The Accidental Call Girl

by Portia Da Costa

  ‘I hope this doesn’t take too long. I begrudge every moment spent away from you.’ In the doorway, he paused, ‘Ciao!’

  ‘Knock ‘em dead,’ whispered Lizzie, but he was already gone.

  Swanning through the hotel foyer with a clutch of big, shiny carrier bags, and other less glamorous plastic ones, Lizzie almost laughed at herself.

  I really am living the Pretty Woman experience here. Where’s the once haughty but now kindly hotel manager to smile on me approvingly?

  But there was only a receptionist on duty to offer a smile and a cheery, ‘Good afternoon.’

  Back in the vast suite, Lizzie settled into a chair in the sitting room and put her feet up for a minute or two. She’d walked quite a bit on her shopping expedition.

  Contrary to John’s preferences, she’d mostly used cash he’d given her to make her purchases. A few nice items of lingerie, because that was what he’d wanted her to get. One or two little bits and bobs for herself, plus some books and magazines; several cute tops and a souvenir mug for Shelley; games and more books for Brent. She’d even purchased a few extravagant cat toys from the pet department of one of the stores for Mulder.

  She hadn’t been down to the sea front. Somehow, she wanted to save that experience to share with John. This trip wasn’t a romantic idyll, just a bit of a sex jaunt, really. But a stroll by the seashore together might constitute a vague facsimile of romance, if only for half an hour or so.

  She hadn’t eaten either, but a glance at the room service menu earlier had looked reasonably enticing.

  Closing her eyes, she tried to clear her head of everything but the simple pleasure of being away for a few days in a new town with a handsome, sexually ingenious man. That was easier said than done, though. The complications rushed on in.

  After the shopping trip, she knew she had to tell John, the next time she saw him, that she wasn’t an escort. It’d been a game at first, a dare to herself, a bit of a lark. But she’d never expected to be with him more than the once, or perhaps a couple of times. Now she was hooked. She’d fallen for him, and she wanted and needed to be honest, especially as she might never see him again after tomorrow, or the next day.

  Which was why she’d spent only a modest amount of his money, and not touched the credit card . . . except for one item.

  The special dress. She’d known the moment she’d seen it in the window of the sort of boutique of which she never usually even crossed the threshold.

  It’d been another Pretty Woman moment. Although her look was far from Vivienne’s street style, she’d felt like some kind of peasant as she’d walked into the shop. This was the sort of place John’s real women might patronise – women of celebrity and possibly blue blood – not his temporary playmate. But she’d held her head high and assumed an aura.

  She smiled again now. How wrong can a person be? The assistants had been lovely, super-friendly and helpful. It’d been all, ‘Oh yes, it will look fabulous on you!’ the instant she’d asked about the golden dress in the window.

  It was what might once have been called a sheath dress, a beautifully crafted garment that skimmed the body without clinging, and somehow both tastefully and sensually suggested curves, without grabbing them. As if she was really living a movie, it fit her to perfection, a poem of creamy, buttery gold shantung, overlaid with fine cream lace, tailored immaculately. Lizzie imagined Audrey Hepburn wearing it rather than her beloved Bettie Page, and she’d slipped into a chemists and got the fixings for putting her hair up in a sophisticated chignon to create that sleeker, more soigné impression.

  ‘You’ll love it, John,’ she said to herself as she unpacked the dress from its cocoon of tissue, in order to make sure any creases fell out, ready for his mysterious special party.

  It glistened, almost shone at her. Never mind Pretty Woman, in this she would truly be Cinderella, the belle of whatever potentially outré ball John was planning to take her to. And like Cinders, this might be her last big night with him. As soon as she revealed how she’d deceived him, the fairy tale might well be over completely, kaput and for ever. So she had to make the most of every precious hour before the bell tolled.

  I want it all, John. Everything you can do for my body, while you’re prepared to do it. I might never be with a man again who knows quite as well what he’s doing.

