Escort Unleashed (Emma Book 2) Page 5

  My hair is in a pony-tail tonight, and I become aware of it slipping off my neck to the left. It grazes me and makes me realise just how sensitive my skin is right now. In spite of that little fear factor, I’m seriously turned on. Imperceptibly – I hope – I shake my head. I must have this mystery treatment. Whether I want to want it or not.

  The sounds repeat away to my right. Once. Then again, closer. Oh…so he’s leaving me for last. Or he’s leaving me out completely.

  Will this be like the chess game again? One big, long, drawn-out tease?

  My tummy is tied in knots by the time he reaches me, lowers himself behind me and pulls my ankles roughly apart. I can’t help gasping. My knees are next, and my kneecap thumps on the ground as I have to reposition one of them to widen my stance.

  And now he’s pushing the backs of my thighs, giving a clear signal that he wants my ass up in the air. His hands feel warm but rough. They push me into position like I’m a bendy doll. And now he stops manoeuvring me. My head is still down, my hands wrapped around it. He has me where he wants me. And I’m quivering.

  Still there’s no sound, although I can hear him breathing now, like a bear in no hurry, stalking in the knowledge that its prey will never win.

  I’m shamefully aware that I’m on total, no-place-to-hide display. Like some kind of wild beast on heat, I’m on all-fours, my hind exposed for a worthy Alpha male. Any worthy Alpha male. My genitals are scarlet, inflamed, and parched for just one thing.

  God, I’m burning and freezing at the same time. Shivering from my utter nakedness, yet perspiring from the wildfire ripping through me. I can feel the hair at my temples turning sticky with fear and need.

  I’m flinching and twitching, even as not one finger is laid upon my body. My pony tail keeps on tickling, and my breath comes in short gasps, the air infused with rich carpet fibres, the odour of burning and the distant waft of wood varnish.

  Now comes that light scraping sounds again. The pencil. I swear it, something is being written. At length. My ears strain, and I wonder if that’s the sealing and parting of lips I can hear. Is he mouthing words to himself as he writes? My sense of hearing, desperate to discover something, anything, is at full stretch to try and pick out words.

  But I don’t think there are any words. Nothing more than lip movements from his wet, thoughtful mouth. Oh, I know it’s wet, because it sounds like water dripping in a cave when he does that murmuring thing. Saliva.

  And I know it’s thoughtful, because he’s writing. You only write when you’re thinking.

  My toes curl as I kneel there, quivering, while he writes things down as if he’s forgotten I’m here. Like my family doctor used to do. Or maybe it’s a drawing. A sketch. Several sketches. One for each of us. Right down to every fold and petal, showing clear and bright between our buttocks.

  The touch. I jump. How did he move so quietly? My ears are my world right now, yet I didn’t hear his arms move. Oh, but…never mind that. Touch has just supplanted hearing in the pantheon of my senses. Touch, with two hands.

  I can feel his thumbs far behind me, pulling me open, fingers splayed across each buttock. They rest like feathers, while the thumbs tug with the firmness of a harsh surgical tool.

  I’m forgetting to breathe.

  There’s nothing to see. Only feel.

  He stretches me wide apart at the top. Then the middle. Then the bottom. He holds me in each position for several seconds.

  Something is telling me to feel incensed. Part of me insists that I stand, tear off the blindfold, demand my clothes and call a taxi.

  Yet my clit is whimpering for touch. And somehow I only hear that bud of mine.

  She gets her answer as his thumbs move closer together at the raging delta of my pussy. My tail bone thrusts into the air, and I swear I hear a whispered chuckle. Just an air-fuelled snort of which I don’t like the sound.

  He pulls even harder now, no doubt teasing my hiding clit out into the open. He holds, and holds, and I’m so turned on I’m dying. So close, yet…

  Now he does a deft thing with his hands, and acrobatic finger leaping right onto the spot. There it is. The whimper. The tiny groan. It’s exactly the sound the other girls made. Now I understand.

