Never A Choice (The Choices Trilogy (Book 1))

by Palmer, Dee

  I am not given to running at the first sign of a challenge even if I am so very far from my comfort zone and I have no idea why she is being so kind but I don’t want to disappoint her.

  “Yes Miss, that’s very kind, I’ll do that.” I am too embarrassed to raise my eyes to meet hers at this point, so she takes the phone, presses a few numbers and hands it back to me.

  I am thankful she leaves the room as I put the phone to my ear and began to listen to the sample calls. It turns out I wouldn’t need that much imagination as the calls give me vivid flashbacks to many a conversation in the kitchen. The descriptions are full on and the details are explicit, extremely explicit. It isn’t that I doubted my imagination or my ability to be detailed in my descriptions, but my actual lack of sexual experience is undoubtedly going to be a deal breaker here and I know it. Still, as my face continues to flush I continue to listen. The last call starts.

  “I’ve got your big hard cock in my hand,” the breathy voice began, “can you feel my tight fist, I’m gonna pump you hard, I’m gonna pump you into to my hot wet mouth mmmmm”

  I can hear the callers deep inhaling breath.

  “Your are so hard against my tongue, its hot and wet and I’m licking around the head and all the way down. I can feel your veins throbbing as I lap and lick it, its like velvet over iron and tastes so good I can’t get enough. Ahh I can feel your rock hard cock is twitching in my fist, I think I’m going to lick you all the way down to your balls. Mmmm I’m cupping your balls with my other hand and I’m fucking you with my fist but I want more are you going to give me more? She pauses and breathes loudly. I’m shifting in my seat, more than a little uncomfortable, she continues.

  “I am going to take your big hard cock and push it between my tight swollen lips and take you deep, deep in my throat, and you’re going to fuck my mouth, yes?”

  “Mm yeah that’s right” The deep rasping reply of the caller was the first real indication that there was someone on the receiving end of this call.

  “Fuck my mouth and make me swallow.” She gives a long drawn out satisfied moan. The line goes dead.

  “Wow!” I say as Mags returns. If I thought I was red before I must look like I’m about to haemorrhage.

  “The endings are always a little abrupt but they are paying by the minute so what do you expect, really?” I am hoping that’s a rhetorical question because all powers of speech have deserted me. She hands me a glass of water which I gratefully accept.

  “I’d love to be that confident. I mean she seemed to really . . .” I’m struggling to articulate full sentences now, another stellar example of my ineptitude for this role. “And she was in control, assertive. I don’t think I would be able to . . . you know . . . but-”

  Interrupting, Mags states, “You’re a virgin.” She smiles warmly.

  “Well, yes to this sort of thing.” I attempt to qualify her statement.

  “No darling, I mean you are a virgin, you’ve never had sex.” It was no longer a question; it was a statement of fact. “It doesn’t matter you know,” she continues.

  “Umm, not to presume to tell you your business but I would think that was kind of important, if not the most important part.” I frown as she shakes her head at my incorrect conclusion.

  “Don’t get me wrong it is unusual in this business but you are not ‘an innocent’ or if you were you would’ve run a mile as soon as you realised what we did and you certainly wouldn’t have been able to endure a whole sample call. So despite the adorable colour in your cheeks, you are still here. You have a great voice, a good imagination I assume?” She raises a questioning eyebrow to which I nod my reply. “And you’re a submissive!” My eyes widen. “Quite perfect.” She adds.

  I laugh out loud, wow, that couldn’t be further from the truth. I don’t remember a time when I didn’t make every decision myself. There is no one to tell me what to do, not that I would let them and I kick arse at Krav Maga each week with Marco. Does that sound submissive? I know she has made a mistake but I like her and I find I can’t be affronted by her misguided character assessment.

  “Darling,” she soothes. “I know people, I read people and I can read you like an ABC or should I say D/s.” She chuckles. “You are all Yes Miss, No Miss, without a hint of irony.” She seems so pleased with herself I almost hate to disillusion her.

  “I was being polite.” I point out politely.

