by James Grey
A portly nurse looks on as he prepares for my examination. I didn’t notice her at first, and her presence doesn’t make me feel any easier. She doesn’t smile. Krasznik has hardly had a word to say to me since I arrived, and I get the impression this kind of appointment is totally routine for him. I wonder how many doctors specialise in this sort of thing? I imagine he gets paid a lot, working on Harley Street and all that.
Then again, so do I. And it was Lucy who sent me here, so it’s all going to be fine. I don’t like these people, but I tell myself to man up. So to speak.
“Are you hungry, thirsty or in need of the toilet?” Krasznik asks, looking me straight in the eyes for just about the first time today. They’re very dark, his eyes. You can barely even make out the pupils. You certainly can’t see anything resembling feeling.
I gulp. Then I remember to shake my head. I simply can’t shake the nerves, and my pulse is racing hard. My legs sway nervously as they dangle over the side of the table. It’s uncomfortable and functional, the bed thing. A bit like this whole experience.
“Then we will begin,” he announces in an even tone, holding out a hand to his assistant. She hands him what looks like a giant pair of tweezers. It’s the sort of thing my father would use to turn meat on the barbecue, on those rare occasions when we would have decent weather on holiday in Yorkshire.
“Unbutton your blouse,” he commands.
His authority is impressive. It overpowers his rudeness and unpleasantness. I do exactly as he instructs, button by button. Quickly my blouse unfurls.
He surveys my plain white bra with cold disinterest. Well, I didn’t feel like wasting my classy new stuff on this particular outing when I dressed this morning. So I’m wearing a bit of a throwback. Something decidedly comfortable. A relic from the days before Guia La Bruna came into my life.
“I will need your breasts to be bare, please,” he says with a strange mix of patience and impatience.
Fine. He only had to ask. I don’t think that whole ‘initiative’ thing Miss Jackson kept going on about is something I’m going to feel like switching on today. This man gets my back up. I reach behind me and flick open the clasp between my shoulder blades. The bra drops into my lap.
I get a flash of nostalgia about how easy this type of underwear is.
And then I remember that I need to be brave. Resistance isn’t going to make this encounter with the tweezers any easier. So I take a deep breath and lean back on my hands, my blouse hanging open and my tits waiting for whatever he has planned. Behind them, though, my heart beats like a throaty drum.
I don’t much like his eyes or his manner, and resolve to stay as stoic as I would if I were getting jabbed with an inoculation needle. No eye contact. Think about something else. Anything else.
He takes a step forward and applies the tong to my left nipple, holding my right shoulder steady with his hand. Not in a reassuring way. It’s for steadiness. No more. No less.
It’s only a gentle squeeze at first. I don’t feel the need to move or say anything. All I notice is my stomach muscles and my thigh muscles tightening. Without my say-so. And I wonder what the large nurse is thinking about all of this. Because this sure as hell isn’t the kind of nursing they teach you in training, I think to myself.
I wonder if she’s jealous. She is large, and not very attractive. I suspect she’s alone, and nobody is lining up to stimulate her nipples.
My strange musing snaps as Krasznik squeezes a little harder.
Then my thoughts go back to the nurse’s training. Training…ah yes! She must have trained for her vocation. Just as I trained for mine. Very different training, to be sure. And yet here we are on a Thursday morning, each of us – in our own way – going about the work we trained for.
It’s funny, the different things women can do in life. But I’m guessing she can’t earn four figures in a couple of hours.
Ow! I snap out of my smug daydream once more as he gives my nipple a twist. I wince, suddenly consumed by what has become more than just a pleasant tickle of pain. And I can tell he’s watching my reaction, so I close my eyes.
“Remember to breathe,” he advises. Which seems sound enough. My hurting breast rises and falls as I inhale and exhale deeply. I feel the searing sensation less on the exhale, but that’s the moment he chooses to twist harder, adding a notch of power to the squeeze as he does it.
It’s savage now. I yelp.