  It’s fleeting. A second – long enough to gasp – and no more. It’s a pure and perfect tease, one that has surely worked on all five of us. When his finger goes into me a moment later, it doesn’t stay for very long. It’s like absent-minded probing. An inspection, almost. Then he spreads my lips again, and my forehead reddens on the carpet as I think about how wet I must be right now. Oh, he can surely see that.

  I am dying to rip off this blindfold once more, but this time it’s only because I want to lay eyes on the mystery stranger with the strong, taunting fingers.

  The thought that he is a pussy connoisseur takes hold of me and overwhelms me. It thrills me also.

  He pulls my buttocks wide open from the centre, briefly making my anus gape. He holds and looks for some time, but doesn’t intrude there. I am almost hurting from the need for a prolonged touch. Anywhere down there will do. Please.

  But he lets go. And suddenly the silent one is breathing words in my ear. His voice is hot and potent from the closeness. It sounds like a thunderstorm when he speaks. And when the words come, that storm turns into a hurricane in my head.

  “I know you, Emma Carling,” it coos with threatening pleasure. Then, in a harsh, urgent whisper that blazes in my eardrum like cannonballs, “I’ve known you a very long time indeed.”

  Chapter VI

  The moment I hear those words whispered, a howling worry takes me in its grip. Who the hell was that? Does he mean me harm? I must know. But I have been told I may say nothing; ask nothing.

  Where a moment ago there was passion and longing curiosity, now there is fear. My itch to know who was touching me has been replaced by a desperate desire for information. Suddenly I find myself in conditions of psychological torture.

  This is someone who knows what I am doing with my life. It could be anybody. My secret could be out already. I feel my stomach flip as I realise that a malicious soul could have put my bare pussy on Facebook already. Twitter. Maybe both.

  But no, wait a moment. Surely Lucy would never send us to someone who would do that? Privacy is one of her watchwords.

  Still, she did seem unusually nervous earlier this evening.

  Oh, Christ, I’m imagining the very word. Fuck, I need to look. I have to know. I’m burning sick with worry.

  It doesn’t help that the hot, softer-than-soft whisper appeared to be the climax of the evening for this man. Having left me till last, and murmured me a horror cliffhanger, he moves away and, judging from the way the shoes-on-wood sound fades out, leaves the room.

  Our exit process then commences. It’s like our arrival in reverse. A crew arrives to steer us out and dress us, with Esmeralda directing operations. The blindfold, of course, goes nowhere. We’re led to what I assume is Lucy’s car.

  I’m so happy when the doors slam shut and it’s her voice I can hear. She is always such a comfort.

  “Have a nice time in there ladies?” she asks once we’re safely inside.

  The girls, though still blindfolded, are suddenly full of babble. Everyone wants to compare notes about the weird events of the evening. Lucy doesn’t sound at all surprised when she’s told there was no actual sex.

  “It was kind of like we were being displayed, or, I dunno, examined or something!” Carla exclaims.

  “Exactly!” yelps Teresa. “Hey, did anyone else hear that scratching sound? Like a pencil on paper?”

  Murmurs of agreement fill the car.

  Lucy chuckles as her Mercedes C-Class moves gentle through the streets. “Well, girls, an inspection is pretty much exactly what that was.”

  There’s another murmur, but I’m barely listening to her and haven’t spoken a word. The growing distance between us and the place we’ve just been is doing nothing to ease my troubles. I dar
en’t say anything about that demonic voice in my ear. Not yet, anyway. I need to think about this. And furious thinking makes me go quiet.

  “You see,” Lucy begins, “one or two of my big clients like to examine my latest talent in the same way they would select ripe apples at the greengrocer. It gives them some kind of imperial feeling. And a massive power trip.

  “I suppose the selection process gives them something that simply hiring one of you – or all of you – for sex wouldn’t. A lot of the gentlemen, you see, consider themselves connoisseurs of the female body. Like wine collectors, they enjoy the choosing and the tasting before they pick what’s right for their cellar. That’s as much a part of it as the drinking. Do you follow?”

  “Makes some sense, I guess,” says Melissa. “It doesn’t change my feeling that men are weird though!”

  There’s laughter, but I don’t join in. I’m silent, and looking out of the window. Or at least I would be if it wasn’t for the blindfold. Which is really starting to get on my nerves. It’s an irritant I seriously don’t need right now.