  He’d made promises, and a mock bargain with her when he’d told her the story about his student amours with his male sweetheart Benjamin. The thought of it made her wriggle, imagining, wondering what it might feel like . . . anal sex . . . sodomy. She wanted to try it. She’d always been curious. But never before had she felt she could trust a man enough. Not even Brent, when they’d been lovers.

  Yet with John, she knew she’d be safe.

  The meeting had been tiresome. The deal, meant to be straightforward, had become a hideous tangle of absurd complications. Usually impassive in such circumstances, he’d wanted to jump up, swear and tell them to stop screwing around and wasting his time because he didn’t want to be in the room with them, haggling over piddling sums of money, when he could have been upstairs, in his suite, with Bettie.

  Her beautiful body, her sweet, bright, witty personality, they were like a delicious mirage to him, shining before him, in the aggravating desert of the negotiating environment.

  When the deal was finally signed, he’d sighed out loud, drawing inquisitive looks from the assembled lawyers, executives and other drones. He’d snatched up his laptop and briefcase and almost run out of the room, hearing the offers of celebratory drinks as merely meaningless words.

  When he reached his room, he didn’t storm in, though. She’d done nothing wrong. No need to take his frustration out on her. Seek solace in her arms, or in play with her, yes. But vent his irritation? No, never that.

  He smiled, setting his case and laptop on a side table. Bless her, she was asleep again. He’d never before met a woman, or anyone, who had quite the easy facility for dozing off that Bettie had. He envied her, and yet, earlier, in the car, hadn’t he half nodded off himself while she was asleep? That still astounded him to his very core, and he wondered if perhaps it had been just wishful thinking and he hadn’t slept.

  You did, man. You did. You fell asleep.

  And that had never happened easily, spontaneously, or without apprehension, since prison. It’d been impossible.

  His mind shied away from the memories. The fear. Pain. Bone-deep exhaustion. Hatred of himself. Knowing he deserved every horror. He didn’t go to that place often, because he’d learnt to deal with it, and with himself, and be whole again. After a fashion. With help, and yes, with hindrance too. Clara’s double betrayal . . . When twice he’d believed she cared for him; twice she’d assured him she loved him, but then walked away.

  He’d got past it all, but the sleep issues had stubbornly persisted. Or at least they had until he’d found himself falling asleep beside Bettie in the back of the limousine. And slept on, if only for a few moments, in the presence of another human being, and without strong chemical aid, for the first time in over twenty years.

  And Bettie, his call girl who wasn’t a call girl, was asleep again herself now. She looked peaceful. Angelic. Her dark lashes were like fans across her high cheekbones; her mouth soft and tender, still deliciously pink without benefit of her tinted lip-stain. Her gorgeous body was bundled in one of the hotel’s thick, fluffy robes. Her curves were hidden, but he knew them. The image of her luscious shape was in his mind, like an elixir to harden his cock. She had her legs tucked up beneath her, in the big chair, and he let his hand hover just millimetres over her terry-covered haunch, imagining the feel of the muscle there, the firmness, the resilience when he spanked her.

  The succulent curve of her bottom reminded him of what he’d bargained with her for, in return for his story about Benjamin. A tale elaborated upon, but true in essence. Would she be willing to give him her arse? His fingers flexed, to caress it, but he held back, reluctant to disturb her, even t
hough his cock had stiffened to a rigid aching bar, just at the thought of sodomising her slowly and luxuriantly.

  Let her sleep, man. Don’t be greedy. Wait a little while.

  Stepping away, he tried to ignore his gouging erection. There were carrier bags spread in the other chairs, her shopping presumably. Curiosity piqued him, and he wondered if she’d overcome her reluctance to use the card he’d given her.

  In the bags he found lingerie, a variety of small accessories – a couple of belts, a pretty purse with stitched leather kittens on it that made him smile – and several women’s tops and teeshirts, a souvenir mug, other gift items. And cat toys? There were also quite a few books: thrillers, several romances and a couple of rather advanced looking primers on dressmaking. And quite a stack of games.

