The Accidental Call Girl

by Portia Da Costa

  ‘But what about that?’ she asked, nodding at his erection.

  ‘Don’t fret. He’ll get his turn. Now, open your legs wider. I want to see your gorgeous pussy.’

  She obliged, pressing on the insides of her knees, stretching the tendons. The room was warm but the cooler air on the moist surfaces of her sex made her shudder. John shuffled into position and slid his hand beneath her buttocks, his fingers finding her stripes. She shook a little and he looked up into her eyes, his questioning. Was it too much for her? The lingering ache?

  In answer, she wriggled in his grip, pushing her crotch forward, opening herself more, inviting and encouraging, rubbing her bottom against his palm and fingers.

  John plunged in. Parting her pubic hair with his free hand, he pressed his face to her pussy, tongue darting out and diving in between her labia, going straight for her clit.

  ‘Oh . . . oh,’ she moaned, astonished at how ready she was. Talking with him, her desire had been diffuse, a murmur in the background. But just one touch of the point of his tongue, right at her heart, and it was screaming loud again.

  ‘Mm . . .’ he purred against her, the vibration making her toes curl up. Rising on her heels, she shoved herself at his face, gasping with each lash of his tongue against her quivering clitoris. She grabbed at his hair, burying her fingers in the damp gold of his curls, fingers pressing against his scalp. The way she clung on hard was probably more painful to him than the pressure of his fingers against her bottom was to her. But it was impossible not to clasp at him as he tasked her with an over-welling of exquisite sensations.

  He flicked and licked. He swivelled his tongue about, circling her centre, lapping at the convoluted folds of her sex, pausing to suck them between his lips. Playing around, he nuzzled with his nose while thrusting his tongue deep into her entrance.

  Again and again, he went back to her clit, blowing on it, dabbing at it with the furled point of his tongue, then finally and, remorselessly, drawing it between his lips and sucking, sucking hard while lashing at it too.

  ‘Jesus . . . God . . . Oh hell!’ Lizzie shouted, coming so intensely that her head seemed to whirl while delicious pleasure pulsed beneath John’s stroking tongue. He gasped into her pussy as she rocked and bucked, and mashed her sex against his face, and dimly she was aware that she was tugging hard on his beautiful hair, and catching his arms and shoulders with fearful kicks as she squirmed about.

  But it was impossible not to hurt him as the waves of orgasm surged and crested like a white unstoppable sea.

  ‘Oh . . . please . . . enough . . . I think,’ she panted, her sex still fluttering as he began a new onslaught. ‘Oh, John, John, John . . . I just need a minute. You’re too bloody good . . . I think you’re going to drive me insane!’

  ‘Really?’ he murmured, and his soft laugh was a caress in itself against her flesh. Cresting again, she collapsed back, overwrought by pleasure, no longer having the energy to hold on to him, but just floating, floating.

  Eventually, though, she came down, settling lightly as if in slow motion. She smiled to herself as John kissed her chastely on her belly, and then the inside of each thigh, before finally sitting up.

  ‘Still compos mentis?’ Leaning forward, he whispered the words into her ear, filling her head with the scent of his cologne.

  ‘Just about.’ Her own voice sounded odd to her ears, as if it had no weight, no force of breath behind it. He’d knocked all that out of her with a sheer intensity of pleasure. Snapping open her eyes, she feasted on him all the same: his handsome, seasoned face, his drying hair, all mad curls, and his body, his superb naked body still rampant and ready.

  ‘Think you could manage to spread your legs and let an old man have a quick fuck?’ He twinkled, he literally twinkled at her. She couldn’t have said whether it was his eyes, or his mouth, or his whole self, but the phenomenon was breath-taking.

  ‘Well, if there were any old men lining up to shag me, perhaps I would. But seeing as there’s only you, a magnificent stud-muffin in his prime, you’ll have to do.’ She shuffled into position, spreading her thighs. Her bottom twinged a little bit, but it was lessening in severity all the time. Soon it’d be barely noticeable, thanks to the ointment, and perhaps the healing power of orgasms. ‘Just wake me up when you’ve finished, will you?’

