by James Grey
Whatever, I find myself pushing back in towards her and loving every second of this feeling. It’s like it’s ten times better for being tied up, rooted in place with my legs spread and a man – whose incredible proportions are reaching masterpiece levels in my mind’s eye – watches me being opened up for him.
In this position I can let my neck hang absolutely limp, and there’s something intoxicating about it. It makes me feel like the wanton rag doll I so enjoy being. My breathing quickens when she withdraws at last. Instinctively I try to widen my legs, inviting re-entry, but that bar won’t let me do it.
This time two chuckles come. She’s laughing with him! Why do they find my need amusing? I hear more tinkling metal, and I pray it’s a belt loosening. I’m waiting for a zip, and the treat that should emerge from it, with such fervour that I can smell my own wetness rising up from between my legs.
With other clients, I’m guessing I’d be begging by now, just as Miss Jackson would want me to. But it doesn’t seem appropriate here. Especially if they’re going to take a sadistic kind of pleasure in my volcanic desire. I try to wait quietly and patiently instead.
I hear Esmeralda walk away.
I’m still trying to stop myself from panting audibly when the first blow crashes into my back.
Shit! I’ve been tricked. This isn’t anal entry at all. This is a belting. The weapon barely notices the blouse I’m wearing, and my skin sears and stings in the pause that follows the first hit.
There’s a different kind of panting behind me now. One that suggests the mildest of physical effort.
Crack! I jolt violently as another one lands, lengthways between my shoulder blades once more. My crazed, off-the-charts session with Rupert and Petra comes flooding back to my mind. So do my moments with Carrie, when I was thrashed with my head in Miss Jackson’s fireplace.
Before the third blow, his hand leaps below my blouse and rips off my bra in a single move. He grabs a nipples and he twists. I can feel the hardness in the way it resists his heavy pressure, and I gasp.
I want it all. That twist, the belt, the cock to get inside in my ass. I clench my teeth as I become more beautifully aware of the tightness of my bonds, the wetness in both my holes and the screaming of my breasts. The belt lashes me again. I cry a little whimper, but I know I can take this. It’s only a belt. The after-sting, which spreads slowly, is worse than the actual strike.
I can’t deny that the withdrawal of sight is immersing me in my wonderful work like nothing else. Two more exquisite hits rain down upon me, and I actually feel my mouth curl into a smile. The release is going to be incredible, when it comes. Oh, I’m one depraved little girl, that’s for sure.
And then time stands still. There’s no release, and I freeze. Because he stops the whipping and leans right over me, his sweat-soaked shirt meshing with mine, and pushes hard enough that I give a cry as my hips collapse. All my weight pulses through my wrists as I struggle to regain a posture. My suffering hands are screaming for circulation above my head.
That whisper again. Louder than last time, but just as hot and just as scary.
“I see you’ve found yourself a nice new job, Emma Carling. I always knew you were a dirty little whore deep inside. Oh yes, I could see it in your eyes when you were thirteen.”
Suddenly I feel horrified. I want to tear off my mask and know who this man is that claims to know my life and my work. Fuck! I must know!
“Who are you?” I find myself asking, summoning up my voice for the first time all night. I’m trying to sound more professional than I feel, reminding myself that tonight, at three thousand Pounds, is my biggest payday since my debut with Charles.
This time there’s neither a snort nor a snicker. Just an otherworldly growl of a laugh. From deep in the throat, like the sound of a snoring bear, it really could be anybody. It resonates with nastiness and superiority, but there’s no other clue I can glean.
It’s Esmeralda who finally answers: “You will know when the time is right, Emma Carling.”
I say nothing. But I swear you could hear the beat of my heart and the gush of my adrenaline from across the street.
Without another word, he stands up, pulls apart my cheeks and inserts himself quickly – too quickly – into my ass. My desire now consumed by fear, I have to work hard to keep steady as he pounds me with an enormous length that tests my limits. My chains clank all the while as he repeatedly rams into me, my body thrown forward each time while my ankles are rooted into their places.
