by James Grey
Any moment now, surely.
But suddenly, Rupert yawns and takes his arm off me.
“It’s been a wonderful evening, Miss Carling. You’re an absolute delight for a gentleman, let me tell you. Alas, I must turn in now. And you shouldn’t stay up too late.”
I gape at him, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He just takes my arm, leads me into the room, then bids me good night with a peck on the cheek.
Where did I go wrong?
I toss and turn, a million miles from sleeping. Damn him, that Rupert, he’s made me like a coiled spring. The whole day has. Twice I’ve been naked and watched. And then the dance party, where everything was so right, so fucking right, only for it all to peter out. I’m mad.
Here I am in a whore school, so fucking horny, but I don’t know what to do about it. I shake my head, wonder if tonight was supposed to be some gigantic tease.
I feel my own hand burrow under the lining of my little shorts. It seeks out my desperate button and I shudder as my middle finger brushes it for the first time.
Seriously, Emma, not now! You’re not alone.
Not sure if Petra is awake or asleep. It doesn’t seem like she got action either. It seems everyone got sent away like I did. Why on earth would they build us up like that? This place is downright cruel.
I dip onto my slit, rubbing gently up and down its lips. I can’t believe I’m actually wet already. The stress of work has deadened my libido for months now, but today and tonight seem to have revived it. Big time.
You’ll get noisy. You know you will.
I push two fingers inside my hungry pussy. I feel my shoulders curl as I throw my legs open beneath the covers. Rupert is kneeling above me, poised.
Why are you teasing yourself?
The voice of reason is shouting too loud. Reluctantly I yank my fingers out, flip over, bury my head in my pillow and groan softly. Pure frustration. I hate this so-called school already. Do they think we’re training to be nuns?
The thought of finding relief in the bathroom crosses my mind. Or the garden. Hell, maybe even that sauna. But surely going out alone will be scary. And I might get in trouble. Although nobody said anything about a curfew.
I resolve to do the English thing and suffer in silence. I wonder if Petra is lying awake, thinking the same thoughts. But I guess not – she’s dead inside, isn’t she? Pity: I’d almost consider turning for her right now. I hate her with passion…but she is one of the most attractive women I’ve ever met.
Every now and then I catch a whiff of the scent of my own cream that coated my fingers as I jabbed them inside of me, and have to force my thoughts elsewhere.
It’s a long, long time before sleep finally takes me.
Chapter VIII
My mood is even more terrible when I wake up. Now I’m not just frustrated, I’m tired too. My first response to the morning is to frown and sigh.
The Colin Firth-lookalike rouses us again, pulling back the curtains to more blazing sunshine and birds chirping merrily. I notice that it’s an hour later than yesterday, but the lie-in doesn’t seem to have made much difference. I’ve got a faintly fuzzy head after the champagne.
I wonder if today will be another never-ending tease.
I begin to think it’ll be exactly that as we hit the showers. We have an audience again, but this time it’s Rupert and Harry. Uh oh. That’s my date watching me. It makes the whole thing tougher than yesterday, when the watchers were strangers. I simply can’t bring myself to make eye contact, and finish washing as quickly as I can. Thinking of how much I want him isn’t going to help right now. So of course, my mind insists on thinking of nothing else. And when I strain the corners of my eyes to see where he’s looking, I swear it’s at me.
It could be my imagination, though. I’d love a penny for his thoughts.
Back in our room, I find the bed has been made. The housekeeping is pretty sharp here, I’ll give them that. If life as a…well, if my new life involves never making my own bed, there’s something to be said for it.
I also notice an envelope propped up against the freshly-plumped pillow. On it, written in black ink, is my name The cursive script is beautiful. It screams education and upper-classness. Miss Emma Carling.
My first feeling is one of concern. I glance over to Petra’s bed. No letter there. Nothing for the pro hooker? My trepidation builds – are they kicking me out? Did I do something wrong last night?
