by Clara James
Life was busy, it was active and I was enjoying it. So it’s no great surprise that time flew. I was getting confident and comfortable, so much so that I had begun to feel like nothing could go wrong. That was my first mistake.
Chapter Seven
Line In The Sand
Scott was in his early to mid-thirties. He didn’t tell me what he did for a living, but said he was passing through a town ten miles away from my home on a business trip. He asked if I could offer my services for a couple of hours on the Saturday night. I replied to his email, telling him I didn’t usually offer such short dates – most of my clients requested four hours or more, many of them wanting to do something other than just have sex; even if it was just share an hour’s conversation. He responded by asking how much I charged. I gave him the figure and was surprised when he said he’d pay me for four hours, but would only actually need me for two.
This seemed a little odd, but I’d met some pretty eccentric men who were quite carefree with their money. So, I didn’t think too much of it and accepted his proposition.
The hotel he was staying in was very nice. A huge lobby with domed ceiling led to a wide, curving staircase. They’d maintained much of the style and décor of the 1920s, with lots of rounded edges. Even the corners of walls along the corridors were smoothly curved.
Scott was all the way up on the ninth floor, the building’s highest and most expensive. This was where the suites were, all with panoramic views of the city below.
I knocked lightly on his door and within seconds was met by a pair of piercing blue eyes. He had a round face, with an angular jawline and trendily scruffy stubble. His light brown hair was short and spiky with neat sideburns that came down to his earlobes.
“Hey,” he slurred, his cheeks reddened and eyes wavering. “Arianna, I assume,” he added with a smirk. Flinging the door open wide, he stepped back.
“You assume correctly,” I nodded, smiling at him as I entered the suite.
It was a large and luxurious space, an open plan living area and kitchen stretched out across the whole of the floor. Directly in front, were huge windows that spanned the entire length of one wall. These were covered by vertical blinds of a deep burgundy color. Glancing up, I noticed there was a mezzanine. I could only see the balcony of the upper floor, but assumed the bedroom would be found there.
A huge couch that could easily have seated six faced a fireplace and the huge television that hung on the wall. The floors were hardwood, but a white sheepskin rug was laid out in front of the couch. The kitchen, on the other hand, was a mixture of mahogany and stainless steel fittings. I guessed it didn’t get much use – I assumed Scott hadn’t even set foot in that direction.
“This is very nice,” I commented, as my eyes finished their circuit of the room and settled once again on him.
As he rocked on the balls of his feet, he swayed. It was just a slightly uncoordinated motion, but it, along with his eyes and reddish complexion, left me with no doubt that he’d consumed his fair share of alcohol before I arrived. If it hadn’t been for that, he would have appeared nicely put together. He was wearing a dark gray pair of dress pants with carefully pressed seams. On his upper half, he wore a white silk shirt, with silver cufflinks that had some kind of crest embossed on the face.
“Take your clothes off,” he said, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth as his bright, blue eyes moved up and down the length of my short, black dress.
“Perhaps we ought to get the payment out of the way first,” I suggested. Most of the men I’d met offered to pay upfront; were either familiar with the process or simply wanted to get the ‘transaction’ out of the way. A few that hadn’t, I trusted to dig into their wallets after the date was over. Something about Scott, perhaps the fact he was drunk, made me wonder whether I’d have trouble getting the cash from him after he’d got what he wanted.
He didn’t say anything as he slipped his right hand into his pocket and brought out a clutch of folded bills held together with a thin, gold money clip. With a flick of his hand, he tossed it towards me. The cash landed with a clink as the clip hit the hardwood, it skittered a few inches, stopping about a foot from me.
I looked questioningly at him, but when he still refused to speak, I slowly bent down. Keeping my knees together, I carefully reached for the money and scooped it from the floor. Giving a quick flick of the edges, I counted the bills and discovered that it was all there. Straightening, I removed the clip and opened my purse. After slipping the bills safely into my bag and snapping the catch shut, I held up his clip in the finger and thumb of my left hand.