I grit my teeth. I know the monster enjoys the idea that I don’t enjoy it; that he’s spoiled what I was looking forward to with his sudden entry and hurtful pounding. He comes inside me with a loud, primal grunt. He has possessed me and taken every piece of me that he can. On his terms. I feel the heat of his satisfaction coursing through my back hole.
Me? I don’t know what I’m feeling. It’s also something primal, but is it fight or is it flight? Fear or fascination? I’m a tangle.
As he slowly twitches back to normality within me, and tears try to attack my eyes, he leans in once more and delivers a frightening double entendre in that same trademark whisper.
“Consider yourself fucked, Emma Carling.”
Chapter XII
I’m tempted to wake Sarah when I get home, sweaty, sore and upset. But she’s fast asleep and looking angelic enough to calm me down. I feel tearful again as I look at her face, because she’s part of this new dream life. A life I suddenly fear may have to end.
I lie awake all night thinking about it. I was doing so well, and everything was perfect. But now these mind games are back. This guy is playing with me and I don’t know what to do. Are the things he says par for the course in this game? I can’t believe it’s okay: it just doesn’t add up with anything Lucy has told me about client discretion and all of that.
Then again, this is a situation she hasn’t really prepared me for in any of our chats. Maybe it’s a first for her, too. She’s been vague about this client in a way that’s completely different to the others. She’s been nervous about this job since day one, and usually thoughtful and detailed briefs have been patchy. I wasn’t specifically warned about potential violence tonight, not that I minded.
On the contrary, the whole physical side was amazing. Despite my worried state, a small part of what’s keeping me up is replays of what happened before things got weird at the end. I’m totally good with the blindfolds and the shackles and the belts and the spacer bar thing on my ankles. It rocked.
The mystery of it all would be brilliant if he didn’t go and whisper the things he does. Maybe it’s a turn-on to say things like that to a hooker? Maybe everyone does it? Hmm, but the guy knows my full name and knows that I’m recently unemployed. And Lucy specifically told me she wouldn’t give out those kinds of personal details.
The obvious thing is to talk to her. Of all people, I should be completely comfortable chatting to her. If he’s a new client, and he’s going over a line, then she needs to know. Even Lucy could make a mistake by taking on a bad egg, I suppose. She won’t know if I don’t tell her! And what if he’s crossed the ultimate line and taken photos? My mind is in overdrive.
But something wants to hold me back from talking to Lucy. Aren’t I being silly? The only thing to spoil my night was words. And aren’t words at the very bottom of the list of things for a prostitute to worry about? Maybe all the girls get this kind of talk, and I’m over-reacting. And anyway, if the guy wants to ruin me then he’s already got enough to work with. I may as well keep taking his money if it’s on offer.
I fear I’m over-rationalising about something that’s really quite clear-cut. Perhaps the main thing making me hesitate is that I don’t want to let Lucy down. I’m still one of the new girls, and I don’t feel confident enough to go to her and complain about one of the jobs she’s kindly arranged for me. Especially such a lucrative one. Shouldn’t I be strong and suck it up?
The question of who it might be haunts me wel
l into the next day, as I sit grumpily with Sarah and wonder if I should cancel the new flat and get out of this crazy new world I’m in. I’m clearly out of my depth, I warble. For once, she’s silent. For a moment. Then she says: “You’re cooked in the head if you don’t talk to Lucy about this,” and underlines her point by walking away into the kitchen.
Who could it be? That’s what I want to know. An assortment of ex-boyfriends, teachers, family friends and school friends cruise through my head on a conveyer belt. Colleagues seem to be ruled out, since this person, claims they’ve known me since my teens. I can’t think of anybody I’ve worked with who falls into that category.
It could easily be one of the sweetest, kindest people I know, couldn’t it? It could be a quiet soul that I’d never suspect. The unlikely ones are the ones who turn out to be kinkiest. Maybe someone religious? An enemy? I’m stumped. And he has to be rich, judging by the length of the gravel driveway I’ve been taken down at his property, not to mention the length of time it takes to walk across the room where all the action seems to happen.
