Escort Unleashed (Emma Book 2) Read online

  I love Madame Claude’s most famous quote: ‘There are two things people will always pay for: food and sex. And I was never destined to be a chef.’ I wonder if I could be like Madame Claude, or even Lucy, one day. Who knows? But right now I think I’d be too jealous of the fun my girls were having!

  That said, if I were an agent then I’d be able to get Sarah some work. Lucy has definitively told me she doesn’t think Sarah is a fit: sorry and all that. It’s frustrating that there’s nothing I can do to change her mind. Solutions keep coming into my mind, but they all seem like silly ones. I wish I didn’t feel so responsible, as if it’s my fault Sarah’s unemployed. I try to remind myself that I’m doing more than enough for her by letting her stay with me indefinitely.

  Not that it’s any hardship for me, of course. I can get professional massage from Hannah any time I like, but none with the intimacy Sarah offers. And none with the inevitable happy ending. There are times when I wonder if my poor vagina will get worn out: she’s certainly never been tested quite like this. But she’s holding up really well.

  It’s great fun house-hunting with Sarah. It feels a bit like being a married couple, and I keep asking her what she thinks of places. She’s happy to tell me, but keeps having to remind me that it’s my apartment and my decision. “I don’t think I should have a say, honey,” she says over and over.

  What makes it even better is that there’s no hurry. I don’t have to worry about aligning lease dates exactly, because if my rent overlaps by a month then my bank account will barely feel it. I can be as slow or as whimsical as I like, pretty much. After all, I can cover a month’s rent on my current place in one good evening’s work.

  Some of the agents who show us round spacious, beautiful penthouses obviously think we’re time-wasters. Two girls, doing a lot of whispering and giggling, who are far too young to fit the usual client profile. That only makes us want to wind them up even more, and we develop some great routines in which we audibly compare notes on our respective pub jobs.

  But then, one Thursday lunchtime, we arrive somewhere that makes us stop kidding around. It’s in the middle of the area I’ve been mildly obsessed with: in the heart of the city, tucked away behind the shops and restaurant next to the Tower of London. I’m a sucker for a balcony and a view, and this place has both. There’s a balcony that runs all the way across the living area and master (or mistress, in this case) bedroom, and there’s a stunning vista of Tower Bridge. For the location and sense of place alone, the place seems like a bargain.

  I like that it’s fully furnished by someone who obviously knew what they were doing. Plenty of whitewash is complemented by blue leather sofas, red cushions and throws, and some gorgeously funky lamps standing free and tall on the floor’s big blue tiles. There’s a large glass-and-mahogany coffee table within reach, yet there’s a pleasing lack of clutter. Deep down I’m a minimalist, and I like the whole open-plan vibe. It’s bright and cheerful and modern, yet the few pieces of art on the walls – I’m not expert enough to say who painted them – are floral enough to keep the girly girl in me happy. I’m certain the interior designer must have been gay.

  Even better, the agent guy tells us that the furniture can be bought as a job lot before moving in. It’s a genius idea….why don’t more places think of that? I mean, I hate the old stuff I inherited from various family members, which is currently jumbling up my Putney place. I’d be nuts to drag it over here if I can just make all this stuff – already here and really, really working – my own for good.

  “Er…what do you think so far? Honestly?” I ask Sarah after a spell standing entranced at the French door. She can tell I’m serious, and I think the agent can too. A balding little guy with stupidly pointy shoes that he’s shined to within an inch of their lives, he shifts his weight while pretending not to eavesdrop.

  “It’s a winner,” comes her firm reply. She doesn’t bother to keep her voice down. We’re renting, not buying, after all. “It’s so spacious and airy…and you’d never have to cook with all those restaurants downstairs. And hey, look up: I know you love your skylights!”

  I cast my eyes to the ceiling. Can’t believe I didn’t notice that. We’re on the top floor of the building and there’s natural light from above. Sarah’s really useful!

