The Accidental Call Girl

by Portia Da Costa

  ‘No, not there. I’ll deal with that.’

  Lizzie’s eyes snapped open. John was watching her closely, as she’d expected, his gaze hooded. Gosh, his eyelashes were long. She suddenly noticed them, so surprisingly dark compared to his wheat-gold hair.

  In a swift, shocking move, he sat up again and grasped the errant hand, then its mate, pushing them behind her, and then hooking both of them together behind her back. Her wrists were narrow and easily contained by his bigger hand. He was right up against her now, his breath hot on her breasts.

  Bondage. Was this one of his fancy things? Her heart thrilled. Her pussy quivered. Yes. Yes. Yes. He held her firmly, his arm around her, securing her. She tried not to tremble but it was difficult to avoid it. Difficult to stop herself pressing her body as close to his as she could and trying to get off by rubbing her crotch against whatever part of him she could reach.

  ‘Keep still. Keep very still. No movement unless I say so.’ Inclining forward, he put out his tongue and licked her nipple, long, slowly and lasciviously, once, twice, three times.

  ‘Oh God . . . oh God . . .’

  His mouth was hot and his tongue nimble, flexible. He furled it to a point and dabbed at the very point of her, then lashed hard, flicking the bud. Lizzie imagined she was floating, buoyed up by the simple, focused pleasure, yet tethered by the weight of lust between her thighs.

  ‘Hush . . . be quiet.’ The words flowed over the skin of her breast. ‘Try not to make any noises. Contain everything inside you.’

  It was hard, so hard . . . and impossible when he took her nipple between his teeth and tugged on it hard. The pressure was oh so measured, but threatening, and his tongue still worked, right on the very tip.

  Forbidden noises came out of her mouth. Her pelvis wafted in a dance proscribed. A tear formed at the corner of her eye. He dabbed and dabbed at her imprisoned nipple with his tongue, and when she looked down on him, she could see a demon looking back up at her, laughter dark and merry in his eyes.

  He thinks he’s getting the better of me. He thinks he’s getting to a woman who’s supposedly anaesthetised to pleasure, and making her excited.

  Hard suction pulled at her nipple and her hips undulated in reply.

  I don’t know who the hell this woman is, but the bastard’s making me crazy!

  Lizzie had never believed that a woman could get off just from having her breasts played with. And maybe that still was so . . . But with her tit in John Smith’s mouth she was only a hair’s breadth from it. Maybe if she jerked her hips hard enough, it’d happen. Maybe she’d climax from sheer momentum.

  ‘Stop that,’ he ordered quietly, then with his free palm, he reached around and slapped her hard on the buttock, right next to her immobilised hands. It was like a thunderclap through the cotton of her panties.

  ‘Ow!’

  The pain was fierce and sudden, with strange powers. Her skin burnt, but in her cleft, her clit pulsed and leapt. Had she come? She couldn’t even tell, the signals were so mixed.

  ‘What’s the matter, little escort girl? Are you getting off?’ He mouthed her nipple again, licking, sucking. Her clit jerked again, tightening.

  ‘Could be,’ she gasped, surprised she could still be so bold when her senses were whirling, ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Well, let’s make certain then, eh?’ Manhandling her, he turned her a little between his thighs. ‘Arms around my shoulders. Hold on tight.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘This is what I’ve paid you for, Bettie’ His blue eyes flashed. ‘My pleasure is your compliance. That’s the name of the game.’

  She put her hands on him, obeying. The muscles of his neck and shoulders felt strong, unyielding, through the fine cotton of his shirt and the silk of his waistcoat lining, and this close, a wave of his cologne rose up, filling her head like an exotic potion, lime and spices, underscored by just a whiff of a foxier scent, fresh sweat. He was as excited as she, for all his apparent tranquillity, and that made her dizzier than ever. This was all mad, like no sex she’d ever really had before, although right here, right now, she was hard pressed to remember anything she’d done with other men.

  ‘Oh Bettie, Bettie, you’re really rather delightful,’ he crooned, pushing a hand into her knickers from the front, making her pitch over, pressing her face against the side of his. His hair smelt good too, but fainter and with a greener note. He was a pot-pourri of delicious male odours.

