Escort Unleashed (Emma Book 2)

  Escort Unleashed

  Volume 2 of the

  Emma series by

  James Grey

  FIREFLY

  Oxford, England · Charlotte, North Carolina

  © Firefly, 2016

  Chapter I

  I squeeze the soap-drenched sponge and watch as a delta of white wetness splays out from where I hold it at my collarbone. Then, like a river in reverse, the streams gather as one, and run down the gap between the triangles of my breasts. I see the river gaining momentum as it takes off towards my belly button. Cleansing that which cannot be cleansed. No, mere soap will never purify my wanton flesh.

  I don’t know why I’m holding my breath like this. It’s about the fourth time I’ve caught myself staring dumbly down at my body. I don’t understand how I can be doing this. I can’t believe my world has changed so much in a month. The young body I’m surveying from on high, warm shower water leaping upon its surface like hundreds of cackling, opportunistic little tropical bugs, is about to go on sale.

  I shudder, and I’m not sure what that means. My hand wants to guide the coarse sponge down my torso, to lead it across my left breast. I let it. The rough surface catches my nipple, and it’s no accident. She responds – I can feel her rear up, erect as a cowboy on a horse – and I shudder once more. This time I know exactly what it means.

  My head is hanging weirdly, and I’ve been in the shower for, what, twenty minutes now? It’s like I’m trying to get cleaner than I’ve ever been before. I tell myself not to be silly. That triple-washing my skin isn’t going to cancel out the dirty deeds my flesh will commit. I don’t seem to be listening. Maybe I’m enjoying it too much.

  In my mind I keep replaying things that haven’t happened yet. In just a couple of hours from now, a limousine is due to arrive in the street beneath my apartment. A professional driver will take me to my first assignment. I will be spending the night in Notting Hill, with a man called Charles. Martin’s friend Charles. This Charles is the man who sponsored me through my training. Now that I am qualified, I am in no doubt as to what he will want from me. I have known that from day one.

  And tomorrow, I am assured that I’ll be receiving five thousand Pounds in my bank account. Before midday.

  I am so wanton.

  I am so wanted.

  This time tomorrow – unless I chicken out – I’ll have become something new. A woman who sold herself to a pleasure-seeking man. There is only one word for it: I will have become a whore. Once that money lands, that will be it. No turning back the clock. I’ll be a hooker forever. Once is enough for the label to stick.

  I hang up the sponge and soap my hands with my creamy, frothy citrus-scent body wash. For the umpteenth time, I glide these hands up and down my sides, then along my arms, and I can feel nothing but glowing warmth. A pleasant little tickle as I gently trace my nail on the inside of my elbow, where it’s always been deliciously sensitive.

  My body feels so alive – now of all times! Somehow I want it to feel desensitized and detached. I want to be as far removed from my physical being as possible. I’m not sure Miss Jackson would agree. She’d say detachment would make me a Petra. I sigh. There’s no detachment she’d have to worry about right now. The reality of this moment would no doubt please my shameless mentor from training: I think I’m stuck with being a horny Emma today. Good for business. But bad. Oh, so bad.

  Under my arms it tickles more than usual. I got fully taken care of today, and not just there. Oh no, not just there…between my legs it’s smooth as an ostrich egg. Just a tightly-mown runway remains. And thanks to the latest laser technology, which I’d never even heard of, it didn’t even hurt.

  I’m told the treatment was cutting edge, state-of-the-art. It must have cost a fair whack, I should imagine, but apparently that’s no concern of mine any more. Lucy booked me in to a place in Knightsbridge that treated me like royalty. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see Princess Kate herself emerge from the next-door treatment room. I breathed a sigh of relief when they confirmed that the account really was all taken care of. It’s almost a month since I quit the day job, which means I’ve now become acquainted with that choking feeling that I’ll be missing a pay cheque soon. My bank account is pretty sickly.

  Cash shouldn’t be a problem after tomorrow, though.

