The Accidental Call Girl

by Portia Da Costa

  Oh, me too. Me too!

  Picturing his cosy, fussy, chintz-clad room at the Waverley, she imagined him in his bed, just as she was in her bed. Did he wear pyjamas, or sleep naked? Was he holding his erect cock now; was he close to coming? His blond hair would be wild and tousled from sleep, and he’d have stubble too, all sexy and lovely.

  ‘Oh, you wouldn’t be very impressed with me this morning, John. I’m not done up. No make-up. My hair needs washing and I’m wearing ancient and very scruffy clothes.’ They weren’t that bad, but she was painting a different kind of picture for him. ‘Nobody would believe that I’m an escort, to look at me now.’

  ‘Sounds delightful. Like the girl next door. Horny and unsophisticated. I’ll bet that’s a good look on you.’

  ‘Oh, thank you very much.’

  ‘You know what I mean, Bettie. And you don’t know how to be anything but gorgeous. I’m holding my cock now, thinking of you in your scruffy pyjamas and with your hair all over the place, and none of that magical lip-tint.’ He gasped. How close was he to coming? ‘I can imagine your lips soft and pink, soft and rosy . . . Oh lordy, lordy, I’d love to feel them on me right now.’

  ‘Mr Smith, are you wanking? I should charge you for this. Phone sex is still sex, you know.’

  He laughed again, a free, happy sound. So young. Like a boy tossing himself off for his first sweetheart. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll slip an extra hour’s fee in the next envelope. It’ll be worth it.’

  ‘Well, in that case, carry on. Is there anything you’d like me to do or say, seeing as how we’re on an appointment now?’

  He exhaled. A breath? A sigh? A gasp of pleasure? ‘Tell me where your hands are? Tell me what you’re doing? What you’ve been doing?’

  Truth? Or confabulation, for his benefit? Truth, she decided, well, partially. Swapping her phone hand, she adjusted her position again, for comfort. If she’d had half a brain cell, she’d have jumped up and locked her door – Shelley might come bounding in with the Sunday Times any moment, never thinking to knock – but somehow John’s voice was too hypnotising and she just couldn’t move.

  ‘Well, at the moment I’m lying back against the pillows, holding my phone on one hand and . . . touching myself with the other. I was masturbating when you called. I’d just come but I was wondering whether to go again . . . I . . .’ She faltered. Could she tell him? He thought she was a prostitute, as brazen as brazen could be, but really she was just an ordinary woman, not a prude but not a sexual raconteuse either.

  ‘Oh, Bettie, Bettie, don’t hold back. I’ll pay double your usual rate. Go on, make an old man very happy.’ He chuckled, but his breath was light in the earpiece. She had no doubt that he was a hair away from coming.

  ‘How many times do I have to tell you? You’re not old, you idiot!’ She laughed too. He was a brilliant, virile man, but even brilliant, virile men could be idiots and have their self-doubts. ‘You’re the perfect age, John, and the most fanciable man I’ve met in ages.’

  Fanciable man ever, a subversive voice in the back of her mind piped up.

  ‘Now, now . . . no flattery, beautiful Bettie. No falsehood. Tell me where your hands were when the phone rang. Tell me exactly.’

  Somewhere in the banter, a new thread had emerged. Somehow, he’d suddenly morphed into that fierce, indomitable, masterful man again. The man who made her shudder in the most delicious way, and want to crawl on her knees before him.

  ‘I . . . I was rubbing myself with one hand, and with the other I had a finger inside myself. Well, two actually . . . I like to do that. When I pleasure myself. I like something in me, you know?’

  ‘Excellent. And how often do you pleasure yourself, Bettie? How often do you put fingers inside yourself and stroke yourself?’

  That gave her pause for thought. In the normal run of things, she didn’t masturbate all that often. It was only now, with John Smith in her life, that she seemed to feel like doing it all the time.

  ‘Do you mean when I put on a show for clients, or when I do it for myself?’

  There was a pause. She could almost feel him thinking, weighing her up, perhaps even judging her? The bastard, who was he to do that? A man who chose to pay for sex was no better than the woman who chose to sell it.

  ‘For yourself, foolish girl, for yourself. As far as I’m concerned, you have no other clients.’

  Yikes, does he suspect? He’s no fool . . .