  ‘Oh, oh, God.’ Burrowing in with determined fingers, he’d found her clit, and he took possession of it in a hard little rub. Her sex gathered itself, heat massing in her belly she was so ready from all the forays and tantalising gambits he’d put her through.

  ‘If you have an orgasm before I give you permission, I’ll slap your bottom, Bettie.’ His voice was low, barely more than a breath. ‘And if you come again . . . I’ll slap you again.’

  ‘But why punish me? If you want me to come?’ She could barely speak, but something compelled her to. Maybe just the act of forming words gave her some control. Over herself at least.

  ‘Because it’s my will to do it, Bettie. Because I want you to come, and spanking your bottom makes me hard.’ He twisted his neck, and pressed a kiss against her throat, a long, indecent licking kiss, messy and animal. ‘Surely you understand how we men sometimes are?’

  ‘Yes . . . yes, of course I do . . . Men are perverts,’ she panted, bearing down on his relentless fingertip that was rocking now. ‘At least the fun ones mostly are, in my experience.’

  ‘Oh brava! Bravissima! That’s my girl . . .’ Latching his mouth on to her earlobe in a wicked nip, he circled his finger, working her clit like a bearing, rolling and pushing.

  As his teeth closed tighter, just for an instant, he overcame her. She shouted, something incoherent, orgasming hard in sharp, intense waves, her flesh rippling.

  The waves were still rolling when he slapped again, with his fully open hand, right across her bottom cheek.

  ‘Ow! Oh God!’

  John nuzzled her neck, still making magic with his finger, and torment with his hand, more and more slaps. Her body was a maelstrom, her nerves not sure what was happening, pain and pleasure whipping together in a froth. She gripped him hard, holding on, dimly aware that she might be hurting him too with her vice-like hold.

  ‘Oh please . . . time out,’ she begged after what could have been moments, or much longer.

  The slaps stopped, and he curved his whole hand around her crotch, the gesture vaguely protective . . . or perhaps possessive?

  ‘Not used to coming when you’re “on duty”?’ His voice was silky and provocative, but good-humoured. ‘It’s nice to know I managed to make you lose it. Seems that I’ve not lost my touch.’ He pressed a kiss to her neck, snaking his arm around her back, supporting her.

  Lizzie blinked, feeling odd, unsorted. She hadn’t expected to feel quite this much with him. It had all started as a lark, a bit of fun, testing herself to see if she could get away with her pretence. She still didn’t know if she’d achieved that, and she wasn’t sure John Smith would give her a straight answer if she found a way to ask him.

  Either way, he’d touched her more than just physically. He’d put heat in her bottom, and confusion in her soul.

  For a few moments, she just let herself be held, trying not to think. She was half draped across the body of a man she barely knew, with several hundred pounds of his money in her bag and on the dresser. His hand was still tucked inside her panties, cradling her pussy, wet with her silk.

  ‘You’re very wet down there, sweetheart,’ he said, as if he’d read her thoughts again. He sounded pleased with himself, which, she supposed he should be if he really believed she was an escort and he’d got her as dripping wet as this. ‘And real, too . . . not out of a tube.’ He dabbled in her pond.

  ‘It’s not unknown, John. I told you that . . . Some of us enjoy our profession very much. We make the most of our more attractive clients.’

&nb
sp; ‘Flatterer,’ he said, but she detected a pleased note in his voice. He was a man and only human. They all liked to be praised for their prowess. His hand closed a little tighter on her sex, finger flexing. ‘Do you think you could oblige this attractive client with a fuck now? Nothing fancy this time. Just a bit of doggy style, if you don’t mind.’

  In spite of everything, Lizzie laughed out loud. He was a sexy, possibly very devious character, but she also sensed he was a bit of a caution too, a man with whom one could have good fun without sex ever being involved.

  ‘I’d be glad to,’ she replied, impetuously kissing him on the cheek, wondering if that was right for her role. Straightening up, she moved onto the bed, feeling his hand slide out of her underwear. ‘Like this?’ She went up on her knees on the mattress, close to the edge, reaching around to tug at her knickers and make way for him.

  ‘Delightful . . . Hold that thought. I’ll be right with you.’

  Over her shoulder, Lizzie watched him boldly, eager to see if his cock was as good as it had felt through his clothes.