  ‘Cheeky cow.’ He gave her breast a little squeeze, more companionable than anything, and reached beneath the pillows for the always handy condom. He seemed to make a habit of tucking a supply there; smart thinking.

  Lounging like an odalisque, her arms stretched behind her on the pillows, she watched him roll on the contraceptive. He made even that necessary task into something elegant and precise, but there was almost a domestic quality about the moment. An accustomed lover, making a routine preparation, and doing it so naturally, so easily.

  Dangerous thoughts gathered in Lizzie’s mind. What would it be like if this was a domestic scene, an everyday occurrence in a shared life?

  But that couldn’t happen. John was an exalted man of business, a constant global traveller, always on the move. He had a home of sorts, because he was the scion of a great aristocratic house, but by the sound of it he wasn’t welcome there, and neither did he want to be.

  He was too complicated, too different, and had too much history for her. He’d never be a regular, ‘nine to five, uxorious sex with the little woman every night’ kind of man. He couldn’t be the sort of guy Lizzie had never even anticipated wanting, ever. The sort she wasn’t even sure she wanted now; apart from the bit about seeing John every day, and being fucked and spanked by him on a regular basis.

  Stop it!

  She squashed her thoughts again rigorously, on seeing him frown at her, his enrobing complete. He was so sharp, so intuitive, and she blushed, convinced he’d detected her mad yearnings.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked, moving between her thighs, supporting himself on one arm while he touched her gently, parting her pubic floss. His fingertip glided over her still sensitive clit and she shuddered like a racehorse, then it dipped into her opening, paddling in her silky arousal.

  ‘Nothing, just mad bits of thoughts, flitting in and out of my otherwise empty head. Nothing of consequence, and nothing you’d be interested in.’

  For the most minute fraction of a second, he hesitated, but then he went on smoothly, ‘Oh, thinking mad bits of thoughts, are we? While you’re waiting to be fucked by me?’ Fitting himself at her entrance, he slowly swung his hips, sliding himself into her. ‘That’s not very flattering, Bettie, is it?’

  For a moment she was speechless, rapt in the familiar sensation of a man, this man, possessing her. The bigness. The heat. The closer than closeness. The living flesh of another, embraced by hers.

  ‘Well, I did warn you I might take a nap.’ She tilted her hips, parted her thighs wider, allowing him deeper.

  ‘True.’ He nestled in, taking advantage of her moves to accommodate him. ‘But I’ll give you a bonus if you manage to stay awake. Double if I can coax another orgasm out of you.’

  ‘Deal,’ she said, closing her eyes, and folding her body up, locking her ankles at the small of his back.

  To him it was perfectly natural to reference their business arrangement as he pushed his cock into her. To him, it was what it was. Whore and client, simple and easy and nothing wrong in that. It was only she who was harbouring stupid thoughts about it being more.

  She kept her eyes tight shut to hide the threat of tears, and gave herself up to the delicious feeling of John sliding in, out, in, out, his rhythm and angle perfect for her. Each in-stroke knocked her tender clit, reawakening slumbering pleasure. As he fucked her, his weight on one arm, he stroked her face and her hair and peppered little kisses against her brow, her ear, her cheek. She grabbed at him, his back and his flank, loving the warmth of his skin and the flex of his muscles as he powered into her.

  ‘You’re so beautiful, Bettie,’ he whispered, working her, ‘You’re a very special woma
n . . . a special lover. The best I’ve had . . .’ He kissed her eyes, then the corner of her mouth, then her jaw.

  It was arrant nonsense, of course, just the sex talking, but the fact that he said it, and so sweetly, touched her as profoundly as the stroke of his cock inside her. He was a devastatingly handsome, ludicrously rich, and sharp, intelligent, quite famous man. He could have any woman he wanted, and probably had had any woman he wanted. Great beauties, women of culture, the very finest of highclass courtesans who knew tricks she herself had no clue about . . . and yet he took a moment, in the midst of his own pleasure, to make her feel she was more special than any of these.

  Her heart swelled with emotion, the most perilous one of all, and it was this, over and above the divine sensations of his lovemaking, that tipped her over the edge and made her come and come again.

