Escort Unleashed (Emma Book 2) Page 6

  “Well, I would have hated to see that,” he smiles. “I’m glad you’re using your good looks and, ahem, your fine skills. Clearly the school taught you a few useful tricks.”

  “Hey, are you saying I was useless in bed before?” I ask in mock outrage.

  “I’m sure you were useless just about everywhere,” he replies drily. His wit almost makes me fall off my chair with laughter.

  The evening flies by this way, full of banter, euphemism and innuendo. It’s always been like that with Martin. I feel comfortable enough that I could tell him anything, but we choose to be just a little bit British about things nonetheless. As a platonic but dear friend, it feels better that way.

  Of course, I do tell him how well his friend Charles treated me, and how amazing he made me feel. I also tell him it didn’t feel much like an assignment.

  “I’m sure it didn’t,” he nods. “Our Charles loves to make a woman feel special. That’s his pleasure. It’s just that he doesn’t see why he should promise himself to one lady for life. And since women tend to get attached to him, he prefers the escort approach.

  “I must say he’s extremely taken with you though! Don’t worry, he didn’t share details, but I’ve never heard him rave about a girl quite like this. Who knows, maybe you can change him!

  “I think I’ll just stick to the day job for now,” I grin. But I can totally see why women would get attached to Charles. I’ve got first-hand experience of that. I tell Martin a few other tidbits, and then I mention that strange whisper from last night. It hasn’t bugged me so much today, but it’s been on my mind.

  Martin frowns as I tell him more or less – minus the naked fingering – what happened.

  “I wish I knew what to say, Em,” he says. “I’m no expert, and it’s hard to guess whether it’s really anything to worry about. I can understand why you don’t want family and friends being told, although I think that with time you’ll come to realise it’s not such a big deal.

  “It could just be someone messing with you. Any client knows your name is Emma, right?”

  “Right, but Lucy’s always said that they aren’t told surnames…”

  “I see. Although surnames aren’t difficult to track down nowadays. But look, why don’t you mention it to Lucy? She seems to have your best interests at heart. She’s very experienced and I’m sure she would sort out any uncomfortable situation.”

  “I know, I know,” I murmur thoughtfully. “I just think I want to know a little more first. I mean, maybe I don’t make the cut with this client and the whole thing goes away…”

  “It’s unlikely you won’t make his list,” Martin responds, unashamedly looking me up and down, even though I’m in my oldest, grubbiest house tracksuit.

  “Er, maybe so,” I sigh uncomfortably. “I guess I’m just being stubborn, but I have this thing about fighting my own battles. When I got bullied at school and I told my brother about it – ” I pause for a moment. “He chased them away, you know, but it was embarrassing. And they just had more ammunition on me the next time.”

  “I get you, darling,” says Martin in his reassuring way. “I’m certain you’ll do the right thing. Things will work out. Just look how far you’ve come.”

  I smile weakly at him, emotional from the alcohol and our reunion. He’s right: I’ve come miles and miles and miles. And things do seem to keep working out. I just hope that chilling whisper will get out of my head soon.

  Chapter VII

  I open the door, and Sarah almost knocks me over. She pulls me into a warm embrace and holds me tight. For what seems like ages, it feels like we’re glued together. It’s pretty nice. It’s been over a month since we’ve been together, and I’m excited that she’s here. I’m happy to have her hold me.

  And then we’re kissing. It just happens. And God, it’s beautiful. The thing that I’ve been missing during this early part of my new career is suddenly so obvious. Locking lips with a girl is real kissing. It gives me something that none of my clients – nor any man ever – quite manage to deliver. A woman knows how a woman wants it.

  And what’s more, I’ve got an emotional bond with this person. Back at the school, she seduced me, the unwilling, virgin bisexual, plain and simple. And I can feel that special connection sparking again each time our tongues touch and intertwine, our love – is that going a bit far? – pouring into each other’s mouths, then deep into our bodies. Deep as you can go.

  Jesus, I’m turning to mush. I don’t think I knew just how much I missed Sarah until now.