  Swiftly, John unbuttoned his washed-slate-blue waistcoat, and then his trousers, but he didn’t remove them. Instead, he fished amongst his shirt-tails and his linen, pushing them aside and freeing his cock without undressing.

  He was a good size, hard and high, ruddy with defined, vigorous veining. He frisked himself two or three times, as if he doubted his erection, but Lizzie had no such doubts. He looked as solid as if he’d been carved from tropical wood.

  ‘OK for you?’ Jiggling himself again, he challenged her with a lift of his dark blond eyebrows.

  ‘Very fair. Very fair indeed.’ She wiggled her bottom enticingly. ‘Much better than I usually get.’

  ‘Glad to hear it.’ He reached for a condom, and in a few quick, deft movements enrobed himself. A latex coating didn’t diminish the temptation.

  Taking hold of her hips, he moved her closer to the edge of the bed in a brisk, businesslike fashion, then peeled off her panties, tugging them off over her shoes and tossing them away.

  ‘Very fair. Very fair indeed,’ he teased, running his hands greedily over her buttocks and making the slight tingle from where he’d spanked her flare and surge. ‘I’d like to spank you again, but not tonight.’ Reaching between her legs, he played with her labia and her clit, reawakening sensations there too. ‘I just want to be in you for the moment, but another time, well, I’d like to get fancier then, if you’re amenable.’

  ‘I . . . I think that could be arranged,’ she answered, panting. He was touching her just the way she loved. How could he do that? If he kept on, she’d be agreeing to madness. Wanting to say more, she could only let out a moan and rock her body to entice him.

  ‘Good, very good.’ With some kind of magician-like twist of the wrist, he thrust a finger inside her, as if testing her condition. ‘I’ll pay extra, of course. I don’t like to mark women, but you never know. I’ll recompense you for any income lost, don’t worry.’

  What was he talking about? She could barely think. He was pumping her now. Not touching her clit, just thrusting his finger in and out of her in a smooth, relentless rhythm. And when her sensitive flesh seemed about to flutter into glorious orgasm, he pushed in a second finger too, beside the first. As she wriggled and rode them, she felt his cock brushing her thigh.

  ‘Are you ready for me?’ The redundant question was like a breeze sighing in her ear, so soft as he leant over her, clothing and rubber-clad erection pressed against her.

  ‘What do you think?’ she said on a hard gasp, almost coming, her entire body sizzling with sensation.

  ‘Ready, willing and able, it seems.’ He buried his face in her hair, and nuzzled her almost fondly. ‘You’re a remarkable woman, Bettie.’

  And then she was empty, trembling, waiting . . . but not for long. Blunt and hot, his penis found her entrance, nudging, pushing, entering as he clasped her hip hard for purchase and seemed to fling himself at her in a ruthless shove.

  ‘Oof!’ His momentum knocked the breath out of her, sending her pitching forward, the side of her face hitting the mattress, her heart thrilling to the sheer primitive power of him. She felt him brace himself with a hand set beside her, while the fingers of his other hand tightened on her body like a vice, securing his grip. His thrusts were so powerful she had to hold on herself, grabbing hunks of the bedding to stop herself sliding.

  ‘Hell. Yes!’ His voice was fierce, ferocious, not like him. Where were his playful amused tones now? He sounded like a wild beast, voracious and alpha. He fucked like one too, pounding away at her. ‘God, you’re so tight . . . so tight!’ There was surprise in the wildness too.

  Squirming against the mattress, riding it as John rode her, Lizzie realised something. Of course, he had no idea he was taking a road with her that not too many men had travelled. She’d had sex, yes, and boyfriends. And enjoyed them immensely. But not all that many of them, throughout her years as a woman. Fewer than many of her friends, and hundreds fewer than an experienced escort.

  But such thoughts dissolved. Who could think, being possessed like this? How could a man of nice but normal dimensions feel like a gigantic force of nature inside her, knocking against nerve-endings she couldn’t remember ever being knocked before, stroking against exquisitely sensitive spots and making her gasp and howl, yes, howl!

  Pleasure bloomed, red, white heat inside her, bathing her sex, her belly, making her clit sing. Her mouth was open against the duvet; good God, she was drooling too. Her hips jerked, as if trying to hammer back against John Smith as hard as he was hammering into her.

