The Accidental Call Girl

by Portia Da Costa

  She knew that John knew. She knew that he knew she knew. But he went on, pushing on, making the dream world all his own. ‘And while you’re still screaming, I let you down and then I fuck you on the floor, still in your chains, from behind. It’s hard-packed earth beneath us, and you’re on your knees. I have your pussy first, hard and fast. Your face is in the dirt as I thrust into you . . . but you’re loving it, despite the pain in your bum. In fact when I dig my nails into the soreness, you come like a train, milking me and grunting like an animal.’

  If only.

  Rising to pleasure again, Lizzie wanted to fling the phone away and howl and curse, her vagina clenching on the empty air where John should be. Keeping silent was a more perverse agony than having her bottom beaten raw.

  ‘While you’re still climaxing, I pull out . . . then I thrust into your arse instead. In deep. Right in. God, that’s gorgeous. So hot and tight. And when I rub your clit, you clench on me again, embracing me with your snug, luscious bottom . . . Oh, that feels so good . . . so good . . .’

  Wriggling about, Lizzie finished herself, riding the last sweet ripples, fingertip wringing the last echoes of pleasure from her centre. Her chest was heaving, she was drenched in sweat. She felt like she’d been through a mangle, completely drained of sensation by the power of John’s profane yet beautiful words.

  But now he was silent. Dead silent. Was he coming? Was his spunk shooting out of him, anointing the Waverley’s colourful chintz bedding?

  Surely if he was climaxing, she’d at least hear heavy breathing?

  ‘Are you still there?’ she asked, aware that he’d certainly be able to hear her heavy breathing.

  ‘Of course I am. Where would you think I’d be?’ His voice was even, low, completely unruffled. And thoroughly annoying. He could control her with words, via a phone, but none of it seemed to have had an effect on him.

  ‘Did you . . . did you . . . did anything happen?’

  ‘Do you mean, did I come?’

  ‘Yes, what the hell else would I mean?’ He was so contrary, but somehow that made her hotter than ever rather than cooling her off him. She wished he was right there in bed, next to her, so she could pummel him, then jump astride him and ride his beautiful cock.

  ‘No, Bettie. I didn’t come. The object of the exercise was to make you come . . . Did you?’

  She leapt up, searching for her shorts. She’d had enough of his controlling games for the moment. Dropping her phone she wriggled into her shorts and considered just hanging up on him. It was a stupid thing to do, and cutting off her nose to spite her face, but her emotions were suddenly in a whirl.

  ‘Yes, I did. And you really are the most perverse pervert, I’ve ever encountered,’ she growled into the speaker on retrieving the handset. ‘You needn’t think I’m paying you for all that, you know . . . Just because you like to play mind-games, it doesn’t mean you’re not taking up my valuable . . . and billable . . . time!’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of short-changing you, Bettie, don’t worry.’ He paused, then named a sum for her recent services that made her gasp.

  ‘That’s ridiculous if you didn’t come!’

  ‘Indulge me, sweetheart. Sometimes the climax isn’t everything, you know?’

  ‘You’re a very weird man, Mr Smith.’ She couldn’t help but smile. It was hard to stay cross with him long. That heavenly smile of his could melt the heart . . . even when you couldn’t actually see it.

  ‘You don’t know the half of it, Bettie, but hopefully you’ll soon find out. Will you have lunch with me, then? Here at the Waverley?’

  She wanted to. It sounded so lovely, almost like a date. She imagined sitting across a table from him, sharing good wine and food and conversation. He was so handsome that every woman in the restaurant would envy her. It didn’t matter that he was paying her for her company. They weren’t to know that. They’d just think she’d pulled the most fabulous man in the county. Or even the country . . . or beyond.

  But, there was a ‘but’.

  ‘I’d love to, but I usually spend Sundays just chilling out with my house-mates. It’s sort of tradition, and . . . well . . . it’s especially important now. Brent, he’s one of them, he’s very depressed at the moment.’

  Jesus God, why had she blurted that out? What escort had a male house-mate? Or maybe escorts did have male house-mates? How was she to know? And Brent, a sometime male escort himself, had a couple of female house-mates.

