The Accidental Call Girl

by Portia Da Costa

  As he conducted her into the room, she wondered if he’d been aware of her doubts. Something quizzical in his expression seemed to suggest so, as if he were privy to her most intimate thoughts . . . and perhaps the depth of her deception? ‘Nice to see you again, John,’ she said, masking it all, and leaning in towards him, to kiss his cheek. Her lips brushed a faint hint of stubble, and he was dressed for business, apart from his abandoned jacket. Had he been hard at work doing whatever it was he did, even far into the evening?

  ‘You look perfectly delicious, woman. That’s a great outfit. Do you always dress for business when you’re doing business?’ He winked at her, his expression puckish and provocative.

  ‘Doesn’t do to look too obvious in my line of work. Keep the goodies in a plain brown wrapper, so to speak.’ She winked back at him.

  ‘Speaking of business . . .’ John crossed to the dresser and came back with a plump envelope. The cash sum, she presumed, that they’d agreed when she’d emailed her new phone number.

  Knowing it was crass to count it in front of him, she said, ‘Might I powder my nose before we . . . we get started?’

  ‘Of course.’ His blue eyes glittered. Had he heard the little hesitation? She still couldn’t be sure he didn’t suspect. He seemed to be almost humming with thoughts and secrets all the time, his smile open like the sun, yet hiding Lord alone knew what shadows and deceptions of his own.

  In the bathroom, she counted the cash – all there – then texted Brent to say everything was OK and he mustn’t worry. After a few deep centring breaths, she spent a penny, rinsed her hands, and refreshed her lip gloss.

  Ready as I’ll ever be. Now or never and all that . . .

  She pushed open the door.

  John was sipping a small drink. Gin, she supposed. She could detect a faint hint of its balsamic tang as he came close to her. ‘Drink?’ he enquired.

  ‘I’ll just have some water, please, if I may?’

  ‘You are businesslike tonight, aren’t you?’ His grin was tricky as he opened a bottle and poured for her.

  ‘Well, I’m in a service industry. I like to stay sharp and give value for money.’

  ‘Admirable . . . admirable . . .’ he murmured, watching her like a raptor as she took a few sips, then put aside the drink.

  Another deep breath. ‘So, John . . . what’s it to be?’

  His beautiful mouth quirked, then for just an instant, he snagged his plush lower lip between his teeth. Then even though there was barely any visible sign of it, she sensed him turn to steel in front of her. It was as if he grew an inch or two, at least in aura, radiating power. She imagined him as a demon, a bastard of the negotiating table, getting everything he ever wanted with barely any effort.

  ‘Well . . . first, indulge me, beautiful Bettie . . . Call me “master”.’

  It was like being back in the lift again, but with the cable cut. The word sent her plunging wildly, perhaps not down a lift shaft but a hurtling roller-coaster plunge, a thrill of terror ride. This was it. The game. She could play, or just give him his money back and flee.

  Never!

  ‘Yes, master,’ she said. Her voice was soft; he’d taken her breath away.

  He took her face between his two smooth hands and looked into her eyes, the intensity of his scrutiny stripping her. Still fully clothed she felt more than naked, all her hopes and fears revealed. Then he kissed her, gently at first, then more powerfully. Thrilling to her submissive role, she kept her lips still, and pliant, receptive, passive. Her arms hung by her sides as he ravished her with his lips and tongue, tasting the soft interior of her mouth, subduing her, filling her to the brim with the kiss.

  ‘Good,’ he said abstractedly, releasing her lips. ‘Very good.’ Sliding his thumb across her face, he pushed that into her mouth like a pacifier. ‘Suck it.’ As she obeyed, he let his other hand glide down her body, over breast, flank and thigh, then, tugging at her skirt, he hauled it up ruthlessly and cupped her bottom cheek in a rough, rude grip. Her flesh was dough to him, he kneaded it, fingertips digging in. After a second or two, he pushed his fingers into her anal groove, rubbing her there, teasing, pressing, his other thumb dragging at the corner of her mouth as she gasped, breathing hard.

