‘Wait. Take your jacket off first.’
He slipped off the fabulous item of tailoring, and set it aside. As was his preference, his suit was a three piece, and as he leant over the front of the leather-topped desk, the trim fit of his waistcoat only seemed to emphasise the firm, muscular rounds of his buttocks beneath his perfectly cut trousers.
Bare or clothed? What to do? Acknowledging her own inexperience, Lizzie decided it was probably better to let him keep the protection of a couple of layers of clothing. This was more a symbolic act than anything else. She didn’t want to hurt him too much, or land more than a handful of blows. Her own desire was too ravenous for her to spend long on rituals. She wanted that huge erection of his inside her before too long.
John settled into his position, somehow managing to look graceful and strong even when at a disadvantage. He laid his bent arms forward out of the way, and rested his cheek against the surface of the desk, his face towards her. There was no apprehension in his expression. He was all calm. His eyes were closed, his long, thick eyelashes lying like shadows.
She didn’t have to say anything, because mistresses didn’t, but still she spoke. ‘Are you ready?’
‘Yes, mistress.’ His voice was soft and though without inflection, it was just as thrilling as if he’d been lying in bed with her, about to possess her and fuck her.
I’m the one who’s all nerves. I’m the one who’s scared.
Lizzie smiled to herself at the irony, but just admitting it gave her confidence. She stepped forward, and laid the ruler flat against the crown of John’s buttocks, letting it rest there a moment. With no idea quite how hard to hit, she landed a preliminary stroke, aiming for the point where the ruler had rested. He uttered not a sound, but she saw the muscles of his upper arms tense beneath the fine cotton of his shirt.
So far, so good.
It was surprisingly difficult not to hit hard. Lizzie let fly again, and again, with a little more force this time, focusing on the same location. It was safe. Prominent. Easier to concentrate on the centre of his gorgeous, tight bottom. She didn’t want the ruler to wander about and land a cruel stroke on his most tender zone.
She’d meant to give him a few spanks, just four or five, but the process was strangely hypnotic. There was a dark thrill in watching his response. She saw him grit his teeth. Heard him gasp out loud. A wicked devil danced inside her, fed on power.
After the tenth blow, the power grew too much to contain. Its quality changed, transmuting and gathering in her sex, demanding service. She almost growled, imagining herself clutching the sore buttocks of her lover as he plunged into her, fulfilling his mistress’s will.
‘Oh fuck this! I want you! Move yourself,’ she cried, tossing away the ruler and pushing at John’s haunch and making him gasp again. As he stood up, pushing himself away from the desk, Lizzie launched herself forward, perched herself on its surface, shuffling into position and hauling up her skirt. ‘Now make yourself useful, slave. Fuck me! Fuck me hard!’
She was laughing as she stretched her thighs open, inviting him.
‘As you wish, mistress.’ He was smiling, though. His eyes were bright and wild, and there was a dash of pink across his cheekbones. Were his other cheeks just as rosy? Lizzie sincerely hoped so.
‘Oh, bollocks to that!’ She pulled at his shirt sleeve. ‘You know you’ve really been in charge all the time, you sneaky bastard.’ She grinned at him, pleased to see him slip his hand into his waistcoat pocket and fish out a condom.
‘Not completely,’ said John, tossing the contraceptive on her bare belly as he worked on his belt and zip, and then his underwear. ‘Does this look like I was in control . . .?’ He turned away from her a moment, holding up his shirt-tails and pushing down his trousers and underwear to reveal the muscular rounds of his bottom, blotched with angry red.
‘Oh, you public school boys, you know you love that sort of thing!’ It was an impressive sight, though, bizarrely stirring her hunger for him.
‘Apparently, I do.’ He turned to face her, his hugely erect cock all the signal either of them needed. He pointed it right at her, jiggling it rudely before grabbing the condom and rolling it on in a hurry. ‘At least he does.’ He proffered his enrobed length to her, moving in close between her spread thighs.
