by James Grey
It’s a wide U-shape, with the lounge wrapping itself around the wooden bar, stocked with bountiful (and doubtless disgusting) bottles of brownish hue. Probably whiskey, I should imagine. They do look like expensive tipples, though, and so does the barman. Well, I mean, his waist coat and cravate are tailored and polished…put it that way.
He’s decanting something from a weird-shaped kind of vase into a flat glass crammed with ice. Probably some sophisticated whisky serving thing these show-offs feel they must have. I’ll never buy into their shallow world, that’s for sure. The barman slides the drink across the bar counter with a look into which I can read nothing.
The recipient of the drink has his back to me, but appears to be on the elderly side. He’s sitting alone, and he gives the bar tender a nod as he takes his drink and mulls over it. There’s nothing particularly fascinating about anything in the mildly-populated lounge, and I’m about to keep climbing when I see something that I can’t believe.
A skinny blonde, her back to me, materializes from somewhere beneath the staircase. The skinny blonde walks up to the older man who just received the whisky.
I can’t see her face, but there’s something powerfully familiar about the way she moves.
I take a second to process her. Then I know.
It’s fucking Petra.
She turns her face towards the man, chin resting poutishly on her fingers, and I’m sure of it. Even from twenty yards away, I can spot the unmistakeable brand of mercenary chill that radiates from her eyes.
I climb a couple more stairs so that she won’t turn around and find herself staring straight at Emma Carling. I really don’t fancy a chat with her – ever. I can still see what’s going on through the wedge between the banister and the ground-floor ceiling. She has no idea her room-mate from school is watching her in action.
And what I assume she’s doing is touting for clients. Everyone told me that no agency would touch her after her school report. She’s got to be working as what Lucy calls a ‘hotel lobby whore’. So much for Starbucks, I think to myself. Petra has clearly decided she can still get business on her own.
I know I shouldn’t be staring. And that I have somewhere exciting to be. But I’m struck dumb by the co-incidence. I suppose I shouldn’t be completely surprised to find her kind in a place like this. But I want so badly to believe that even a street corner is too good for her.
Is that mean? Well, firstly, she’s a bitch. And second, why would anyone pay high-class rates for someone so…mechanical? She hasn’t smiled at the guy once since I’ve been watching her. God, she’ll never learn. I mean, I’ve never done this lobby touting thing, but even I can see she’s not much of a saleswoman.
I shake my head and smile to myself. I would hate to do what she’s having to do, of course I would. She’s got no Lucy, no support. And I bet she can’t earn anywhere near as well. Having an agent gives you kudos, and gives clients an assurance of safety and discretion. Petra’s on her own, working hard for her business. God knows how many hours she’ll have to invest in this lobby. She might not get any takers at all.
Then again, she’s still insanely attractive. Even from this distance, I envy the glow of her skin. That’s the one thing she’s got going for her. But still, it doesn’t look like she’s making much headway with this gentleman. He doesn’t really seem to be giving her the time of day, much less falling for her amateurish attempts at fake charm.
And I hope that she’ll have to walk away. Again, and again, and again. She’s fucking getting just what she deserves. And until she turns into a human being, I won’t change my mind on that.
Chuckling softly at the back of my throat, I decide to leave her to it. But not before snapping a cheeky shot on my mobile. It’s unprofessional, I’m sure, but it’s too good to miss. I can’t wait to text it to Alyssia and Latifa when I get home. And I can’t wait to show Sarah.
Then I leave the cold bitch to it. I march on up the stairs, feeling better about myself than ever. But a few nerves begin to jangle as I find the corridor for Room 27.
I’m told there’s to be a Frenchman, Louis, waiting for me there. But a silly fear that there might have been a mistake with the room number gnaws at me. What if some respectable couple open the door? What if somebody I know opens the door? God, how the heck would I explain what I’m doing knocking on hotel room doors dressed like this? It doesn’t bear thinking about.