  ‘I’m not a girl. I’m twenty-four. I’m a woman.’

  A soft laugh issued from the phone. ‘Indeed you are, and God, don’t I know it.’ There was a pause, and Lizzie thought she heard a rustling. What was he doing? Was he still handling himself? How close was he? ‘You’re also wilful and contrary and you’re straying from the point. How often do you masturbate?’

  ‘Often enough . . . several times a week. It depends how busy work is, you know?’

  John sighed the impatient sigh of perhaps a schoolmaster with a wayward, recalcitrant pupil.

  ‘What’s the matter? Were you expecting me to be super horny, just because I’m an escort? Surely, you’d understand it might be exactly the opposite. Sex is work. Maybe I want to do other things in my spare time?’

  There was a long pause. Damn, she’d killed the mood. He’d probably been grooving along nicely, stroking himself and climbing towards orgasm, and now she’d as good as thrown a bucket of cold water all over him.

  ‘I appreciate your honesty, Bettie. Now tell me one thing. When you were with me, did you really feel pleasure? Did you come?’ His voice was soft, honest . . . sympathetic. ‘I won’t be offended if you didn’t. I thought you did. I hoped you did. But I guess in your business, you get to be a pretty good actress.’

  ‘Honesty? Well, yes, John. When I was with you, I did feel pleasure and I enjoyed the games. I had orgasms. Lots of them.’ She drew in a deep breath. ‘And I can safely say I’ve never experienced that with another client. I’m sure you won’t believe me, but with you, it has been different.’

  It was all the truth. She’d never come with another client. The fact that she’d never had any clients and unless something very drastic occurred, she never would have any, was beside the point.

  ‘I believe you, Bettie,’ he replied, sounding happy. Sophisticated and worldly as he was, he was still a man, and men enjoyed having their prowess and their specialness praised.

  ‘And I was playing with myself when you rang, thinking of you. God’s honest truth.’

  ‘Even better . . . Although I guess I’ve put you off now.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ she said, realising that was true too. Just talking to him, listening to his velvety voice, was getting to her. She imagined him in the fantasy dungeon, then in his hotel room. So in charge. She wished he’d tell her to do something again now. Whatever it was, she’d do it.

  ‘Is your finger still where it was?’

  ‘Honestly, no. It was a bit uncomfortable, twisted around like that. I couldn’t concentrate on talking to you like that, and I like to focus on your voice. You’ve got a very nice voice, Mr Smith. I bet all the girls tell you that, don’t they?’

  ‘It’s true actually. I have been praised for my dulcet tones,’ he admitted. She could hear him smiling again. ‘Not by a girl, though, not by a long shot. But, there’s one particular lady who did like to hear me talk dirty now and again.’

  ‘Who was that?’

  Damn, she was asking questions again, and that was bad form for an escort.

  ‘An older woman of my acquaintance. I’ll tell you about her sometime. Now, do you think we might resume our phone sex? I was enjoying it. Where are your fingers now?’

  Lizzie sank more comfortably into the pillows, and slid her free hand back inside her sleep shorts. She was still hot, still wet. Still almost there, despite everything.

  ‘One lot holding the phone, naturally . . . the others still in my knickers, in the usual place.’

  ‘Wonderful! At the risk of sounding like the worl
d’s worst cliché of a mucky telephone pervert . . . what are you wearing? Do you wear knickers in bed? You said you were scruffy . . . How scruffy?’

  Lizzie smiled to herself. He did sound like a telephone pervert, but in the most luscious and desirable way.

  ‘I’m wearing a pair of soft jersey shorts and a plain white tee shirt. Nothing too glamorous, just sleep grunge.’

  ‘Mm . . . I’m picturing the scene . . . white tee shirt. Thin cotton, with erect nipples evident beneath. Little, tight grungy shorts, with your hand inside them, fiddling about . . . And you’re super wet, am I right?’

  ‘Yes.’ She was a swimming pond, almost ready to come.

  ‘When you were masturbating before, what were you fantasising about? Tell me. What gets a woman like you going? What are your secret turn-ons?’

  A woman like her? How little he knew. Or perhaps not? He might have rumbled her and was playing her along. As an older man, and one infinitely more sophisticated than any she’d ever met before, he was difficult to read.