He didn’t seem interested. “Now, take your clothes off,” he repeated, his feet unmoving and his face still appraising me.
Smiling at him, I took a couple of steps to my right. I kept my eyes on him, as I placed my purse and his money clip on the couch. My little black number had a plunging back and neckline. Slowly, I brought my right hand to my left shoulder and began to peel the strap away. I let it sink down my arm and the fabric of the dress at my chest almost immediately went slack. I used my right hand to keep it up, trying to reveal myself slowly and sexily to him. Once the other strap was slid from my shoulder, I released my hold on the top half of the dress and let it pool at my waist.
As could be expected, his gaze immediately moved to my breasts; the creamy globes of flesh and pink areolas. “Get it off,” he insisted impatiently.
Without argument, I complied, taking hold of the fabric at my waist and carefully pushing it down. I gradually moved my hips in a slinky movement, as I smoothed the dress to my thighs and let it drop to the floor. Casually, I lifted one foot out of the circle of material then hooked the toes of my opposite foot into the dress and kicked it a couple of feet across the hardwood.
I stood in nothing but my black, open-toed high heels; a pair of black hold ups, with three inches of patterned lace at the tops; and a black thong with a tiny, sheer triangle all that covered my sex.
His cheeks seemed to have become even more flushed, and he was eagerly swiping at his lower lip with his tongue. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Yeah, you’ll do.”
“Thanks,” I offered, smiling sweetly.
I expected him to come over to me, but instead his hand quickly delved into his other pocket. It emerged with a small transparent plastic bag that contained white powder. He quickly spun on one foot, moving rapidly to the kitchen. I remained still, simply watching him as he poured the powder onto one of the stainless steel counters. He then slipped a hand into his back pocket, grabbing his wallet. From that he grasped a credit card, which he used to split the lump of powder into two four inch lines.
“Come here,” he beckoned, as he brought the edge of the credit card to his mouth and licked the freshly whitened edge.
“Not for me, thanks,” I politely declined. I’d once been hired by a man who wanted to smoke marijuana before we had sex. It seemed to make him terribly drowsy, and the passive inhaling made me a little giggly. I’m not sure what it was doing for his sexual experience, but the only thing it did for me was make me terribly relaxed. In any case, until that point, that had been my only encounter with drugs. Cocaine was something else entirely and I knew enough about it to know that it was stupid to start taking it, even if it might make me feel like a million bucks for a couple of hours.
“This is good stuff,” he said indignantly, as if he were offended.
“I’m sure it is,” I quickly assured him with a smile. “But I don’t take it.”
He scoffed and tossed his credit card onto the counter. Taking a couple of steps toward me, he regarded me closely, his eyes dissecting me. “All of you whores love it,” he stated. “That’s what gets you through the night, huh?”
“I’m not a whore,” I calmly replied. “And I don’t need anything to get me through the night.”
Half of his face drifted up in an unpleasant smile. “Don’t kid yourself, babe,” he chuckled. “You’re a whore.”
Technica
lly, he might have been right. But, to me, the job of an escort was so much more than just sex. It was quickly becoming apparent that sex was all Scott wanted from me. He’d probably chosen me over an ordinary hooker for two reasons. First, a high class escort wouldn’t look so out of place walking into a fancy place like that. And second, he assumed that, unlike a hooker, I was more selective over my clients and the protection I used. Of course, he was right.
“You’re a filthy whore,” he continued, the volume of his voice lowering as he took another step toward me. He was very close, so close he could have touched me. But he didn’t. Instead, he continued to keep his hands casually in his pockets. “A dirty slut, who’s had more dicks in her cunt than she can count.”