But no, I’ve got it right. It’s clear that the man who opens the door of Room 27 is expecting me. He’s wearing only one of the hotel’s luxuriant white bathrobes, an unlit cigarette hanging loosely from the side of his mouth. His slicked-back hair and sharp features are beguiling, and he’s surprisingly young for what I take to be a typical client in this game. I’d put him at around thirty.
He says nothing as he opens the door. Instead, his dark eyes explore me. They travel all the way down my body to the pointy toe of my shoes, then all the way back up again. I’m standing in full view of what is thankfully an empty hallway, and I wish he’d invite me in before Petra or anyone else comes haring around the corner.
But I forget all about Petra, and the rest of the world, when his eyes finish their slow journey down and up my figure. They lock onto mine, and he gives me the most wicked smile I’ve ever seen on a man. The cigarette dangles there effortlessly as he does so, and the whole thing makes me melt.
“Come in, Miss Carling,” he purrs. His ‘Miss’ sounds like ‘Mees’ and the way he gurgles the ‘r’ in my surname couldn’t be more French. I don’t remember much French, but the sounds he’s making bring my hot French teacher, Mr Beauchamp, back to my mind’s eye. For a moment I’m right back in my classroom, feeling the dance in my stomach all over again.
He is just so impossibly French. He is in absolutely no hurry. He motions me to sit down on one of the two armchairs in the room, angled either side of a small coffee table. I accept his offer of a cognac, and then he asks me lots of questions about my life. Almost every time I answer, his eyes undress me. It’s very distracting. In a good way.
I’m never quite sure how much I should lead the conversation with a client, but I’m getting used to it. He seems happy to ask most of the questions, but I feel I need to show an interest too. I’m really fascinated that he even needs me here. He’s both charming and good-looking. And he must be well-off to be staying in this hotel.
Although he’s Parisian, he spends a lot of time here in London. As far as I can make out, he’s a professional playboy of sorts. He speaks of reading, of going to shows, of visiting artists. There’s no mention of work, and I can only imagine he’s from some rich family. I think about biting him just to see if he has blue blood.
He tells me that he ‘adored’ the nude photos of me Lucy showed him. “I had to have you, Miss Carling,” he says, every word driving me wild. It’s an understated French accent, really. His English is perfect and he’s educated enough to pronounce the ‘h’ in ‘had’. But he does it with a hint of foreign harshness. And then there are those ‘r’s, which roll like soft, distant thunder, and those long, drawn-out vowels that seem to drip with possibility while you wait for them to end.
I already know that my main job tonight will be to fellate Louis. After we’ve sunk a couple of glasses of cognac I’m startled to notice that he’s growing through the parting in his bathrobe. Instinctively I look away as the fleshy apparition catches the corner of my eye and my heart jumps into my mouth.
When my eyes return to meet his, he looks amused. “You are a prostitute, no?”
I blush, look down and nod. “Yes,” I answer him, trying to sound firm.
“Then you will not be embarrassed, non?”
“No Sir,” I smile. And I look down at his ever-lengthening tip as it emerges further and further between the cotton hems.
“I like how you English girls are always so polite. As if you are guilty. It is different from back home.”
The comment fires me up. Suddenly I want to show him I can be a
s proudly filthy as any Parisian tart. Without being asked, I sink down in front of him on my knees, fully dressed in the gorgeous sapphire dress and high heels.
He makes no objection as I run my hands up his bare calves and below the garment. They travel up his thighs and then I pull the robe open, the loose belt offering no resistance. I wriggle forward and immediately wrap my mouth around his still-hardening cock.
I think he really has just come straight from the shower. It tastes wonderful: clean, but with just a hint of eau de cologne about it. I cup his balls in my hand, remembering my lessons, and massage them gently, while at the same time letting my head bob up and down on his shaft.
I really do believe I could do this all night. There’s nothing I’d rather do and nowhere I’d rather be. Before training I was a little bit uncertain about the appeal of giving a blow-job; now you’d have to tear me away. Every so often I look up to meet his eyes or read the pleasure on his face. It makes me tingle each time.
