Escort Unleashed (Emma Book 2) Page 16

  Me? I just did what came naturally. I smile when I’m happy.

  “God yes,” she whispers. “Turn around now, pet.”

  The best ride I’ve ever had continues as I face her now, still on my knees, and she licks her husbands’ semen off my face. Every drop of it. She makes little orgasmic noises at every slurp, twirling her tongue slowly on my pulsing skin as she savours the flavour. I respond in kind, because, holy fuck, it’s hot what she’s doing.

  She’s done, and she pecks me on the lips. Just as I begin to probe for her tongue, though, she pulls me onto his lap, and tells me to ride him. I go willingly, let him fuck me hard, and thank God I climax when he does.

  Nights like these mean I am loving my job more than ever now. There is absolutely no way I can lay this down. I’m almost drunk with the power and the excitement and the money. Lucy must be kept sweet at all costs. I’m getting very, very wary of this plan I’ve cooked up with the girls.

  But it’s also getting harder and harder to bottle up what I do. Not only do I know a lot of people whom I suspect (though I bet they wouldn’t say it out loud) would be downright jealous, but I feel like I can be proud of my art. Apart from, say, the technicalities of cock-sucking, I’m beginning to see that it’s quite something to be able to switch from dom to sub the way I can.

  I can’t shake the feeling that I’m going to have to tell my mother, sooner or later. I can’t hide the fact that I’ve moved house much longer. She likes to visit me now and then. So, with trepidation in my voice, I phone and invite her to my new place for lunch. There’s no way my dad can be there. If I tell her, she can pass on the news. Looking him in the eye will be far too much.

  “How can you afford to live there, darling?” she asks.

  “Oh, I’ll explain everything next week, Mum.”

  I gulp as I put the phone down. I’m either going to have to go through with my confession or come up with one hell of a lie.

  Chapter XIX

  “Is it reversible?” I ask Lucy, wondering if her latest plan is confirmation that she’s finally decided to start playing impish jokes on me. I am, after all, now more than three months into my new career.

  “Oh, it will have to be,” she giggles. “Most clients prefer a pure and natural look. The piercing will be buried in there somewhere, but you won’t even be aware of it in the future. That’s what the experts are telling me, anyway.”

  “Nobody has done this before?” I quiz her.

  “Not one of my girls,” she admits. “But the interesting new requests are exactly what makes this job such a fascination, you know?”

  I’m really going to have to think about this. I’m getting the feeling I’ve become a go-to girl for the clients and for Lucy whenever there’s a more ‘niche’ business enquiry. Word seems to be getting around, and, just as Lucy promised, my fees are creeping up.

  “I could have you working all day if I wanted to, young lady! I’m turning down eight out of ten requests for you now, and the waiting list is going out to about a month. You are creating a stir I’ve never quite seen before.”

  “Oh…” Is all I can think to say, still quite unable to take in the level of fuss. I almost feel like I’ve become a celebrity, albeit one that will (I really hope) never appear in a newspaper. “That’s amazing, Lucy! Really?”

  “Would I lie to you? Emma, you’re the hottest property in London right now. I’ve even heard that you’re at the top of certain rankings lists in some very high-security intranet systems.”

  “They have rankings?” I laugh, more amused by the notion of rankings than the fact that I might be top of the pile.

  “Even I’m not privy to these particular networks,” Lucy tells me, “but I believe that there are a couple of lists out there for the high net worth individuals that form our client base. Much as they treasure confidentiality, they love to compare notes. And to rate girls for their performance on any number of criteria. I’ve only been told this verbally, mind, but apparently some of the ratings software has decided you’re number one by quite some margin.”

  I make a mental note to ask Charles about this next time we’re together. Which reminds me of something I’ve been meaning to say to Lucy.

  “By the way, you’re not turning down requests from Charles, are you?” I ask, trying not to sound too hopeful and give myself away. I think I’d die if our appointments stopped. Would anything stop us from seeing each other outside of ‘work’? Only his policy of keeping his sex life the way he does. And, God, he’s probably right. If there was even a hint of real-life ‘relationship’ about it, I’d fall so hard that I’d break every bone in my body.

