The oldest profession

*Contains Adult themes of a sexual nature, if you are easily offended I advise you not to read, +18*

She was a pretty woman walking down the street, a rather unpretty street at that, somewhere in Slough. It wasn't a bad neighborhood, it was just bland, the typical brick housing estates found all around the Greater London Metropolitan area. Magdalena saw beauty where others did not. Snapping pictures in her spare time of the greys and beiges and greens that constitute the tapistary of the old industrial town; photography was Magdalena's passion. As she walked along the pavement of the sleepy housing estate, her eyes scanning for hidden beauty, a contrasting clash of color, she could always sense potential photo opportunities in the world around her. A flower growing through a crack in the concrete, vibrant street art on a brick wall, a disused factory in the midst of being reclaimed by nature. But it was people that provided her with the greatest source of inspiration.

It was mid September. The season was turning. Summer fading, Autumn beckoning. There were children still in their school uniforms walking home from school in small groups. She thought the school uniforms were adorable, the children looked like they were going off to hogwarts. Some boys were going the other way, towards the park, passing Magdalena, ties loose and a scuffed football pinging between their feet chatting away. She smiled at them as they walked by. She did not wear a uniform in Poland when she was at school, like all the kids from modest backgrounds.

She loved children and was studying to become a maths teacher. She had previously studied psychology, but life had steered her away from wanting to delve into the mind. She was two years into her bachelors degree. Numbers came easily to her, they were constant, reliable. However the main reason why she wanted to become a teacher was to inspire the youth. The world could be so cruel, young people need guidance, as she knew all too well. When she came over to England to study, she was hell bent on doing so, making her own way in life, wanting to be independent, and no one could tell her otherwise. People in Katowice were so closed minded. If anyone gave her advice she didn't agree with, she would throw it back in their face.

She never would have imagined the hell she endured. One night, one mistake, and her life capsized. She tried living a normal life, but the memories would still haunt her, like a stubborn stain that would never come out. She had settled now with a man, Daniel. He was decent, a typical guy, a fitness instructor, liked to play football on the weekends, treated her right. He loved her in fact. He did not know about her life as a sex worker though. Magdalena felt embarrassed, ashamed of who she was, she felt cheap. She knew if she told Daniel, even though he might not leave her, he wouldn't see her in the same light.

She walked on, the pavement littered with the first fallen leaves from the aspens adjacent, heading towards the client's house at 34 St Edward's street. It was about a five minute walk from her bus stop. On Thursday evenings, she tutored children after school as a part time job while she studied. The Houghton's seemed like a nice family, Mrs Houghton was friendly enough, although she always called her Maggy which was slightly irritating, her two children were bright and were fond of Magdalena. She had never met her husband since he worked in the city.

As she turned round a corner onto St Edward's street, there was a large puddle on the pavement and a young mother pushing a pram was coming her way, Magdalena stepped aside, let her walk through the bottleneck of dry ground. The mother, in a tracksuit and hair tied back, didn't acknowledge her existence, too busy talking on the phone. She caught a glimpse of the baby girl in the pram and smiled kindly at her, she looked up back at her with her big brown eyes. Magdalena could not help but think about her baby daughter.

She would have been four now, starting school. She was forced into having an abortion. In the trade, some men would've paid a premium for pregnant women. She would most likely have been taken from her. In the Soho walk-up she worked at, she heard a girl had to see clients until a few days before she gave birth, her fellow working girls had told her. Neither was seen again afterwards, sold to human traffickers in all likelihood. That was no life. But no matter how she tried to rationalize it, hardly a single day went past where she didn't think about her. What could have been, cut short.

Magdalena frooze for a second, she looked down at her reflexion in the puddle. Looking back at her was an obscured reflexion, her stunning looks adumbrated. She was tall and willowy, elegantly dressed, her hair blonde and darker at the roots, her eyes sparkling green opals, full cheeks and profound laugh lines, a defined jaw and celestial nose. At times she felt like how she looked in the murky puddle water, a distorted version of herself. This was one of those times. But time is the best medicine. She was more content in who she was today than four years ago when she got out, or six years ago when she was pushed into doing what she did. She had come a long way, and she knew this.