  “So we get a grand for not even having sex?” asks Teresa, a note of wonder in her voice. We haven’t really spoken before, but I think it might be her very first assignment for Lucy.

  “Correct, ladies,” says our lovely agent. “And it’s nothing to what you’ll make if you’re chosen as one of his favourites. Think of this as a kind of free trial. One that’s well worth doing.”

  The thought that ‘free’ in my new line of employment can actually mean a thousand pounds cheers me up just a little.

  “So, the pencil…was he taking notes or something?” enquires Carla. “Is it just one guy? Can you say who it is?”

  “He was indeed taking notes, I should imagine,” Lucy replies. “Yes, it’s just a single client in this case, and he – ”

  “He sounded like he had helpers though!” interrupts Carla.

  “Naturally. Servants and assistants all add to the power sensation,” Lucy resumes. “And no, I certainly can’t say who it is unless he decides to reveal himself. Or gives me permission to speak his name. In this case, that won’t be any time soon. If ever.

  “So then, it would have to be a blindfold every time with this guy?” asks Teresa.

  “More or less,” says Lucy. “But there are other ways too. He could wear a mask. He could simply forbid you to turn around. He could have you in a dark room.”

  There’s a pause.

  “I know what you’re all thinking,” Lucy says. “Yes, it has the potential to be a pretty exciting gig. I’d be a little jealous…

  “Anyway,” she continues, snapping out of her rare display of wistfulness. “I’m sure I don’t need to remind you girls that you need to have the utmost awareness of the need for guarding your clients’ activities behind a curtain of privacy. In this respect it is much like doctor-patient confidentiality.”

  That makes me feel grumpy again. What about my confidentiality? My privacy?

  “They wouldn’t take photos, would they?” I pipe up suddenly.

  Lucy snorts. “I’m rolling my eyes at you now, Emma Carling! Photos? What do you take me for? You know that every client contract forbids this. And they are told in no uncertain terms that if I find out there’s been any attempt at taking pictures, then that’s the last they’ll have to do with me or any of my girls.”

  Yeah, I think to myself. I’m sure there are plenty of other Lucies and plenty of other girls in London. If someone had something personal against a girl…

  “Is everything okay, Emma?” asks Lucy gently. “You were rather quiet until just now.”

  “I’m alright,” I answer. I’m quite sure I don’t want to go into it with her right now. “It was just a bit unsettling, with the blindfold and everything. I’ll get used to it.”

  “I know you will,” says Lucy. You could almost hear the smile in her voice.

  I go back to shuddering gently as the spotlight moves away from me. I rack my brains. Who could he be? The voice itself is no help to me. It was so close, almost inside my very ear, that I wouldn’t have known if it belonged to my dearest friend.

  Potential names fly through my head. Exes. Former colleagues. Or one of my father’s wealthier friends. It’s certainly got to be someone who is loaded. That rules out most exes, I suppose. Except Peter Sawkins. I’ve been told he’s come into some serious cash after some clever investments. Fuck, and it didn’t exactly end well with him. Would he? He has a mean streak, but…could it go this far?

  Colleagues? Wealthy ones? None of my peers qualify. But maybe a few former bosses do. My blood freezes as I picture the CEO of the firm I spectacularly walked out of last month. The very same one who lectured us at training.

  Ah yes, and what about Cranleigh House? Rupert? Hmm, I think I might not mind if it what him. The waker guy, whose name I never did find out? Harry the Scotsman, whose cock I sucked in the sunshine by the pool, right in front of everyone? Chris the chauffeur? What a thought.

  Well, at least the guys from training would be discrete, wouldn’t they? They know the game. They work closely with the agencies. If it’s one of them, they’re surely just fucking with my mind, right? Bastards. But at least that would be safe.

  If only I could know, I might get some sleep tonight. Listening to the chatter going on in the car, I figure nobody else is hung up on who the guy might be. It sounds like they all had more or less the same experience that I did, apart from that fatal whisper. Not one of the girls mentions a frightening whisper in her ear. That seems to have been reserved for the centrepiece. The girl who was saved for last. Yay, lucky me.

