This trip wasn’t all that different from the typical
business trip thus far. I was stuck at an airport
hotel for several weeks while I served my client. I
was terribly bored, although this time I had rented a
car so that I wasn’t stuck. To ease my boredom, I had
rented a couple videos from a local store, watched
them, and was returning them.

The variations that did exist from my typical trip,
however, made it seem quite different. Instead of
being stuck in a business hotel near the airport, I
was in a very nice hotel near Heathrow Airport, which
was outside London. The rental car was practically
useless, because although I was flexible enough to
drive on the wrong side of the road, the fucking
roundabouts made actually driving a nightmare.

The videos I rented were of course pornographic, but
this time I had rented some extreme titles that fed my
particular kink: “Girls Who Butt-Ball Guys” and
“Austin Moore is… Shagged from Behind.” I had
enjoyed a quite amazing cumfest, my cock spewing my
seed a dozen or more times until I literally ran dry.
I rarely rented strap-on videos, scared of being found
out. When I did, I enjoyed them very intensely. Here,
12 hours by air from home, I figured I didn’t care who
saw me rent the videos. Even so, I was nervous when I
got off the double-decker bus a block from the store.

When I rented them, I had been embarrassed too.
Although the guy behind the counter wouldn’t know me
from Adam, he did now know my name, my passport
number, my home address, and the hotel where I was
staying (presumably in case I fled the country with
the video). I imagined he was informing the management
of the hotel of my kinky bent. I breathed a sigh of
relief that the return transaction was going smoothly
as I collected my change. That is, until the guy
behind the counter spoke.

“So, you’re a Yank are you?” he asked. He broke one of
those unwritten rules of male behavior. You don’t talk
in the restroom, and you sure as hell don’t talk in
the video store.

“Yep, sure am.”

“Staying much longer?” Fuck. Was he going to chat me
up now?

“Why do you ask?” I asked. ‘You want to ask me out?’ I
didn’t say.

“Because this morning a lady came in and offered a
bounty if I refer to her people who rent these sorts
of titles,” he replied. He looked uncomfortable, as if
he knew he was trespassing on my privacy.

“Really?” I said, curious. “What sort of bounty?”

He handed me a card. “She said I’d get a pound for
every serious bloke who called. A fiver for every
woman.” On one side was a number handwritten in
marker, which was apparently his code. On the other
was the business card:

Priapus Productions
Producers of Amateur Videos
Essex
United Kingdom