  “Yes you were, but there’s more, trust me and what a wonderful way to explore this “worldview,” through the safety of your telephone.” She was being genuine and I can’t take offence even if she is way off the mark.

  “Look I have a proposal, take your time, think it over and do some research but remember to clear your browser history!” She laughs at her own joke. “I would like to take you on as a submissive for one of the premium lines. There will obviously be some artistic licence, you won’t be a ‘to the letter’ submissive, after all, can’t very well hold a conversation over the phone if your gagged.” Again she seems to find herself hilarious. I take another sip of water and give a very nervous laugh, trying to share her carefree attitude to the whole other world crashing into mine. “If you agree we will start you off one hour each night, from midnight onwards tends to be busiest. It’s completely anonymous and completely safe, no one needs to know. You look like a girl who can keep a secret?” She looks directly at me. She is either the master of the understatement or she really can read people.

  “I can, I do and I will . . . but are you sure?” I hold her gaze. Her lips twitch into a smooth smile and she merely raises her brow, sweeping her knowledgeable gaze around her immaculate office and over her expensively clothed body; finally resting her eyes on her diamond laden fingers, the final piece of evidence of her good decisions.

  “Here take this phone, if you decide it’s a no, then you can drop it back but if we are good to go it will save me a courier.”

  “Thank you and thank you for your time Miss, sorry . . . Mags, just a few days? I tell her.

  “I’ll be waiting.” She was grinning as I left her office.

  I have an email from Mr Wilson waiting when I arrived home. It was an urgent message to come to his office after class tomorrow. Crap.

  MY FIRST WEEK at University, I could pinch myself that I’m actually here and given my recent meeting with Mr Wilson I’m on cloud nine. I had initially thought Mr Sinfully Sexy might have disclosed my lie, not that he was specific as to what he thought I was lying about and I certainly wasn’t going to volunteer that information. This line of thinking, however, would at best make me paranoid and at worst mean I am suffering from an over inflated sense of self-importance so I was relieved it was neither. Mr Wilson informed me that the IT bursary I had applied for had been successful. Colour me shocked! I didn’t really think I was eligible for any type of assistance as a part-time student but I had applied all the same because I also didn’t have the luxury of not at least trying for some assistance and an upgrade on my ancient laptop was decades overdue. That said I wasn’t sure if what I felt was joy or just a huge sense of surprise but I found myself inappropriately hugging Mr Wilson at the news. Like I say, cloud nine!

  I am a little intimidated sat high in the Gods of this ultra-modern lecture theatre and the blank page of my notepad isn’t helping. I smile to myself because now when I get the IT grant money I can buy a decent laptop like all the students around me are sporting. Mine takes around two days to warm up and weighs the same as a small car. In other respects though, I look like a typical student. At twenty I am perhaps two years older than most of the students and five years younger than is permitted on the part time programme but most people wouldn’t notice and that might be why I was so taken back when Mr Stone called it at our first meeting.

  The theatre is starting to fill and I am lucky that my choice in footwear resembles a mountain boot with crampons as the angle of climb to my seat is perilously steep and I am hugely respectful of the girls that attempt the climb in heels. G
lancing around there does seem to be a disproportionate number of females and not dressed in what seems to be the standard asexual garb but more like that of a catwalk or night out clubbing, strange.

  This series of lectures was a real coup for the University, leading high profile business people giving an ‘up close and personal’ guide to Entrepreneurship. The Lectures are mandatory for Mature students in the Business faculty but you would have to be an idiot not to take this opportunity. Each student had to give a biography and an outline detailing what they expected to gain from the programme. I had never heard of that before but perhaps it’s not so strange, important people wanting to make sure they were not wasting their time. Still, given that this was all extra work for each student here and it is an evening lecture I am surprised to see the theatre almost full. An email reminder was sent earlier in the day to emphasise a seven pm. start—PROMPT.