The thought that really drives me insane is that it could be someone who knows my parents. But would he really want to embarrass me? What would be the point? Blackmail? No – he’s loaded. Power trip? Now that’s possible. Maybe it’s just the pleasure of playing mind games.
“I’m not smart enough for all this spy movie stuff,” I moan to Sarah as she walks back in with another cup of tea for me. “I don’t know the first thing about bluffs and double-bluffs. Fuck, what do I do?”
“You’re asking the wrong girl, Missy. You need an expert. If you really won’t speak to Lucy, how about Miss Jackson? Haven’t you been trying to get around to meeting her?”
True, I could sound her out, hopefully without giving too much away. There’s a new paranoia growing in me that saying something to someone will be exactly what might set my ‘outing’ in motion. I’m scared. Maybe Miss Jackson might let something slip after a drink or two. Not that I have any idea what alcohol might do to her.
I nod thoughtfully as Sarah puts my tea down on the table and gives me a hug. Again, she asks me to talk through every detail of the night.
When I finish, she clears her throat: “You really found it hot, though, didn’t you?”
“Mostly – until the end bit,” I admit.
“It’s the first kinky customer you’ve had, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
Her eyes light up.
“You know, I can think of another reason you don’t want to go to Lucy. You enjoy it too much. You like the bad boy, much as he might upset you at times. And you know that Lucy will strike him off the client list the moment you put in a complaint.”
I look at her: “You’re crazy!”
She cocks her head. “And you’re dirty. I know you pretty well now, Emma Carling. I think you like having the naughty and the nice!”
“What’s the nice part?”
“Charles. He’s your angel, and this other guy is your demon. You’ve got both pieces of the pie in your hands, and you don’t want to lose one of them. Speaking of which, you’ve got Charles again tonight, haven’t you?”
“You’re right. About my appointment, I mean. I’m not sure about the rest of your theory.”
“Mark my words,” she tuts, going into drama mode again. “Emma Carling doesn’t know the depths of her own depravity – haha, excuse the pun if you will!”
I think she’s being silly, but she does make me feel better. And yes, Charles will be pure pleasure and take my mind off things. In fact, it’s not beyond the realms of possibility that I could pick his brains a little. He’s supposed to have friends in this world, after all.
And I set up a chat with Miss Jackson for the next day. There’s something resembling a plan in place, and that’s a relief. For now, I’ll keep Lucy out of this whole thing. Just for now.
Charles has decided he wants me once a week. He’s booked me in for every Friday evening that I’m available, for the exorbitant fee of £4000. It’s not far off what he paid for my opening night in the game.
“If he wants to book you for a regular slot,” explains Lucy, “then he’s got to pay over the odds for it. We have to cover what we’d make from people his booking makes us turn away. Especially as Fridays are popular nights.
“And besides,” I can hear her grinning down the phone line, “That’s what he thinks you’re worth anyway, you starlet!”
I don’t tell her that I’m getting to the point that I’d happily spend my Friday nights with Charles for nothing. Getting paid to do what you love – or do whom you love – well, that’s the dream, isn’t it? So I keep my mouth shut and remind myself of what a lucky girl I am. Just one of those nights with him, after all, will cover the month’s rent on my new place. Not to mention a few hundred Pounds of beer money.
Thinking of the numbers makes me feel ever less inclined to rock the proverbial boat. This isn’t minimum wage work: I should take the good with the bad, shouldn’t I? And maybe Sarah’s right: There’s definitely a good side to the bad side. I think.
Charles finally spanks me on our fourth night together, the second of our regular Friday appointments. He has no wish to really damage me, he says, but he enjoys putting a girl over his knee sometimes. I am more than good with that. But although I like it a lot, it’s really the expert fingering he gives me afterwards that makes me come.