  John frowned, intrigued by the selection of items. Presumably most of the things were for herself, but some were clearly for her house-mates, human and feline. He’d certainly not pegged her as a gamer.

  As they were mostly combat and sport, he guessed the games were for Brent. The real man in her life. Again, John tried to squelch his sudden jealousy. Bettie was devoted to her friend, and John feared she probably loved the younger man far more than she herself realised. At the moment. But the time would come and, for her sake, he hoped soon. She, at least, deserved to get her emotional life settled . . .

  Even if I can’t.

  John sighed again, more heavily than he’d done in the boardroom.

  If I was a decent man, I’d send her home right now. Send her back to the man she cares for. But I’m not a decent man, and I want her. Want her badly.

  His time with Bettie wouldn’t be long. But he’d be selfish and grab what he could, while he could. Moments of happiness, to remember and to treasure.

  Leaving his lover to her dreams, he strode to his room, yearning for another shower. To cleanse his soul, not his body. To sluice away both the past and the presentiment of future loss.

  As Lizzie woke, she experienced a sense of unease. She felt as if someone had been watching her, and when she glanced around she expected to see John in one of the other chairs, studying her, perhaps sipping a glass of gin while he contemplated their next erotic encounter.

  Bring it on.

  She wanted the distraction. The uncomplicated escape of sex, despite the games they played. Delirious pleasure with John, whose need for her was straightforward, simple.

  And it was a good job things were that way with somebody. She knew where she stood with him. Not so with Brent, who’d been snappish, distant, then argumentative when she’d phoned him again earlier to see how he was doing, a world away from the fairly cheerful friend who’d seen her off. What had happened?

  ‘Don’t fucking well fuss! I’m a grown-up, Lizzie. I can manage on my own, you know. You and Shelley treat me like a little kid sometimes . . . I’m not going to do something stupid.’

  But for all his bravado, there was a bleakness in his voice, and that worried her. She’d wanted to suggest that she come home straight away, but even as she’d hinted it, he’d almost bitten her head off again.

  ‘Look, leave it, will you. Enjoy your fuck-fest. And you take care . . . worry about yourself, not me. I’ll bet you haven’t told him yet, have you?’

  The conversation had petered out, leaving her unsettled and still worried about him. Brent just wouldn’t stop beating himself up, after all this time, for the accident he’d believed he’d caused, and the love he’d lost.

  I will go back home tomorrow. I will tell John the truth, and return to real life.

  But in the meantime, in the hours she had left with him, she’d dive into every possible pleasure she could share with him. She’d give. She’d take. She’d experience everything: the new and the strange, and the familiar, intense sensations she knew he could give her. The sweet succour of his lips, his hands and his marvellous body. The miraculous illusion that she was just as much ‘the one’ for him, as she suspected he’d become for her.

  Springing to her feet, she stood listening and heard a shower running, the sound emanating from the open door to John’s bedroom, and the bathroom beyond. He was back, it seemed, no doubt the possessor of this hotel now. Well, she would help him celebrate his success by giving him something else he wanted.

  15

  Revelations

  The water teemed down. John tried to keep his mind blank, and to settle into his senses. The flow pattered against his skin in a micro massage, and the scent of the soap he’d cleansed himself with was fresh and heady.

  His cock was hard, anticipating the hand, the lips or the cunt of Bettie . . . or perhaps the snug embrace of her arse.

  Oh, my beautiful girl, I know you’ll be heavenly.

  He imagined her wriggling against him, her body a-tremble as she rode the disturbing sensations that had to be sailed through to reach the shores of delicious, dark pleasure, and forbidden intensity. There was always that frantic moment, no matter how familiar the act was.

  Taking himself in hand, he shuddered, suddenly back with Benjamin, that last time, in the grip of that moment of dangerous, terrible thrill when the nerve-endings inside sent messages of panic zipping around the body. He’d been scared that time, unsure whether he could tolerate it after what had happened since they’d last been together, but his friend had made it beautiful for him . . . just as he was going to make it beautiful for the woman sharing his suite.