  I’m sure Miss Jackson wouldn’t approve of my feelings for Charles, but I think that times have changed since I embarrassed myself with Rupert. My awareness of the dangers of attachment is complete, and I think I know what I’m doing now. Besides, he’s the only one of my dozens of clients that has this kind of effect over me, so I think I’m doing alright.

  “We all need our little vice, don’t we?” chuckles Lucy, echoing my thoughts. I can almost see her beaming down the phone again. “No, as your sponsor and one of my very first clients he will always have special privileges. You’ll have your weekly with him as long as you want it.”

  I’m relieved to hear that. I’ve been working on the sushi thing, after all, and must say I’m really enjoying it. What a crazy indulgence to be able to go to a course on Japanese raw fish preparation at eleven on a Wednesday morning! This life is opening doors for me in so many more ways than one. No way in a million years would I have found the time or energy to broaden my horizons in that way whilst I had a full-time ‘day job.’

  “Apart from that, it’s about taking the best offers for you, working on roughly two grand an hour as your standard rate. Considerably more for major kink. Then of course there’s keeping things interesting for you and making sure long-term clients are prioritized. It’s not an easy balancing act, but that is exactly what I am here for Emma.”

  I nod, which is silly, because we’re on the telephone. She keeps going.

  “Anyway, we’ve gotten right off the subject! A ring in your clitoris, to be worn until Christmas. Twenty-five thousand Pounds in your bank to cover the inconvenience. And no doubt a few lost bookings.”

  My world grows ever more bizarre and twisted. I can’t quite work out what’s more strange: the offer itself, or the fact that I’m considering it.

  “Who’s it for? What do they want from it?”

  I don’t know much about clit rings. Such decoration has never been that high on my list, I have to say.

  Lucy clears her throat, as if she knows I won’t like what I’m about to hear. “It’s the one you’re not allowed to see. The house in – oops, careful! The place where you get blindfolded.”

  Although I’ve not said anything to her whatsoever, I think she senses that part of me loathes this particular client. I suspect she knows me well enough, too, to sense that I am torn apart by the turn-on of going there. And now she can hear me thinking, it seems.

  “Emma, if there’s anything you want to say about those visits, I’m all ears. We can afford to be a little more choosy these days.”

  I feel my jaw tightening a little. “Of course I will. I mean, so, he’s a long-term client, right?”

  “Very,” she admits. “But that isn’t everything, and you know that. You are my priority.”

  I’m on the verge of saying something. Telling Lucy things is so much like falling into your mother’s arms when you’ve hurt yourself as a child. But then I think of Latifa and the girls, and the plan we cooked up in the bath. They were right; this is something personal and I want to see it through. I’m curious and aroused and fascinated by it all. And I’ve come to realise that as much as he thinks he’s the winner in all this, he’s not. He doesn’t know I know (or think I know) who he is, and that I can get him if I play my cards right. Plus, I’m taking his money. Way more of it than his stupid company payroll ever use
d to grudgingly shove my way. There’s a weird pleasure in that.

  “No, everything’s fine,” I announce, trying to sound firm about it. “But we’re talking about some fairly serious mutilation here. Can we make it fifty thousand?”

  Lucy lets out a low whistle. “I like it, Emma Carling. You know what you’re worth. I’ll ask the question, and I’d be very surprised if it wasn’t a yes.”

  “Thanks Lucy,” I smile, feeling apologetic in a British kind of way.

  “That little pussy of yours is a gold mine, you know that?”

  She chuckles heartily whilst I turn red at her decidedly un-British words. Thank goodness she doesn’t ask me to answer her before ringing off.

  The next day is a busy one. Coffee with an ex-colleague (she’s also moved on now) in the morning, and I’m absolutely dying to tell her what I’m up to and what the loathed but to-die-for boss gets up to in his free time. It’s on the tip of my tongue, but I’m not sure I can trust her to keep a secret.