  ‘Such a delicious little strumpet,’ he whispered, hard up against her, his breath wafting her hair as he massaged her anus through her knickers. ‘Dirty little minx . . . You like this, don’t you?’ He probed her, pushing, pushing. ‘I bet you’d like a cock in there, wouldn’t you? Or a plug? A big fat black plug?’

  Heat surged through every cell in her body. Goddammit, she was sweating, despite her industrial strength deodorant. Her head filled with visions of herself kneeling on the chintz covered bed, her bottom well up, heavily lubricated, while John pushed obscenely inside her rectum. Swaying, she was weak at the knees at the very thought of it.

  ‘Answer me.’ His thumb slid out of her mouth.

  ‘Yes . . . yes . . . I’d like that.’

  ‘Cock or plug?’

  ‘Either . . . if it pleases you.’

  He laughed happily, sounding almost boyish. ‘Perfect answer, my darling.’ He kissed her again, softer this time. ‘We’ll do that . . . play those games. Maybe not tonight, but soon.’

  His lips plundered hers again, more rough kisses as he fingered her rear portal.

  ‘Lovely girl,’ he said at length, freeing her, setting her from him and looking her up and down again as her skirt slid back into place. ‘And lovely suit too . . .’ He touched her breast fleetingly through the crisp jacket. ‘I think I’d like you to keep it on for a while.’

  As she stood there waiting, he retrieved his drink and sipped a small mouthful before putting it aside. ‘Will you bring that chair from over there into the centre of the room?’ He nodded to a very plain wooden upright chair that she’d never noticed before. Had it been there last night? She didn’t think so. Had he requested it specially, for his devious purposes?

  She set the chair in the centre of the room, a few feet from the bed, facing it.

  ‘Now sit down, please.’

  Trembling a bit, Lizzie took her place, arms resting on her thighs. John moved to stand directly in front of her, looking down. She tried to keep her eyes respectfully lowered, but she couldn’t stop herself staring at his crotch. His erection was massive already.

  ‘Naughty, naughty . . . you mustn’t look at that. You can’t have that for a while yet, much as I know you’re wet for it.’

  She was. She really was. Perspiration wasn’t the half of it. Her expensive new knickers were already saturated with silky arousal. There wouldn’t be any necessity for her to fake her enthusiasm with lube, no way.

  ‘Sit very still. Eyes lowered. No peeking.’

  He strode away, towards the dresser, and opened a drawer. Curiosity boiled. She wanted to see what he was taking out, but she managed to keep her eyes downcast, only stealing an oblique glance when he threw a few items on the bed. It looked like a handful of silk scarves, the substantial, men’s kind, and perhaps some ties.

  Bondage now? Well, she’d expected it.

  Trailing a scarf, he came and stood behind her, and with no warning, drew first one of her arms then the other behind the chair-back. In quick, precise movements, he tied her wrists. The knot was firm, though not painfully restricting, but the positioning of her hands made her chest lift, and her breasts press against the fabric of her jacket and blouse. She was breathing hard as he went away, and then brought back another scarf.

  This, he fastened around her eyes. It was a black scarf, in a tight weave. She could no longer see a single thing. As he adjusted it, he stroked her hair, tidying and smoothing.

  What now? What now?

  She could hear him moving about. She could almost hear him thinking, although not the actual thoughts. He was plotting, scheming.

  He was close.

  Strong hands settled on her thighs and she realised he was actually kneeling in front of her. Surely that
was wrong? He shouldn’t kneel to her; he was the master here. Then she had a flash of what he was up to, the second before he did it.

  He pushed up her skirt, saying, ‘Hup!’ to make her lift her bottom from the seat so he could bunch the fabric around her waist, back and front. Next, he slid his thumbs in the elastic of her knickers and skinned them down in a brisk, ruthless action. The waft of his shirtsleeved arm seemed to suggest him tossing them away across the room.

  ‘Sublime.’

  Steps away again, then he was back at her, and with more scarves, he secured her ankles to the front legs of the chair, immobilising her with her crotch on show and her bare bottom and her pussy pressed to the wooden seat.

  Oh God, oh God, oh God!

  A sensation of light-headedness engulfed her, powerlessness and extreme excitement. It was like being very young again, right on the sexual threshold, and about to go all the way for the first time. Her heart thundered, and she almost wanted to cry, but in a good way. The very best way.