He’s got the metal teeth where I imagine it hurts the most: halfway up my lengthening nipple. Not gripping the tip, but not resting against the areola either. Fuck, this guy better know what he’s doing.
“J...ff…” I begin, wanting to curse out loud. But I stop, because I don’t want to give him the satisfaction. There’s no right or wrong today, Lucy said. Wherever my limit is, is fine. But a strange pride in me – not a purely professional one – won’t let me give in just yet.
God, I’ve got a nasty feeling I might be competitive about this. Like, I want to be the toughest escort in London. Emma Carling can take anything, they’ll say. She’s your girl, Lucy will tell her kinkiest clients.
Crumbs, why do I want that? My roasting nipples are screaming at me not to want that. And now he starts to pull. Just dead straight. A pure tug that stretches my poor left breast into a weird conical shape, all the while maintaining the twist and squeeze.
It’s…oh, God, it’s…quite pleasant. Even though it hurts like fuck knows what. Even though I hate the guy.
I notice that my right nipple – the one that hasn’t been touched – is standing to attention.
My attention jerks back to the left as he twists it all the way in the other direction, ramping up the squeeze even more. This time I do curse, and loudly. He seems to have been expecting the foul-mouthed reaction. He lets go. My breast shivers back into its normal position.
I notice how blood-red it has gone, and none of us says a word.
The weird and exhausting appointment goes on for another intense, never-ending hour. After his initial test by hand, Krasznik begins to get more scientific. He attaches sensors and electrodes to various parts of my body as he stimulates them using mechanical devices.
He keeps his words to a minimum, mostly just to instruct me to remove various items of clothing. Inevitably, I suppose, he spends a long time on my buttocks. One machine is set up to strike me lightly there, its mechanical arm fitted with something like a hairbrush with sharp spikes. All the while, those little sticky patches are taking measurements.
Another machine, which I somehow didn’t see when I came in, thrashes me with a heavy cane until I cry. He sits impassively in front of me, writing on his clipboard and – I think – making a recording of my wailing responses.
Then he nods at the nurse to switch it off, after which she rubs something soothing into my skin.
But he’s not done with my ass. He proceeds – I presume – to try my hole out for size. I’ve neither asked nor been asked for anal since Cranleigh House, and it feels weird once again as he invades me with a succession of lubricated butt plugs.
Never once does he ask me how I’m feeling. But he seems to know just when to stop. I’ll give him that much. I watch as he hands the last anal plug to the nurse, and I’m amazed at the size of what I’ve just taken. It’s certainly bigger than any male appendage I’ve ever seen. Wow.
My clit gets a mechanical squeezing too. I didn’t know they made clips for clits. He watches me quietly as he turns a dial and the pinch gets harder. This really does something to me. I’m lying on the table with my legs open, doing my level best not to think sexy thoughts. It’s good practice, actually, but I’m relieved when he turns off the painful pleasure.
Finally he checks my breathing and my pulse – but only after a few minutes with a ball gag in my mouth. I’m a first-timer with one of those too, and I can’t say it’s all that comfortable. But then, I suppose that’s the point.
At last it’s time to get dressed and leave.
“We will
send your reports to you by post,” he says curtly, as if he’s just valued a property or something.
I don’t know what else there is to say. I don’t feel ‘thank you’ is appropriate, and I strongly suspect this isn’t the kind of doctor who gives you sweets, so all I say is “Okay,” nod at the nurse and walk out of the door. She didn’t say a word the whole time either, and I wonder if every day is like this for her.
I want to say I hated the whole thing. Mostly, I did. I’m certainly glad Lucy has assured me I won’t ever have to undergo a doctor’s visit quite like that again. I walk out feeling sore and violated. But, undeniably, a tiny part of me is also aroused.
I wince as I lower myself into the hard wooden chair at the coffee shop where I meet Lucy later that day. Really, I should have thought the venue through when we planned this. We could have gone to the place with the sofas!