  Although no one person is shouting, the general level of noise has risen to something akin to an airplane take-off. My course has a weighted nine to one ratio of males to females and I find I am surrounded on all sides by the men from my course. I have introduced myself as the part time mature student which in itself seems to make me non-threatening and extremely approachable. As such I have easily made friends with anyone kind enough to sit next to me and many have. I can’t make out any specific conversation and I don’t want to add to the noise so I continue to gaze at my page. It is no longer blank as my habit, which I find both relaxing and distracting, covers the edges of the page, from top right to bottom left. A large intricate doodle of interweaving petals, teardrops and crested waves flow together. My pencil hovers mid pattern as a loud click cuts through the noise and I quickly look up to see, Oh God, my stomach clenches and I feel an instant heat between my legs, crap and crap again. Daniel Stone, slowly walks from the now locked theatre door to take centre stage. Its seven pm. prompt.

  Alright, that would explain the full house, God that man is stunning, even from up here. His presence commands the silence of the room. Why didn’t this information click with me earlier, I even saw his name on the screen, nothing. Oh, I know why, because I have been on cloud nine since my windfall. I feel the plummet from the cloud as my mouth drops open and I gasp. That’s embarrassing, no wait, it’s not. I’m up in the Gods, hidden in a crowd of eager faces, too high to be heard. Mike on my left and Pete in front however, both turn with questioning looks. I quickly smile, shake my head and tap my throat, frowning a little to indicate a tracheal problem I am experiencing. Sam on my left is unaffected by my dramatics as he has yet to remove his earphones. I nod my head to indicate all eyes to the front and hope that will help the gentle rise of heat in my cheeks.

  “Don’t worry I will unlock the door so you can leave but I am just not going to pretend to tolerate lateness.” His voice is quiet but holds the rooms attention. I give a light laugh and quickly slap my hand to my mouth. I thought it was a joke. I mean why did I think that would be a joke? He’s just locked the door for Christ sake! He is obviously serious and yes I was the only one to laugh. His fierce glare fixes on mine and I shrink in my seat, that has certainly helped the blushing. My throat feels dry and I swear the whole room can hear me struggle to swallow. I can’t look away, his eyes look black from here, dark and deadly but I know they are intense pools of crystal blue. A flush prickles my skin and the heat building at my core is fighting to match that on my face. I try not to squirm in my seat, only giving the slightest unavoidable movement and curling my toes tightly. I know he can’t see those from there. His face certainly shows no signs of recognition from our previous awkward encounter, which is definitely a good thing.

  The door rattles and Mr Stone breaks his gaze to turn toward the noise. The two small square windows in the double doors frame the faces of a couple of striking girls, their bright blonde hair pulled back to expose severe make up and huge smiles.

  Mr Stone smiles but even from here I can see it doesn’t reach his eyes. He strides toward the door and reaches up to unlock it, pausing, he then pulls the blind down over the windows and returns to the stage. If he didn’t have the complete attention of the room, he does now. Beside me, Sam very carefully removes his earphones and glances at me with wide eyes. I am sure my eyes are just as wide and I give a very quick and nervous smile as way of a response.

  The harsh lighting on the stage does nothing to diminish the impact of this man. He is tall, probably around six two, with broad shoulders and a trim waist. He is immaculately dressed in a fitted dark navy suit, pale blue shirt and no tie. His inky black glossy hair is rough styled; it spikes and flops, slightly long brushing the collar of his shirt. He rakes his hand through it and gathers his notes. His face is striking but up close its breath steeling, sharp angles and shadows emanate intensity and power. I imagine fixing on his eyes as I explore the tight feel of is abdomen, flat and hard, the muscles on his back flex as my hands crawl their way up his body to his thick shaggy hair only to grip and pull. Christ get a grip Bets! I shift in my seat the warmth in my face moving decidedly southwards. Thinking about my conversation with Mags, if I decide to do Late Night Calls, maybe I wouldn’t need imagination if I had a muse. My lips curl at the thought as I ponder the prospect of Mr Stone as my private muse, either way having a sneaky personal picture of the delicious Mr Stone is a must. I just have to get close, again.