  ‘Yes . . . that’s good . . . oh . . .’ His voice degraded again, foul, mindless blasphemy pouring from those beautiful lips as he ploughed her. Blue, filthy words that soared like a holy litany. ‘Yes, oh God . . . now touch yourself, you gorgeous slut . . . rub your clit while I fuck you. I want you to be coming when I do. I want to feel it around me, your cunt, grabbing my dick.’

  She barely needed the stimulus; the words alone set up the reality. The ripple of her flesh against his became hard, deep, grabbing clenches, the waves of pleasure so high and keen she could see white splodges in front of her eyes, as if she were swooning under him, even as she rubbed her clit with her fingers.

  As she went limp, almost losing consciousness, a weird cry almost split the room. It was high, odd, broken, almost a sob as John’s hips jerked like some ancient pneumatic device of both flesh and iron, pumping his seed into the thin rubber membrane lodged inside her.

  He collapsed on her. She was collapsed already. It seemed as if the high wind that had swept the room had suddenly died. Her lover, both John and a John lay upon her, substantial, but not a heavy man really. His weight, though, seemed real, in a state of dreams.

  After a minute, or perhaps two or three, he levered himself off her, standing. She felt the brush of his fingers sliding down her flank in a soft caress, then came his voice.

  ‘Sorry about calling you a “slut” . . . and the other stuff. I expect you’ve heard a lot worse in this line of work, but still . . . You know us men, we talk a lot of bloody filthy nonsense when we’re getting our ends away. You don’t mind, do you?’

  ‘No . . . not at all. I rather like it, actually.’ Rolling onto her side, then her back, she discovered him knotting the condom, then tossing it into the nearby waste bin. His cock was deflating, naturally, but still had a certain majesty about it, even as he tucked it away and sorted out his shirt-tails and his zip.

  ‘God, you look gorgeous like that.’ His blue eyes blazed, as if his spirit might be willing again even if his flesh was currently shagged out. ‘I’d love to have you again, but I think I’ve been a bit of pig and I’ll be hors de combat for a little while now.’

  You do say some quaint things, John Smith . . . But I like it.

  I like you.

  ‘Perhaps we could go again? When you’ve had a rest?’ She glanced across at the second pile of notes on the dresser. It looked quite
a lot. ‘I’m not sure you’ve had full value for your money.’

  John’s eyes narrowed, amused, and he gave her an odd, boyish little grin.

  ‘Oh, I think I’ve had plenty. You . . . you’ve been very good, beautiful Bettie. Just what I needed.’ He sat down beside her, having swooped to pick up her panties, then pressed the little cotton bundle into her hands. ‘I haven’t been sleeping too well lately, love. But I think I’ll sleep tonight now. Thank you.’

  A lump came to Lizzie’s throat. This wasn’t sexual game playing, just honest words, honest thanks. He seemed younger suddenly, perhaps a little vulnerable. She wanted to stay, not for sex, but to just hug him, and hold him.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine,’ he said, touching her cheek. ‘But it’s time for you to go. I’ve had what I’ve paid for, and more, sweet girl. I’d think I’d like to sleep now, and you should be home to your bed too. You don’t have any more appointments tonight, do you?’

  ‘No . . . nothing else.’ Something very strange twisted in her mid-section. Yes, she should go now. Before she did or said something very silly. ‘I’m done for the night.’ She got up, wriggled into her knickers as gracefully as she could, then accepted her other things from John’s hands. He’d picked them up for her. ‘I’ll just need a moment in your bathroom, then I’ll leave you to your sleep.’

  She skittered away, sensing him reaching for her. Not sure she could cope with his touch again, at least not in gentleness.

  John stared at the door to the bathroom, smiling to himself, but perplexed.

  You haven’t been working very long, have you, beautiful Bettie?

  How new was she to the game, he wondered. She didn’t have that gloss, that slightly authoritative edge that he could always detect in an experienced escort. She was a sensual, lovely woman, and she seemed unafraid, but her responses were raw, unfiltered, as if she’d not yet learned to wear a mask and keep a bit of herself back. The working girls he’d been with had always been flatteringly responsive, accomplished, a massage to his ego. But there’d always been a tiny trickle of an edge that told him he was really just a job to them, even if they did genuinely seem to enjoy themselves.