I sit down, my big, fluffy, luxurious towel wrapped around my body. I tear the envelope open. My fingers clutch at something thick and smooth: it’s some kind of photographic paper. There are two pieces. I pull them out of the envelope. And I gasp.
It’s me. Yesterday. Bent over in Miss Jackson’s office, baring…everything. So that’s what she was doing behind me, the sly little woman! She must have used a phone, because I hadn’t heard a shutter click. Incredible.
I look at the second picture. My God. This one is a close-up. I feel my face blaze bright red, even though I’m alone in my room right now. I can only suppose these body parts also belong to me. Two cheeks the frame, and between the cheeks I can clearly see, well, every detail. Laid bare.
I’m a mix of curious and offended. I’m not thrilled she took these pictures without my knowledge. Yet I’m also kind of fascinated to see how I look. I’ve never seen myself from behind, at least not like that. It’s never occurred to me that bending over reveals quite so much.
Of course it has, you’ve seen porn! You just didn’t want to think about what you were showing.
Yeah, I have seen porn a few times. And come to think of it, I compare quite nicely. My waxing girl did a great job. There’s no trace of a hair from this angle, and my puckered little rose of an asshole is bald as can be. My sex is neat and pink. The labia are welcoming but don’t dominate my vagina. They’re like friendly ushers, pulling you to where you need to be.
I’m fascinated by the smooth sliver of pink nothingness between my two holes. Sure, I’ve been licked there a few times, but never had much idea of how it looked to another. Now I can see it all: pussy, perineum, anus. I feel slightly turned on to think that these things are mine. I shake my head. This whole adventure gets more surreal by the hour.
I switch back to the first picture. There’s no doubt it’s me, even though I can’t see my face. (A relief, come to think of it. These photos could go anywhere!) The pose looks just how it felt: a girl with her hands around her ankles and a dark halo of hair dangling down around her head. Toned legs and tight ass, all the tighter as the muscles strain and stretch in their taut position. I can see my school uniform on the chair in the background.
Yup, that’s me alright. I’d better stay on Miss Jackson’s good side.
Suddenly Petra bursts through the door. I didn’t hear her coming down the hall – must’ve been too tied up in my reverie. I quickly try to stuff the photos away.
I’m not quick enough.
“What is that?” she says, a little spicily, her voice huskier than ever. She’s also in a towel and no more.
I don’t really want to tell her. Much less show her. But I’m dying to know if she’s had something similar, so I pay the price and share what’s happened.
“Erm…I just found these on my bed. Someone put them here while we were in the shower.”
I hand over the photos, which she takes with interest. And I feel an ocean of blood rush to my face once more.
Emma, what have you done?
“This is you?” she asks, curtly. “When did they take this?”
There’s no fooling her. May as well spit it out.
“It was…it was during my mentor meeting yesterday morning. With Miss Jackson.”
“Oh,” says Petra. “I have her too.”
“Oh cool. Did she…um…make you strip?”
“Yes. I did. But she did not go behind me. I did not see her take pictures.”
This is turning into far and away the longest conversation I’ve had with Petra. She looks
across to her bed. Am I imagining that trace of hopeful on her face? I see her brow furrow when she sees there’s nothing.
She forgets all about our little chat, and starts to walk away to her side of the room. She looks a little perplexed. I watch her as she goes to the window, her wet hair straggled out across her neck, stray strands splayed across her shiny shoulders like rays of sunlight.
So, am I the only one to have received a porno selfie delivery? I shake my head once more, and suddenly I think to check the envelope again.
There’s a note. Written on thick, barky paper. The same elegant handwriting.
Dear Emma,
I thought you might enjoy these. You photograph beautifully from behind. I would like you to report
to the Lachlan Room at midday. North wing,
second floor.
Miss Jackson
Fuck, I wish they’d tell me what’s going on for once! How was I supposed to choose an outfit for yet another mystery appointment? But I figure I can’t go wrong in the brand-name pink tank top, dinky denim shorts and flat white tennis shoes I’ve chosen.
