Escort in Training (Emma Book 1)

by James Grey

  That was worth the wait, Miss Emma Carling.

  Chapter IX

  “I will keep these items, Miss Carling. You won’t be needing them in the near future.”

  It’s barely two minutes since Rupert pulled himself – still at full length – out of my sopping sex. And now he’s telling me to get out – with all of my clothing bunched up in his fist. He’s even snatched up my crumpled panties off the floor. What is happening?

  My mind is addled with a churn of mixed emotions. The euphoria of my orgasm, that wonderful release, is still there. But it’s receding fast. Rupert is busy shaking it out of me like sugar dropping through a sieve. It’s like someone flicked a switch in him. He’s turned nasty.

  The harshness has me shell-shocked. I haven’t been allowed a moment to recover. He’s had his way with me, and now, even as his seed still swirls around inside me, he’s pointing to the door with a set jaw. It’s barbaric.

  I stand and stare at him, glazed and uncomprehending. I feel dirtier by the second. Suddenly, I have been shamelessly used. I am nothing but a pound of flesh to this animal. Is it so much to ask for a few moments to recover, perhaps a sweet nothing or two? Will it always be this brutal? Will they always build a wall afterwards? And now he wants to keep my clothes? Why? To make me feel more humiliated?

  I fight back the welling tears, and I crave a cigarette.

  “Miss Carling, I will not ask you again. You have no further business here,” he barks. Fuck, this is a nightmare. “And Miss Jackson has sent word that you’re to remain naked until further notice.”

  He turns away and begins to put on his shirt, fastening his cuff links. Where in God’s name does he need to be so soon? The awful thought crosses my mind that another of the girls is waiting outside. Christ.

  Why are you surprised, Emma? This isn’t playschool. You’re in hooker training. What else did you expect?

  I don’t know how to answer myself. But somehow I didn’t expect to feel like shit quite so soon.

  I’m not sure how much time passes. Then he turns and frowns at me over his shoulder. Fine, I don’t want to be here anyway. But…

  “Rupert,” I croak. “Do you really have to keep my clothes? Why…will I be the only one…?”

  He frowns again. “I don’t know what programme or dress code the other trainees are on. But if you want to pass then I strongly suggest you do as you’re told. No bathrobes, no towels. Now go.”

  I heave a loud sigh as I feel the stroppiness rising within me. I must fight it.

  This is just another test, Emma. And Emma Carling doesn’t back down from a challenge. I wasn’t getting paid to take shit in my last job. In this one, maybe I am. Fuck. And this is some heavy shit. But I’ll show them.

  I turn my back on him, haughtily as I can manage. I open the door and step out into the hallway. Cautious. And not one stitch of clothing covers me.

  This wing of the house seems dark and deserted. What is everyone else up to? I want to scurry to my room, but I also want to avoid meeting anyone. I walk slowly, listening for signs of life.

  Somewhere in the distance, I hear something. It sounds like a girl…enjoying herself. Much as I just did. Oh, wait. Is that a note of angst in her cry? I think I hear a cracking sound! But maybe I’m just imagining it. I no longer trust my instincts. Everything is upside-down here.

  I move closer to the sound and pause outside a door that stands between me and its source. The noises are clearer now. They’re those of a woman receiving some kind of beating. Oh, fuck, run away. Real-world Emma’s instinct, especially when she’s pissed off, like now, is to storm in and scream at the bastards. But real-world Emma is already in retreat. This is a new world, and it needs a new Emma. You’re probably next in line. I shudder.

  I gather my wits as I turn onto the central wing of the house. I can’t think where to head besides my room, but am I going to camp out there indefinitely? I can only think of how ridiculous this is. I can get used to the group showers, but walking around the house alone like this? Having meals in the nude while everyone else is clothed? Are these people serious, or are they having a laugh at my expense?

  Footsteps on the staircase. Miss Honeywell. Act cool, girl. Cool. She’s coming my way with a bundle of bed sheets. Probably destined for the Lachlan Room, I dare say. How am I meant not to blush?

  But if Miss Honeywell notices – and how could she not? – she doesn’t flinch as she stops in front of me. She really is a treasure! Nobody here can put me at ease like she can. I almost feel clothed again.