  ‘Pretty as a picture,’ said John roundly. She could sense him still very close, crouching in front of her as if he were staring intently at her exposed bush. There was absolute silence for a moment, apart from his breathing and hers, which was far more rapid and fluttering, then she felt it.

  A fingertip slid in amongst her pubic curls, parting her labia, to settle right on the tip of her clit in the very lightest ghost of a contact. Her hips jerked, pushing her forward, chasing pressure, but the touch was gone again as suddenly as it had occurred, and she sensed John rise to his feet in front of her.

  ‘And now, I think I’ll take a shower.’ His footsteps receded away from her. ‘Be a good girl while I’m away, won’t you?’

  Then the bathroom door opened, and closed, and she was alone.

  4

  Devil in the Dark

  Lizzie tried her bonds, but she was firmly secured. How many woman had John tied up lately? Probably enough, because he seemed to know precisely what he was doing.

  The room was very quiet. She could barely hear the sound of running water from the bathroom. Her head seemed to fill with scents: the room’s pot-pourri, the ghost of John’s cologne, the sudden, pungent musk of her pussy.

  She could still feel his fingertip against her clit, and it ached for more, almost as if he’d brought her almost to the point of orgasm and just left her hanging. Her awareness of that tiny bud of flesh was out of all proportion. She couldn’t stop thinking about it, nestled between her labia, the very nexus of her pleasure. Fondled and abandoned, almost screaming silently for contact, for him to return and rub it. She tossed her head, willing him to come back and masturbate her roughly to orgasm.

  The emptiness of the room pressed down upon her. She tried to picture where everything was. The beautiful suit she’d seen hung on the wardrobe door. John’s other things. There’d been a laptop, phone, a fine, hide-covered briefcase.

  This was his space, temporarily, and she imagined him in it. Walking naked from the bathroom, drying his wheat-gold hair. Lying on the bed, touching himself, liking it, then wanking furiously. Had he done that since yesterday? Had he been thinking of her as he pumped his stiff cock?

  Other visions came to her. Images of herself with him. Fucking, yes, but other things. How he might use her and play with her. There was a big, well-upholstered armchair in the room. He might thrash her over the back of that, and bugger her, as he’d intimated. Oh hell, what would that be like? So rude and dark and dangerous . . . Her back passage stuffed with his rampant erection. Her clit throbbed as she tried to imagine it, the tiny reaction entirely spontaneous.

  He might bind her again, and gag her, then slather her bottom with lube and take her like a boy, making her grunt and sob with forbidden pleasure.

  She wanted it. So much . . .

  She wanted everything.

  Silky arousal pooled beneath her where she sat. Helplessly, she oozed, a creature enslaved by her own senses. Wanton. Willing. Available.

  Faintly, the shower teemed on, in the bathroom. What would happen if someone came to the door? Some hotel employee, perhaps with room service, and on getting no answer they might use their pass key to enter and find her here, bound, exposed, blind and available.

  A waiter might come in and be unable to resist the delicious female dish presented to him. He might grab her crotch, just as she longed for John to return and do. Unknown fingers might push and poke at her, rubbing her clit to see if it were possible to rouse her against her will; perhaps wiggling into her vagina, mock-fucking her.

  Groaning, she wriggled and rocked on the chair, imagining some stranger playing with her, crudely defiling her while John relaxed on the bed, watching the show. Perhaps he might issue instructions, pinch her clitty, make her come.

  ‘Oh please,’ she murmured to nobody in particular, longing to be used and fingered.

  A door opened and every muscle in her body went taut. Was it the bathroom? Or was it the door to the corridor outside, as she’d feared . . . or yearned for?

  Footsteps approached. They sounded as if they were heading from the bathroom, and muffled, as if made by bare feet.

  John?

  The hand she’d anticipated clasped her pussy, finger diving in, making her whimper and struggle. The pressure was firm, but not quite enough, devilishly measured to tease and taunt, but not grant climax.

  In a cloud of familiar fragrance, a face nestled against hers, a cheek brushing her hair as the probing fingertip skirted her inner sex lips, her perineum, the margins of her entrance. She felt him scoop a little of her juice, rub it between finger and thumb, assaying her.