Another moment from training comes into my mind as he finally tightens and spurts his hot seed into my mouth. I’m ready for it and I gobble it all down, licking his waxed balls and shaft for several minutes afterwards. It’s a wicked privilege to explore a man like this – and it’s my living!
I smile to myself as Petra comes into my mind. I rather hope she’s still working the lobby without any success.
Louis barely goes soft at all. Certainly not for long. Soon it’s a fully-erect cock banging the back of my throat once again. But this time he stands up and grips me by the hair. God, he’s going to mouth-fuck me.
Lucy told me this was one of his favourite things. I brace myself. I know I can take it. His swelling is relentless as he begins to pound and my jaw starts to hurt. I am struggling for breath and beginning to drool: he shows no let-up. And my God, it’s a turn-on.
“Drop your hands,” he orders.
I’ve been using them to grip his legs and keep my balance, but I guess he wants me to rock. My palms fall onto my thighs and suddenly I find the fingers of my right hand travelling further south, reaching for my clit while I ride this violent wave.
I don’t know what Miss Jackson’s view on this would be, but she always said a client wants to see a girl really enjoying herself. In any case, Louis makes no objection to me touching myself. And I need it desperately, because every thrust of his thick flesh into my mouth is driving me wild.
His grunts tell me he’s about to unleash again, and that thought is enough to take me over the edge too. My clit and his cock let go at exactly the same moment, and I simply have to grab his leg with my left hand again. I’m shuddering too much to keep still.
I close my eyes as he twitches and slows in my mouth and my orgasm makes my head spin. What an utterly amazing way to come. I just can’t wait to discover more sex acts I’d never thought of until this adventure began.
I feel strangely European as I sit down with him for another cognac after it’s all over. I’m still dressed as I was when I arrived, though my hair and lip gloss is a mess. I’m thankful for the brush and makeup kit in my handbag, one of the things on the essential checklist Lucy’s given me for every assignment. After all, I need to go through that lobby once again.
I kiss Louis on the lips before I leave. I hope I’ll be back, and suspect that I will be. We’ve probably gone overtime again. It keeps happening, and I keep not caring. And I’m in even less hurry at this particular hotel, because I don’t much want to run into Petra.
But when I eventually do make it back downstairs to grab my coat from the concierge and scurry out of the front door, I do indeed spy the slight blonde as I peep beneath the railing once more. She’s still hanging around in the bar. Right now she’s got nobody to talk to, and is fiddling about on her phone. I’ve seen enough, and hastily turn my head before she spots me as I emerge into the foyer.
I can’t deny the satisfaction at seeing her struggling for business while I’ve been doing my work with such passion upstairs. Maybe there’s some justice in the world after all, I think to myself.
Chapter X
As the next couple of weeks slip by and September becomes October, I feel pretty bloody fantastic about myself. Winter is closing in, and I think how bad things might be if I hadn’t been whimsical enough to accept the offer of attending escort school. An offer which reviled me at first.
I’m pretty sure I’d be mildly depressed if I’d stuck to traditional job-hunting. Being broke and the lengthening of the darkness hours would have made me a miserable girl. I almost certainly wouldn’t have found work yet, since everything I’m hearing suggests the economy has still to hit rock bottom. For just about everyone I know, life in London has a gloomy and desperate air about it these days.
But there’s no seasonal misery for me now. Not this version of me. It tickles me that I’ve found such a creative, unusual way of turning my life around. It makes me feel clever and brave, because I’ve done something other girls in my circle wouldn’t seriously consider. I feel like I’m being rewarded tenfold for taking that risk.
Okay, I’m not quite ready to talk about it, but I’m enjoying keeping people guessing now. Especially the former colleagues I’m still in touch with. In fact, it’s even a little arousing when the male ones helpfully send me the occasional link to a suitable job they’ve spotted. When that happens I think about the innocent work they picture me doing. Desk, laptop, business blouse.
Heels, stockings…
If only they knew.