  Then I’m off making sushi, which is terrific fun. It feels like I’m back at holiday club. The pleasure of taking time over creating something; learning an art that’s genuinely new and decidedly tricky to master. I’m starting to produce some passable creations now, and I can’t wait for Charles to eat them off my naked body.

  It makes me wet just thinking about it as I stand there mushing cold rice with my fingers, struggling with the seaweed. The rest of the dozen-strong class are mostly older women, seemingly all housewives of richer men looking for something to do. It’s an expensive course, enough so to rule out the average Londoner. And besides, most people my age are at work.

  As I cut salmon slices I wonder if any of their husbands are frequenting the likes of me via less scrupulous agents. Of course they are. Or maybe – and I like this thought so much more – some of them are spicing up their marriages the way that wonderful and open-minded pair did for me.

  A couple of the women ask me what I do, but I just smile and tell them I’m self-employed. One of them, a blonde lady with blue eyes and a really friendly face, keeps on at me for more details. I hate lying and wish she’d drop it. Eventually I cave. Well, just a little.

  “Alright, alright,” I whisper, making sure nobody else can hear me. “I do massage. Freelance…”

  I guess I’ve decided that I don’t know a soul here, and these people have no overlap with any of my other circles, so it’s probably a safe place to start practicing a little honesty. Just a bit.

  “Ah,” she says, quite obviously in no doubt as to what I mean. She smiles at me and squeezes my arm. “Well, I won’t ask you any more questions, I understand! You’re beautiful, Emma – I bet you’re doing really well for yourself.”

  She winks and turns back to her work. I’m so relieved. I melt and beam and have to bite my tongue to stop the imp in me piping up with, “number one in London, actually!”

  Wow, telling someone wasn’t so bad. God, if only my mother can react like that when we meet up in a few days. I think that is entirely wishful thinking, but hey, a girl can dream.

  After that I nip home for a shower and to change. Completely free of fish odours that would definitely not be good for my position on these mythical rankings, I dash out for a lunch-time appointment. It’s another first for me: I will actually visit an office!

  I’m a little nervous about it. Thankfully it’s near Liverpool Street and a fair way from my old office, but still, it’s broad daylight and a ton of people my age will be working there. Hotels and homes are one thing, but turning up at an office in the middle of the day seems highly risky. Either the clients (yes, there are two of them, but that’s no longer the slightest concern to me) don’t care, or they have some pretty major privacy going on.

  I’m glad I’ve been told I can dress in ‘business wear’, otherwise I wouldn’t have taken the job. It’s actually another large consultancy and, if I ran into anyone familiar, I could legitimately say I’m in for an interview.

  As it turns out, I don’t spot any familiar faces and am treated by security exactly as I would be if I really were in for a job application. Though I know I’ll be getting a stern examination of a different kind, I suspect this is exactly what the various gatekeepers been told. The EA who shows me into the executive’s office is either a very good actress or genuinely thinks I’m there for entirely innocent reasons.

  Once I’m in, the latch is flicked and two men in their forties greet me with a formal handshake each. “Emma, how lovely to meet you, please have a seat,” they say, motioning to a long rectangular table in the corner of the office. They look completely smart and serious, both with a modern business look: fashionable stubble, sharp eyes, gelled hair.

  “Thank you,” I answer, smoothing down my skirt and straightening my blouse before sitting down. I’ve not had a lot of clear instruction of what to expect from this assignment, but I’m getting used to just going with it.

  They each pull out a chair and sit down opposite me, putting their phones (two each) on silent before placing them on the table. They look a very similar age and stocky build, and I wonder if they were at school together. Maybe even on the same rugby team. There’s something a bit old boys’ club about the feeling in the room, but at the same time the atmosphere is formal and, well, rather like it really is an interview.

  At first I wonder if there’s been an enormously embarrassing mix-up. They begin to ask me the most mundane and general interview-style questions I’ve ever had to deal with. Strengths, motivations, weaknesses, education. They don’t seem to have an actual CV of mine, but the questions are vague enough that they could almost apply to anyone for any job.