  11

  An Invitation

  ‘You mean you’ve already checked up on him and you didn’t tell me?’

  Home again, Lizzie confronted Brent. He looked even more white-faced than usual and, judging by his bleary manner and his red eyes, he’d been drinking as well as hitting Google on her behalf. Behind his back, Shelley shrugged, looking worried.

  ‘Somebody had to,’ snapped Brent. ‘You seem to be sailing into all this without a care in the world. The first thing any escort, or any half-way sensible person, would do in this situation is check the guy out as much as they could. But you seem to be taking him completely on trust.’

  But I do trust him!

  Aware that after only three days of knowing John, that was a stupid and irrational statement, it was nevertheless what she felt, even after her own online discoveries. On the other hand, though, she could understand Brent’s animosity, given his own traumatic history of guilt and self-blame over a road accident. He wasn’t the one to cut John any slack on that score.

  I need to make allowances. In a few days John will be gone, and I’ll be little more than a fleeting memory to him. But I’ll still be here with Brent and Shelley, who’ve always cared about me. They matter.

  Both her friends had been there for her in tough times. And Brent especially, when she’d dropped out of uni, fallen out with her parents, and generally wondered what the hell she was doing with her life. So she owed him a bit of extra consideration now. She’d loved him once too, or thought she had. Maybe she still did, as the brother she never had who’d looked out for her when her own high-achieving sisters had been as confounded as her parents over her career choices . . . or lack of them.

  ‘Yeah, it was a bit daft not to check him out, I fully admit that. But I thought it’d only be the one time . . . maybe two at the most. I didn’t think it’d come to anything more than that, so I didn’t bother.’

  And it might not come to anything more than that either.

  The thought made her despondent. Hell, much more than that. Her heart was on a plummeting elevator at the moment. She and John had parted slightly awkwardly when the hotel porter had delivered her dress and jacket, all dried and pressed from their valet service. She’d got the sense he’d wanted to say more, and she’d definitely wanted to say more, but somehow, their last fuck had been so intense . . . so . . . so intimate that it had almost been too much.

  She wanted more. He didn’t want more. Or, he didn’t want to want more. It’d been as if a million confessions, protestations, pleas and admissions had been bubbling beneath the surface, and neither of them had been able to say anything.

  John had kissed her in a vaguely melancholy way and then bade her farewell. He’d made no new appointment, nor any mention of one. And she hadn’t asked.

  And now Brent was upset too.

  It was the combination of John’s history and bad timing. Tomorrow was the anniversary of Brent’s own accident. The crash when Steve, his lover, had died, leaving Brent bereft and racked by a guilt that still endured. He blamed himself, although from what Lizzie and Shelley now knew, it had not been his fault.

  Reaching out to touch her friend’s arm, she ignored his flinch and said, ‘I probably won’t be seeing him any more, so all’s well that ends well, and I’m not going to spend hours and hours poring over web pages about the one that got away . . .’ She attempted a smile. ‘It was fun while it lasted, though. Fancy . . . fucking a real-life billionaire and an aristo to boot. Definitely one for the scrapbook, to grin over in my old age.’

  ‘We should all be so lucky, you jammy sod,’ chimed in Shelley.

  Lizzie glanced at her female friend, who was making tea for them. Had there been a wistful note in Shelley’s voice? Quite probably. Lizzie knew that the other girl was dissatisfied with her own love life . . . or lack of it. What would have happened if Shelley had been the one to take refuge from the birthday party in the Lawns bar at the Waverley? She was delicately pretty with natural blonde hair and elfin features, a smart, sweet girl; she could easily have been the one John had taken a fancy to.

  As Lizzie shuddered over the twists and turns of fate, she saw Brent brighten, and crack a grin. ‘Yep, only you could manage that, Miss Bettie Page. Not even a real working girl and you manage to snag a punter any self-respecting whore would give every last square inch of her La Perla for a crack at.’

  ‘And I say again . . . jammy sod,’ concurred Shelley bringing the teapot to the table. She seemed in high good humour, and full of suppressed curiosity, but Lizzie still wondered . . .

