by James Grey
He made me come three times last night. As I lie on my bed at home now, still clad in that impossibly soft black dress, feeling tired and a little peckish, I can’t help smiling at the memories. Especially of the unbelievable first moments on his bed. That was pure, one hundred percent erotic fantasy. He walked us both slowly to the edge of heaven. Then, once he started to go for it, we were both there in less than one explosive minute. Charles will not be needing Viagra any time soon.
Later, after he explored every inch of my body with his mouth, I came helplessly at his tongue’s touch. And then again, sometime in the sleepy greyness of dawn, we curled together and I found myself tickling my own bud as I leant over him and took him in my mouth. Then he took over, licking my ass while he used fingers just where I wanted them, and I climaxed with a jolting jerk.
I felt wonderful as I drifted off once more, but when I awoke to full sunshine and the birds chirruping outside his window, I felt embarrassed to be there. There was a knot of tension in my stomach, for no good reason. It’s like something inside me was concerned that I liked it so much.
I was polite to Charles and enjoyed a cuddle with him, but I felt a little distant. I told him I needed to get back home. He seemed almost to be expecting that. He just smiled and said he understood, and the chauffeur appeared in a quarter of an hour. I avoided small talk as I put my clothes back on and freshened up, but we kissed as I left. He said he hoped to see me again soon.
And now I don’t feel happy or sad, just kind of satisfied and kind of lost. And sleepy. Yet my mind is a little too busy for sleep.
I know exactly why I’m satisfied, of course. But I’m lost because I expected to be more uncertain about things today. Shouldn’t I be wrestling with more guilt? Instead, I almost feel at a loose end.
Is it going to be this easy? Am I going to be this easy?
The fact is, I didn’t feel much like a prostitute last night. And it’s confusing. I shake my head and stare up at that skylight I like so much. I think back to the last time I flopped on my bed after work: the day I walked out of that evil corporation and its made-up consultancy shit that isn’t even a real thing. That crazy day feels like a lifetime ago. I am something else, somebody else, now. I’ve done the deed and I’ve got this feeling it’s too late to go back.
Which is nonsense, I know. But I can’t help the broodiness this morning. I’m really quite tired. I should fix some breakfast, but my body wants sleep more. It’s adamant and it knows what it needs, even though my mind is confused about what to feel. Fact is, after a night like that, I’m used to obsessing over where things are going with the guy concerned. That’s not even a question that makes sense any more. What would Miss Jackson say?
Just as my eyes begin to fall, my cellphone peeps rudely from the bedside table. It’s a text. I reach over and peer at the message with the one eye I feel energised enough to open.
Holy fuck! Suddenly I’m wide awake and sitting bolt upright. Both eyes fly open when the words on my little screen register.
It’s a message from my bank. Six thousand Pounds have been deposited.
I blink at the screen, counting the zeroes – yes, there are three of them – and trying to take it in. Christ almighty, I’d forgotten all about the payment! Lucy has been as good as her word. Money in the bank the next morning, she said. But wasn’t I getting five thousand? Where did the extra come from?
I’m just about to float to the living room and look for my assignment notes to double-check my fee when my phone does its thing again. This time it’s Lucy.
Well, well, well, somebody did something right last night ;) Thousand Pound tip…you GO girl!! Bet you’re feeling weird, but…coffee this afternoon? x
Coffee now! That’s what I need. Of course I’ll meet Lucy later, but I’m positively reeling at the moment. I feel a bit dizzy as I get up off the bed. The money…none of it seemed real until this moment. But now it’s actually in my bank account. And the tip alone is half a month’s salary in my last job.
It seems so unreal that I don’t want to trust the text message. I click through my online banking app until I get to my account balance. Then I truly believe. The total has never started with a six before. At least not with so many digits following. It all adds up. The transaction is complete. Slowly, incredulously, I suck in the stale air of my ageing apartment. I can’t quite take it in.
This has blown my guilt and confusion away for a moment. I’m just overwhelmed by big-money talk actually turning to real cash. I keep shaking my head and muttering the words ‘six thousand…’ in disbelief as I make to the kitchen, feeling every kind of wobbly, and put the kettle on. I don’t know what’s frying my brain more, the fee itself or the grand tip. I knew there were rich people in this new world of mine, but…no, I simply can’t process it.
I spoon some instant coffee powder into a mug. It feels weird being a millionaire – well, compared to anything I’ve ever known, I am – and drinking instant. Weird in a cool way, I think to myself as I stare uncomprehendingly out of my kitchen window, slowly sipping on the ghastly brown no-name supermarket liquid.
As the coffee slides down my throat, so the sunny reality begins to seep into me. This could be my last mug of instant for a while, I smile to myself. I don’t need to live like this anymore. My eye falls on the hipster coffee joint across the street, which I’ve always had to avoid unless I want a treat. I figure that I might just start getting them to deliver me a large latte every morning. And I think I’ll have an almond croissant with that, too.
Lucy is beaming at me as she takes a sip of her cappuccino. I’ve taken care of the drinks this time. The woman gave me six grand this morning. Least I can do.