  ‘Bettie,’ he gasped, the rushing water of the shower trickling over his lips as his chest heaved. The urge to masturbate furiously almost overcame him, but he resisted it, wanting to save himself for her. ‘Bettie . . .’

  As if summoned, she appeared, her shapely form distinct through the frosted glass of the cubicle, skin creamy, curves delicate, dark hair fastened up in some kind of loose knot, the triangle of her pubic patch just as dark, a stark siren call to his aching penis.

  Sliding back the shower door a little, she asked, ‘Can I come in?’

  He laughed in the pounding water. ‘I’ll think about it . . .’ Reaching out, he opened the panel wider, to admit her, then drew her by the arm into the cocoon of steam and moisture. ‘There . . . I’ve thought about it.’ With an arm already around her waist, he slid the shower door closed to contain them.

  As if they’d showered together a thousand times, their bodies came together, wet, naked skin pressing against wet, naked skin. The points of her nipples were as hard as his cock felt to him. Her mons pubis brushed against his aching flesh, a soft caress to his rigidity. He closed his hands around the smooth, resilient lobes of her buttocks, loving their firmness, irresistibly drawn to the warm groove between them, pressing in with his fingers to tickle her anus.

  A little moan escaped her lips and she rocked herself against him, rubbing him and enticing him. Whether it was an automatic response or deliberate provocation, he really didn’t care. It just felt sublime. He pressed harder, rubbing and probing at the little vent, smiling against her haphazardly contained hair when she worked herself harder against his length, panting and making eager little sounds.

  ‘God, you feel lovely, Bettie.’ He kissed her brow, her cheek, then her throat. ‘Are you going to give me what I want?’ He poised his fingertip against her rear entrance, gently pressing.

  ‘Hell yes,’ she panted, ‘I want it too. But there’s stuff I need to tell you first, John. Important stuff.’ She was shaking in his hold, and he wasn’t sure how much of it was to do with the prospect of anal sex. He knew what it was that was making her tremble. It was the moment of truth, or one of them, and he wanted to tell her that none of it mattered to him, one way or the other. She was a jewel to him, escort or otherwise. He didn’t care about the money. Just her.

  ‘What is it, Bettie? You can tell me. You can tell me anything.’ He stroked her, fondling her rudely. He knew that perhaps he should just draw her out of the shower, bundle her in a robe, and sit her down for a proper talk. But he simply couldn’t stop touching her.

  ‘
You might not like it,’ she said, her mouth against his neck now.

  ‘Let me be the judge of that. I can’t think of anything about you that I could possibly not like.’ True. So true.

  She looked up at him. Her eyes were huge and dark, alight with lust, but shadowed with apprehension too. He bent to kiss her quickly, to reassure her.

  ‘OK, then,’ she said, still looking him in the eye when he lifted his face from hers. Her bravery thrilled him just as much as the warm, wet skin of her body against his. ‘But the first thing . . . really. My name isn’t really “Bettie”.’

  It wasn’t a surprise. The name went with the style. It stood to reason it was as manufactured as her homage to the famous 1950s glamour star.

  ‘So, mystery woman, what is your name, then?’ He kept on stroking her, and she drew a sharp little breath.

  ‘Well, I am an “Elizabeth” . . . but people call me “Lizzie”, not Bettie. The Bettie thing is just a joke, because I look a bit like her.’

  Lizzie. He tried it in his mind before on his lips.

  Lizzie. It was cute, spikey, pert; just like her. In the blink of an eye, he knew he liked it. He liked real Lizzie even more than he’d liked the performance that was Bettie.

  ‘It suits you . . . Lizzie . . . I’m sure I’ll soon get used to it.’ Her hair was tumbling from its up-do and he smoothed the wayward black strands from her face. ‘What else have you got to tell me? What other dramatic revelations are there?’