Escort Unleashed (Emma Book 2)

by James Grey

  “You’re halfway there, I mean, with knowing what you know about his lifestyle,” adds Alyssia. “He would never dare fire unless you did first and he had nothing to lose.”

  “Still, something far more concrete is definitely better,” says Alyssia. “Spreading rumours can only be so believable, but nobody could argue with a picture. He’d have to respect it if you had one of those.”

  “You think I should get a photo and then blackmail him?” I ask incredulously. “I’m still half-drunk but even I can see that’s not going to work out. For about a million reasons I can think of. And Lucy would fire me on the spot.”

  “Whoah,” says Latifa, rolling her eyes. “Back up a second. Not like that, obviously! We were thinking we could help you out. It could be a little group mission to end this bad business. It’ll be awesome fun. Sort of like Wicked Witches meet Robin Hood.”

  “So…you actually want to get this guy ruined?”

  “Problem?” asks Sarah pointedly.

  “Well,” I pause. It’s not the worst crusade to embark on, I suppose. The guy is bad to the core. Assuming this mystery client really is him, he’s made me horribly uncomfortable. Maliciously so. And I happen to know that he and his management are still making work life very unhappy for some of my friends who are still at the company. Ruining him would be for a greater good. “Yeah, maybe not. But it couldn’t be me doing it. It’s Lucy’s business and she’d kill me.”

  “That’s why we have a cunning plan, Emma,” grins Latifa again. I can almost see the deviance in her eyes – and she’s wearing sunglasses. “This will be a team effort, but it starts with you winning his trust. You need to get him to drop his guard.”

  “What, really?”

  “Yep, really. Your job is to thrive when you’re around him. Show him the part of you that’s turned on by his attempts to dominate you. Even the threatening part of that, if you can. You’ve got to get him talking.”

  “I’m not sure I’m allowed to talk,” I say. “He is the customer, after all.”

  “Nonsense,” puffs Latifa. “When a man is turned on and thinks he has you turned on, then he’s putty in your hands. You can do whatever you like. When you get to that stage, you need to talk dirty to him. If you’re clever about it, you’ll find out the most disgusting things he’s into.

  “You’ve got to play a slow game. And you can: we all know he’d be a fool to really out you like he says he will. He’s got way more to lose. It’s all talk. So play along; you’ve got time. Never let on you have the slightest clue who he is. He thinks you’re stupid and his dumb blindfold has your fooled. Make out you’ll do anything for his silence, and show that you’re actually quite liking the things he’s doing to you.

  “The power exchange will be starting to flow the other way, but he won’t feel it happening. He won’t have a clue. By showing enthusiasm, you’re working towards finding out something he likes doing but that he absolutely wouldn’t want photographed. Imagine a big-cheese London CEO getting fucked by a girl with a strap-on, that kind of thing.”

  “That’d be gold!” enthuses Alyssia. “I’d volunteer to do the fucking. The guy’s an asshole and deserves a dildo in his.”

  “Right,” says Latifa. “And Alyssia isn’t kidding. This is where we come in. When the time is right, and you’ve found out a kink like that, you drop hints you know a pair of other prostitutes who are really good at that. Ones you went to school with – he’ll like that. He won’t think you know he was the guy who visited you at the school, will he? He’ll just puff up with the secret knowledge he thinks he has. He’ll also try to go out and book those girls right away.

  “And if he wants you to join this little kink party, you tell him you’re not allowed to because those girls aren’t from your agency. You’ll have to rule yourself out. You’re ever so sorry.”

  She makes a face that says I won’t be sorry at all.

  I’m beginning to see their plan take shape, and frown as the picture forms in my mind. “And those girls would be…you guys?”

  “Me and Alyssia,” says Sarah. “Latifa will probably be back in Newcastle, but I’m signing up on that app, aren’t I? Alyssia can do the same; or she’ll be in an agency. We’ll work it out. I just know I’d love to do something big for you, Emma. You’ve been so good to me. I’d simply love to take that picture while he’s got a blindfold on. It would be my pleasure, in so many ways. It’s another reason I really like this plan.”