  My soapy hands spread cleansing goodness all over my thighs, inside and out. I let them explore my butt too. The flesh of my cheeks feels soft but toned. Twenty-six. I’m at the absolute peak of my womanly life. I’m experienced and emotionally mature, yet still as beautiful as I’ve ever been. I feel sexy.

  I can’t make up my mind if it’s a good or a bad thing that my first appointment isn’t a complete stranger. Someone I’ve met a couple of times. More seriously, that it’s with a friend of one of my closest friends. I think that with time I can come to terms with just about everything in this job, but I’m not sure if looking Martin in the eye will be one of them. I haven’t brought myself to do it since coming back to London from the school two weeks ago. We’ve spoken on the phone, and I was way too shy to go into much detail about my training. But I don’t think I’ll get away with putting off a face-to-face meeting after tonight. He knows that Charles will have me first. And he has some sort of right to know how I’m doing, I guess. It was Martin’s idea that I explore this path. If it’s really going to lead to pots of gold, then I owe him a drink or two.

  Wouldn’t it be better, though, if it were totally incognito? Would I feel more scared or less scared? More like an unfussy East End harlot, or less? Probably ‘more’ in both cases, but on the other hand I wouldn’t have to worry about people I know hearing of my wicked deeds. London is a huge city, but I’m still terrified to think that I’m doing this in the same town where I grew up. Home. The place where I have friends, family and ex-colleagues.

  I shake my head in confusion as I turn and let the water splash me in the face, closing my eyes as I imagine what Charles is going to want from me. Yes, actually, I think on the whole it’s better that my first call will be to someone I’ve met. I’ve got enough first-day nerves without having to deal with a weirdo. I’m pretty sure Charles is decent and sensible, otherwise he wouldn’t be friends with Martin. And I know he’s good-looking. I keep having flashbacks to the way he gazed at me when I met with him and Lucy in Mayfair. I’m having another one now, and I feel myself begin to sway a little. I have to steady myself with a hand against the shower door.

  I have some notes on what to expect. Working for Lucy is a professional experience, to the point of being surreal. My very first agent (it sounds impossible that the word ‘agent’ has anything to do with me) ran through everything on the phone with me this morning, and couriered a printed copy of the assignment to my door shortly afterwards. It’s enough to make me want to clean myself down there, just one more time. It feels so good to feel my soapy fingers gliding between my legs while I recall her promising words.

  “I don’t want to spoil your first assignment by telling you too much,” she said this morning, her tone such that I could almost hear her beaming at me over the phone. “And the only reason we can have that luxury is that I know you won’t get any unpleasant surprises. Charles is a sweetie, you know that already. He’s different in a private situation, of course, but there’ll be nothing not to like.

  “As I think you know, he does want to spank you. It won’t be anything terrifying. From what I’ve seen in your school report – and I trust Miss Jillings completely on these matters – you’ll cope admirably. In fact, although I’m sure you’ll be nervous, I think you’ll find time to enjoy it.”

  I still can’t extinguish the images she ignited with those words, even all these hours l
ater. I still can’t help feeling that washing my hungry labia with my finger like this, perhaps straying onto my clit now and then – just to be quite sure it’s clean, of course – is only making them wetter, which will make me need to wash them again. I sigh and wonder if I’m ever going to escape the vicious cycle of this inflamed shower.

  “He’s not into anything weird,” she continued. “He likes to worship a woman, revel in her. He knows it’s your first time, of course, and that will be a gigantic turn-on for him. Several of his peers would have been happy to outbid him for the pleasure of having you first, but of course he sponsored your schooling and there’s an etiquette there amongst the London gentlemen.”

  I love the bald feeling I’ve got down there, and marvel in its hairless slickness. I tug at the tight hairs of my little patch, then try to find the tiniest hint of hair anywhere else, but I get nothing. How I wish I could see! I imagine being photographed, legs wide open, poster girl for the fancy salon…and a current of pleasure surges through me.