“Yee-owtch,” I squeak, looking at her with a watery smile.
She chuckles: “That good, huh?”
“It wasn’t exactly sexy, if that’s what you mean…” I clear my throat. “Although I suppose…with the right…you know…it might be…”
“It will indeed,” smiles Lucy. “I can guarantee you that. But I’m sorry you had to go through that today. I still promise it’s a one-off. It’s for your own ultimate safety.”
I nod. It’s even hurting to lean forward and take a sip of my cappuccino. It feels like there is a gaping hole down there, while tiny devils with pitchforks dance all around it. My nipples haven’t entirely recovered from their various ordeals yet either. If I’d known it would be like this, I wouldn’t have arranged to meet Lucy straight after seeing Dr Krasznik.
“In a couple of weeks we’ll have your results,” she says, “and then I’ll know which of the more extreme clients I can send you to while keeping you safe.
“There’s big money in the kinky stuff, Emma. However I will not allow you to be pushed further than you can handle. My gentlemen and I discuss limits in great detail, and I will personally -” she looks me square in the eye and tightens her knuckles around an ash tray for emphasis – “I will personally break the balls of any one of them who goes an inch beyond those limits with any of my girls.”
At times like this I question the sanity of not telling Lucy about the threatening words I heard at the blindfold house. It’s comforting, as always, to have somebody so obviously and completely on my side. When I’m with Lucy it seems inconceivable that anything unpleasant could happen. Yet still something holds me back from recounting every detail from the ‘inspection night’ with the other girls.
Right now, though, I’m feeling a terrific urge to lie down, maybe with a little TLC from Sarah. So I resolve to get right to the point of why we’re here.
“So, did you ever read the report on my friend Sarah?” I begin. “An English girl I was with at Cranleigh?”
“I read all the reports,” grins Lucy. “It’s my job to see what talent is out there. And after all, there are only about forty graduates each year. It’s not much work.”
I’m momentarily thrown. “Aren’t there any other schools like that?” I ask, feeling a little dumb.
“Oh, I should say not! It’s a one-of-a-kind, that place. Not even America has an escort training institution. You’d never guess that the one school like that, anywhere in the world, is in stuffy old England, would you?”
We’re both amused as she points out this big, secret exception to English prudishness. But I’m conscious that we’re straying off topic.
“No, I guess not. Anyway, so what did you think of Sarah?”
“I just know that nobody stood out quite like you did. I was happy that my intuitions were right. There’s usually one young lady who seems made for this life, and it was abundantly clear from your report that you were the pick of this summer’s bunch.”
“But…you didn’t think about giving a job to anyone else?”
She pauses. “Not much, no. I had a special interest in you, of course, since I helped enrol you. And for me this is a quality game, not a quantity game. True quality is rare. That’s why I only have a dozen or so girls on my books.”
“I just thought, you know…” I feel awkward, and actually I’m not sure what I think. “Because Sarah seemed pretty talented to me. And she’s just come down to London, and she’s looking for work. She got blown off by the agency that enrolled her when she went to see them yesterday and… I just think she deserves a decent chance.”
“Hmm, you know I have to be extremely selective, don’t you Emma? Harsh, even. If anyone else’s report caught my eye it was that of young Latifa, and maybe her friend Alyssia. But they’re not in London.”
She’s avoiding the subject of Sarah. I try to steer her back. “I think Sarah is underrated,” I say with more conviction than I feel. “She’s especially good with the ladies. I mean she’s naturally passionate and…we have real chemistry.”
That was my trump card. Maybe I can sell Sarah on her potential as a double act with me.
“I’m aware,” Lucy smiles. “I heard of your excellent performance together at school. I know you’re close. But there’s a chance your judgement is a little biased.”
I frown, in what I hope is a light-hearted way.
“But look,” she says brightly. “I’m going to consider what you’ve said. I’ll take a closer read of her report, and have a little think about your friend Sarah, okay?”
My frown turns to a smile. My work here is done for now.