  “Miss Carling!” she beams. “How are we today? Wasn’t last night wonderful? You looked magnificent!”

  “Er, thanks, I’m fine, thanks,” I say, feeling a tiny bit more comfortable. “How are you?”

  “Well, you know, keeping busy,” she winks, patting the bundle of fresh linen. “It might have passed you by, but it’s gorgeous outside! If I were you I’d get out to the pool pronto. You never know if the sun’s going to last.

  “And I think,” she says, running her eyes admiringly up and down my body. “You’ll look even more angelic with an all-over tan.”

  Not everyone can reference my mild paleness quite so inoffensively, but she’s just managed it. I give her a smile, for lightening my load.

  “You’re right…I might just do that!”

  We go our separate ways and I scuttle back to my room without running into anybody else. Petra is there, as my stinking luck would have it. She’s wearing one of her trademark miniskirts.

  She looks up in surprise when I walk in, then smirks. Why can’t she be like Miss Honeywell?

  “What?” I say grumpily.

  “Did they tell you to go like that?” she enquires.

  “Yes. And so?”

  She doesn’t answer. I grab a cigarette and walk over to the window. I suppose I might get away with covering up my nudity in here, but I don’t feel like giving her an inch now. And anyway, it was expressly forbidden by Rupert, and I wouldn’t be surprised if these walls have eyes. Can’t rule anything out in this place.

  “What have you been doing the last couple of hours?” I ask her. I’m fishing for something as humiliating as what I’ve experienced.

  “I had to fuck two guys. From last night,” she says bluntly.

  “Oh.” I’m taken aback at her matter-of-fact response. “Which ones? And…what was it like?”

  She looks at me with narrow eyes, as if I’ve just asked her a silly question.

  “What do you think? It was just a normal fuck. It was not like anything.”

  Jesus, this woman’s…possibly onto something. She just takes it all in her stride.

  “Mm, okay,” I respond, genuinely pondering her words.

  The room goes quiet for a while as she folds a few clothes and I contemplate my toes while the calming smoke fills my lungs and my head begins to clear. The gentle breeze creeps in from the garden and dries away any trace of those tears.

  After a few minutes, I feel refreshed enough to break the silence. “Anything lined up for this afternoon?” I ask, suddenly feeling confident enough to look Petra in the eye. I’ve been fucked as good as she has.

  “No appointments yet. So I will go to the pool.”

  Always one step ahead, this bloody Petra. Fucking great. And with that she dashes into the closet, emerging a minute later wrapped up tight in her swimming towel, her miniscule shoulders shining like beacons.

  Fine, I’ll do it! I tell myself I’m not scared of anyone, least of all her. Let her look! We’ve all seen each other with our kit off already, and I’ve switched into I-don’t-care-anymore mode now. Besides, Miss Honeywell is right: there’s no better use for a summer’s afternoon. I grab my sunglasses and towel, then follow her out of the room without a word.

  She keeps on walking a couple of steps ahead of me. Typical. She knows I’m there. It’s like some kind of power thing. Like she’s laying down her territory or something. Why can’t…oh, never mind.

  But once agai
n, just like that first day on the stairs, I am captivated by her moving in front of me. It’s her pretty little feet I notice now. So young and full and creamy. So shiny and well looked-after, with cute, healthy toes. They’re just right, perfectly in tune with her proportions. Like everything else about her. I watch their confident steps along the cool hallway floor. Left, right, left, right.

  I’m lost in that reverie when I realise that she’s leading us through the lounge. Through the far window I notice a few people seated around a table on the terrace. And one of them is Rupert.

  And his words come flooding back to me. No bathrobes. No towels. I start as I realise I’ve unthinkingly wrapped up in my towel. I’ve got to drop it before he spots me. I pause in front of the fireplace, suppressing the tiny tremor of thrill that’s been threatening to hit me ever since I lost my clothes.

  It doesn’t seem right, me having to do this. Why should I listen to him, the asshole? Why should I parade naked like I’ve done something wrong? Should I just leave this crazy house? I just wish I had someone I could talk to. But it’s silent in here, and I’m sure as hell not calling my mother. The grandfather clock ticks, as if impatient for me to get through this moment of self-doubt.