  I hear a door click shut down the hallway. Hastily I pull away from Sarah, who seems to have been grinning like a Cheshire Cat even while kissing me. I glance down the hallway. Shit, it’s Mrs Hampstead! A sweet, dear little old lady if ever there was one. She’s probably never heard of…well, the kind of thing we were up to. And there she is, slowly turning away from her door and moving towards us.

  But if she did spot the two young women kissing at the other end of the corridor, she’s not letting on. I’m guessing she didn’t see us, because I think she’d have stopped and stared if she had. For her, it would be like seeing a UFO.

  “Hello Mrs Hampstead,” I wave, hoping that pretending everything is normal will make her think she imagined anything she might have thought she saw.

  “Good morning, young Emma,” she smiles as she heads around the corner towards the elevator. “And to your friend!”

  “Come on, friend,” I wink at Sarah, “Get inside, will you? I don’t want to be responsible for any heart attacks.”

  “Whatever,” she says, picking up her bags and stumbling into my poky little flat, “You’re just being shy again, you prude!”

  “Hey!” I protest as I close the door behind her. “Just you wait until you hear some of the things I’ve been up to. No prudes here!”

  “We’ll see about that, Missy, but I definitely hope not!” she says hotly. “And I seriously hope the work sex hasn’t tired you out too much for play sex.”

  I’m feeling a bit impish, so pause for a moment before saying, “Well, a little, actually. I’ve cleared you some room on the sofa. It should be just about long enough for –”

  “Oh fuck off!” she squeals indignantly. And then I burst out laughing, and she drops her bag and grabs my arms again. “Don’t even joke, baby. That would be the worst kind of torture. Now show me to your chamber, m’lady!”

  I flutter my eyelashes playfully, then take her by the hand and bring her through. Of course I’ve prepared, really. In anticipation of her arrival I’ve already tidied up, lit some scented candles and cleared her some space in the wardrobe.

  “It’s going to be a squeeze, this room,” I apologize sincerely. “But I’m thinking that –”

  “As long as it’s got you in it!” she interjects, breathing heavily.

  Oh. I wasn’t really thinking of immediate sex while I got set for Sarah’s arrival. In fact, I wasn’t really sure just who or what she was to me. But now all those questions have disappeared into the lustful smoulder that hangs between us. And before I know it we’re making love again.

  I’m not sure that ‘making love’ is a phrase that’s ever come naturally before, given the quality of my previous relationships. But there you go, it’s just happened. Making love on the bed. On a Wednesday afternoon, while the sun streams in through my skylight. This is the life!

  The love-making – hell, Sarah Smith turns the Emma Carling sex machine into pure goo! – is terrific. So fucking good, she makes my body shiver in incredible ways. I’d forgotten some of the things she can do, mostly with her tongue, and her lips, and her teeth. Yet always on the soft and tender side.

  Doing it with a woman is just so different. It’s been a missing piece in the puzzle of my life ever since training ended. I’m stunned how fast my life has changed. My sexual need has become a beast that needs constant feeding. And I must say, I’m really enjoying the mealtimes.

  I indulge in a rare cigarette as we lie in bed for the rest
of the day, enjoying not needing to be anywhere. We catch up on all the happenings of the past month or so. Not for the first time, I begin to get the uncomfortable feeling that I’ve had a far more interesting time than Sarah has. After a while, I cut short my debauched tales and listen to her.

  “I’ve been thinking a lot since school,” she says, “but not doing very much. I still had a month left on my lease in Brighton, so I’ve just been hanging around really. I guess I’ve been trying to convince myself to go back to drama school, but I just haven’t felt my heart in it. Plus, I got my grades back, and they didn’t fill me with encouragement. Let’s just say I might not be very good at acting.”

  I do wish this lovely girl wouldn’t switch into downcast mode so easily. For all I know she really isn’t any good on stage, but I do know that she deserves to be happy. I have to stop myself asking if she has thought about going back to her family for a while when I remember, just in time, that her mum and dad both passed away in her teens. Sarah’s life makes mine look like a bloody holiday camp, and I’m almost ashamed to have ever complained about anything. I just know I really want to help her.