  “Two spare bedrooms for visitors,” she goes on. “I mean, you could even start working from home!”

  “Shhh!” I hiss. I’m already not quite sure what I’m going to say when they want to check my employment and credit. I think landlords prefer full-time salaried people with job contracts. And they probably prefer to think their tenants are doing something respectable, too. I’m sure Lucy will have ideas though. She always does.

  “Maybe you could work from home!” I grin, in a much lower whisper. “And then I’ll start charging you rent.”

  “Haha, let’s get back to the subject at hand then,” she says, bringing me back to the business of flat-renting. “Listen, it won’t be available for long. But it’s your call, O Rich Mistress!”

  She’s really good at keeping my feet on the ground with her teasing, yet without ever seeming ungrateful. I need it: I don’t ever want to get big-headed. I’ve told her more than once to shoot me if I ever turn into a Petra.

  “Good point about the space though,” I say. “Latifa and Alyssia are coming to town soon, and I’m thinking it would be an awful squeeze in the flat I’ve got right now. We could have a dance party in here!”

  Sarah just winks at me and takes me by the hand, ignoring the agent’s surprised look. He knows better than to follow us.

  “I believe you haven’t seen the main bathroom,” she says, leading me through the bedroom. She’s definitely being more assertive than usual about this place, which makes me feel good about it. “I snuck a peek while you were daydreaming at the window and…”

  We step into a vast room and I reel. Lit up by another skylight, it’s bright and big and fucking amazing. The toilet’s in a separate little room, which means what we’re standing in is simply a temple to bathing. It’s unreal. The shower is one of those terrific things with a massive head that looks capable to producing a waterfall to rival Niagara. And there are two of them, in case you were feeling sociable. The door is clear Perspex, and the dark blue tiles – same as the living area – are flush both sides of the door.

  My eye turns to the twin sinks in front of me and a vast mirror that covers the wall in front of them. But what I see to my left sells the apartment once and for all. In front of a floor-to-ceiling glass window is a vast bath. To my untrained eye, it’s got all the taps and bubbling gear and lights you could ever wish for.

  On three sides, anyway. It takes a while to sink in, but I realise that the fourth side is, quite simply, the window pane. The bath is so wide that you could turn sideways, switch on the Jacuzzi and look straight out onto the river, the passing boats and the Tower Bridge away to the left.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” I murmur. “But what if – ”

  “Haha, it’s definitely super-strong one-way glass!” Sarah assures me. Though I’m not sure when she became an expert on modern construction materials.

  “Yeah, I hope so,” I respond, still gaping. “Because I could get spooked otherwise. Imagine the glass shatters and your naked self ends up eleven floors down on the street! I’m excited to try it though.”

  “Ooh, does that mean you’re taking it?”

  I grin. “I’m taking it.”

  She plants a quick kiss on my lips. Excellent choice, Miss Carling. “I can’t wait to climb into that with you and a bottle of bubbly.”

  I smile at her again, stride out of the room and tell the agent I’ll rent the apartment.

  We move in just one week! Lucy (of course) has fiddled some vague but professional-looking paperwork to take care of my references, so the deal stuck easily. I give my notice on my Putney flat and, yes, I’ll have to pay rent twice in November.

  But that’s hardly much of a worry. I
’m really quite overwhelmed by my income still, and the scary thing is that I kept my apartment shopping pretty reasonable compared to what I might have done. I’m going to have loads left over every month, and I really don’t know what to do with it yet.

  My thoughts run to a few other people (besides Sarah) who could use help, or at least a coffee or two. Even my parents, who keep complaining – I never know if I should take it seriously – about how tight things are in retirement. Penthouses and good food and taking care of myself aside, I don’t think I need much. I’m not particularly tempted to buy a car just for the sake of it, really I’m not. The idea of becoming prostitution’s answer to Robin Hood is actually more appealing. I like it a lot.