As his face came closer to mine, I could see that the whites of his sparkling blue eyes were bloodshot. He was wrong, I knew exactly how many men I’d been with – remembered all their names and faces. I didn’t bother to argue, though. He appeared to want me to be a ‘whore’, and he was paying far too much to quibble over a few words, no matter how vile. It was role-play, not vastly different from what I’d done many times with Steven. So, I stood calmly, quietly and accepted another barrage of filth from his mouth.
“How about your ass, huh? How many cocks have been up there? You’re a slut; a useless piece of shit who’s only good for fucking.” He was growing angry as he spoke, with flecks of spittle being propelled from his lips. “A human sex toy,” he added furiously. “That’s all you are, bitch. So, don’t fool yourself into thinking you’re anything else.”
I swallowed, becoming nervous as his rage continued to amplify. Without warning, his hand snapped up from his pocket and gripped my face. I sucked in a surprised gasp, as his thumb dug angrily into one cheek. His fingers claimed the other and he squeezed hard, causing my lips to purse.
“Now,” he said, his voice suddenly faux sweetness, in direct contrast to the grasp of his hand. “I’m going to have a line of coke and you’re going to join me.”
“I...Mmm...Ugh,” I tried to speak, but my words were muffled from the position of my lips.
He shook his head, a sickly smile on his lips. “You don’t seem to understand,” he said, putting a little extra force into his fingers. “You’re mine. I paid for you, and you’ll do whatever the fuck I want.” With his free hand, he grasped a tight hold of my wrist. He tugged me sharply towards the kitchen counter.
I didn’t fight against him. However, my feet stumbled, one catching on the corner of the couch and causing me to stagger in order to stay upright.
When he got me where he wanted me, he quickly moved both of his hands. Snatching my waist, he pushed me forward, until my abdomen struck the edge of the counter.
“Hey,” I mumbled. “If you want to play a bit rough, that’s fine but-”
“Shut up, bitch!”
As it dawned on me that he was a little too involved in his fantasy, I quickly tried to regain control of the situation. “Listen,” I said, fidgeting as I tried to wriggle out of his grasp.
“No,” he sharply demanded, pushing himself against me and trapping me between his body and the kitchen counter. When he was sure I was secure, he took his right hand from my hip and grasped a fistful of my hair. “You listen. You’re going to snort that line, because I want you to.”
“Argh,” I cried out, as he twisted his hand, until his knuckles were tight to my scalp.
With complete control of me, he pushed my face down to the counter. “Sniff it all up,” he ordered. “Go on.”
Using my hands to push against the counter had proven useless, so I began reaching behind me and trying to get a grip of him. It was futile, the light grasp I managed to make on his belt loops was not enough to gain any purchase against him.
“Snort it, you dirty, fucking whore,” he shouted, pushing my face until my nose was crushed up on the counter.
“Argh,” I cried out in pain. “All right,” I wailed desperately. “All right.”
Gradually, he began to slacken his grip, but he kept his fingers wound in a long fistful of my hair.
I didn’t really know what I was doing. However, I’d seen a few coke-snorting scenes in movies. So, crossing my fingers that the real thing was as portrayed, I drew my face down to the start of one of the lines. Using the forefinger of my right hand, I pressed against one nostril, and began to quickly inhale through the other. As I rapidly sucked up the powder, I moved down the line. It hurt like hell, a stabbing pain filling my sinuses almost immediately.
Once it was all gone, I lifted my head far too quickly and choked as some of the powder struck the back of my throat.
Scott was laughing and, as he released me, he quickly stepped back.
Suddenly lightheaded, I staggered backward and without him to stop me, I tripped over my own heels and landed with a loud clump on my butt. As I sat there, dazed and confused, I watched him take a fifty dollar bill from his pocket and roll it into a narrow cylinder. He then bent over the remaining line, taking half up one nostril, before switching for the other half. When he righted himself, he shook his head and drew the back of his hand over his nose.
As the seconds past and I glanced around the room, the world was becoming sharper. However, my heart was also pounding faster and harder in my chest; the rhythm something uneven and strained, as if it were about to stop at any moment.