‘Who’s in charge now?’ gasped Lizzie, pulling him closer, wiggling so he could find her entrance. As he pushed in, she let out a low, happy cry, working against him, grabbing at his punished bottom to drag him in deep, loving his gasp at the pain revisited.
‘Who the fuck cares?’ he replied, a laugh in his voice as he shoved hard, plunging in deep. ‘I think this one’s a draw. We’re both in charge. Everyone’s a winner.’
As he reached between their bodies, to find her clit, Lizzie knew she was. It took but a couple of haphazard rubs and she was coming, shouting his name.
‘Yes!’ John shouted, as if it were his own pleasure, and half out of her head in the middle of an orgasm, Lizzie’s ecstatic cries turned to laughter, just as ecstatic. The devil, the bastard, he’d got his way, exactly as he’d expected and just as she’d known he would.
Riding the delicious waves, she clutched him harder, her fingertips gouging the site of his punishment, her back arched as if compelling every inch of herself to every inch of him. She had no idea if it was the pain, or the intensity of their bodies slamming together, but as she soared again, he rewarded her with a harsh uncouth shout, and the so familiar hammer of his hips as he hit his climax inside her. The mighty old desk, solid oak or some such wood, rocked and slid slightly as they strained and bounced and pounded.
As it creaked in protest, they flew again, kissing and groaning mutual nonsense as they came.
‘God, I could do with a drink. How about you?’ said John cheerfully, straightening his clothing a little while later, and then dropping the used condom into the waste bin of whoever this great mansion belong to. Lizzie was on her hands and knees on the floor. She’d managed to retrieve her thong and wriggle into it, but she couldn’t find the ruler. They must have kicked it out of reach when they were thrashing about in passion.
‘Well, I don’t know where it is.’ She straightened up. ‘Do you think they’ll suspect anything?’
Tugging his waistcoat into place, John came across to her, and gave her a kiss on the cheek before brushing strands of hair away from her face. They’d both removed their masks, knocked half awry by kisses, and Lizzie touched the disaster zone of her lost hairstyle ruefully, then rummaged in her little evening bag – which she seemed to have dropped some time in the previous century – for her comb. She’d have to wear it loose for the rest of the night. Given what most of the rest of the guests were probably getting up to, a suddenly collapsed chignon wouldn’t merit a second glance.
‘I think our hosts would be astonished, and a bit disappointed, if they didn’t find half of their rulers and other applicable instruments missing.’ He reached out, took the comb from her and moved around behind her to run it deftly through her hair, teasing out tangles. ‘It was probably left on the desk for the express purpose of prompting a scene like ours.’
Lizzie almost sighed with contentment. John’s hands were gentle yet capable, combing her hair as if he’d been tending to it for years, then smoothing it with his hands. When he stepped away and handed the little comb to her, she checked her appearance with her compact mirror.
Her face was a bit flushed, and her lips were pink from kissing rather than from lip-stain now, but her hair looked spot-on, just as she would have arranged it herself.
‘There’s a career for you in hairdressing if the tycoon thing ever falls through.’
John beamed, running his hands through his own blond curls, and not doing too bad a job of tidying them either. ‘Well, that’s good to know. It’s always handy to have skills to fall back on.’ With a sudden, sultry look, he glanced towards the edge of the desk. ‘And you’d make a superb dominatrix, if you ever decided to turn your hand t
o it.’
‘I wasn’t sure if I was doing it right . . . or whether you were enjoying it. Do you . . . um . . . do that often?’ She stowed away the mirror, watching John shrug back into his jacket and smooth his lapels. The sleek man of the world was back, invulnerable in his armour of perfect tailoring.
‘Not often.’ He picked at an imaginary speck of lint. ‘And I’m not sure I’ve ever really enjoyed it quite so much.’ His eyes were intent beneath his sandy eyebrows. ‘Like I said, you have a wonderful touch. Now, come on . . . let’s find that drink.’ He frowned a little, as if suddenly, some knotty problem had surfaced.
Lizzie’s heart ached for the distance opening up between them. She knew the gulf would come, and sooner rather than later, but still it hurt. ‘And the buffet too. I think I’m hungry again.’ She did feel peckish. It seemed crazy. But food was always a sovereign comfort.