  ‘I know, I know . . . But I think I’ve probably had my run with him now, despite what he said about being around for a while. I’ve a feeling he could tell that I liked him too much, and he doesn’t want that. A man with his gazillions must get a lot of unwanted female attention, I guess.’

  Her heart sank a few more floors in the elevator. She did like him too much. But not for his money. A man like John Smith could be as poor as a church mouse, yet still be the most desirable male creature on two legs.

  ‘And yet he was the one who encouraged you to Google him.’ Brent gave her a shrewd look.

  ‘Well, that’s probably why. To let me know that I was just a passing fancy.’

  ‘I’m not so sure,’ opined Shelley, pouring tea. ‘Perhaps he’s fallen desperately in love with you, and wanted be sure you still fancied him, even if you know about his sinister past.’

  ‘But if he is sinister, surely he’d want her not to know about it,’ Brent pointed out.

  ‘Well, whatever, I don’t care . . . It was what it was. He was fun. The sex was amazing. And even if I send most of the money back, I’ll keep a smidge for “expenses” and we can cover our rent and all our utility bills for a bit too.’ Squaring her shoulders, she ignored the pangs, the yearnings for something more, nothing to do with money. ‘And I’m sure he won’t mind if I give a bit to Cats’ Protection too.’ She glanced at Mulder, who was currently curled up on the kitchen table, amongst the tea things, where she knew she wasn’t supposed to be. ‘Let’s all get some fish and chips, shall we? Make pigs of ourselves. I had a fantastic lunch and a huge afternoon tea . . . but somehow I’m still starving. And I know she won’t say no.’ She scratched behind the small feline’s ears, and got a whisker twitch in response.

  Expecting a complaint about calories from Shelley and Brent saying he wasn’t hungry, Lizzie was surprised when both her friends agreed to a fish supper. Her spirits lifted.

  It’d be such a relief to do something completely normal, and enjoy a much loved and everyday treat after her strange days and nights in John Smith’s company.

  A few days passed. Lizzie paid some bills, and made some charity donations, but put the rest of her ‘John’ money in an envelope and stowed it away in the mini filing cabinet where they kept household papers. If she didn’t hear from John, she’d try to get a forwarding address from the Waverley and send what was left on to him. Despite the fact that part of her insisted that she had in truth earned it, and provided exactly the same sexual services that a real escort would have done, it just didn’t seem right to keep it all. That would really m
ake her into a prostitute, even if it was just with this one man, and her feelings were a muddled turmoil about him already.

  If she kept the cash to buy things for herself, she would always look at those things and know he’d paid for them, and for her. And if she didn’t keep it, she could pretend it had been a very short love affair.

  So, a clean break was better. No ties. Just a few memories, free and clear, to keep as treasures.

  Life settled into a normal groove. Shelley took off to stay with her beloved Auntie Mae for a week, because the older lady was a bit frail and always perked up after a visit from her niece. Brent seemed to cheer up, surprisingly, despite the anniversary of the accident. Or at least he appeared to. The garden centre seemed to be doing him the power of good.

  Lizzie herself checked in with the temping agency, and looked for the hundredth time at brochures for various courses – design, fashion technology and the Open University. She’d have to do something, now more than ever. When the alternative was to brood about a certain beautiful, blond man who could spank her bottom and make her scream with pleasure with his hands, his mouth and his cock.

  But it was difficult not to dwell on him. Difficult not to lie in her room, and find her fingers straying to her clit as she replayed the scenes she and John had shared, like frames from a sophisticated porn movie.

  It was afternoon, and she was a hair away from an orgasm, with her hand in her knickers, when the phone rang.

  ‘Fuck off,’ she gasped, her head full of John, and the feel of him fucking her, pounding into her from behind, his fingers gouging at her well-spanked bottom as he held her steady.

  Then suddenly she stopped. Pleasure not quite forgotten . . . but . . . interrupted.

  It was her ‘Bettie’ phone that was ringing, not her normal one.

  She sat up, grabbed a tissue and scrubbed her fingers. She straightened her clothes, and breathed deep. The phone chimed on.