“Alright then, Miss Carling! You are the apple of my eye at the moment! Seems you can do no wrong. You do know I’m going to want all the details.”
“Oh, I was afraid you were going to ask me that!” I giggle. This morning’s confusion has vaporized and now I’m in a thoroughly good mood. Hot sex and tons of cash…why exactly was I worried again? “Well, I suppose I can hardly decline, since I’m working for you!”
She nods, still smiling. “This is true. I thrive on feedback. This is how I keep my clients happy and any new girls informed about what you need to do. For what you girls earn, a full run-down isn’t much to ask for.”
I shrug, and nod confidently at her. She’s right, of course. Like Miss Jackson, there’s a wisdom about her that is compelling, disarming and not remotely arrogant. It’s a thin line to walk, and they both walk it well.
“So, did he spank you in the end?” she enquires, leaning forward.
“Come to think of it, he didn’t!” I reflect. “I’d forgotten about how that was supposed to happen.”
“You got caught up in the moment, didn’t you, you minx!” she teases. “Bet you’ve got quite a few things jumbled up in your head!”
“I guess he got caught up in the moment too,” I say drily, “if he abandoned his well-laid plans.”
“He wouldn’t be the first!” she laughs. “Do tell me more.”
“Okay, well, he made a big deal about undressing me,” I say, lowering my voice a little, though thankfully the café is pretty empty. “He did it really slowly, and then I had to turn around while I got out of my underwear. He seemed to go into a bit of a trance for a while.”
She nods thoughtfully. “Ah, that sounds like our Charles. And I bet he was a pretty thoughtful lover, wasn’t he?”
I redden. “Uh…you could say that. At first it was pretty straightforward, once he put me on the bed…just…you know…but then…he did stuff with his tongue…”
I’m struggling. You just don’t talk about these things where I come from.
She puts her hand on mine, which is fidgeting awkwardly about the table.
“You’ll get used to talking about these things, don’t worry,” she says. “Let me make it easy for you. He fucked you hard and then he licked your pussy till you exploded. Am I right?”
&nb
sp; I nod, relieved that’s all I have to do. And even then I don’t catch her eye.
“Blowjob?”
“Yes. It was all quite natural, to be honest. It was sort of like just being a normal couple. It wasn’t like ‘do this, do that’ or anything.”
“You’ll be surprised how often that will happen, Emma,” she grins. “Just because these men use escorts doesn’t mean they’re all depraved or domineering, although as you are well aware some of them will be. But I’d say more than half of them just want a ‘girlfriend experience’. And from what I can gather, you provided exactly that last night.”
She reaches into the side pocket of her laptop bag and takes out a printed sheet, which she lays on the table in front of you.
“I shouldn’t really be letting you see this, but I know encouragement is good for you right now,” she says. “This is an email I got from Charles this morning. Like I said, feedback is everything, and many of my gentlemen are happy to provide it. Some of them find it quite a turn-on to write a little report card. Isn’t that funny?”
I give a little laugh, although I’m a little more uptight than she is about what I might be about to read.
Dearest Lucy,
Emma Carling…oh my, we weren’t wrong! This girl is one in a hundred. Maybe one in a thousand. I loved her. I absolutely loved her. Please don’t let her go, ever!
Her perfect body and angelic features are something we’ve discussed often enough. I don’t need to tell you that seeing her disrobed was perhaps the most beautiful moment of my life.
I will spank her next time – probably – but last night I was simply overwhelmed by the desire to worship her. Not only is she stunning, but she has a certain X-factor I can’t quite place. Maybe it’s her veneer of innocence, which is utterly genuine. I hope we can preserve it, whatever it is.
But what stands out most for me is her wonderful responses. Sleeping with her – and I do mean sleeping, as well as everything else we did – felt as natural as sleeping with a true lover, even a wife. She was in it with me from the beginning. As lustful and as hungry as I was. I could feel her need throughout the night, and though she was always willing to follow instructions, I loved that her natural quest for pleasure made everything flow so well. In truth, I didn’t feel moved to give her orders very much.
Of course, I had a slightly awkward lady on my hands this morning. But as you know, this is quite normal for a first-timer and I found it charming in its own way. I loved that she felt a little bit wrong about doing what her deepest instincts had led her to do, and that she’d had so much fun in spite of herself.
All in all, I think this is some of the best money I have ever spent. It was my privilege and my honour to take her first. Thanks, as always, for your outstanding mentoring and preparation of the women that you send me.
Yours, Charles
She is watching me intently as I try to suppress a smile by averting her gaze. I don’t come close to succeeding.
“Hey, you’re allowed to smile!” she jokes. “You couldn’t have hoped for a more glowing response, could you?”
“I suppose not,” I say, with a bashful shrug. Meanwhile, my heart is leaping with excitement and pride. And this time, I haven’t forgotten the money in my bank account. If this is what people think, and that’s how fun things are, and that’s what I can earn…how could a girl not smile?
“Well, Emma,” she says, sitting up straight and businesslike. “I’m hoping that as it went so well, we can make this an ongoing relationship and keep working together.”
I’m struggling to think of the tiniest reason why a girl would walk away from six-thousand Pound text messages the morning after a night of fine food and finer sex. And I’m drawing a blank. She senses it.