That’s the thing with Charles. We connect emotionally and share a lot, to the point that my feelings for him make my heart and soul melt. So much so that I feel terrible about taking his cash. He is a master in bed, and puts more effort into satisfying me than into looking after himself. In my limited experience, that’s not common practice.
But Charles is a shit dominant.
I hate to have to say it, because I want him to be perfect at that, too, like he is at everything else. If I were looking for someone to marry, or a man to sleep with five nights a week, he’d be my winner right now. He’s incredibly well-groomed and tasteful, and he has the most delicious cock of them all. It’s clean, shaven and free of ugly veins. I love to lick it the way I would an ice cream, running my tongue across the succulent balls and nibbling on tiny mouthfuls of skin. I love to lick his ass, too, and find myself stuffing as much of my tongue in there as I can.
I can keep going for hours on Charles, loving every moment. And the great thing is, so can he.
But he can’t dish out convincing punishment. He’s too nice. It’s fun, but there isn’t the same edge I get with, say…him.
I’m trying not to think of my latest night in a blindfold, but I’m finding it hard in more ways than one. Even that anal attack, which came while I was twitching with worry, has now joined the pantheon of my erotic fantasy bank. Part of me wishes the memory wasn’t so arousing, but then – as Sarah so kindly observed – it doesn’t seem like I get a say in my mind’s depraved wanderings.
The things I’m learning about myself each day…I suspect that none of them would please the feminists of this world.
But if I’m looking for an all-round night of glorious, uninhibited, straight sex, then the dextrous, multi-skilled Charles is my man of choice right now. He keeps on insisting on cooking me dinner. It’s part of the ‘girlfriend experience’ he craves and could so easily have for free.
“It’s never free, though, is it?” he says mysteriously when I question him. “Once you get into a relationship, you pay a price in other ways.”
I nod thoughtfully, increasingly receptive to his point of view. But I swear that I’m going to cook for him soon. Just the moment I get round to doing that kitchen course I promised I’d do. I’ve vowed to be useful and improve myself during my ample free time, and I intend to.
“How about you learn to make sushi?” suggests Charles as he stirs a bubbling ratatouille. “I’ll eat it off your naked body. Deal?”
I smile. I’ve heard of that odd practice. Could be fun, especially if the food is prepared by my loving hands. �
��Deal,” I smile, with a little shiver of anticipation.
We talk about so much more than sex, and usually we don’t get down to business before midnight and a few sherries on the sofa have come and gone. He really enjoys the slow build. I love it too.
He tells me secrets about his work – only three days a week at his one man stock market consultancy – and I share a lot about my own life. I trust him implicitly. Even if it turned out that Charles knew my dad, I wouldn’t worry that he’d blab. There’s an amazing respect there.
I can’t speak much about my current work, of course, because discretion is understood and implicit in all of my encounters. Still, as long as I don’t mention names or places, I can tell the odd tale that makes my face go red.
I don’t want to say anything about the mystery gentleman and blindfold house, though. Charles and Lucy are too close. But I ask a few general questions, trying to engineer that conversation so that the topics I want come up naturally.
Does he know of men who like to psychologically torture their escorts? Or men who keep their faces a secret. Is that a thing?
“I certainly do know of gentlemen who will hide their faces,” says Charles. “One friend of mine is so careful that he won’t reveal himself to the girl he’s had every week for the past five years! Venetian masks tend to be quite popular for hiding oneself. There’s a sexy and alluring mystery about those that everyone seems to love.
“Other men prefer to blindfold the girl, but a lot of them worry that she might sneak a peek at them. This friend is one of them. A very well-known public figure. You wouldn’t believe if I told you.”
“I bet the girls can usually find out one way or another, can’t they? I mean, there’s always some gossip out there, isn’t there?”
“It happens, sure. But not as much as you might think. Sometimes even agents don’t know whom they’re dealing with. They get contacted by a PA or a lackey who transfers the money and sends the instructions. I don’t think that’s safe though – Lucy’s insistence on knowing whom you’re going to sleep with is ideal for your safety. She’s done very well to earn so much trust.