  ‘Well, why not bring them along?’ replied John instantly, apparently not turning a hair. ‘It doesn’t have to be an appointment, just a pleasant lunch, though I’ll still pay you for your time, naturally. Do they know what you do for a living?’

  ‘Um . . . yes. Shelley’s an office temp, but Brent’s an escort himself. Well, a part-time one, sometimes. We’re not involved or anything. Not now. We used to be an item, long ago. But now we’re just friends. We’re all just friends.’

  Why, why, why was she telling him all this?

  ‘Ask them, then. If you won’t feel awkward, and you don’t think they’ll feel awkward. And I’ll just save this massive erection until our next “date”, instead.’

  He was silently laughing again.

  ‘Oh God, are you still hard. I thought . . . well . . . that you probably weren’t, if you hadn’t come.’

  ‘Ah, Bettie, sometimes I like to prolong the anticipation. It makes the eventual pleasure all the sweeter and more intense.’

  ‘But don’t you mind? I mean . . . to be “wanting” like that?’ She didn’t have to imagine the sensation of frustration. She had it now, for him, and she’d only come moments ago.

  ‘Not in the slightest. I’m a grown-up; I can wait for my treats. Now, shall I book a table for four, and your friends can join us if they feel like it, and if they don’t it’ll just be us, OK?’

  Still dubious, Lizzie agreed. She seriously doubted Brent would want to do lunch under these strange circumstances, but she’d ask. Shelley would probably be aching to accept, but would still decline because she was a doll and would never put the mockers on another woman’s action. John named a time, apparently not in the slightest doubt he could get a table, then said, ‘Ciao, beautiful Bettie, see you soon.’

  Staring down at the phone in her hand, Lizzie puffed out her lips, vaguely nonplussed.

  John Smith might be gorgeous, but he was the oddest man. She didn’t know what to make of him sometimes.

  How on earth would a real escort handle him?

  7

  Déjeuner à Deux

  Why did she feel so nervous? She’d been to lunch with a man before. It was silly to get all of a flutter like this, even if she did like him more than she’d liked anyone in ages.

  The trouble was, this wasn’t an ‘appointment’. They couldn’t have sex across the table, unless the Waverley’s risqué reputation was even more extreme than she’d been led to believe. She’d have to spend time actually talking to John. And that would involve even more elaborate twists and turns to her fabrication.

  That was, unless she decided to come clean over the soup or hors d’oeuvres.

  She’d have to play it by ear, and if the right moment occurred, grasp it. Preferably when John had drunk a glass or two of wine to mellow him. Selfish as it seemed, Lizzie was relieved that both Brent and Shelley had declined John’s invitation. Their presence would have created even more complications, and that was a fact. Brent, she was fairly sure, could be relied on to maintain her subterfuge, but Shelley, though meaning well, would probably have slipped up.

  Even so, Lizzie still felt desperately worried about Brent. Time just didn’t seem to be doing its healing thing for her friend, and Brent had refused to even come out of his room when she’d tried to tempt him with John’s offer. Worse, judging from the sound of his voice, she had a feeling he’d been crying.

  ‘Look, I won’t go. He won’t mind,’ she’d said. ‘We can all go to the pub and have our usual lunch, and I’ll see him some other
time.’

  ‘Don’t patronise me, Lizzie. I can take care of myself. You and Shelley don’t need to keep mothering me.’ Brent’s voice had been a growl. ‘Just fuck off and have lunch with your rich stud, will you?’

  ‘All right, I bloody well will!’

  Lizzie sighed now, still worried despite knowing Shelley was at home and doing her best to whip up the jolly, laid-back Sunday mood. Brent did try to conquer his unhappiness, and mostly did a pretty good job of it, but she knew he still hurt badly, even though it was almost a year now since the loss of Steven, a man he’d been in love with. It had almost crushed him, and even though she and Shelley did the best they could, Lizzie knew their best efforts weren’t achieving much. But still they both tried, and much as she’d love to linger as long as she could in the company of her delicious ‘client’ John, she’d decided not to stay too long at the Waverley today. No matter how fabulous the sex was.