  ‘A woman in my line of work? Well, I fantasise about sitting in front of the telly, in a puce velour tracksuit, eating crisps and watching Countdown . . . Now that’s exotic to me!’

  ‘Bettie . . .’ His voice was low and warning, utterly thrilling. Just as it would have been in that dungeon she’d fancied him in.

  ‘All right already . . . I was fantasising about being in a dungeon and you punishing me, if you must know. You and your kinky ways have warped my mind.’ She was already back there, hanging on the chain, while John prowled around her, whip in hand, ready to lash.

  ‘Am I more kinky than most of your clients, then? I would’ve thought you’d see all kinds, get asked for all sorts of things.’

  ‘I do, but it’s like we said . . . where punishment’s concerned, it’s usually the men who want me to thrash them. Being on the other end of the stick, so to speak, is a novelty.’ And a gigantic turn-on. Her sex was dripping, making a damp patch on the back of her shorts. Impatient with them, she whipped them off and flung them away, spreading her thighs wide now unhindered. ‘John, I just took my shorts off . . . do you mind?’

  ‘But I didn’t give you permission.’ His voice sounded like navy blue velvet, rich and dark. She’d played right into his hands.

  ‘Forgive me, master. Shall I put them back on?’

  ‘No . . . leave them. Are your legs spread wide?’ She could swear he could see her. How could he do that? Was he a remote viewer, or some kind of wizard?

  ‘Yes, master.’

  ‘Now, place your free hand on your thighs. Don’t touch yourself. Just talk to me. If you disobey me . . . if you come . . . I’ll know, and I’ll punish you even harder next time we meet.’

  Oh no! It wasn’t the punishment that bothered her. She was suddenly yearning for that. It was the not touching. Her clit was throbbing, aching, yearning for contact. She could swear it was twice its normal size, swollen and sensitive.

  ‘Do you understand me, Bettie?’

  ‘Y—yes, master.’ Her non-phone hand felt like a useless object pressed against her inner thigh, but she couldn’t move it. She was immobilised by his will.

  ‘So, let’s talk about this fantasy dungeon of yours, and what you’re wearing. I think you might have on a leather bikini with peepholes for your nipples and just a tiny little thong for the bottom half.’

  Lizzie barked with laughter. Oh, he was a caution. Was he serious? Was that what he wanted to see her in? It sounded like a blue version of a Carry On movie outfit.

  ‘Ah, so you think my wishes are funny, do you?’

  ‘No! No! It was just a surprise. But you might be right . . . Now I come to think about it, I am wearing a leather bikini, yes. Yes, I am. And it’s very skimpy, you can see everything. It makes me look more exposed than if I was naked.’

  ‘That sounds like a very nice bikini indeed. And your nipples, perhaps they’re rouged? A pretty red, to match your lip-tint and the stripes I’m going to put across your bottom?’

  ‘Um, yes . . . yes they are.’ She looked down at her nipples. They were very dark beneath the thin white cotton of her tee, poking against it, hard. Her hand tingled with another urge, to tweak and squeeze them, but she was forbidden to do that too, presumably.

  ‘Excellent. And now, the leather knickers. I fancy that they’re very abbreviated. Barely more than a few strips of butter-soft hide, you know? Just a little triangle at the front and a cord at the back, dividing your delicious buttocks and leaving them bare and available. Might that be the case, perhaps?’

  She could see herself in this get-up. The corset she’d imagined before dissolved, only to be replaced by John’s porno fantasy. She was hanging on the chain with her nipples painted red and her bum bare but for a single dark leather strip, snug and tight in her anal groove.

  Oh God . . . She dug her nails into her thigh, pinching herself to keep from thrashing at her clit and making herself come. If only John were here and he would play with her. In her mind, the dungeon was forgotten and he was here, now, looming over her, kneeling on the bed and reaching down to fondle her pussy.

  ‘Bettie? What are you doing?’

  ‘Nothing, just admiring your choice in elegant undergarments for me.’

  She heard a soft breath through the speaker. Not quite a laugh, not quite a grunt. Was he wanking? She thought he might be.

  ‘Now, back to your leather panties. They’re only tiny, and your beautiful dark bush is peeking out. Why is that so, Bettie? Most working ladies of my acquaintance are pretty scrupulous about their Brazilians. Some of them even wax it off completely. But you’re relatively luxuriant down there.’ He paused. He was challenging her again, testing her. ‘Not that I’m complaining. I prefer it on you . . . but still.’