  Self-doubt? Is that what this is? I feel the fighter within me awaken once more. Emma, you don’t doubt yourself. This is a test, not a punishment. Now go!

  I flick open my towel with new resolve, exposing my bare body once again. My towel is in my hand just in time for Rupert to look up. I think he’s spotted me through the window. Yes, his eyes don’t leave me. Even as the glamorous Petra stalks right past his nose on her way across the terrace.

  I avoid his gaze as I pass through the French door. I’ll look anyone in the eye, but not him. I see a mix of mentors and gentleman enjoying tea on the terrace. Miss Jackson is out here too.

  “Good afternoon Emma,” says the woman who, lest I forget, very recently photographed all my privates close-up and then sent me the prints. “Wow! That looks just as stunning as yesterday!”

  “Thanks,” I say to her, making a point of not sounding too thrilled with her. “I thought I’d do some work on my tan.”

  She nods and smiles, and I gather I needn’t stop for another naked conversation with my mentor. When I reach the top of the steps, though, I feel as though all the world is watching me. A few of the other girls are already soaking up the rays, and I swear I see their heads turn at the sight of nude Emma Carling.

  And then it hits me: I’m not the only naked one. I’m thrilled and relieved to see Simone stretched out on a sun lounger, relaxed as can be in her birthday suit. Petra has claimed another of the loungers. She’s already lost her bikini top and is now casually climbing out of the bottoms. Uh oh. They’ve done this before. No tan lines. Suddenly I’m very aware of mine. It feels like they’re stark and pronounced, even though my brain knows they’re barely visible.

  Still, the nudity levels make me feel a whole lot better as I go down the stairs to the poolside. Who else is down here? There’s that uptight Jane girl, looking rather overdressed in a frilly one-piece. And Carol, the pretty but quiet Singaporean who was also at my table last night. She’s seemingly asleep in her pink bikini.

  As I reach the lower terrace I notice a firm, juicy pair of breasts in the near corner, previously hidden to me. Those melons could only belong to Latifa. Anyone can see they’re fantastic. She’s in nothing but a purple thong with pink sequins. Next to her, also topless, is the blonde girl who wore that mad see-through dress yesterday. All of a sudden I feel empowered, braver and bolder than the ones in swimsuits. I feel like I’m winning here.

  I spot a lounger next to Latifa and see-through-dress girl. I make for it and spread out my towel.

  “Hey, girl,” says the confident Latifa. “Welcome to the fun corner! I’m not sure if you’ve met my room-mate Alyssia…have you?”

  “No, hi,” I say, offering her my hand. I smile as I do so, because it’s so weird. Being formal when she’s topless and I’m nude. A handshake seems, well, not quite right.

  “How ya going?” she says with a warm and distinctly Australian twang. She’s got one of those cracked, salty surfer-chick voices, and sounds like someone who’s spent too much time singing along at rock concerts. But her deep, golden-brown tan – only a little lighter in tone than Latifa’s, but clearly not something she was born with - makes sense to me now. She’s clearly spent half her life on some Aussie beach, and judging by her seamless bronzing, she’s had her tits out most of the time.

  It turns out Alyssia is another of the friendly girls. Really down-to-earth and no bullshit. Alyssia is in the UK on a working holiday and trying out the school just to ‘see what happens’. I don’t say anything, but figure she must have a fair bit of money in her family to be able to come here just on a whim. Charles never told me any numbers, but I got the impression that the fees here are astronomical. Sure enough, she mentions that her dad’s a mining boss, and doing pretty well for himself.

  As I wonder whether she’s actually told her family what she’s up to over here, I discover that she’s about my age and hails from Perth. She tells me it’s known as the sunniest city on the planet. I make a note to include it on my travels…if I can really bring myself to do…the kind of work that buys plane tickets.

  I nestle back in my semi-reclined deck chair as I talk with Alyssia and Latifa. I’m feeling good again. The sun usually has that effect. So does pleasant company. Then there’s silence for a couple of minutes, and I begin to doze.

