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alone in my disgusting desires. Evidently not.
    ‘Well … I think ten would be perfectly sufficient! More than enough!’
    He smiled, rather charmingly. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Shall we?’
    He rose to his feet, offering me an arm.
    ‘Where are we going?’ I wondered, heading side by side down the creaky stairs and out through the bustling café.
    ‘Into your deepest desires, of course,’ he replied airily.
    My deepest desires, it seemed, lay over the railway bridge and past the piles of container crates stacked up in a yard beyond. Warehouses, of a low-rise corrugated metal build, lay beyond this yard and we walked through the gloom past dozens of depots and storage facilities until we turned a corner, in the heart of the deserted estate, and found ourselves face to face with … ‘Oh!’ I exclaimed loudly.
    It was a static caravan, of a type you might find in a holiday park, but the front wall had been removed and replaced completely with toughened glass. I could not see inside, for heavy burgundy velvet drapes had been closed over the window. At the rear of the building, smoking and muttering and rubbing their hands around a brazier, was a group of maybe two dozen men and a couple of women. The performers in tonight’s special feature, I presumed.
    My escort disengaged from me, produced a key and stepped up to the caravan door, ushering me inside ahead of him.
    I stood, staring around into its red-lit corners, noticing how all the walls and kitchen units had been taken out to provide an enormous space devoted to nothing more than the arts of pleasure. Only the small shower and toilet remained behind a partition door. A heart-shaped mattress took up the centre of the room, surrounded by multitudes of cushions in sumptuous fabrics. Shelves of bottles and lotions and lubricants ran the length and breadth of the caravan, including, in one corner, a supply of sex toys. The prints on the walls were of tacky nudes and highly coloured kama-sutra illustrations. Everything was rose or violet, everything was both dim and lurid beneath the lamp’s red glare. There could be no doubt whatsoever that this was a tart’s boudoir. And I was the tart.
    ‘May I leave you to it?’ enquired the man politely. ‘I think you should be able to engineer things from here. This rope here –,’ he tugged at a length of intertwined golden strands, ‘– will open the curtains. When you’re ready. Oh, and the wastepaper basket is by the door. The gentlemen will dispose of the necessaries when they leave. Do you need anything?’
    I shook my head, dazed. “The necessaries.” The tissues, the condoms. The reality. The man from The Number bowed slightly and took his leave.
    I almost followed him. Almost. Then I took a deep breath, took another look at my lascivious lair and removed my coat. The full-length mirror behind the bed showed a shapely woman with too much make-up on. ‘Whore,’ I mouthed to my reflection. ‘Trollop.’ Then I unbuttoned my shirt dress, revealing the cheap scarlet and black underwear, and there I was – in the zone. Ready. Raring to go.
    I shimmied my hips, shrugging the shirt sleeves along my arms and dropping the unnecessary clothing to the floor. This was what I was tonight. A sex-mad hooker, gasping for a fuck as badly as some crave a cigarette or a hit of their favourite narcotic. I laughed out loud, sticking a hand down my knickers and posing, porn-star style. Then I turned and pulled on the curtain cord. Showtime.
    As if summoned by a bell, a knot of men appeared at the window, pretending to glance casually in, then stopping to chat among themselves, all the while looking over their shoulders at me. I dropped to my knees in the window and put my hands either side of my breasts, squeezing them together, running my thumbs over the protuberant nipples, licking my lips. Oh, I was wet already; I could feel the moisture seeping down to the lacy crotch of my thong, and I parted my thighs a little, to give my