  ‘I . . . Well, once, I had to take a client at very short notice, and I hadn’t time to wax, and he loved it. He went wild.’ She bit her lip, thinking fast. ‘So I tried it again, with another punter, and he loved it too . . . so since then I’ve been a bit less . . . um . . . stringent down there. I’ve even got one or two guys now who’ll pay extra if I let it get really shaggy.’

  ‘Connoisseurs,’ pronounced John roundly.

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I do, and my word is the law.’ She could hear the laughter in his voice, but there was that edge too, the thread of dominance that made her feel light-headed. ‘So, this dungeon of yours, let’s hear a bit more about it? Are you chained up?’

  ‘Yes, I am. There’s a big chain hanging from the ceiling and I’m fastened to it, with my arms stretched up. I can only just reach.’

  ‘Because you’re wearing high heels?’

  ‘How did you know?’ She hadn’t got as far as her feet, but if he was into her wearing a leather bikini, it wasn’t much of a leap to imagine he’d want her in towering stilettos too.

  ‘I have powers . . . Now come on, more detail.’

  ‘It’s very dark and gloomy and there are torches. More chains and whips, and instruments of torture hanging from the walls. And people too, watching the show. I can’t see them properly. They’re in the shadows, but they’re all agog. Some of them might be masturbating.’

  ‘Agog, eh? I’m not surprised. It sounds like my birthday in there.’ He laughed softly, the sound of that just as sexy as his faux dictatorial voice. The way he switched from one persona to the other was breath-taking, and seamless. ‘And me, what about me in all this? What am I wearing?’

  ‘Er . . . it’s dark . . . it’s hard to see . . .’

  ‘Do you know, I think I might be wearing leather too. Skin-tight leather jeans and high boots, and a big belt. Nothing else, except maybe a studded collar?’

  Lizzie exploded into laughter again, unable to help herself. John Smith was the most surprising man she’d ever met, both awe-inspiring and yet frequently hilarious.

  ‘And again . . . she laughs. You’re just asking for trouble, aren’t you, Bettie? Don’t you fancy the idea of me in leather
trousers?’ She could hear that grin again, that sunny, beautiful grin of his. ‘Do you think I’d look like a dickhead?’

  ‘Well, it’s a bit of cliché, but you should be able to get away with leather, at a pinch. In fact . . . you look great!’

  And he did. In her mind. The beautiful suit faded and she saw him clearly in the fetish gear, the black of it stunning against his golden beauty, the leather sleek over his thighs and arse, the collar round his throat a sigil of power. He didn’t look like a fool or a cliché. He looked wonderful.

  ‘Good answer . . . I think.’ He paused, and she thought she detected a rustle. Him getting comfortable, ready to bring himself off? ‘So, you’re strung up from the ceiling and I’m strutting around in my leather strides . . . What next?’

  ‘You whip me with a riding crop and it really, really hurts.’

  ‘Oh, my sweet Bettie, you do tell the best stories. I can just imagine it . . . You twisting on the chain, struggling and writhing, your gorgeous body jiggling about as you try to avoid the blows. Tears on your face. Fire across your bottom. Crimson nipples peeking out of the leather. You’re aroused and wet, and it starts to ooze down your thighs even while you’re moaning for mercy. Your arse is on fire but suddenly you’re begging and pleading for me to fuck you.’

  He sounded breathy. He had to be pumping himself. He just had to be.

  And his strictures forgotten, Lizzie was rubbing herself too, pounding her clit as she clutched her phone so tightly she thought she might snap it in half. Her bottom lifted from the bed, blindly pushing her crotch at her hand as much as that hand was pressing back down. Heels gouging at the bed sheets, she jerked her hips.

  ‘And I want to fuck you . . . but I want to hear you groan and cry a bit more first. So I crop you some more, criss-crossing the strokes, finding tender new spots. I whip your thighs, the outer curves of your bottom . . . the inner ones too. I catch you right across your delicious little arsehole and you scream.’

  Biting down hard on her lip, so as not to actually scream, in the real world, Lizzie pressed down hard on her clitoris and the world went white with intense pleasure, an orgasm so ferocious it was almost brutal, laying waste to her as her sex pulsed like a heart.