  “And you’d really have nothing to do with it,” adds Latifa. “Not that anything would be said anyway. One tweet from a fake account should do it. Job done.”

  I must say that there’s a lot to like about the plan. Everyone’s telling me I don’t really need to panic about being ‘outed’, and with every day that goes by I’m a little bit less convinced that ‘outing’ would be as disastrous as I fear anyway. It doesn’t seem like there’s a lot to lose, although I’m not so sure my involvement won’t be quite easily traceable. Lucy’s a sharp cookie.

  “Yeah, I see. You’re onto something I guess. I just…I think it would come back to me. It wouldn’t be hard to work out, would it? He’d make the connection if he knows you’re my school friends and something bad comes out of that encounter. Then it would get back to Lucy and the community, and –”

  “Small details, Carling, small details!” says Latifa airily. “We’ll iron out the business of covering tracks later. Don’t worry just yet. It can’t do any harm to work towards getting the picture, can it? Once we have it, we can think long and hard about how to use it.”

  “I suppose so,” I say doubtfully. But maybe I’m a little more sold than I believe I am. I especially like the part about enjoying my visits there a little more. I can go with that. Maybe by the time the project nears completion I’ll have decided the guy is nothing but harmless bluster. Or I’ll have told the world what I do anyway.

  “Cheers to that!” says Alyssia.

  Instinctively we look around for our champagne glasses. Then we all start laughing. Because we’ve made sure to keep booze a long way away from our hurting bodies today.

  “Great,” says Latifa. “Liss, you’re going to see the agency tomorrow morning, and then Emma and I will be photographing both of you to get your app profiles up and running.”

  I didn’t know I was much of a photographer. But I close my eyes, sink down in the water and go with the idea. When Latifa’s around, I always have this sense that things are somehow going to work out.

  Chapter XVII

  The next time I go to the mystery house, I’m led along what feels like a different route. After feeling my feet crunching up what must be a garden path, whichever minion is leading the way guides me through the front door as usual. But then there’s no turn to the left. It feels like I’m being taken straight on. A door opens, and I’m given a rough push.

  Even from behind my blindfold, I can sense there’s no light in here. None whatsoever. It smells stuffy and close. Like the inside of a closet. I stumble as I’m pushed into this black void, and reach out to steady myself. There’s a wall close in front of me. This may be a broom cupboard by day, I’m guessing. But it’s one tiny prison cell by night.

  And I’m not alone in here. I can hear him step smartly in behind me. It cannot be anyone else. I hear him breathing deeply beside me, sucking air slowly in through the nose. It’s menacing and potent.

  The door closes.

  It’s just me and him. Alone. In a dark, tiny and airless room.

  I want to shrink and cower. My heart thumps loudly as I wonder again if he’s going too far with his latest stunt. But I remind myself that Lucy has vetted this man. Whoever he is, he can go close to her lines but not over them – or he’ll kiss all the Fulford girls goodbye. She wouldn’t put any of us in harm’s way.

  Fingers curl into the blindfold at the temples, inevitably tightening the fabric so hard against my eyes that it hurts. Then, without a word, he gives it a savage pull down. The blindfold burns over my nose
and lands squarely in between my lips.

  “Bite it,” he breathes.

  I do as he asks. I understand that my blindfold has now become my gag.

  “Keep it between your teeth,” he orders, whispering a little louder. “The only sounds I want to hear from you are whimpers. Bitch.”

  Every part of my body aches to know who my abuser may be. But it’s darker than the darkest night in here. I may as well still have the blindfold on. And he knows it.

  And yet there’s something more immediately threatening about it all, to know that my eyes have been freed. I have an awareness of his body mass near me. Something between a shadow and a silhouette. Yet the only thing I can say for sure is that he’s taller than me. Much taller.

  One of his hands seizes my ponytail, yanking my head back so that it looks up, helpless and held, to where I guess his face must be. The gag is digging into my cheeks. All I can do is wait for his next move.

