The Accidental Call Girl

by Portia Da Costa

  Tentatively, she touched one of the ruddy marks on her bottom. It was still sore, but not agonising. Goddamn, the man knew what he was doing! Even with a bit of branch he’d harvested randomly in the woods, he was a master of hand to eye coordination. Somehow, he’d managed to pull each stroke at the very last second, making it lighter yet still dramatic.

  Letting the robe drop, she grasped the door handle.

  John was sitting on the bed, bundled in another bathrobe, with his laptop across his knees. He seemed intent on something, and a cup stood on the bedside table at his side, along with a half-eaten scone on a plate. A trolley loaded with a lavish English afternoon tea had been delivered while she was showering.

  ‘Feeling better? Ready for some tea?’ John tapped a few keys and set aside his computer, then slid to his feet, coming towards her.

  Wouldn’t it be nice if this were real?

  He slid his arm around her, gave her a kiss on the cheek and led her to the bed.

  ‘Do you need a cushion? I didn’t hurt you too much, did I?’

  How cool would it be if I really had this gorgeous man as my boyfriend? He’s handsome, intelligent, mature . . . and bloody hell, he’s even rich too.

  ‘No, I’m fine thanks. You’re a very clever man, John Smith. I’m really nowhere near as sore as I thought I would be. You have a very skilled touch.’

  ‘So I’ve been told.’ He grinned, and when she made as if to sit where he’d been sitting, he halted her. ‘Hang on a minute. I’ve got some balm that’s sometimes useful in these circumstances. It’s herbal, and I use it sometimes when my trick knee is bothering me . . . an old rugby injury . . . but it works just as well on spanked bottoms.’

  ‘You played rugby?’ She let him help her onto the bed, and to lie down on her front. This was a tantalising hint. She’d never have pegged him as a rugby player, but she supposed he might have the build for a winger, or whatever. The ones who ran and were fleet of foot.

  ‘I did indeed. At public school for my sins.’ As she got comfortable, he folded up her robe at the back to expose her. Curiously, the moment felt strangely asexual, just the action of someone who was familiar and comfortable. Someone there was no reason to be on edge or embarrassed with.

  Even if he was an ex public schoolboy. The plot thickened.

  ‘It’ll feel a bit chilly. I’ve had it in the mini fridge. It works better that way,’ he warned, then a moment later, he applied the first dose.

  The ointment, and the way he applied it, was heavenly. His touch was light as a feather, delicately stirring the pain at first, then ameliorating it with the cool potion. The keenest, sorest spots seemed to back right down to a gentle, almost steadying glow. A sweet reminder of challenge and pleasure. He dressed each stripe carefully, methodically, and at the edge of her perception, Lizzie acknowledged the renewed stir of desire for him. But it wasn’t strident. If he initiated sex again now, it would be nice. But if he didn’t, it would also be nice.

  ‘There, you’re done.’

  The terrycloth settled back on her bottom again. So, no sex, then? That was OK. She rolled onto her side and watched John wiping the ointment from his fingers with tissues. He walked to the waste bin and flung them in, then turned to the tea trolley.

  Hmmm, he did have an erection. And when he saw her notice it, he winked.

  ‘You don’t seriously think I could touch your beautiful spanked bottom and not get hard, do you?’

  ‘I don’t know . . . You’re an unusual man, John. I never know quite what to expect.’

  ‘Of course I want you. I always want you.’ With a quick smile over his shoulder, he inspected the teapot, and started preparing her a cup. ‘Milk? Sugar?’

  ‘Just a splosh of milk, please.’ She watched him being mother with the tea things, then buttering her a scone. It was quite bizarre to see a dominant man with a hard-on being so domestic. ‘It must be rather inconvenient in your business meetings and whatnot, always wanting me. Don’t people notice?’

  He came towards her, bearing his gifts of tea and confectionery. ‘Ah well, I practise certain bio feedback techniques that keep the beast under control in such circumstances . . . although they don’t work on my mind quite as well.’

  ‘Crikey, I hope you haven’t missed out on some barzillion pound deal because of me!’