She almost laughed, but instead manufactured a smile for him.
‘Are you all right, Lizzie?’ he said, suddenly softer.
‘Yes, fine . . . it’s just all this stuff . . .’ She gestured around. ‘It’s very intense . . . and I really am hungry.’
‘Me too. Let’s go. Masks on, sweetheart.’ He closed the gap between them – the physical gap – and helped her with the golden mask. When his own was in place, he led her to the door.
In the corridor, he tucked her hand in his arm. Lizzie had no idea of the direction back to the buffet, the house was so vast, but John struck out along the broad corridor, flashing her a smile. They walked for a little way, and she began to recognise the pictures they’d seen before, and hear the sound of voices from the buffet room, but almost as they reached the door, the dignified butler approached them from a corridor running at right angles to the one they were heading along.
‘Miss Page? I wonder if you could come quickly to the morning room. There’s been a call on your phone . . . I think it’s rather important.’
Lizzie’s heart froze. Her step faltered, and John’s strong arm slid around her, supporting her.
Brent.
It had to be Brent.
Oh, baby, what have you done?
Fearing the worst, she hurried after the butler, with John beside her.
20
The Real World
The vending machine coffee was horrible. It didn’t taste of much, and was lukewarm, but Lizzie sipped it anyway, for something to do. Beside her, John had already thrown his plastic cup in the bin.
This is the real world.
The little waiting room off the men’s medical ward at the local hospital was bleak. The old building was nothing like the equally venerable building she’d left, not an hour ago, that palace of luxury and perversion where rich and sophisticated people still went about their kinky pleasures.
A nurse hurried by the open door of waiting room, and Lizzie looked up anxiously. It wasn’t news for her. They’d said she could see Brent when they’d settled him down, but it was taking a worrying while.
‘Shall I make enquiries again?’
John reached for her free hand and held it tight. His beautiful face was grave, but it was difficult to know what he was thinking. He looked troubled, but as he didn’t know Brent, it couldn’t be her friend he was concerned for, could it? Perhaps he was worried about her? She had no illusions that he might harbour deep feelings for her, and she knew that she was just a passing fancy to him, but everything about him told her he was a compassionate man at heart, for all his business ruthlessness and sexual peccadillos, and he probably did feel a genuine, general sympathy for her and for Brent.
‘Maybe in a minute?’ she suggested. They hadn’t really been waiting all that long. It just seemed like an eternity.
‘Sure?’
She nodded, wishing she could make some kind of conversation with him. But she couldn’t. This was the real world of unpleasant things happening and, to her, he was a creature of fantasy, a golden prince from her wildest dream.
He gave her hand a squeeze, and offered a small, strangely confused looking smile, then glanced away into the middle distance, leaving her to her troubled thoughts, and returning to his own. When she saw him frowning, she returned her attention to her unappetising plastic cup.
Back at the mansion, the call she’d been summoned to was one of many. Several had gone to voicemail, but her phone had kept ringing and the butler had finally answered in her stead. And then sped off to fetch her at the double.
Brent’s voice had been slurred and indistinct in the messages. Sounding drunk, but somehow more. The words ‘I just wanted to say goodbye’ had chilled her to the marrow . . . but at the same time galvanised her to action. She’d called their landlady, who lived close by, and 999, in quick succession, all the time cursing herself for not being there. Then she called Shelley, and imparted the news as calmly as she could, so as not to upset the other girl. Shelley got upset anyway, and said she’d be on the next train home.
I should have seen it coming. I should never have left him.
And yet, hadn’t Brent insisted she go? Oh God, maybe this was why? He’d wanted them both out of the way to do this. She’d known his sorrow about his lost love was deep. Why hadn’t she guessed he might seek the ultimate solace? The last comfort, beyond anything she could do to make him feel better.
All the while she’d been making calls, she’d been aware of John also in action. Summoning Jeffrey, making calls himself, frowning. It’d all seemed as if at a distance. When she’d finally leapt up, ready to leave, she’d swayed and he’d caught her and sat her down again. Then put a glass of brandy into her hand.