The uncertainty is getting on my nerves, which are still jangling with desire after last night. Back home, I would have long since gotten over myself by now, distracted myself with something – probably the latest work crisis. But it’s different here. There’s nothing else to think about. There’s no hiding from my horniness as I walk the dim hallways to my destination.
They keep building me up, then taking me down, that’s the trouble. The balls, the showers, the kinky photos. I get the sense of a brooding sexual storm in the air. This is a sex school, isn’t it? I just don’t want to think too much about what this appointment might be. Expectation. It definitely won’t be a good thing right now.
I stop outside a door. Just another big, solid wooden door, like all the others in the house. Or maybe not. This one has my heart beating something supersonic. It’s labelled Lachlan Room in gold-carved lettering. The letters are high enough that I have to look upwards to read them. I feel timid, cautious, on high alert. I knock.
A male voice invites me in. I’ve heard that voice recently. Very recently. Can it be…?
Rupert.
He’s sitting in a broad, red-leather wing-back armchair. There’s something in his hand. He looks very, very comfortable and pleased with life.
“Hello Emma. Shut the door behind you.”
I do as he instructs. And I look around. It’s like a spacious hotel suite, this room, albeit one from several decades ago. There’s a four-poster bed, several chairs similar to the one he’s sitting on, and even a fireplace. The smell is of wood and leather. There’s absolutely nothing feminine about it.
My focus comes back to him. How it ever left I’m not sure. He’s stunning. And here I am, standing in front of him, with my hands behind my back.
“I trust you’ve enjoyed your photographs as much as I have, Emma,” he says with a broad smile. He holds up copies of Miss Jackson’s subtle photographic efforts. “As teasing previews go, this is right up there.”
I want to disappear. I can’t believe she’s given him those pictures. I bite my bottom lip, because I can’t think of anything positive to say. I am mortified.
Rupert puts the photos face-up on a small, rectangular coffee table, takes a final look at them, and stands up. He walks towards me and gently cups my shoulders in his big hands. I turn to jelly.
“You did well last night, Miss Carling. I found your company most ladylike. Even though I could see you wanted more at the end of the evening. Sometimes restraint will be something you need.”
I bite my lip once again. I can think of a lot of positive things to say now, but it’s like someone hit my mute button the moment I walked in here.
I feel the warm breath of his nostrils on my face. He’s a good few inches taller than me. Still smells superb.
He moves one hand to the back of my head, and gently cradles it.
God, if this is another tease…
“You had that hungry look in your eyes,” says Rupert. “You didn’t need to say anything. It’s a look I know well. Leaving you last night was not easy. But we had our instructions on how your training should proceed.”
I gulp and decide to stop looking at the floor. I raise my eyes to his, smile a little.
Don’t let yourself go, Emma. I don’t know where this is going. I mustn’t think too much here.
He moves a little closer. Not touching, but close enough to send me his warmth. It’s almost as near as we were on the terrace last night. There’s something very likeable and comforting about his proximity.
“I’ve thought of nothing but you since seeing you in the shower this morning. You made a fine sight, even in such stellar company.”
He drops his other hand to my bum and squeezes it.
“Do you have an idea of what I’m going to do to you now, Miss Carling?”
Shit, does he want me to answer? Please no. But please.
Only two words come to my mind. Over and over. And over. He’s still waiting. I look away, then finally summon some power to speak.
“Fuck me?” I whisper.
There. I said it. My eyes flick up to his, worried. But Rupert’s face lights up with a soft, caring smile.
“Yes Emma. That’s right. I’m going to fuck you,” he whispers back.
Oh God, it’s happening at last. I’m afraid, still so afraid. Afraid that it might get taken away.
Sometimes a girl wants to make love. Sometimes she just wants to be fucked. And right now I’m in no mood for foreplay. My pussy aches too much.