  “God, how about that fingerwork?” says Carla. She’s like another Alyssia: these Australian girls are shameless. “All that teasing and stretching, then just that perfect little touch on exactly the right spot. Ugh…and then nothing!”

  “Yep, that sounds pretty familiar,” chirps Melissa. “I’m pretty wound up after that. And there’s something about a blindfold, isn’t there?”

  More murmurs of approval. I cast my mind back to how I felt before those chilling words were uttered to me. And in spite of myself, a tiny current of horniness ripples out from the core of my soul.

  The dread is back again once Lucy drops me – last of the five – back at my flat. I’m relieved I can take the blindfold off before getting out of the car, but there’s not much else to cheer me as I walk in the front door. I’m so concerned that I don’t even think about pressing my vibrator into action. Normally, after that much of a sexual wind-up, it would be my first port of call.

  I wonder if I should have said something to Lucy once we were alone in the car. I’ve always felt like I would be able to tell her anything, but all of a sudden I’m not so sure. Not because I don’t think she’d lookout for me. Precisely the opposite. If I say a client has made me feel uncomfortable, she’d have to say something to them. And that, if the guys knows me and, God forbid, my family, could make things worse. I’m probably not thinking straight, but I’d rather play it cool.

  I can’t come up with any better plan than that as I toss and turn for most of the night. By sunrise I am exhausted, unable to nod off, and I end up gazing at the skylight once more. As always, it calms me, especially since this morning’s dawn is making a lovely mauve-orange light show above my head.

  It’s not so bad, I tell myself. I’ll be getting another grand in the bank today. And the fact that such a figure is already starting to feel like pocket money makes me think that what will be, will be. I’m going to stick at this!

  What’s more, I’ve got nothing much planned for today. No clients and no appointments. Except for the long-overdue dinner with Martin in the evening. And tomorrow, I’ve got Sarah arriving. I allow myself a little smile.

  I spend the day catching up on some reading, while grabbing the odd snack from the deli across the road. It’s a strange feeling not to even look at the prices, but I’m starting to get used to just picking whatever takes my fancy. The Polish girl be
hind the counter knows my face now, and gives me a wide smile every time I go in. I’ve started tipping her. Why? Because she’s sweet to me, and because all of a sudden I can afford to do it. Where my new lifestyle and career is concerned, I want everyone to be a winner.

  Martin draws a short straw in the evening though, because I mess up most of the dinner I attempt to make for us. My cooking has always been hit-and-miss. Tonight, what sounded so straightforward in Jamie Oliver’s book went badly wrong in Emma Carling’s kitchen. I thought I was keeping it simple with vegetable linguine, but perhaps beans on toast is where I should draw the line.

  Thankfully, I know Martin well enough to joke about it. “At least I can afford a cooking course now,” I murmur apologetically. “Maybe an autumn retreat in Tuscany for a week. I should at least learn how to get pasta right, shouldn’t I?”

  Martin, who is a fine cook and has prepared me many a tasty meal in his kitchen, chuckles warmly. “Sounds like a lot of fun. But tonight’s experiment doesn’t matter, you know. It’s the thought that counts. And the chance to catch up with you.

  “And anyway,” he goes on, reaching for another top-drawer bottle of Chianti, “we’ve got our second round of this delicious wine to finish!”

  “We sure do,” I grin, holding out my glass. “At least I couldn’t cock that part up. I think we had to spit the wine out the last time I had you over, didn’t we? My budget’s a tiny bit healthier now…”

  “And here’s to that!” he booms as we clink glasses.

  “Oh yes,” I blurt out, blushing a little. “I should give you a huge thank you. I didn’t ever imagine it could all work out, especially so fast. And I didn’t seriously believe the money you mentioned when you first brought up the subject of, you know…”

  “But now it’s in your bank account,” he chimes in. “And you’re having fun, aren’t you?”

  He gives me a wink.

  I redden a touch more: “Maybe a little. Anyway, thanks for steering me in this direction. It would never have crossed my mind, obviously. I’d probably be working in that coffee shop downstairs if it wasn’t for you.”