  But there’s a big problem, and that’s that if I start throwing my money around, people will ask questions about where it came from. Though my conscience is clear, I still care too much about what people will say and think if they know the truth.

  Apart from that, I can hardly think of anything to worry about as I survey my little dump of a flat and imagine how much time it’s going to take me (okay, a bit of me and a lot of Sarah) to pack it all up in some kind of order. Life is pretty awesome if that’s all I’ve got to worry about.

  Then a shrill text tone – followed by another – shatters my peace. It’s Lucy. My pain results are in. I scored terrifically well, apparently. I can take anything her toughest girls can take. It makes me nervous but proud.

  I scroll to the next text. It’s a second one from my lovely agent. But what I read makes my blood go cold. I’m to be blindfolded and taken to the mysterious suburban house again. The one where I heard those terrifying words.

  I know you, Emma Carling. I’ve known you a very long time.

  And this time, I’ll be going alone.

  Chapter XI

  I’m back in that room. The one that feels enormous, reeks of wealth and sounds utterly ominous. That last one is the silence talking. And my blindfold, which makes the quiet seem louder. The thick cloth is tighter than before, but my brain still strains for the sight it knows it will be denied.

  The only sounds are those of footsteps and breathing. Both are heavier than the last time I was in this place, and I sense a heightened urgency. Previously it was five of us here, subjected to an intimate inspection; now it’s just me. I’m not sure if that makes me some kind of chosen one. Lucky or unlucky? I’ve got very few answers right now.

  That Esmeralda woman is in the room once again. I think that she’s the only other person present, apart from him. She’s been giving me my instructions since I arrived, whilst he has presumably been the one doing the things I can’t do for myself.

  Things such as putting the cuffs onto my wrists and tightening them hard. Things like raising my arms above my head and attaching the chain to some kind of wall fastening in front of me. My body began to quiver when he did that, almost the moment I felt the stretch tug through me. For all my training, I’ve never been put into exactly this position.

  The cuffs are so unrelenting on my wrists that I can pull all my weight through them and nothing budges. But then it hurts more, the metal cutting into my skin like a savage old tin opener.

  I can make my wrists comfortable if I stand on the tips of my toes. But that, too, is not a position I can hold for long. I have to keep altering my pose, and my heart thuds at this, my first real bondage test as a professional. The discomfort and the anticipation at least make me forget my reservations about this particular client for a moment.

  As per my rather unusual brief, I’m wearing something suitable for working in an office. It’s one of my most faithful (and unimaginative) blouse-and-skirt combinations, in fact. It’s a thrilling reminder of just how far I’ve come. I could easily be wearing this in some dull company tomorrow, but apparently this workaday outfit, so far from sexy, is actually able to get somebody going. So too, I suppose, are the almost industrial bra and panties I was specifically delivered for this job. The plot thickens in my mind.

  I can smell a lot of leather, but it’s not furniture. My guess is that I’m up close to – but not touching – a bookshelf. Probably the kind of men’s club thing that’s stuffed with dusty, expensive volumes nobody reads. Law books, maybe, or something equally uninspiring. But that smell of old-school binding, along with the scent of wood, fires up the image of comfortable decadence in my mind. Cranleigh House decadence.

  There’s a rustle behind me and he is suddenly against my body. I gasp and sway on my shackle, semi-suspended as he knocks me off-balance. There’s a violent urgency about the contact he makes with me. I sense he is a great deal taller than I am, as he presses against me with a hard swelling that nudges furiously against my skirt from behind. An elbow crooks around my ribs as his left hand takes hold of my throat and squeezes, just hard enough for me to tense.

  Another hand slips around the front of my skirt, and I feel something rising in me now. I’m into the moment already, and my concerns fade to distant memory as the hand plays across the fuzzy material, rubbing down into my cleft once or twice. Then it grabs a fistful of skirt and pulls hard, exposing the front of my thighs. Once he has yanked the garment up, he slithers his wrist beneath it.