  Calm down, brain! I force my curious, wandering hand away from my nether regions and hope that washing my hair again will cool things in my head. The array of high-end cleansing products, scents and body washes that arrived on my doorstep this morning was mind-boggling. I chose the intriguing champagne conditioner for my mane. You really could almost convince me to drink the stuff. It actually says it’s a limited edition from Moët and Chandon. Who knew they licenced hair products? It’s on a level of quality I can barely comprehend. I’m not sure I can ever go back to the supermarket stuff now.

  “He’s booked you for the whole night,” I recall Lucy concluding. “You’ll be staying over at his house and, essentially, you’ll be his wife until breakfast tomorrow. You don’t have to worry about prying servants because he doesn’t believe in them. He will treat you like a bloody princess. I’m pretty sure you’ll forget it’s a paid assignment before very long at all!”

  And with that she wished me luck, told me not to cut corners on my grooming (no danger of that), stressed there was no need to overdo makeup given my ‘natural sensuality’ and reminded me to look out for the dress Charles picked out for me. It would arrive by courier in good time this afternoon. Who knew there were so many delivery guys in London? I’ve spent half the afternoon opening the door to a steady stream of polite, uniformed men bearing mysterious packages!

  I think about how sweet and supportive Lucy has been since I got back from the school. We’ve met twice for coffee, and she’s fielded every question I could possibly throw at her with an informed, smiling, reassuring manner. She told me she was thrilled with my report card from the school and that she wanted me on her books. She never put any pressure on me or rushed me, and before a week went by I ran out of reasons to protest.

  I turn the water to cold as I rinse my hair. I need a drop in temperature.

  Lucy’s only request was exclusivity: as long as I was with her, I was not to work with any other clients or agents. I was more than happy to keep it simple and work with someone like her. I gave her my word five days ago, and we sealed it with a handshake. I could stop any time I wanted, even after one client. No nonsense, no contracts. I find Lucy Fulford implicitly trust-inspiring.

  After that, she set about lining up my appointment with Charles. I’ve been on edge ever since, and particularly since I got in the shower this Wednesday afternoon.

  But the chilly water is doing the trick – the oldest cure in the book! I’m calming down just a little now. My nerves level off as I finish rinsing my hair and finally turn off the taps. I think I’ve got my lust under control for the moment.

  I immediately begin to wonder if that’s a good thing.

  I need to be ready at six. I believe we’ll be having a leisurely dinner first, with Charles as my chef. Odd, really, after the no-strings sex I got used to in training. It does sound a lot like a date. I hope Lucy’s right, and I can put the whole payment thing out of my mind.

  My mental preparation seems to be working, I think to myself as I grab one of the horrible cheap bathroom towels I bought from the local supermarket and start to pat my flesh down. I’ve been good, and doing what Miss Jackson advised: meditation and porn. The combination of guilt-reducing self-hypnosis, a regular diet of sexy viewing and no actual sex – after all, I have no boyfriend as such – has undoubtedly got me hornier than ever as my first appointment approaches.

  There’s still some doubt and disbelief, but surely that’s to be expected. The nagging voice that reminds me how disgusting all of this has been dimming, although I can hear it a little louder today. It sounds vaguely like my mother, which is odd, because she’s never spoken to me about sex at all.

  I expected that angel on my shoulder to be there, of course. Let’s see if it disappears once the first client is out of the way. The voice doesn’t like it when I use the word client. It’s stark and it leaves you in no doubt. The angel wants euphemism.

  So there’s that, but there’s also need. Boy, did I get spoilt at the school. I’ve taken care of myself a few times with my porn homework since getting back, but it’s not the same thing as being with someone. I’ve been so hungry that I’ve even toyed with the idea of calling up one or two of my old flames whom I know would give me a good seeing-to. But I decided against it for the same reason I’ve been avoiding seeing my parents and my friends. There’d be questions, and I’d have to spin a web of lies.