  ‘Randy little trollop,’ he whispered. ‘You’ve made a mess on the seat with your wetness. You haven’t got a bit of selfcontrol, have you? You’ve just been sitting here getting hornier and hornier . . . What have you been thinking about? Cock, is it?’

  Unable to speak, she nodded, wishing her hands were free so she could reach out and grab his crotch as he’d grabbed hers. As if he’d heard her, he stood up and edged to her side, abandoning her sex as he leant his pelvis against her arm. Through the cloth of her jacket, and whatever he was wearing, she felt him like an iron bar, jabbing at her, the mass of him intimidating.

  ‘Have you been thinking about it?’ He rocked, pressing harder, and holding her by the shoulder, keeping her steady. Damn him, was he getting himself off that way?

  ‘Yes, I’ve been thinking about your cock, master. I couldn’t help myself.’

  She couldn’t see his smile, but she could swear it was there. As best she could within the restriction of her bonds, she pressed herself against him, circling her shoulder to caress him.

  ‘Be careful . . . be very careful.’ He reached down and touched her lips, running his fingertip across the lower one. When she darted out her tongue to caress it, she tasted her own foxy flavour, and when he turned his hand over, she pressed a fierce kiss of fealty against his knuckle.

  ‘What do you want, Bettie?’ He spoke quietly, almost kindly.

  She didn’t have to think. ‘To see you, master. If it pleases you.’

  ‘It’ll cost you, sweetheart. That and your naughty thoughts . . . it’ll cost you in pain across your beautiful bottom.’

  ‘I don’t care . . . master.’

  With a flick the dark scarf around her head flew away. It went fluttering to the floor, but she had no time to observe it. She could only look at John. He’d been a devil in the dark, but in the light he was an angel.

  Not sure what she was expecting, she was caught by surprise at the sight of what he wore. Masters wore black, didn’t they? Sombre, unrelieved, sometimes . . . Often, tight-fitting leather.

  But John had on a very light, off-white shirt, made from cheesecloth or some other floating fabric. It was open down the front, revealing a firm, well-shaped chest, a little tanned and with a scattering of sandy hair across his pectorals. A pair of old, very old jeans clung to his hips and thighs, their venerable state bordering on
bleached white, and worn paper thin at the knees. His strong, narrow feet were quite bare. He’d been towelling his hair dry and it was all soft curls; his face looked fresh, his jaw newly shaved.

  ‘Satisfied?’ He struck an attitude.

  ‘No.’

  ‘No? What, then?’

  He was a feast, and she wanted to gorge her senses on him. See every bit of him, touch every bit of him. Taste . . .

  ‘I don’t know . . . To touch you, I think. To convince myself you’re real.’

  His sandy eyebrows shot up. ‘That’s rather fanciful. Of course I’m real. But if you need convincing, yes, you can touch me, but I’ll punish you all the harder for your whims, beautiful slave, believe me.’ He moved closer, filling her head with the scent of his cologne. ‘Do you think I’m worth it?’

  ‘Yes!’

  Leaning over her, his soft shirt brushing the side of her face, he reached behind her and unfastened her wrists. Freed, she reached for him, not sure what to touch or sample first. After a heartbeat’s hesitation, she laid her hand against the muscle of his chest, fingers spread.

  Oh, he was so warm, and his skin so smooth. She stroked, loving the crisp yet silky texture of his chest hair. Edging forward, she kissed him there too, unable to resist putting out her tongue and licking his nipple.

  ‘Ooh, that’s nice,’ he crooned. ‘Do that again.’

  Circling with the tip of her tongue, she tantalised and teased the little pink-brown bud, flicking at it, loving that it was erect, just like hers. When she started sucking, he held her head, compelling her to continue, commanding her to pleasure him in this small thing. Sliding her arm around him, she reached up to toy with his other nipple with her free hand, but he knocked it away, plucking at the little crest himself, squeezing and pinching. She could see the action out of the corner of her eye, and it inflamed her. He just didn’t care. He did what he wanted, pleasuring himself right there in front of her, even though he was supposed to be playing the stern disciplinarian. When he murmured, ‘Mm . . .’ and shimmied against her, she almost came on the spot.