Chapter IX
Rest and skin cream do wonders for my war wounds. Sarah, of course, is only too happy to rub soothing gels into my skin. God, I love her! Long showers help me as well, although I wish I had a bath in my apartment. One of those is going to be absolute priority in my new place.
I love the fact that this job allows me so much R&R time. If only I had discovered this life sooner! I curse all those thousands of hours I sat in an office cubicle. Every vaguely pretty girl should do this – leave the offices to the men!
On second thoughts, I guess, too much competition wouldn’t be so good for our earnings as prostitutes. It’s a moot point anyway. I know ninety-nine out of a hundred girls would be too shy, guilt-laden and repressed to do what I’m doing.
Yes, it feels amazing to be a high-brow escort. But part of me still feels bad that Sarah’s not getting a chance to have that life. I’ve started trying to help her with that, though, as well as make an effort not to beat myself up about it.
Within a few days I’m all recovered from Dr Krasznik’s intrusions, and I’m raring to go for my next assignment. Sarah inspects my naked body and assures me that there’s no longer any sign of Dr K’s handiwork. “You’re good to go, Carling,” she announces. “I’ll hold the fort while you’re out tonight.”
Again I try not to feel bad, and want to change the subject. The subject being that I’m going off to have sex for giant bucks – £2500 for two hours in tonight’s case – while she has to sit at home and watch crap TV.
I put my arm around her and tell her I can’t wait till we head off on our first assignment together. She forces a smile back at me, and just then my buzzer rings. That’ll be the chauffeur.
I’m starting to get used to this, especially as the drivers are tactful and professional enough not to try and make awkward chatter about where I’m going and what I’m doing. I’d absolutely hate that. I could easily buy a car of my own, I know, but I don’t see a lot of point at the moment. Driving in the city is stressful and there’s nowhere to park.
Twenty minutes later, I’m gliding through the revolving doors at the Imperial Grand Hotel in Kensington. It’s a windy night with a bit of a chill; summer’s losing its grip on London already. So I don’t stop to admire the postcard location. It’s just along the road from the Albert Memorial, and a couple of doors along from the Albert Hall.
Inside, it’s all old-world charm. A broad, carpeted staircase rises up in front of me, a gold-glowing chandelier hanging above it. And it
’s flanked by varnished wooden banisters. I step into the marble-floor lobby, and notice small, old-fashioned elevators (the kind I wouldn’t trust) tucked into the corridor around the side. It’s all understated exclusivity rather than modern bells and whistles. I think the place only has about thirty rooms. And in a location like this, well, I dread to think what a room costs.
A smiling concierge nods at me. It’s my first proper hotel visit, and Lucy has explained to me that I’ll never be asked awkward questions by the staff. They’ll know, but they’ll hush. All I’ve got to do is leave my coat at the concierge desk and head straight up to room twenty-seven.
So the people working here must know exactly what I’m up to. I know I’d be gossiping about me if I worked in this hotel. My innocence in these matters has drained away like rushing bathwater. And although I’m worried one of my less successful school mates might be working reception at one of these places, I know the possibility goes with the territory. I understand that a lot of our work will happen in expensive hotels in the West End, Mayfair or the Square Mile, and there’s no way it could go on without the quiet acquiescence of staff and management.
Part of me finds it kind of thrilling to be a part of this unspoken system. It’s like an underworld that suburban people don’t even think about. The kind of thing they think belongs only in the movies.
I’d have been so nervous about this a couple of weeks back. I’d have wanted to bolt. But now that I’m on my sixth or seventh assignment, I’m so much more confident that I have real business being here. I belong.
So I dump my coat, suddenly feeling highly exposed in the requested sapphire blue dress, which is high on both cleavage and hem line. I make my way in what I hope is dignified fashion to the foot of the stairs. Sure, my heart’s beating like a hummingbird’s wings, but I feel like I know what I’m doing. As I begin to climb, I glance across at the long relaxation area to my left.