  And at least if Brent wouldn’t come out of his room and talk to Shelley, Lizzie knew at least he still had Mulder for company. She’d heard him talking to their furry sweetheart, through the door, and she knew that the little feline’s purr was a sovereign remedy for the deepest of the blues.

  As her taxi drew up in front of the Waverley’s handsome ivy-clad façade, Lizzie tried to orientate herself, and remember whether she’d seen a sign for the restaurant in the reception area when she’d last been here. It was barely twenty-four hours ago, yet still it seemed like a lifetime. Time seemed to be stretching and warping most strangely at the moment, and hours away from John Smith seemed like days, like weeks.

  Where is it? Where is it?

  Feeling ridiculously nervous, she cast her glance around the warmly welcoming lobby of the hotel. Her eyes skittered about and couldn’t seem to locate signs for the restaurant. She felt certain she’d been rumbled as an escort – or at least a faux one – last time she’d been here, and it had been all right. But it still seemed a bit dodgy to draw attention to herself too much.

  Ah, too late!

  ‘Can I help you?’ said the smiling young woman on reception, a twinkly-eyed blonde whose mischievous expression was both appealing and disquieting.

  Damn, she knows.

  ‘Yes, thanks. Could you point me in the direction of the restaurant. I’m having lunch with a friend.’

  ‘Of course, it’s over there.’ The blonde pointed to a large, clearly visible sign saying ‘Restaurant’, and Lizzie suppressed her self-directed sigh. ‘You’re Mr Smith’s guest, aren’t you? I believe he’s already in there, waiting for you at your table. Bon appetit!’

  ‘Thanks.’

  The naughty glint in the receptionist’s eye seemed to suggest that she too found John Smith as toothsome as anything on the menu, but happily she didn’t seem to be passing judgement on the handsome guest’s appetite for working girls.

  Taking a deep breath, Lizzie strode towards the dining room. She’d have to run the gamut of the Traditional Sunday Lunch diners. How many of them would have the imagination to divine her and John’s secret? She’d just be a woman dining with her date, to them, even if half the staff of the Waverley seemed to believe she was an escort, even if she wasn’t one.

  At the threshold, she drew in a deep breath and scanned the room. Was he here, after all? Jumbo-sized butterflies skittered around in her chest, and she braced herself for disappointment, amazed how piercing that prospect was. But then she saw him, sitting at a table in a discreet bay window alcove. It was probably the nicest location in the room, and perfect for lovers, with a bit of privacy and a lovely view of the Waverley’s beautifully manicured gardens.

  The best table in the house. For me, supposedly a prostitute. Bless you, John; even if I were a working girl you’d make me feel like a princess.

  And as he turned towards her, dazzling her with a smile that reached out across the entire length of the room, her heart lifted, and she smiled back, and began to weave her way between the tables, towards him.

  She’s a vision. Every time different. So beautiful . . .

  John couldn’t help but smile as Bettie crossed the room, heading towards him. She looked as fresh as springtime in her pretty vintage sundress, with its full, blue, polka-dot adorned skirt, and a little jacket modestly covering her creamy shoulders. There was a total innocence about her, a quality of being exquisitely untouched, despite the enthusiasm he knew she’d exhibit the moment he touched her. Her shiny black hair was pulled back in a 1950s pony-tail, and she wore barely any make-up, apart from her trademark lip-tint. He’d never seen an escort look quite like her. Which made sense, because he’d wager far more than he was paying her that she hadn’t been long in the life. That she was still optimistically believing it was ‘just temporary’ and that she wouldn’t allow herself to get trapped . . . or jaded.

  He wondered how much she needed the money. He barely knew her yet, but he sensed she was a smart and savvy girl. Wasn’t there something else she could do? Some career or other? A thought came out of left field. Perhaps he could sponsor her or something? Get her started in a small business, or perhaps fund a course? Support her in a way that was nothing to do with sex. She wouldn’t be the only one, he thought, the old, familiar shudder of guilt rippling through him.

  But if he did become her benefactor, would she . . . would she still see him as a lover too? He frowned. In a way he’d still be paying her for services . . . It still wouldn’t be the same as her fucking him and succumbing to his hand just because she wanted to, without him giving her a penny? The cash meant nothing to him, but it would still be there, the elephant in the room.