  He grinned. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve always managed to snap back to reality at the crucial moment.’ He placed her scone plate on the bedside table and put her cup and saucer into her hands. ‘Now, drink up, you deserve it. I’m going to have a shower. Much as I’d love to ravish you again, you’re squeaky clean now and I’m still grunchy and grubby.’

  ‘I don’t mind.’

  He shook his head and began to walk away. At the door, he turned and nodded towards his laptop, still set on the bed beside her. ‘You can look me up while I’m in the shower . . . I know you want to.’

  ‘How do you know I haven’t already?’

  He gave her a steady look. ‘I just know . . . There are things you would probably have mentioned. I’m surprised, though. Most women in your line of work would probably have checked me out thoroughly before now.’

  Most escorts probably would. If they were really escorts.

  ‘Do you trust me so much that you’d let me fool about on a laptop full of your crucial data?’

  His lips quirked a little. It wasn’t quite a smile . . . or was it?

  ‘Yes,’ he said, then disappeared into the bathroom.

  Now why the hell did I do that?

  Why had he done it? Admittedly the most sensitive material on his laptop was encrypted and, clever as she was, he didn’t think Bettie was a hacker as well as a naturally talented if inexperienced prostitute. But still, there were revealing enough documents she would easily be able to open.

  And yet he trusted her. Without knowing why, he knew he’d be safe in her hands. Perhaps it was because she put her trust in him? She hadn’t been in the life long, he was sure of it, and she had no one to protect her if he had happened to be a dangerous psycho. Yet she still came to him, and still allowed him to touch her and spank her.

  Bettie wasn’t a stupid woman, but she was almost sweetly naïve in some ways. And she made him feel that way too, as if all was new and fresh and untrammelled by the past, and its weight of associations . . . and regrets.

  He smiled as he stepped into the shower, then laughed at himself as the water teemed down. Hell, he was just as wet behind the ears as she was. With a world of resources at his fingertips, he could have found out exactly who she was, where she lived, what kind of circumstances might have predicated her choices, everything about her, probably within half an hour. But he hadn’t done it. He hadn’t even looked to see if she had a website.

  I just want the here and now, and our game, Bettie. If that is your real name? I don’t want the past . . . or the future. Just a little while, like this. That’s all.

  So why, as he soaped his body, and wondered whether to deal with the demands of his erection, or save it for the woman just beyond the door, did his usual modus operandi suddenly oppress him?

  Why did he feel unsettled? Yearning? Wanting more?

  Where did one start, looking up a man called John Smith on the internet? Surely there must be thousands, hundreds of thousands of them, and that horde not even including those who used it as an alias.

  She clicked the ‘x’ to close Chrome, even before she’d put ‘John Smith’ into Google. It was probably pointless trying anyway.

  The screen mocked her. There was no revealing screensaver, no wallpaper. Just plain blue, the screen matte and unrevealing, in a businesslike and sombre high-end machine. Eyeing the email program logo, she pursed her lips. No, she couldn’t go there. That was private. John had trusted her.

  Then, about to open Chrome again, she noticed an icon in the upper left corner.

  JS Intranet.

  JS? His company or whatever? It was a bit understated.

  She clicked open th
e browser and plugged ‘John Smith business’ into it. She was just a very average Googler, not a clever web sleuth, so she selected the Wikipedia link at the top of the results list.

  In the course of the next few minutes, as the shower ran reassuringly in the next room, Lizzie gasped, aloud, several times. His Wiki entry was frustratingly skimpy, but had enough to blow her mind anyway.

  Good God Almighty, no wonder you think nothing of blowing a grand for an hour or so with an escort.

  John Smith was a very rich man.

  John Smith really was a ‘John Smith’, well, after a fashion. He had other names too. Not to mention a title he didn’t use because of some hinted-at family estrangement.

  John Smith had been married, but apparently wasn’t any more.

  Oh God, what if he’d still been married?