  “Come on Emma, don’t be so bloody English!”

  It’s Alyssia’s voice that rouses me. And I’m puzzled.

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  She sighs with mock exasperation: “You need to put some sunscreen on. Do you want skin cancer? Who’s gonna want to root you when you’re peeling?”

  Shit. She’s probably right. Of course I haven’t thought to bring any on this particular trip. In my defence, nobody packs sun lotion for a trip to England.

  “Hah, I knew it! She hasn’t got any! Probably like your English friend over there,” says Alyssia, jerking her head at Jane across the pool. “She’s gonna go lobster in a minute, but I’m not saying a thing. I don’t like her.”

  “Really?” I say, innocently. I don’t mention that Jane didn’t give me a great vibe either when we spoke last night.

  “Yeah, there’s just something cold about her. She’s totally fake.” Alyssia isn’t particularly bothered about keeping her voice down.

  “I know what you mean,” Latifa chimes in. “She thinks she’s better than us, but she’s not a very good actor!”

  “I guess you’ll get a bit of that here,” I venture. “I mean…my room-mate’s not exactly a sackful of fun either.”

  “You’re with that blonde one, right?” asks Latifa, gesturing towards Petra.

  “Yeah, and it’s not great. She doesn’t have time for me either, but she doesn’t even bother acting.”

  The girls are quiet for a moment as they contemplate the Bulgarian blonde across the water. Petra’s reading a book, apparently oblivious to our conversation.

  “Jesus, but she’s not bad to look at,” says Alyssia, taking in the petite youngster. “I could always go for a tight little body like that.”

  “I bet you could,” Latifa sniggers. Am I imagining the double entendre? Or is it really there?

  “Back to the sunscreen then!” says Alyssia dismissively, handing one of her bottles of factor 15 to Latifa. “Don’t think you can distract us with gossip! You just lay back Emma. We’ll take care of it.”

  “Er….really? I mean…I can…”

  “Shhh! It’s easier for someone else to do this, you know.”

  “Yeah,” I protest. “I know, I mean, if it was my back…”

  She just gives me a look. It silences me as she stands up and rubs some cream in between her palms. I’ve realised she won’t be taking no for an answer.

  “You take the left and I’ll take the ri
ght, okay Latifa? That way we don’t miss a spot!”

  Seriously, these girls want to cream me up? I sigh. Fine. We’re all practically fucking naked, so how weird is it really? I’m not going to argue with a pampering. I close my eyes, let go, and start to feel like the queen bee.

  They start with my legs. And they’re true to their word. The four warm, liquid-lathered hands really don’t miss a spot as they massage the cream into each of my toes, my feet, and all the way up to my knees. No sun-ray is going to have its way with me, that’s for sure.

  And this is nice. The four hands are moving their way up my thighs now, inside and outside. I wonder if I’m making a spectacle of myself, but remember that we’re hidden below the terrace. The other girls at the poolside might have an eye on me, but so what? Everyone needs sunscreen.

  I can hear and feel their breath on me as their stooped bodies work their way up mine. I flinch as Alyssia’s thumb brushes near my clit while she works the top of my legs. They give my pussy a berth, but not a wide one, and I take in a sharp breath once or twice when they get close.

  “Hey, don’t worry, we’re not going to finger you girl!” says Latifa.

  “Not yet anyway…” adds Alyssia. My eyes are open long enough to see her wink at her Arab friend. It’s impossible to know if she’s joking or not. And impossible for me to know if I want her to be. Do I?

  God, what a day this is turning into.

  Their fingers splay their way across my tummy as they move up and over my little patch. I love how it feels when their fingers trail in the wake of their hands, one at a time, like a slithering snake working its way along my sides. Especially the way Latifa does it. Alyssia is a little rough, slightly masculine in her movements, but Latifa’s a natural.

  And now, my sides and tummy fully coated, their slick hands glide onto my breasts. No wide berth here.

  Back and forth go their hands. Around and around, swirling and swooping across the soft flesh. OK, this is a first. But I don’t say anything. Instead I hold my breath. It seems the polite thing to do.