  Oh, get a grip, man. Don’t get ahead of yourself. Just enjoy . . .

  And there was much to enjoy as she seemed to glide towards him like an old-time movie star. His cock hardened at the thought of the games they’d played thus far. He’d not had this much fun with a woman in years, and his heart lifted, along with his flesh, in anticipation.

  ‘Bettie! So glad you could come.’

  The words were total honesty. Weird as their situation was, he was happy. Strangely light-hearted. Springing to his feet before the waiter could arrive and do the honours, he darted around the table to ease out her chair so she could sit. She nibbled her lovely rosy lower lip as she took her seat, looking a little nervous, but also excited. The little action made his cock lurch again and he resisted the urge to check himself. God, here he was in a public restaurant sporting a massive hard-on and she hadn’t even spoken yet.

  But something must have alerted her. Her black lashes fluttered, she glanced where he’d avoided, and her cheeks blushed rosy. ‘Good grief, John, you are pleased to see me. Or is that a pistol in your pocket, as they say?’

  ‘I blame you for that, Bettie, you shouldn’t look so luscious. I’ve lost my appetite for lunch now . . . in lieu of something else.’

  ‘Well, I’m hungry,’ she replied pertly as he resumed his seat, but the way her eyes skittered to the general direction of his groin seemed to suggest she was having similar problems to the ones he was enjoying.

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. I just hope they’ve got plenty of aphrodisiacs on the menu, to get you in the mood for what I’m hoping for as a dessert.’

  She held his gaze, her eyes dark as she fussed with her napkin. ‘Well, you can order all the aphrodisiacs you like, John, but I’m not sure I really need them. You know me. I love my job and I don’t need any extra incentive, culinary or otherwise.’

  Intent on her, he seemed to hear an odd little edge in her voice. That sense that she wasn’t quite as sure of what she was doing as she was trying to project. That she was indeed a novice in her chosen profession.

  He wondered how he could ask, without seeming to judge her. It would certainly spoil the mood, and while the philanthropist in him might have done it, the horny, selfish man with a raging erection just growled, shut the fuck up!

  ‘Well, as long as you don’t start refusing my money, Bettie. I always like to keep things on a professio
nal footing. A fair day’s pay for a fair day’s work and all that.’

  Her face was a picture. She parted her lips. Ran her tongue along the lower one in a way that made him want to wrench open his trousers and stroke himself furiously in her honour. He could see the battle in her eyes, and then, the triumph of the courtesan over the inexperienced girl. Her chin came up and her whole demeanour seemed to morph, become more sultry. More seductive.

  Before his very eyes, she became ‘Bettie’ completely, the accomplished seductress – even though he’d bet all the money in the envelope stashed in his inner jacket pocket that it wasn’t her real name.

  So that was it. He only wanted the prostitute. He wanted ‘Bettie’ the working girl, not some ordinary woman who’d cost him nothing, but who came with complications. She couldn’t blame him. Perhaps that was his life? Simple. Everything in boxes, including kinky sex. No hassle.

  Well, that was what he would get. Maybe she’d send him the money back, when it was all over, when they’d never see each other again. It would be simple enough to discover a forwarding address from the hotel’s reception, when the time came. Perhaps minus a little for ‘expenses’ and a charitable donation or two, just to show him.

  ‘Oh, absolutely. No matter how much creative satisfaction one gets from a job, it’s always nice to have one’s talents validated by cold, hard cash.’ She looked him up and down, taking in his expensive clothes and grooming and general air of wealth. ‘You look like an obscenely successful man of business to me. You must understand that more than anybody.’

  ‘Oh, I do . . . I do . . . Which is why I’m prepared to pay top dollar for you, my dear.’ He patted his soft, slate-blue linen jacket, where no doubt ‘the envelope’ was tucked away in his inner pocket. ‘You’re my treat to myself while I’m staying here. My self-indulgence.’ He favoured her with his most golden smile, and suddenly it was impossible to be vexed with him, or worried about being with him, or deceiving him. That delicious grin made all arguments invalid.