I smile inside my head every time I imagine their faces if I told them that I already have another job, and then tell them what it is. Being the new Emma Carling makes me feel nothing but sexy and powerful on the inside. Outside is another matter, but keeping it secret is fun. For now, anyway.
I’m uncomfortably aware that sooner or later I’m either going to have to tell a few people the truth or spin a convincing yarn. I’m not keen on either, so for now I’m content to make do with shrugs and smiles to bat away worried friends.
My diary has begun to fill fast. I’m seeing about eight men a week now, and I’m loving every minute of it. Lucy won’t allow me more than two clients a day. ‘A man paying your kind of fee deserves to have you horny and hungry, don’t you think?’
As bloody usual, she’s right.
We’re still waiting for the results of my ‘pain test’ with the objectionable Dr Krasznik, so I haven’t been assigned to anything involving more than a light spanking. I’m nervously awaiting the day when I’m asked to mete out some punishment of my own, but I think Lucy is easing me in. I’ve worked alone, apart from one lesbian show – the guy didn’t even touch us! – I performed with the gorgeous American Tracy. And I haven’t had to deal with a man I find truly ugly yet.
On the whole, everything is going swimmingly. And I was much more comfortable when I saw Charles for the second time, about a month after my jittery debut night. Maybe it’s because he treats me like a princess, but he’s turning into an absolute favourite of mine. It was with a blush that I admitted to Lucy that I put in some substantial overtime with him the next morning. How could I say no to what he was doing to my nipples?
And when I eventually had to go, he insisted on paying me for my extra hours. I waved the offer away, blushing louder than ever as I told him it was entirely my choice. But when I got home, I found a wad of fifty-pound notes in my handbag. He must have slipped them in there when I went to the bathroom.
No question, I am the luckiest girl in London. The cash keeps on rolling in, and before long my bank account has swollen into five figures. It’s quite astonishing, and I feel giddy when I see the numbers on the screen at the ATM. I realise that even without a special effort to save, it’ll likely be six figures by springtime.
Naturally enough, I guess, I am becoming more intrigued by the history of this amazing profession. Everything seems so good, the most fascinating thing for me is why more women don’t take this fun, easy and lucrative path in life. I feel like I’ve totally misj
udged men, sex and the world for most of my existence, and I’ve only just had my eyes opened. I want to learn more, so I use my ample spare time to do some reading.
I tuck into a book about prostitution in Ancient Greece. I can barely put it down, and my jaw drops when I discover that the Athenians had a system of state-run brothels. For them, marriage was a social and economic formality, and nobody pretended otherwise. Men were expected to seek their pleasures at the whorehouses, where the government of Solon employed women just like any other civil servants.
You can say what you like, but these people were certainly honest with themselves. I think hard about how my new way of life got driven to underground status, and whether we’d ever have a system like that in the western world ever again. I chuckle as I imagine a parliamentary debate about the subject: political correctness and aghast feminists would never let it get that far.
To my mind, though, the Greeks might have been onto something. Maybe there was less denial in their assessment of human nature than we have to live with today. Who exactly decided we were monogamous animals? As long as nobody is forced or trafficked into the kind of work I’m doing, then why shouldn’t it be considered noble and good?
I keep reading, and discover that (as you’d expect) the state brothels were considered rather drab, and ditto their inmates. Athenian men who could afford better would ‘go private’, as it were, and frequent hetairai, who were something like a Greek answer to the Japanese geisha. While sexually talented and of course beautiful, these educated women provided quality conversation, companionship, dancing and music too. I imagine, a little smugly, that I’d have been one of those.
Then I read the memoirs of the mysterious Madame Claude, the most famous procuress of modern times. I discover that this astute and occasionally ruthless French businesswoman had ‘looked after’ some of the most famous names of the 20th century including – allegedly – John F Kennedy, Gianni Agnelli and assorted Middle Eastern royalty. I read about her fussy naked inspections, the education her girls were obliged to acquire, and the way she ruled herself out of prostituting herself because she didn’t enjoy sex enough. Wow: so many echoes of my very recent schooling. And again, it makes me feel like I’ve cracked the elite.