After Magdalena dropped out and was evicted, she was talked into doing it once, by a shady polish guy her friend knew, then again and again, soon she was selling herself most days a week. She needed to survive, feed her addiction, numb her pain, her loss. She would go to a hotel and clients would come and go. The most part they were respectful enough, regular clients, business men who worked in the city, often married. Some wouldn't even want her for sex, to cuddle or to be dominated and teased, or even just as company, as an escort. Until one time she was raped, bloodied up and robbed. They gagged her, bruised her ribs, strangled her. After that Magdalena went to work at a brothel, a Soho walk-up her friend had told her about, there was security, it paid well enough, it was above a fancy central London venue in an affluent area. The proprietor scared her more than the clients, he would beat them if they disobeyed, as she had witnessed, a vile man. She befriended some of the other girls, and was close to a girl named Janina from Lithuania, although she went by Roxy to the clients. Roxy went with a client once who put so much cocaine up her vagina she overdosed, and died.

The establishment was subsequently shut down and searched by the police. Thereafter she got the help she needed, visited by a social worker called Grace. Magdalena was rehabilitated, she got her life back on track, moved to Slough where a friend of hers from Poland had recently moved, and Magdalena moved on, through the pain. In some ways she considered herself fortunate.

Snapping herself out of the thought train, she turned her attention to a dog watching her, wagging it's tail. That cheered her up. She approached the Houghtons house, walked up the short brick paved drive, and pressed the doorbell. She noticed a new black BMW parked in front of the porch, it wasn't there the times she had visited previously. The door opened and Mrs Houghton greeted her with a wide grin: ''Hello Maggy darling, how are you?''

''Hi! I'm fine thank you Mrs Houghton, and you?''

''Happy as always'' she replied jovially ''Jake and Mitchell are upstairs go through to the kitchen and make yourself comfortable dear'' she said nonchalantly ''Jake, Mitchell, come down please, Maggy's here!'' she called up.

Magdalena went through into the kitchen, popped her bag on the table, and sat down.

''Terry, stick the kettle on, the tutor is here'' Mrs Houghton called out, resonating through the house.

Magdalena was getting her folder ready and the course work out, pinged her pen, put on her glasses. Mrs Hougton entered the kitchen followed by her husband. She looked up as they came through the narrow wall opening. Magdalena hesitated after a fraction of a second as her eyes locked with the man. She knew him. He was a former client. Was it really though? He was the typical english, salt and pepper hair, slightly overweight, clean shaven middle aged business man that would visit her. But she definitely knew him. She was overcome by a strange tingling sensation of embarrassment and unease.

He looked back at her eyes wide, pupils dilated, like a gormless fool. Shock written all over his face. She couldn't help thinking back to when he put her toes in his mouth when helooked at her.

Mrs Houghton hadn't noticed the awkwardness, she didn't look at her husband to read his facial expression. The atmosphere was almost tangible.

''Maggy, this is my husband Terry, he normally works in the city so he won't be a regular nuisance!'' laughing extrovertly.

She paused. Did he recognize her? He must have done, surely? He knew her by Natalya and she was wearing glasses, afterall it was 4 years ago, at least.

''Hello Mr Houghton'' She let out in a short, low pitched voice

His face was whiter than the pearl colour scheme of the kitchen units. He extended an open hand gesturing a wave, visibly uncomfortable. His colour had changed to lobster red.

''I'm just popping up the shops to get some milk, If he bothers you, let me know dear'' she walked out, calling the kids again, before slamming the heavy door on her way out.

It was a strange moment, he had not said a word to her, he was a great deal more embarrassed than her. He tried to force a smile. Magdalena pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows. Mr Houghton coughed and said ''Maggy is it?'' hesitantly, in a bid to make small talk to alleviate the awkwardness, in typical british fashion.

''No. It's Magdalena'' she snapped back dismissively maintaining eye contact. She wouldn't entertain his facade. He lowered his eyes, nodded and left the room. What a slime ball, she thought.

''Terry!''She called out sasilly. His head popped around the door frame. ''Don't forget the tea. Herbal, two sugars.''