  What I want to do is get through this client and make sure I’m really going to keep doing this. Then I’ll take the time to think about whether I’m going to attempt to hoodwink everyone I know on a long-term basis. I shake my head at the thought and make for the bedroom.

  There’s a massive pile of clothes on the floor. As promised, the school delivered everything from the vast closet I shared with Petra. The only problem is that I don’t have a walk-in wardrobe here. There’s nowhere to put all the stuff. I suppose I might be able to afford somewhere a great deal more spacious by next month. If my, er, performance, is good. And if the sums I’ve been hearing about aren’t some kind of practical joke. Part of me still thinks they must be.

  Right now all I need to worry about is the dress laid out on my bed. It’s an elegant black number, with a reasonable knee-length hem. Two wispy shoulder straps will hold it in place. On the whole it looks quite respectable, like something I could wear on a night out. I doubt it’s something I could afford, though, I think as I slide the fabric between my fingers and thumb. No, definitely not. You don’t get silkiness like that in the places where I’ve gotten used to shopping.

  I check my notes, and there are no instructions about underwear. I shrug to myself, figuring just about any of the stuff from my lingerie drawer at the school will do. Something about the turquoise set grabs me as my eye roves the stack of skimpy bras and panties at my disposal. It’s bright and bold, yet lurid in the classiest way. There’s a beautiful twirly cream and black pattern around the top edges of the cups and panties. I try not to think too much about Charles lowering them with his teeth as I put them on.

  Soon I find myself dressed and ready to go. I select a little handbag and wonder what I should take. My purse. Fresh underwear. My mobile can come along, but I suppose it should be on silent. I decide to do that now so that I don’t forget and embarrass myself later. Just as I flick into quiet mode, I get a vibration.

  It’s Miss Jackson! I remember now. My mentor and I traded numbers before I got on the train to come back to London. It’s a text message.

  Emma Carling, you gorgeous girl! Little bird tells me you’re off on your first job tonight? Just wanted to wish you luck. You are going to knock their socks off for sure. Enjoy it, and enjoy all the dosh ;) Let’s catch up soon xx

  She really does have a knack for timing – how does the woman do it? I’ll probably never know. But hey, her message is most welcome right now. It calms me to hear my decidedly hands-on teacher has such confidence that it’s all going to go smoothly. I hammer out a quick reply, realising as
I do so that I haven’t let my friends from prostitute school know that my D-Day is here. We’ve all been slack. I really must get in touch with the gang soon.

  I put away my phone, ready to focus on entertaining. I stand up and brush myself down. One final check in the mirror. It’s a fact: I don’t think I’ve ever felt so stunning. I think he’s going to be pleased.

  Then, for the fourth time today, I jump as the buzzer from downstairs sounds. My heart skips a beat and my stomach curls around itself. This is not another exciting delivery. This will be my driver. Fuck – this is it!

  I am about to become a prostitute. I take a deep breath and step out of my door.

  Chapter II

  He’s already taking my breath away. I’m kneeling on the floor of his bedroom, near the foot of his king-sized bed. In keeping with his wishes, I’m upright and leaning slightly forward, so that my bare knees take my weight, pushing hard against the chocolate-marble carpet. My hands rest demurely on my thighs, twitching fingers and all. My feet are shoeless, and the unmistakeable fabric of the black dress blankets them as it swishes gently around my heels.

  And I’m thinking, this is it.

  Charles, the man who paid for me tonight, stands tall in front of me. We have dined and conversed, but now, I, the consenting adult, have allowed myself to be brought upstairs for reasons I understand very well. He led me up to his room with a gentle, reassuring grip on the fingers of one hand. I followed with my heart thumping off the charts.

  It’s still going crazy now, somewhere beneath my breast. It feels like it might burst through my rib cage with the next beat. I’m teetering on the knife-edge of no return now. This perfect gentleman would let me go right this minute if I asked. No charge. No mark against my name.

  But I am asking for no release. I am too turned on for that.