  My knees weaken even further as long, artful fingers descend on that thick underwear of mine, caressing firmly along what I know is already a damp valley. The friction of the unsubtle textile is hot and rough. I like it more than I expect to, and I moan.

  As the sound escapes my mouth, there’s a tiny snort behind me. There’s no denying it’s derisive: it’s right behind my ear. Close enough to smell its venom. There’s amusement in its tone, but there’s nothing friendly about it. I should be worried, I know, but then the grip on my throat tightens further and two fingers dive beneath the sodden fabric down there. The palm crosses my professionally-manicured patch and the digits curl inside my wetness, a sudden and welcome invasion of my body.

  I try not to groan this time, but can’t help sucking in a juicy lungful of air as my lower lip drops open with the weight of the passion I’m feeling. Behind my blindfold, instinct takes over and my eyes close.

  Then the hands are gone from my throat and my pussy. The hips move away from mine, and there’s no more hardness pressing against me from behind. I hold that breath, desperate to know what’s coming next. Even while loving the not knowing.

  A few seconds pass, and once again I become aware of the distant spark and crackle of a fireplace in use. I feel warmer than I did last time, but then I’m fully dressed. But not for long. There’s a step forward and this time the skirt is lifted from behind. Two hands – the same two hands, so huge and powerful in my mind – enter purposefully, diving over the elastic above my buttocks like dolphins leaping in surf. They take hold and they pull.

  The fabric doesn’t stand a chance, despite its thickness. I can hear and feel the rip. When he pulls the limp, moist rag between my legs and out beneath my skirt, it burns my lips a little. I’m waiting for him to rip open the skirt too – which will piss me off, because it’s mine – but instead he reaches around and unclips it. The respect comes as a slight surprise.

  The skirt drops to the floor, and now I’m naked from the waist down apart from the flat, grey shoes I’m sporting. Another item from my collection of comfortable office favourites that I’ve thought better than to throw in the bin.

  Next comes one of Esmeralda’s mechanical instructions, delivered in her sexy and hard-to-place accent. Dutifully I slide my legs apart, until she tells me to stop. It feels like there’s a yard of space between them, but it may not be that much in reality. Whatever the truth, it’s becoming difficult to keep standing straight.

  There’s a tinkle and a clink of metal behind me. A hand grips my right ankle, and then I feel the steel. A tight ring clamps around the bone, quickly followed by the same on the left. As the hands run gently up the outsides of my calves, I cautiously try to feel out what has been done to me.

  I can’t really move my ankles, but it doesn’t f
eel like they’re shackled to the wall the way my wrists are. There’s resistance between them, and so I suspect it’s a kind of metal bar designed to keep my feet spaced exactly as they are. I know these things have a name, but all I can do is picture it. Another little device we didn’t get to try in school.

  But then, after I’m told to bend at the waist, so that everything within me is pulling, straining and paining my body, comes something I’m well prepared for.

  My submissive juices are flowing like sweet honey as I hang there, hurting just enough to feel a thrill. Esmeralda seems to come over to me, although I am pretty sure he is still very close. She’s right behind me now, and tells me I need to keep absolutely still.

  I hear a slurpy liquid noise, like the gentle squeeze of toothpaste from a tube. Only it’s not toothpaste, of course. It’s lubricant. And Esmeralda is the one administering it. The deft little fingers are definitely not the same. Guess the big man doesn’t want to get his hands dirty.

  I wonder if it’s a turn-on for a man to have a female prepare another woman’s anus for his entry? Silly question, I guess. As one, and then two of her fingers gently squirm and stretch inside me, I realise that I’ve missed this. Apart from the unpleasant call at Doctor Krasznik’s rooms, it’s been a while since I’ve had it in there.

  Stupidly, I blush at the thought: maybe this little English girl isn’t quite shameless enough yet to contemplate her own sighing satisfaction at a couple of fingers in her ass without turning crimson.