  “Okay,” I murmur thoughtfully, “but we know you’re very talented in the bedroom.”

  “Not sure those folks at Cranleigh House agree, though, did they? I mean, I passed, but, my report card…I don’t know if I’m up to it…”

  “Bollocks!” I say firmly. I’m feeling a bit of a personal mission coming on as I lie here beside my friend. I badly want Sarah to come and enjoy some of the life I’ve been enjoying for myself. “You’ve got every bit of skill I’ve got, maybe more, and I don’t care what those teachers said. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m not as good as they think I am.”

  She splutters. “You keep telling yourself that, Miss Modest!”

  I really can’t seem to get used to all this fanfare about my performance, or desirability, or whatever you call it. I just wasn’t brought up to be able to handle it. But I’m constantly wondering if all this adulation has always been out there, just waiting for me to open the window and hear it.

  “Never mind about me,” I retort, trying to sound serious. “Do you want to be a highly-paid prostitute with me or not?”

  “It sounds ace to me, yes! I’m already running out of money, and the sex part sounds like quite a lot of fun.

  There’s a note in her voice that reminds me to ask her something that’s been bugging me.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you,” I begin, hoping to sound vaguely tactful. “Where do you really stand on men? I kind of get the impression you’re more into girls. And most of the work, you know, is…you get my drift?”

  She laughs raucously, as though she’s doing some kind of voice projection exercise back at drama school. “Look, you’re a little biased Miss Carling! Most of the work you’ve seen me do is somewhere between your legs.”

  At this I close my eyes and feel the corners of my mouth curling into a wistful smile. I can’t help myself.

  I feel her pull me a little closer as I do that, as if it’s all the invitation she needs to demonstrate her skills again. I’m so tempted to let her hand roam, but I catch it just as she starts to slide her palm down across my belly button.

  “Wait, don’t change the subject!” I admonish.

  “Right, sorry, okay, where was I? No, look, I’m bisexual. My first choice, I must admit, does tend to be women. Although at the moment it’s just one woman.”

  She clears her throat and goes on: “But I do love cock as well, you really don’t need to worry. That time that you and me did the double penetration at Cranleigh? It was special for being the first time we worked together, but trust me, Emma, I think about those two men inside me every single day.”

  “Well good,” I say, cheered by the news, and feeling momentarily like I’ve morphed into Miss Jackson, grading her for her open love of cock. “Then we should set about getting you paid to enjoy some more men inside you, shouldn’t we? There’s more than enough out there to go round.”

  Stupidly, I blush. She smiles, unconvincingly, her less confident side coming to the fore once again. “Why ‘we’? You don’t have to spend your time helping me out, you know!”

  I give her a look. “Well, I want to, so take that!”

  It seems wrong, after all, to just sit back on all this success while my best friend – or seemingly more than that – from school gets none of it. “We’re in this together sister!”

  Now she looks like she might cry. But then she smiles. I think she might be a tiny little bit unbalanced, our Sarah. “Well, I guess I was a little bit more pleasant to you than your little friend Petra...!”

  “Oh God, I’d forgotten her! Now she can definitely fuck off.”

  “I wonder what she’s up to?”

  “Well, she didn’t pass training, we know that. So if I understand rightly, no agent is likely to want her on their books. No serious agent, anyway.”

  “Haha, hopefully for her sake Starbucks have got vacancies then!”

  “Yikes, I wouldn’t want her making my coffee. She’d probably spit in it. Anyway, stop changing the subject. Back to you!”

  I squeeze her hand, which still rests on my stomach. It’s supposed to show I’m serious about this conversation, but she doesn’t take it that way. She pulls her knee in towards mine, draping it over my leg as I lie on my back, trying to keep my focus as I stare out of the skylight.

  I remember now that Sarah was the only girl at training who didn’t have a sponsor. She’d approached an agent in Brighton, who’d mentioned her to a London colleague, who then set everything up. But Sarah never ran into a Charles, and nor did that agent want to back her financially. She’d had to foot the bill herself. With no easy path to work now that she’s done.