  The fact that she hadn’t even thought about it chilled her marrow. Obviously it wouldn’t have mattered to a real escort. Married men sought out escorts all the time. But she wasn’t one, and she didn’t believe in doing over another woman by sleeping with her husband, no way. She remembered her own mother’s anguish over her father’s brief fling. They were reconciled now and, to the best of her knowledge, happier than before. But still, the sound of Ma’s bitter tears still rang in her mind.

  You’ve turned my head, John Smith. Made me forget stuff I’ve sworn never to forget, goddamn you.

  Chastened, Lizzie frowned over other information, just as stark and jaw-dropping in its own way. More so . . . much more.

  A conviction for dangerous driving? So serious that he’d served a stretch in prison? How bad must the offence have been to merit incarceration? Good grief, had he killed someone?

  The details were brief and unrevealing, but did she even want to know more? How could she judge him? He didn’t seem like the kind of callous brute who’d deliberately harm anyone – in fact, quite the reverse. He’d been exquisitely solicitous of her welfare. It was hard to believe any ill of him, but at some time during his youth, over twenty years ago, he’d driven so recklessly they’d put him in prison.

  Suddenly, she decided she didn’t want to know more. The John of today was a good man. She knew it in her heart and her gut. Whatever he’d done, he’d paid a price, and no doubt still felt remorse.

  Frantic digital scrabbling around for celeb gossip and titbits about his love life seemed trivial and rather silly now, so she pushed the laptop away and reached for her tea. Surprisingly, it was still quite hot.

  It had only taken a few moments to see her ‘client’ in a whole new light. Or lights.

  The bathroom door swung open as she was nibbling her scone, and John ambled in, bath sheet around his hips, and rubbing his hair with a smaller towel. When he flung that away, his blond locks gleamed around his head, in angelic curls, making him look so much younger than his now confirmed forty-six years.

  ‘Uh oh,’ he said, seeing her face.

  ‘I only did a search with Google. I didn’t look at any of your stuff.’

  ‘I never expected you to look at my stuff, but I can see your search proved fruitful.’ He strolled to the side of the bed and retrieved his cup, and replenished it before turning back to her. Then he pulled up a chair to the side of the bed, and sat down, his face serious. ‘So, let’s have it, what do you want to know about first?’

  ‘I really don’t know where to begin. You’re full of surprises.’

  And of temptation too.

  Faced with him, all damp and tousled in his freshly showered beauty, none of the revelations seemed to matter much as they should have done. Real as they were, they still seemed a million miles away, and about some other person. She hesitated to say her John, but what she’d discovered on the web was about a John, one who existed outside of their own magic bubble. Whatever he’d done and whatever and whoever he was, she just couldn’t find it in her to think less of him. He was still the man who turned her head. Still the man she was infatuated with, in body and mind. A breath-taking fortune, a title, an ex-wife and, hell, even a prison record, none of it made her feel different. She still just wanted him.

  He continued to stare at her, though, his eyes luminous yet full of shadows and a dark hint of apprehension, so she grabbed at something, the least problematical thing. ‘Well, I thought you were loaded, but I didn’t realise you had, like, a billion squillion pounds and owned about forty businesses . . . and what on earth are you doing at a place like the Waverley? I mean, it’s lovely. I think it’s the nicest hotel I’ve ever been in, but it’s quite small, really, and apparently you own a much bigger hotel only ten miles away . . .’ A thought occurred. ‘You’re not buying the Waverley too, are you?’

  John regarded her steadily for what seemed like an eternity, and it seemed as if she were far more revealed to him by her omissions than he’d been by anything on the internet. Then he nodded his head, as if accepting her desire not to examine certain areas . . .

  With a rueful shrug, he said, ‘I’d love to buy the Waverley. I’ve made them an offer, but they won’t sell. They want to keep it exclusive and family owned, and I can’t really blame them.’

  ‘I don’t either. I’m glad they won’t sell out. You plutocrats shouldn’t have things all your own way.’

  His guarded expression became a smile again, and it was as if he were thanking her, grateful for the return to a simple playfulness of mood. His head came up and he gave her a provocative look. ‘You don’t always say that. Sometimes you like me to have my way.’ He paused and took a sip of tea. ‘What’s wrong, are you thinking now that you should have been charging me more?’