Rupert seems to read my thoughts. Yes! He springs into action without further ado.
“I want you naked, right now,” he says heavily, yanking my top over my head to bare my braless breasts.
His eyes stay rooted to my nipples as he undoes my shorts and tugs them down to my ankles. My inky-black g-string doesn’t last three seconds as he slips a finger inside its hip and simply tears it open. It must have cost three figures, that, but he doesn’t seem the slightest bit bothered. Shamelessly wasteful. But what a turn-on.
“Up you come,” he says hoisting me into his arms, cradling my butt with one huge hand and supporting my back with another. He kisses me, softly yet urgently. God, it’s good. I wanted that so badly last night. I feel he did too. He doesn’t need to say a word.
His hardness prodding the bottom of my spine tells its own story, as he carries me across to the bed in nothing but my tennis shoes.
He lays me down as gently as his obvious arousal allows.
“Open your legs and wait for me,” he commands. Now I’m gone. If they take this away now, I will explode.
I brazenly follow his orders and watch him unbutton his shirt. The man is ripped, but not to excess. Just as I’d hoped. I twitch. Now his belt and trousers come off. Oh please, hurry, please. This girl needs fucking.
Rupert steps out of his shoes, slower than I would like. He throws away his socks and is finally naked. Eyes fixed on mine, then darting between my legs, and then back to my eyes, he absent-mindedly plays with himself. It’s magnificent, fully erect for me. Fuck, hurry!
My core is burning with emptiness.
Thank God he is on the same page as me. Without another word the handsome Rupert is on top of me, his everything plunged within me.
You really can let go now, Emma.
And I do. I forget where I am, why I’m here, even who I am. All I know right now is that this amazing male and I are one. I think I cry out as he begins to pump, and forty-two hours of erotic tension begin to unfurl from my being. I’m going to give in very quickly indeed.
I keep my eyes open, but see only his vast, powerful shoulders as they work up and down. I throw back my head so I can see the man who is fucking me. It’s magnificent. I groan louder as he fucks me harder. Yes!!
I feel abandon like never before. Even at home I’d worry about making noises that neighbours might hear through the walls. Not here. I pr
obably should, but I’m in no state to care. I start to writhe at the pleasure I’m feeling, my head jerking this way and that, my mouth wide open as I pant like a dog on a summer’s day.
And now words find me. “Yes, God yes…fuck me Rupert! Don’t stop fucking me!”
I see his mouth curl into a little smirk as he takes heed of my plea.
“Harder! Deeper! Come on!!”
I’m not usually a talker, but I’m delirious now. The part of me that fears this magic being taken away is putting desperate words in my mouth.
“Oh yes…like that…fuck my pussy, fuck it hard…HARD!!”
I think I’m getting louder. And he’s definitely listening. The bed is squeaking. I don’t care.
“Go on, go on…keep going…yes, yes….YES!!!”
I don’t often come on penetration alone, but it’s totally going to happen right now. This torrent of desire inside me, which started as a trickle, has been building for too long.
I can’t believe he can go harder, but he finds another gear. He’s grunting with the effort now. I try to wrap my arms around him but I can’t. He’s too big and he’s moving too fast. So I throw open my legs, wide as they can go, spread my arms out wide. Like I’m making a snow angel.
The feeling is delectable. I am owned right now, and, scarily, I love it. He’s filling me, and every time he rams into me he seems to fill me more. Can he still be getting harder? It feels like he is.
“Shit…you’re so fucking huge. Give it to me! Yes….yes….f-f-f-FUCK!!”
Somehow my orgasm surprises me. I knew it was coming, but its speedy arrival is one almighty ambush. I explode and shatter. My pelvis keeps thrusting and convulsing as my pussy spasms around him. He unleashes a great hot wave just as I begin to slow my squirming.
And now, as he too slows, I wrap my legs and arms around his mighty body, still pulsing and breathless.
