by James Grey
Is there to be lovemaking? It doesn’t seem so ridiculous after all this fine wine. Have we had a rapprochement? Should I return the favour? She doesn’t seem bothered. Does that mean I won? Was I more irresistible than her this week? Fuck, but she’s so hot. Hmm.
All I really know is, my knees are weak from what she did to me down there. My butt still feels wet and gaping, and my pussy feels inflamed and sensitive. I’m getting flooded with fatigue, and this release of tension with Petra has given me an instant headache.
I look around the room, dopily, and see that the party is winding down organically. Only Alyssia, that Duracell bunny, is still going, riding George on some distant sofa, but even she’s doing it dreamily. Other girls and men are dozing, or just gently caressing each other. It’s almost sweet.
I’m pining for my bed now. I stagger up the stairs, and throw my naked, wanton body in between the sheets. I feel ready to sleep for a decade. And though a little voice in me says that I could probably be okay with the fuck-free day I’m expecting tomorrow, I’m not sure I entirely believe it.
Chapter XXXIII
“Take a look inside,” urges Miss Jackson, beaming at me as she hands me another of her trademark crisp, thick envelopes.
It’s a big one this time. Size A4. I take it from her, with a nod and a raise of the eyebrows. What could this be? It’s our last day and word on the street has been that assignments – surprise or otherwise – won’t play a part. I’ll be catching my train back home to London later this afternoon.
I hope this isn’t going to be one of their riddles. I’ve let my guard drop. For the first time in our stay, our waker didn’t show. After last night’s hot exertions in the lounge, we all enjoyed a serious lie-in. When Sarah and I finally stirred at around eleven, a note under the door told us to come down and order breakfast at our leisure.
It was a warm, blue-sky summer’s day, like that of my arrival, and we took full advantage by dining on the terrace. I sent Wilfred running back and forth for fruit salad, Greek yoghurt with nuts and honey, and then a full English. We’d made it to the last day, the sun was out, and it was our last chance to pig out!
Some of the other girls came and went, a touch of awkwardness about one of two of them following the evening’s drawing-room antics. Even Sarah seemed to want to change the subject away from our most abandoned display of the week. And me? I felt nothing but a deep comfort and a satisfaction that’s completely foreign to me.
For me it was something akin to a morning-after glow, I guess, but more than that. Just the release of knowing that I could let go in a different way now. That there’d be no more surprises here. That I could go back to London and let all this madness sink in.
It was like the first day of the holidays after a semester of exams. Three cups of coffee went down good as I sat there in a pair of broad, loose cotton trousers, a plain t-shirt and sneakers. Nowhere to be, and not a care in the world.
And now, another envelope…
There’s just one thing inside. It’s a single cream-coloured piece of card, almost like a certificate…it is a certificate! As I pull it further out of its sheath, a thin border in royal blue homes into view.
This can only be good news, right? I avoid catching Miss Jackson’s eye, in case I smile prematurely and look a fool. I read the words, professionally printed in curly French script.
This is to certify that,
Emma Louise Carling
Has satisfied the examiners that she has the skills and aptitudes to satisfy the most demanding clients as a premium escort.
She has passed the summer 2014 course with distinction.
I did it!
And now I look up at Miss Jackson, and I do smile.
“Thank you,” I grin. “Distinction? Really?”
She chuckles. “Yes, really! You were the outstanding girl here, don’t you know that? We’re very excited about your prospects out there in the workplace. We think you may soon command Class 1 fees.”
I look at her in expectation, slightly scared of what I may hear. She leans forward and lowers her voice.
“How does earning five thousand Pounds an hour sound to you, dear?”
I very nearly faint. I have to grip the handles of the wooden chair.
“I’m…lost for words…” I splutter. “You must be kidding! I don’t believe it!”
She just shakes her head. “Your looks and your spirit and your versatility, Emma, are a rare combination. It’s not as easy to find that mix as you might think.”
I’m stunned. I thought I’d done okay this week. But…Class 1? It sounds like I must have done quite a lot more than okay.
“Don’t lose that certificate,” she goes on. “It’s the ticket any agency will want to see, although we’ll certainly be in touch with your patron and his agent to communicate the good news. It would be courteous to give a few months of your time to her, with him as a priority customer, if you’re going to go into this business. And I can’t think of a single reason why you shouldn’t.”
I look down at the fancy paper confirming me as a first-grade whore. I most definitely will not be hanging this on my wall. Or leaving it lying around.
I clear my throat. “But…there’s not even a name on here. Couldn’t anybody make one of these?”
“No Emma,” she says with gleaming eyes. “We don’t put Cranleigh House on certificates because we don’t need to. There’s no other school in the world like this. People in the business know exactly who issues these. We have our reasons for staying below the radar. Some of the people involved in this school would not want it known.
“As for counterfeit, there’s a complex watermark that only our industry partners can scan. Your less fortunate peers wouldn’t be able to fool anybody for a second.”
Less fortunate peers? “Do you mean that…some of us didn’t pass?”
She nods slowly. “It’s the reason we don’t do a formal prize giving. It would get awkward with such a small group. But I’ll fill you in. Only Latifa joins you with distinction. The rest all passed well, apart from Jane, Lilia and,” – she coughs conspicuously – “Petra.”