  Oh, back to her own issues, her deception . . . If only she’d told him sooner. If only they could both be dealing openly. The truth hovered on her lips, but again, she stalled. This no-strings relationship was what he wanted, and to change things now would look as if she was some kind of gold-digger, and trying to trap him emotionally as well.

  ‘No, like Sherlock Holmes, my fees are on a fixed rate. I think I’m a pretty good value mid-range prostitute but it’d be cheating to ask for more, just because you’ve got more.’

  ‘Well, I must say, that’s a very rational and non-acquisitive way of looking at things, Bettie, and I’m very impressed. I’m not sure others in the same position would be so forbearing.’

  Ah, but nobody was in quite the same position.

  ‘Well, I have to feel good about myself.’

  ‘True.’ He paused and eyed her, his expression assessing. It was like being subjected to a subtle, unspoken third degree. ‘So, no more questions?’

  Despite her resolution a moment ago, dozens of them surged, clamouring in her mind, almost deafening.

  How serious had that accident been? Who else had been involved? Why had he divorced? Was there someone else in his life now? Why, when he’d grown up at a beautiful stately home like Montcalm, wasn’t he staying there? It was only a twenty-minute drive from the Waverley . . . was he really so estranged from his family that he never visited them? She’d had her own problems on that score, disappointing her parents and not following their plan for her, but the love was still there, despite all.

  Stop it, Lizzie, it’s not your business. He’s that cliché . . . the ship that’s passing in the night.

  She pursed her lips, actively suppressing any further enquiry. She was sure he didn’t really want her to ask. He knew this was all transitory too, so why spoil it while they had it?

  ‘Not right now. You are what you are, John, it makes no difference to me. You’re a wonderful client. Nothing changes that.’

  For a moment his eyes narrowed, and again, she teetered on the brink of spilling her own secret, but then he smiled his dazzling sunrise smile and all thoughts of the best way to tackle it dissolved like mist. She just wanted to touch him and to be with him. All the questions would be locked in a box for the moment. Perhaps for ever . . .

  The line was drawn. Now they moved on. Their agreement silent, yet total.

  ‘And you
’re a wonderful companion, Bettie. A wonderful lover,’ John said, rising from his seat, setting aside his cup, and striding around to the other side of the bed. Closing the laptop and moving it aside, he flung himself down beside her, leaning on his elbow. ‘I thought I was just about sated. That I’d doused my fires in the shower. But somehow, I find myself wanting you again.’ Still staring into her eyes, he unfastened his robe and revealed the evidence, his cock, hard and high, gleaming and ready for action.

  So beautiful. So familiar to her now, after just a couple of days. Reaching out, she touched him, folding her fingers lightly around him and loving the heat and the silky texture of his skin there.

  ‘Oh yeah . . .’ His lashes fluttered and he drew in a deep breath, then smiled as she massaged him with her thumb.

  ‘Did you deal with yourself in the shower?’ If he had done, his powers of recuperation were truly phenomenal. Especially after his performance . . . his performances in the woods. As he nodded, she licked her lips, remembering the taste of him and how he’d not really allowed her to give him pleasure there, but had just taken it. Coming up on her knees, she tried to move into position to correct that situation, but he stopped her with a hand on her thigh.

  ‘Uh oh . . . your turn, I think. Humour me.’ He pushed her gently onto her back, and opened her robe now, baring her body to him. Reaching for a bottle of water that stood on the bedside table, he took a sip. ‘Just clearing my palate,’ he said, with a wink.

  Lizzie shuddered, watching the stroke of his tongue across his lips and already feeling it between her legs. She wanted to move again, to writhe in anticipation, and to hell with any lingering soreness in her bottom. In fact the heat there only made her more excited and hungry to be feasted upon.

  John came up on his knees and flung off his robe. His body was magnificent, smooth, beautifully formed; not a muscleman but toned in all the right places. His cock swung heavily as he moved.