  His introduction is pretty standard information that anyone could and probably did Google. Something I am thinking I should most definitely have done but in my defence I didn’t expect to see him again. Daniel Edward Stone is the CEO of Stone International; a group of companies that started as an IT intranet software provider and expanded into other IT specialities, then rapidly into other areas: Telecommunication, Specialist Security Providers, Media, Entertainment, property, even a chain of Hotels and Nightclubs. In the past he has provided funding for research and start -up companies identified through this University and more specifically the Entrepreneurial programme. The parent company is global and he is the sole shareholder, his not so many fingers are in a lot of pies. I understand it’s highly unusual for a company that size not to have shareholders or a board of directors. Maybe he just doesn’t like sharing or is just a massive control freak but on second thoughts there is no reason why he can’t be both.

  His ‘brief’ description does go into a bit more detail than a Wiki page and he is not afraid to sing his own praises. It’s lucky he did lock the door I don’t think there is any more room now that his ego has landed. I can’t help but roll my eyes which wouldn’t have been so bad had I not made a kind of involuntary humph noise just to highlight my action. I close my eyes momentarily, only to open to the seriously hot scowl of Mr Stone. To my credit I hold his gaze, careful not to give into to my increasing urge to squirm. I don’t even acknowledge the subtle shifting of my neighbours as they try and distance themselves from the troublemaker. My cheeks do flame though and just when I am about to cave and drop my gaze he turns away, the corners of his mouth giving way to a wolfish grin.

  He stands at the lectern and picks up a folder filled with lose leaf sheets of paper, his fingers numbly pick through to pluck one from the rest.

  “Miss Thorne . . . What are you doing here?” His deep voice is barely raised but he could be using a bull horn for the shock I feel at the unexpected question. His tone is clipped, cold, almost angry. I don’t know how to answer, like I am suddenly mute. I simply shake my head embarrassed and mortified with the sudden shift of focus in the room.

  “Would you like me to repeat the question?” He raises his brow and stares deeply into my eyes which I manage to hold but I can feel my face flame. Why is he picking on me? We’ve barely started and he has singled me out with his accusatory tone. The tension is palpable as the whole room waits for my answer. Mr Stone, however, merely taps his fingers lightly on the lectern and looks amused at my discomfort.

  “No I don’t want you to repeat the question. I just didn’t think stating the obvious was necessary but
I see that it is. I’ll speak slowly . . . I am here for the Entrepreneur Lectures, Mr Stone.” I know my face is radiating enough to heat a small family home right now but I am pleased I have progressed from mute to indignant.

  “Hmm, thank you Miss Thorne but let me be more specific. Why are you here? I have your biography and I am asking why are you here . . . specifically?” He holds my biography in his hand like its contagious and the distain on his face as made my brief but righteous indignation vanish. I hate him so much right now but I can’t find any words to answer his question let alone tell him he is currently starring in my recurring school days nightmare. I might as well be naked too, just to complete my torture. “Allow me . . . Does this look like a reality show, are there hidden cameras, no? Do you think a background story will endear you to me? Do you think writing a wish list is appropriate? Do I look like Santa?” He steps down from the stage and has started to walk up the isle toward me. I hold my knees to stop them trembling and my knuckles are white from the effort.

  “No” I manage to speak. Its not loud but it is audible because the room is silent.

  “No?” He repeats but doesn’t stop his ascension.

  “I didn’t realise it was supposed to be a referenced journal. It’s just a biography.” I tip my chin and hold his gaze. He has reached the end of my row and my heart is thumping so hard I’m sure the whole room can feel it.

  “It wasn’t but I expected more . . . where’s your drive Miss Thorne? Where’s your fire? Where’s your passion?” He thumps his fist on the flimsy bench and makes the whole row of students jump from their seats. “Success in business isn’t about wishing and hoping, its about doing . . . until your fingers bleed, living and breathing every minute of everyday because if you don’t someone else will. It’s not enough, this . . .” he waves my solitary sheet high for emphasis, “is not enough.To succeed, what you have here . . . is not enough. So don’t waste my time Miss Thorne with prose that is better suited to a Liberal Arts degree.” He holds my paper and tears the sheet in two, then four and continues until the sheet falls to the floor in a sprinkle of tiny white flakes. His dark eyes seem to hold for endless seconds, waiting for my response. Fine, I can respond.