My eyes go wide. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I mean, I can. But I can’t.
“Really? But…Petra…and Lilia…I thought they already worked as…you know!”
“What you’ve heard is quite right, Emma. They’ve both worked full-time as prostitutes in the high-end bracket. But that doesn’t mean they’re great at their jobs, does it?”
She shakes her head very, very slowly.
“Those two women were sent here by their agency. Kind of a last-ditch thing as I understand it. They’ve had a few client complaints and their agent thought we might be able to put a few things right. Save their careers, if you like.
“Sadly they’re fundamentally unsuited to this work, and we couldn’t give them approval. It’s sad, because they’re truly beautiful girls, skilled in many areas. They just don’t have the right attitude. I think you’ve had a taste of that, haven’t you?”
I’ve never been a gossip, and much as I hate Petra, I don’t want to complain about anything behind her back. Especially when, if I understand correctly, her career is about to grind to a sudden halt.
“So you mean, they’ll be out of work now?” I venture.
“Certainly their regular agent won’t have them back,” she nods. “They may find work elsewhere with some maverick start-up, of course. This isn’t a compulsory professional certification, but all the top agents and their clients insist on our seal of approval.
“There’s nothing to stop them working the streets, either…but their income and lifestyle would be very, very different. And it would be dangerous.”
I sit back, trying to resist the temptation to break out into a gloating beam. I mean…I’m top of the class, and she’s…out! I’m not vindictive, but, well, it does feel kind of great.
“So…what wasn’t right with them…?” I ask hopefully, wondering if I might get told
to mind my own business. But Miss Jackson seems to be in a forthcoming mood on our last day together as mentor and student.
“It’s really simple, Emma. Those two girls think it’s all about achieving a certain result. They see it as a job. Bring the client off, take your money, go home. Now, as I think you know, they – especially Petra – are extremely good at bringing the client off. Technical skills? Looks? No problem.
“But, as we’ve repeated time and again this week, top clients are paying for more than that. They’re not interested in a woman going through the motions, really they’re not. And they’re not interested in actors. They want the looks, they want the skills, but they want to feel wanted too. And you cannot fake that.
“In other words, they want a woman who is hungry for sex and as thrilled to be doing what she’s doing as the client is. Petra and Lilia have never gotten this right, and they’ve shown no signs of improvement while here. We’ve given them every chance, but they continue to see any encounter as an exercise in box-ticking. And letting themselves smile never seems to be one of those boxes. There’s just no real drive there.”
I think back to Petra’s bone-dry panties during my violent encounter with her and Rupert, all those days ago. It adds up. She just doesn’t get turned on at all. Yes, she can do what is asked of her and likes to finish the job – her tongue-work yesterday was evidence enough of that.
“We even tried something we’ve never tried here before,” Miss Jackson continues. “Do you remember the pub outing, when she and Lilia went off with those old men? Well, those guys were sent there by us, to give an off-site verdict, as it were. Petra and Lilia took the bait – they’re great at spotting a business opportunity – but our feedback was that they left their clients cold.
“The men tried everything to engage them, make them smile, even make them come. They’re known as considerate lovers and went to great lengths. But we’re told Lilia and Petra just wouldn’t play along. They just wanted to satisfy the guys and take their money. Pretty disgraceful.
“It’s most frustrating, because those two could go far. But hey, it’s people like them that make your stock go up.”
I suppose she’s right. Gosh, am I really going to be doing this? It still doesn’t seem at all possible.
“One thing, Emma. I know you haven’t gotten on with Petra and I completely understand. But be careful. Agents aren’t going to deliberately pair you up with girls you clash with, but sometimes it’s unavoidable. If you end up with a Petra licking you out for a client, like you did yesterday, you can’t try and hold yourself back out of pride.”
Then my mentor softens. “I think the circumstances were a bit exceptional there, though. I’m sure it won’t be an issue in your work. Just remember that thing we did with the blindfold. Dissociate the feeling from the person if the circumstances dictate. That said, I was impressed with your ability to hold back your orgasm yesterday, even if it was the wrong time to use it. She’s good.”
And I wonder if Petra also did to Miss Jackson what I did to Miss Jackson. Sitting in this very chair. Her twitching mouth tells me she might just have run that test at some point in the past couple of weeks.
“What about Jane…?” I ask
“Just too much guilt,” Miss Jackson shrugs. “We had her watching porn, we gave her books to read, we exposed her to relentless sex. But she was too tough a nut to crack. She’s from a posh background and there’s just been too much revulsion about sex bred into her. You can see it in her face.
“Of course she’s liberated in her own mind, but unfortunately she can’t bury the repression – so to speak – enough to fool others. She’s done all we asked, but she’s invariably passive and struggles to let herself go. We could never give her our stamp of approval.
“And speaking of guilt, young lady, don’t think you’ve completely shaken off that English upbringing of yours. Yes, you’re barely the same girl who arrived here two weeks ago, but I have a slight concern that a kernel of repression remains. It’s been slain for now, but I worry it may surface after you’ve had a few days off.