  As always, I just go with it. Just as I am beginning to wonder if making me squirm is all they want to do, the one executive whispers in the other’s ear. His colleague nods, leans back and taps his pen on the table.

  “So far so good, Emma. We feel you may have what it takes to succeed here. However, we hire on looks too.”

  “That’s right,” the other one jumps in. “This is not a politically correct company. What we look for, among other things, is highly fuckable women. We are senior board members and we are used to getting what we want. If you work here, we will expect you to open your legs for us any time you are summoned. So then, will you stand up and follow our instructions in removing your clothing.”

  I see what’s going on here now. This is the fantasy for them; the interview they wish they could really have with the women who come here for jobs. They’ve played their part well, because the build-up to the sudden switch of tone has left me shocked by their brazen request, my heart suddenly racing at double the speed. Especially that ‘highly fuckable’ part. Not that it didn’t create an instant bubble of lust deep in my stomach.

  It’s a good little role-play, I have to admit. I rise unsteadily, not really needing to act the wobbly part. “Of course,” I say, making sure to look each one in the eye. “My panties may be a little wet, I do apologise in advance.”

  I can tell they’re satisfied as they glance at each other with wicked grins. Before long I’m naked, apart from my heels, and the two men fuck me one after the other. For one I’m bent over the table, for the other I’m on my back, knees bent and legs wide. On the very same table where I’m quite sure they do proper interviews all the time.

  Wow, it’s quite a clever thing they’ve done there. I’m pretty sold on it, I must say. As far as I can see it’s a bit of harmless fantasy for these men. What’s the point in pretending men don’t think that kind of thing if they’re interviewing a pretty young intern? None at all. Pretending they don’t won’t change anything. Far better to have me to bring their dreams to life than to actually mess with someone’s career for real.

  When they’re done they let me dress, and go back into formal mode. “Thank you, Emma,” each of them says as he offers his hand. “I’m sure we’ll be in touch.”

  And I have a feeling they definitely will be.

  That night I have an
evening assignment – if that’s the right word – with Charles. Last one before my birthday, actually, and the last time he’ll be cooking for me before I get to make him some sushi!

  But before all that, I’m down at a specialist for some jewellery to be inserted in my most intimate place. My counter-offer of fifty thousand was readily accepted, so here I am, legs open, with a strange man doing things to my vagina.

  For once, though, the man is not going to fuck me. This, like all of the cosmetic and medical appointments Lucy sets up for me, is top-level specialist treatment. It’s a far cry from the dodgy street corner tattoo artist where I first got my ears pierced and sent my mother into apoplexy when I was thirteen.

  In spite of the growing knot of worry in my stomach at our impending conversation, I smile to myself at the thought that she went so mad about that. It’s really nothing to the latest thing her miscreant daughter has gotten up to.

  Well, whatever happens, at least she won’t have to know about the clit ring. The idea of having it freaks me out just a little. I have a strange paranoia about catching it on some furniture or something, and having an awful, bloody accident.

  But as the man works I’m warming to the notion of this new accoutrement. He’s in his late twenties and clearly works out: his arms are like those of a heavyweight boxer! I can see most of them thanks to his tight, short-sleeved white t-shirt, and he’s got a couple of gleaming dermal implants peeping out from the inside of his wrists. I wonder if he did them himself.

  After all, he’s doing the most intricate work imaginable on me. I’m glad I can’t see what tools he’s using down there. Apparently they don’t use anaesthetic for this, so I can feel the every stab of sensation.

  Oh my, you can do that again.

  God almighty, this is a man who knows how to find a clit. I suppose he’d have to, wouldn’t he? Oh my, there it is! Whatever he’s doing, it’s a sharp surge of pleasure each time he does it. Painful pleasure, that is. If you told me he was slowly pushing something thin and sharp through the hood, I’d believe you. I have to bite my lip to stop myself from making embarrassing noises.