  “Do as I fucking say now, Emma Carling. Or you’ll be sorry.”

  That weird mix of absolute fear and primal lust invades me as he says these words. I gulp and try to nod, but his grip is so tight that all I can do it make an unearthly sound in the back of my throat. It’s half gurgle, half wail.

  He pushes my head violently forward again, keeping his tight grip on my hair. The fingers creep up towards the roots now, hurting me in a different way. This man is a master of pain. And he enjoys giving it.

  He lets go of my hair and slips the straps of my light dress over my shoulders. The garment falls to the floor. I have been instructed to come in panties only. I fear these are soaking wet, despite myself and my fear, as I stand there trembling and topless.

  “Hands behind your back,” he orders.

  There’s no way he can see me doing what he commands. But I know he knows I’ve done exactly what he wants.

  He grabs my throat with both hands, wedges his knee into the V of my panties and pushes me so that my back is up against the wall.

  I dare not breathe, for wondering what is going to happen next as he relaxes his grip and the shadow takes a small step back from me. There must be a little more room inside here than I thought.

  A minute of silence passes. Maybe an hour. Maybe ten seconds. Waiting makes time an irrelevance. Waiting becomes me. My eyes are torn between straining for a clue about him and trying to close.

  Slap!

  His bare hand on my left breast. Hard.

  Slap!

  How is his aim so good in the dark? It’s violent enough to make my whole body tremble, yet each time it grazes my nipple so that my knees almost give way.

  Slap!

  “Fucking whore, Emma Carling!”

  My blood goes cold every time he uses my last name and reminds me of what I’m doing for a living. Sure, I am Emma to every customer. But Lucy swears she never reveals my surname.

  Too many brutal slaps rain down on my breasts to worry about it for long. He is mixing and matching now. Both sides are stinging and throbbing in stereo.

  And when one breast gets hit, the other isn’t quite sure what to think.

  The feel of his harsh skin on mine. My nipples on fire as my stomach pushes out, filled with knots of fear. The darkness; the closeness; the imprisonment. Christ, I want to touch myself.

  At the same time, he is pushing me to the limit. I don’t know if I can take many more slaps. Each one feels harder than the last. It’s like he wants to crack my willpower.

  “What a good little bad girl she is,” mocks the voice. “Paid good money to have her tits slapped. What would her mother say if I told her?”

  And now I do close my eyes. He’s messing with head, I tell myself. I remind myself of everything my friends and Miss Jackson told me. Even if he really does know my mum, he wouldn’t dare. He couldn’t.

  I’m supposed to be thinking of ways to put Latifa’s plan into action.

  Slap!

  And my mind goes straight back to fuzz. Back to the inky blackness and gushing wetness of the here and the now and his hand.

  “Ah, so turned on,” he whispers, pausing to run his fingers across the giveaway fabric between my thighs. “Good for nothing but selling herself.”

  I whimper at the feel of his hand down there, unable to deny what he said about being turned on. But the last part? Nasty. I hate him. I hate all these weird fuckers who use prostitutes and then berate us for being sluts. I’ve heard about twister men like this.

  Maybe it’s not Spurring at all. Maybe it’s just a random guy who stalked me enough to work out my name, and gets off on verbal abuse.

  If only he would raise his voice above a whisper. I’d know if it was Spurring then. Even an accent might be a clue. But you can’t hear the accent of a whisperer.

  “Ha, you want me to fuck you, don’t you?”

  I won’t answer him. Whatever he might be doing to the flow of moisture between my legs, I hate this nasty fucker. Maybe it’s unprofessional, but I don’t want to give him the satisfaction. Our big plan is floundering already.

  He doesn’t like my silence. He slaps me across my breasts again, twice as hard as anything that went before. I squirm, this time from pain as much as anything. The shock to my skin radiates slowly out in languid, powerful waves.

  “You can fuck this instead,” he says, before plunging his hand into my panties and ripping them in two. “Squat. Don’t use your hands.”

  I do it. I have no clue what to expect.