“If you’re willing to stay in this game, we’ll need to do a few things. I will fix you up with a personal hair and beauty specialist whom you will see on a regular basis. I can arrange you gym memberships and dieticians at no cost if you want. I don’t insist on these things, however, as I trust my girls know how to keep themselves looking good. Everyone is different, and you in particular seem to need very little interference. Mother Nature has blessed you.”
I’m going a little red again.
“We will also need to do a photo shoot with you, much of it nude,” she goes on. “Many of my clients want to see what they are getting in great detail, if you know what I mean. Again, for the money you get, it’s not much to ask. And it will only make your stock go up. Bigger tips, probably!”
She winks at the last statement. I sense she has more to say.
“Where spanking and the like are concerned, I will be easing you in. I am well aware that you can withstand – and more important, enjoy – further punishment. But some time soon, we’ll need a special session that establishes just where your limits are. I don’t want to throw you to the wolves, so to speak.
“Finally, I’ll need you to spend some intimate time with a couple of the other girls on my books. No doubt you’ll be in demand for group work, and I can’t have you working with girls you’ve never touched before. Like you, these girls are natural bisexuals and I am quite sure you will share an animal attraction to each other. I think you’ll have a great deal of fun.
“Not all nights will be as easy and natural as last night,” she says, her speech drawing to an end. “Your time at Cranleigh House has prepared you for that, I am sure. I can assure you that all your nights can be just as much fun if you let them, and I’m happy to proceed with further assignments right away if you’re in agreement. Over to you, Miss Carling.”
I have a vague sentiment that I should be outraged by the nude photo shoots, the sado-masochism and the enforced lesbianism. Prim, English Emma really should be. But who am I kidding? Not only am I willing to do those things, but I’m painfully aware that I’ll almost certainly enjoy them. Concerns about my reputation among people close to me linger, but I know they began to be overpowered when that text landed this morning. I’ll handle that side of things, somehow.
I breathe in and sit up straight like her. “I’m in, Miss Fulford.” She sticks out her hand, and we shake on it.
Chapter IV
For the next few days, there’s a lot for me to get used to. My new-found wealth, for one thing. And the fact that I’m in London, not inside the high hedges of Cranleigh House. This is a city where I actually know people. Sooner or later, I need to think of what I’m going to say to them.
There’s only so long I can keep questions and social meetings at bay, and finally my excuses begin to run out. I absolutely have to see my parents. I haven’t completely ruled out being honest with them in the future, but part of me thinks I might yet run away from this new life, or do something wrong and get fired. And then I won’t have to tell anyone anything. I’d be able to just bury this little secret in what will become my past.
I’m fooling myself and procrastinating, I know. But I’m going with the delaying tactics for the moment.
So I don’t breathe a word about my new career as a whore when I go round to my parents for dinner. Thankfully they don’t ask too much about my ‘trip to a remote Greek island’, although I have to fib about a camera malfunction to explain my lack of photos. After that, my father takes over the conversation, regaling us with stories about his trip to Greece in the sixties. For once, I’m grateful for his capacity for delivering long-winded yarns.
I tell my parents I’m looking for jobs, but there’s nothing too exciting to report just yet. Everyone’s cutting back. Recession. Well, at least those things are true. I keep my statements general and vague, because I don’t much like lying.
My mum is concerned about how I’m going to survive in the meantime, and offers to lend me some money. “And you’re always welcome to come and live with us for a while,” she smiles.
My stomach turns at the thought of one of those chauffeurs turning up at my mother’s door to whisk me away to another wealthy client. I can honestly think of no worse nightmar
e. The thought crosses my mind that I’d rather have my bare ass whipped by a succession of ugly millionaires until I bleed, but I hound it away quickly. I assure my folks that I’ve got savings, and I’d rather not be dependent on Mum and Dad. Plus, moving my stuff would be a massive pain.
Speaking of which, I’ve got some pretty risqué clothing lying around the floor of my apartment now. I’ll need to be careful with visitors. That, or move in somewhere with a walk-in closet. But how would I explain a fancy new apartment when I’m supposed to be jobless? Oh God, there’s so much I haven’t thought about.
Nor can I entirely avoid the girls from work – or ex-work, to be precise. They drag me out for some cheeky cocktails one Tuesday evening, and they pepper me with questions while I try to stop myself giving the game away with airy offers to pick up the tab for everyone. I have to keep turning the conversation to the electrifying circumstances of my departure, and thankfully they’re more than happy to reflect on that. Those who missed my fiery exit have heard the stories on the office rumour-mill, and everyone seems to approve.
I’m assured that my ex-boss was seen deep in conversation with our CEO that day, and that she has been noticeably more circumspect since. While the latter is something that gives me a lot of pleasure, making me feel I left a legacy that might make life better for my successor, the mere mention of the CEO has my heart thudding. I hope my face doesn’t give away my concerns about Mark D. Spurring.
Did he recognize me the last time we were in a room together? Does he know? Has he told the whole office that he saw Emma Carling at the hooker school where, every so often, he secretly lectures new groups of initiates?