  “Haven’t you at least spoken to the agent who put you in touch with the school?” I query.

  “I did. They said I should come and see them when I’m in London. But they didn’t sound all that excited. I think they must have seen my report.”

  “Hey, I’m sure it wasn’t that bad! Bad would be failing, wouldn’t it? And not everyone gets distinctions, you know. I’m not even sure Latifa got one, and look what a sexy devil she is! It certainly can’t be essential for picking up good work, or there wouldn’t be enough girls to serve London.”

  “Hmm, maybe. Well, I’ll ring them tomorrow, I promise.”

  “Good. And meantime, I will call Lucy and have a word. Maybe she values my opinion, and can do something for you.”

  She brightens. “That would be amazing Em! I don’t even want to let myself think about how hot it would be to be working with you. To get paid for that kind of fun…”

  I fear she’s getting ahead of herself again, but at least she’s on my page. Broadly speaking.

  “And don’t give a thought to money,” I announce. “You’ll stay here with me and I’ll look after you. We’ll have a whole lot of fun, and maybe we can get Latifa and Alyssia down for a weekend. We’ll all go out!”

  “You’re the best,” she grins. “And I’m sure I’ll make it worth your while.”

  She winks at me. “Plus I’ll wash the dishes.”

  “Haha, if you like! Although I want to move soon, and maybe get someone in to do that kind of work. Now there’s something you can help me with. We’re gonna go house-hunting! A bigger, better flat to suit my new income. What do you say? You can even have your own room!”

  “Seriously, you better stop saying that,” she grumbles. “You’re stuck with me in your bed, like it or not.”

  “Like it,” I whisper, satisfied that we’ve achieved some progress this afternoon.

  And then her mouth is on my nipple. We don’t hold ourselves back another moment longer.

  Chapter VIII

  Harley Street. This is where London’s best doctors hang out. All the way down the road, gold plaques hang next to dull-coloured doors above the grey pavement. Every one of these physicians is a specialist in something very specific. And
judging from the cars parked along the street, they’re doing okay for themselves.

  My heart beats a little quicker as my eye falls on the gold plaque in front of me. Dr D.K. Krasznik, PhD. Lots of other abbreviations I don’t understand follow his name.

  I’ve grown accustomed to my weekly sexual health check-up. A sweet lady doctor near my home takes care of that, and we have a good chat while she does her thing to make sure I’m safe. It makes me comfortable, and I’ve forgotten the shyness that overcame me in my first couple of appointments.

  But I’m not feeling so good about this particular doctor’s visit. This man is a pain specialist. A special kind of pain specialist.

  I’m so glad I didn’t meet anyone I know as I walked here and pushed the big white door bell button. They’d be surprised to see me here, because everyone knows I’ve never had any health trouble. Hopefully they’d have been too polite to ask. But you couldn’t bank on that with some of my nosey aunts.

  I’d have had to lie, I muse, praying that the door will open quickly. Because the truth is there’s nothing wrong with me at all. Although you might say I’m insane to be presenting my body to this man.

  It’s not a prostitution assignment. This is one of Lucy’s screening things. This Dr Krasznik’s job is to establish where my pain threshold is. It’s supposed to be for my own good, but nothing about it sounds like fun. I feel distinctly nervous as a male voice on the intercom tells me to push the door open and proceed to the end of the hallway.

  A buzzer sounds and I do as instructed. When I reach the end of the dimly-lit corridor, a door opens and a man – Dr K I presume – ushers me into his office in business-like fashion. He gives me no more than a nod, and straight away I get the impression he’s not worried about repeat business.

  He motions me to sit on that little bed thing doctors always have in the corner of their room (although his room is a big one). I don’t feel much like talking, so I sit upright and scrutinize him. He’s in his forties, has unkempt black hair, and carries a trimmed beard with just a few grey hairs poking through. Beneath his white doctor’s coat, I can see he’s wearing a grey shirt and a red tie. The red in particular contrasts loudly with his sharp, serious features and his cool manner.