  He is down before I am, doing something beneath me as I lower myself onto my haunches. It’s the worst moment of the night. I am terrified by the possibilities. Am I about to feel the sharp prick of a spike? A needle? Something hot, maybe boiling?

  But what I feel nuzzling at my lips as I settle into place is familiar plastic. He holds it long enough for it to gain traction in my pussy, then I sense him moving away. I am glad he can’t see my face right now.

  Only as I really succumb to a natural squatting position and adjust my weight fully do I realise how enormous it is. The dildo must be attached to some kind of stable base, but I can’t physically get far down enough to feel that bottom part. It’s long enough that I can’t use all its length. It’s thick as four fingers and I feel utterly filled.

  I have never sat on a dildo before. Despite the coercion and the nastiness of my situation, I revel in the feeling it gives me.

  He pushes down on my shoulders, making me yelp with pain as the toy touches places I didn’t know I had. The fucker. I loathe him. I love it.

  “Like that, Emma Carling. Stay like that. Legs open. And you know what? I was kidding. Don’t fuck it, after all. Keep still now. Just sit on it, like a good little whore. You can go home unsatisfied tonight.”

  Shit. Fucking it was just what I was thinking. Although I really don’t want to make a show for him. He doesn’t deserve it.

  So I squat there with my knees splayed, my breasts still burning and a dildo for a seat, awaiting his next move.

  After five minutes of silence, though, during which I simply cannot get my brain to think beyond his breathing and the enormous object inside me, he clears his throat.

  “I’ve had enough of you,” he growls softly. “When I’ve gone, you can get the fuck out of my cupboard.”

  I nod. Stupidly, because he can’t actually see me. I remember to whimper something like assent, but not before he slaps me square across the face.

  “You’d better not ignore me like that next time,” he says in his loudest whisper yet.

  Then I hear the door open and slam.

  Footsteps recede in the distance. There’s a brief silence, and I wonder what I’m supposed to do, alone in the house without a blindfold for the first time. Am I supposed to wait for guidance?

  I blush in the dark that my first thought is to start moving my hips above that dildo inside me. He won’t know, will he? And my need is so heavy right now.

  But just as I begin to find some rhythm after a few strokes, footsteps return outside the door. Lighter on
es this time.

  I have to stop. Esmeralda enters my little cell, telling me she’ll re-attach my blindfold, help me dress and see me out. I get a sense of a slight and slender figure, but it’s only a silhouette because the hall lights are off too.

  A minute later I’m crunching back down that garden path towards my driver. Blindfolded, frustrated, confused and angry once more.

  Chapter XVIII

  The next few days are hard to keep up with. We have great fun photographing Alyssia and Sarah, and filling their profiles on the hooker app. My living room is a symphony of giggling as we gather around Latifa’s phone and fill out all sorts of kinky information that will sell my friends’ bodies online. Alyssia goes to see her agent contact, too, and will hang around London for a few days until she gets an answer.

  She’ll stay at my flat, of course. Once Latifa heads back up north and our little school reunion has come to an end, I’m relieved to discover that Alyssia’s a lot quieter when her partner in crime isn’t around. Sarah and I just don’t give her quite the same energy to feed off. And that’s a good thing.

  The two of them are busily preparing one of my other bedrooms for the possibility of, er, client entertainment. They’ve been disappearing off on shopping trips, presumably courtesy of Alyssia’s father’s credit card, and they won’t let me come with them. I think they’re trying to build some kind of kink palace in there, and they want to make it a surprise. Deliveries start arriving after a couple of days, but they keep the door shut on their little decoration project. It’s like I’ve got a crew of little worker elves in my home, like it or not.

  Their profiles are both flooded with views, but they haven’t hit the ‘available’ button yet. I guess they need to get the bed set up, or something.

  “You’re sure this is not going to get me in trouble with the landlord?” I wonder out loud.

  “It seems like home visits are common practice,” shrugs Alyssia. “I wouldn’t worry too much. It’s not like there’ll be guys going in and out every half an hour. It’d only be temporary for me. And I think we’ll be sensible about the volume of callers, won’t we Sarah?”