‘Drink this. Sit a minute. Jeffrey is bringing the car round, but I’m just going to see if I can find someone. We might be able to get there much faster. Just hold on a moment.’ He’d given her a hurried kiss on the forehead, then left the room, almost running.
Ten minutes later, they’d been in the back of a rather splendid helicopter.
‘Is this yours?’ she’d asked distractedly, as John had helped her buckle up, ready for take-off.
‘No, alas . . . though I’d like one. It belongs to a friend who was also at the party. He’s put it at our disposal for the time being. Here, you’ll need these . . .’ He’d passed her a headset.
Under other circumstances, it would have been a thrilling flight, her first ever, and she’d have been desperately curious about the ‘friend’. But all she could do was offer thanks, and sit anxiously in her seat, willing the craft to whirl its way as fast as it could to their destination, not caring about the how and why of logistics. She hadn’t a clue about such things and with Brent’s slurred farewells in her head, she had no mind-space to care. Dimly, at one stage, she’d realised she was wearing John’s jacket, with her pashmina round her neck and shoulders. She must have shivered on the way out to the helicopter and he’d bundled her up, but she simply couldn’t remember it happening.
They’d landed in the park at the Waverley. It was the small hours of the morning, but many lights were lit in the bedrooms, as if people were peering out to see what the fuss was. John sped her towards a hired chauffeur-driven car that was waiting to bring them here, to the hospital.
It had all taken barely an hour, and they’d been sitting here twenty minutes.
Lizzie made to set her cup down on the floor beside her, but John took it from her and disposed of it. Returning, he took her hand again.
‘Don’t worry. They said they got to him in time, thanks to your quick action,’ he said, rubbing her hand between his. Lizzie felt a hysterical urge to laugh; it was just what someone in a melodramatic film might do. ‘He’ll be fine.’
His voice was so quiet and composed, and his blue eyes were intent. For a moment she seemed to drown in them, even as her spirits lifted. Good grief, was he hypnotising her or something? It was ridiculous and impossible. How could Brent be OK, just because John said he would be? And yet, somehow, she felt more hope.
Swift, smart footsteps made her look around, breaki
ng the spell that wasn’t a spell.
‘Miss Aitchison? Would you like to see Brent for few moments? He’s very tired and naturally he’s feeling a bit battered from having his stomach pumped, but I’m sure he’d like to see you for a minute.’ The kind-faced nurse glanced from her to John. ‘Just one of you, though. He’s very sleepy and he needs to be quiet.’
‘I’ll wait here.’ John’s hand slid beneath Lizzie’s elbow as she rose, as if anticipating the dizzy feeling that gripped her.
‘Um . . . thanks . . . but you’ve no need to hang around, if you don’t want to.’
What am I doing? Why am I sending him away?
‘I’ll wait here,’ he repeated, giving her arm an encouraging squeeze. The look on his face was that of an old-fashioned, admonishing uncle. How bizarre that seemed, after all the passion they’d shared. It seemed like a million years since their last embrace.
‘OK . . . Thanks.’ In the grip of anxiety, she gave John something that looked more like a grimace than a smile and hurried after the nurse, heading for the small side ward where Brent was being treated.
Approaching the bed, she wished for John’s strong arm again, but took a deep breath and braced up. Brent looked like a shattered doll lying there, hooked up to a drip and a monitor. His black hair was all awry, stuck up in curls and tufts, and his face was almost as white as the pillows and the sheet over him. Was he sleeping? She didn’t know. He was very still.
When she reached the side of the bed, though, his eyes flicked open, looking weary and feverish.
‘You look nice,’ he said in a reedy voice. Lizzie felt a rush of relief when her friend gave her a weak attempt at a smile.
‘You don’t,’ she blurted out, glancing quickly down at herself. She’d forgotten she was wearing her fabulous cocktail dress.
‘Thanks for that.’ It was clearly a struggle, but Brent maintained his feathery grin.
The Accidental Call Girl Page 25