pimps whatever their age. Seen what they do to the girls, seen the scars, seen the tears, seen the discarded needles next to the dead and dying.

I meandered upstairs. The lads had rounded up differing groups. Girls. Punters. The punters were oft to be fat and balding. The girls fat and ugly. What brings men here, what makes them pay hard earned cash for a brief few moments of pleasure? The power of sex my friend, the power of the female form, the power of doing something wrong. Not only the lonely. I gestured for the punters to be lead away. Disgusted at themselves, too late poor bastards. Should have thought before hand.

Girls? I use the term loosely. Most had seen not only better days but better decades. We wheel them in front of the courts, fine paid, back to work. Another fix in most cases. As I look along the line the faces seem familiar. I point to two. They stay. The others taken to face charges. No doubt they will be back before you can say "slag."

Two remain. I knew one, knew from old times. If there is such a thing she was an honest prostitute. Tall, good legs, no more weight than a reasonable diet could handle. Small breasts, face of a fifty year old on the body of a woman no older than late thirties. Never been into the hard drugs, got dragged into the game in her mid teens, got used to the money. Three kids later she not only liked the money she needed it.

"How you doing Jane?" I asked sincerely.

"Not bad Jack. Working hard to earn an honest crust."

We both laughed. She was scared. Not of me. Of the repercussions of losing money, not being able to pay the rent, not being able to pay the bad men. The eyes glistened, watered with the greed and pain that money brings. Just as sportsmen have their time, that prime time when the world is their oyster, when money falls into their very lap, so do prostitutes. Just as sportsmen grow old, body weary, mind slow, times hard, so it happens to prostitutes. Jane's career was coming to an end, no longer the crowds favourite.

"Get undressed" I commanded. Jane obeyed. Short black dress, black panties. Soon off, body naked, stood waiting, wary. I moved closer to her, close enough to touch, close enough to hear her breath deep, close enough to smell the sweat of fear that trickled down her. The back of my fingertips slowly stroked a breast, knuckles teasing over nipple. She shivered, her knees buckling slightly. All the while I watched her face, monitored for reaction. This was strange for her, neither customers nor lovers ever took their time like this.

"What do you want Jack? What do you want from me?." Over the years she had been harshly treated, hit like a dog, treated worse perhaps. Grown used to the back of a hand across her face. Now the back of my hand moved from a breast and slowly lower, caring, caressing. The fingers eased through the trimmed pubic hair and over the lips of love.

"Who is your friend?." I stared deep into her eyes, hand gently over pubes.

"Just a kid Jack. No good to you. Give her a couple of years and she'll know the business, be able to fuck like a good'un. She's still learning Jack. Look at her."

I stayed focused on Jane's face, intense, unblinking, now fingering between those long legs, then bringing hand to her face, watching her lick at my fingers, watching her taste herself. Then both hands over her breasts, first stroking softly, then just touching nipples, then twisting them. I saw the pain etched across her face. I saw the pleasure too. I love this job.

"No Jack. Please no. Don't make me do it. Anything you want but not that. No, not that "

I put a finger to her mouth, indicating silence. She knew what was required. This was not negotiable, no position to bargain for a better deal. Jane was a prostitute. Nothing left to say. Either get on with it, do as required, or face the long slow payless day. She turned to the younger girl, took her by the hand.

"Say nothing Angela. Just accept. Just let me do what Jack wants."

She led the girl to the mattress that was spread out in the corner of this heartless, dingy room. No furniture, just two women, a worldly wise cop and a stained mattress. Angela was maybe just the wrong side of twenty, red headed to the blonde of Jane. Five-five maybe so not so tall, more weight, full breasts, a good all round figure that men would queue up for, be willing to pay extra for. For now. Angela had a lifetime of being on her back ahead of her, a lifetime of men inside her.

They lay on the mattress and I watched. Jane on her side next to Angela on her back. Jane did all the work. A kiss, a deep kiss my friend. A loving kiss perhaps. A hand working over the light blue dress, finding the shape of those full breasts, making them feel special. Buttons undone, one, two three. Hand reaches in to find bare breast, proud breast, swollen breast. How strange reactions are. The touch of one part of the body affecting another. Angela's legs parted.

Jane had been with a woman before. Truth to tell, many women. She knew where to touch, how to touch, when to move on. The inside of Angela's thigh, moving higher, roving as required. Soft moans emitting from the younger as experience tells, as fingers reach panties just where pussy is beneath. A quietly spoken word, butt raised, hands underneath, lowering white panties.

I watch. This is for me. The show moves on and between open legs Jane moves to give head to naked sex. A tricky tongue connects and gives joy, just a little here, a little there. Jane looks up at me, stares for a second, a face full of hate. Then down again. Deeper, harsher, fingers holding open as tongue dives within, rapidly satisfying. I can smell the girls cunt.

It is not true that only some women like to receive oral sex. Believe me, most women enjoy a tongue inside them. It's just that not many men are either prepared to give or good enough to do so. For Angela this was perhaps, no, for sure, the first time she had received. It was also the first time she had been taken by another woman. The expertise of Jane's tongue ensured it would not be the last. Jane drank Angela.

Jane stood up and stared at me again. Then she looked down at the girl beneath her. Eyes shut, long rusty hair askew, face and neck flushed red, breasts exposed, legs wide open, pubes gaping. The task was only half done.

Sitting on Angela's stomach Jane used her fingers to tease breasts, pull at nipples, be rough. The girl cried out in pain but their was no effort to stop the infliction. Over the years to come many punters would hurt her. You can fake an orgasm for a man but you can never fake the physical pain. It is just a case of degrees. This was on the lower side of the scale, a lesson, a learning curve.

Kisses followed the pain as is often the case. Remorse, the sunshine after the rain fall. Jane sucked at Angela's breasts and in the cold light of day that moved me, just for once turned me on, made me feel like joining in. From breasts left glistening from lingering lips the kisses moved to mouths. Two women, deep, deep kisses, tongues seeking. Where it had previously seemed as though Jane was going through the motions for her temporary master she now seemed aroused herself.

Ripped at cheap material, breasts fully exposed. She moved up, positioned her pussy and proceeded to fuck Angela's face. At first taken aback at having her new lover bounce her cunt over her face Angela tried to break away. Perhaps she realised that the struggle was forlorn, perhaps she grew to enjoy the taste of juice in her mouth. Whatever. No more struggle, hands pulling in rather than pushing away.

For five or more minutes they continued this way. I watched in silence, I am just the spectator, would not lower myself to participate. They have to know who controls. Jane stopped and looked up at me. She was sweating, a bead between breasts, a back soaked with the toil. She moved her body back a little way, left Angela breathing deep after swallowing hard.

I threw two bills on the floor and turned to go.

"You bastard. You fucking bastard."

Indeed I was a bastard. I was the bastard who had just watched a mother fuck her own daughter. I really do love this job so very much.