“So I want you to keep the porn I gave you, and promise me you will watch it at least thrice a week. In addition, I’m going to be emailing you some files for your audio player. They’re basically hypnotherapy meditation. You close your eyes and they talk you into a state of deep relaxation. Then the magic happens.
“I’ve tried them, and I think you’ll like them. They’re a very strange experience. I’ve found myself pretty much unconscious, then suddenly bursting into an orgasm. It’s very weird, but very effective in talking your guilt issues out of you. Three times a week too, okay?”
I nod. I think I can manage that. After all, I have no concrete plans for the foreseeable future. It’s only been a couple of weeks since I quit my job, and it’s still sinking in that this is longer than a holiday. I’m going to have a long chat with Martin, take a few days to think about things, and figure out what I want to do.
My thoughts are back in London, and the real world, and suddenly they run back to Spurring. Miss Jackson seems to know it. Again.
“Oh, by the way, Emma, you seemed to have a fan in Mr Harris this week! He kept asking about you afterwards…I think he’s going to be trying to book you…”
“Mr Harris?” Shit. I remember now. Spurring was introduced under that name. Of course he wouldn’t announce his real identity.
Suddenly I feel terrified. “He did…?”
“He kept asking for your name, actually. But we didn’t give it, as that’s not our policy until you confirm you actually want to sign on with an agency.”
My mind’s doing a land speed record attempt now. Asking for my name…does that mean he wanted to confirm a suspicion he knew my face? Or did he just fancy me, because, you know…I’m a Class 1…”
“Oh…” is all I can think to say.
Well, I’m not volunteering my links to the guy if I don’t have to. I want to keep that distance as big as possible. Like hell he’s going to book me. I’m going to be sick that day.
Miss Jackson rises from her seat and comes around to my side of the desk. “That’s all we needed to go over today, Emma. You’re done. And may I say what a pleasure it’s been looking after you? You might just be my favourite student ever. Hug?”
We share a warm, long embrace. I am going to miss her. She’s been tough on me at times, but her caring has always managed to seep through. She’s been a big help. We trade numbers and agree to meet up next time she’s in London.
“And I want to hear some exciting stories about your new work,” she says, eyes all sparkly and excited.
Chapter XXXIV
Some goodbyes are more emotional than others. It’s hard bidding farewell to Latifa, and Alyssia, and of course Sarah. We’ve talked about how cool it would be if we all worked together, but I wonder if this is going to be one of those summer camp things where everybody talks about keeping in touch but nobody does.
I’d like to think my bond with Sarah is deeper than that. She lives a little outside London, but she’s pretty sure she’s going to give this prostitution thing a go and move into the city. I tell her, with a wink, that she’s welcome to stay at my flat, but she’ll have to share the bed with me.
She wells up a little, gives me a tender kiss. “I’d like that,” she says, and we swap numbers. Then there’s a long, long hug before she slings her bag onto her shoulder and heads downstairs to jump in Chris’s Jaguar. For some reason we’re all booked on different trains out of here, and she’s a couple of hours ahead of me.
I’m one of the last to go. We’re told the clothes from our wardrobes are ours to keep, and that they’ll be sent on to us at home. So many free clothes, it’s outrageous! As are some of the outfits…I’m thinking I might need a secret wardrobe in my flat!
Anyway, it means there’s precious little packing up to do, which spares me having to go back to my original room. I soak up some more sun and coffee and sandwiches, indulging in a cou
ple of cigarettes as I wait for my five o’clock pickup. I have to hug Latifa, Alyssia and Simone goodbye. It’s a strange experience, truth be told. I’ve come to expect something way more…sexual from these people. Somehow it makes the hugs all the more meaningful.
Of the menfolk, there is no sign. They must have gone home after a nap in the drawing room armchairs this morning. No emotional goodbyes with Rupert, then, and it occurs to me that I haven’t even thought about that until now. I really have managed to start thinking of them all as just…men.
Of course, Petra and I are the last to leave, and we have to share a car again. I hug Miss Honeywell and Wilfred, while she doesn’t even offer our cheerful carers so much as a grunt. She’s even more sullen than usual – if that’s possible – presumably after getting news of her failure this morning.
Petra and I make our way to separate carriages without so much as a word. It’s bizarre and weird and impossible to think that we did the things we did yesterday. That she made me explode with pleasure rather than rage. But Miss Jackson said it: it’s just box-ticking to her. It doesn’t mean we’re friends. And I’m good with that.
It’s a faster train this time, and I’m grateful for it, because I’m a little keyed up to see what’s been going on in the outside world. Two weeks since I’ve seen a text or an email or my Facebook! Now that I’m heading back towards London and real life, I’m suddenly hungry for updates.
I have this insane urge to post my status. Oh, I could shock a few people if I wrote something like ‘en route back from hooker school…and just passed with distinction.’ I’ll have to resist that particular urge. Forever, I’m quite sure.
No, I’ll need to be exceedingly discreet. Thank God I have Martin I can talk to. I’m a long way from being able to tell my girlfriends, though I’m really dying to do so. Opening my mouth about any of this business will need some careful consideration.