Scott, on the other hand, was breathing deeply. His face turned up to the ceiling, while his eyes grew wider and something I couldn’t identify filled them.
Chapter Eight
Time To Retire
I can’t say whether my reactions were dulled or if his were heightened, a little of both perhaps, but as he suddenly rushed forward and grasped me beneath my arms it was with a speed that seemed to defy normal human ability. He pulled me to my feet with little effort and began dragging me, my useless feet refusing to work properly, toward the large windows at the end of the room.
As we reached the panoramic windows, he must have grabbed the cord for the blinds, because the next thing I knew I was being shoved face-first into bare glass. My breasts were squashed against the cold surface, as I panted hard. The lights from buildings and traffic below were blindingly bright, made even more painful by a shooting pain that was pulsing up my left temple. Everything, including his voice, seemed so much more powerful than before.
“I think we should let all the people down there know what a filthy whore you are, don’t you?”
I couldn’t answer, my brain was whirring too quickly; trying to take in every detail, even minute ones like the flickering of a TV set across the street.
“Now everybody knows. The whole world knows what you are.” As he talked, he slowly pressed himself against the length of my back and I began to realize just how turned on he was. The solid tip of his erection was poking at the top of my right buttock and it, like everything else I could see, hear and feel, seemed larger than life. “They know you’re nothing. They know you’re a worthless slut.”
He coaxed another gasp of surprise from me, when he suddenly pulled back and tugged me with him. “Wha...?” I tried to incoherently question, as he guided me ten feet from the window and thrust me toward the back of the couch. My lower abdomen hit the hard wood at the top of the furniture. And, with the flat of his palm on the top of my spine, he shoved me until my head was almost touching the seat cushions.
By that point, my hair was covering my face. All I could see was the fabric of the couch, between curtains of long brunette strands. “Ugh,” I mumbled, as I heaved for oxygen that there didn’t seem to be enough of. “Con...” I muttered, feebly. “Condom.”
He was viciously pulling my underwear down when he laughed humorlessly. “You think I’d put my dick in that disgusting, hand-me-down cunt without protection?” he spat. “You couldn’t pay me for that, bitch.”
I don’t know how much time passed; things seemed to be happening in fast forward. My memory of what occurred next is blurry, and I suppose that’s something I s
hould be grateful for, because the hazy things I do remember I wish I didn’t.
He entered me roughly, spearing my sex with a savage thrust that pushed me further over the couch. He didn’t pause for breath. Instead, he instantly began pumping his hips viciously against my buttocks.
As the blood rushing to my head causing my vision to darken, I whimpered and muttered words of pain and discomfort. But this just seemed to spur him on. He wanted to hurt me; got a kick out of his position of power and the ability to inflict pain. With one hand at the nape of my neck, he kept my face pinned to the couch, while the other reached around my chest and brutally gripped one of my breasts.
“How do you like that, you dirty, fucking bitch?” Each of his shouted, angry words was punctuated by a hurried, violent thrust that buried his rigid shaft deep within me. “Filthy whore!” he added, squeezing my breast in his strong hand. “This is all you’re good for.” He growled as he rammed harder and harder, seeming to want to cut me in two. “Ugh, you cunt!”
I’m fairly sure I made no more than plaintive, whispered moans and cries in reply. It was all I could muster. The roof of my mouth pulsed with the hammer of my heart; blood was rushing like massive waves against my eardrums. And then, everything went black.
I would say that I’d passed out, but I know that can’t have been the case. At least, I couldn’t have stayed passed out, because the next thing I was aware of was waking up in my own bed. So, somehow I must have left the hotel, made my way home and managed to find the bed. I was naked beneath the sheet, with my dress discarded on the floor. Next to it was my purse, which, I would later discover, still contained the $10,000 Scott had paid me.
Fortunately, Paul was away that weekend; he’d gone on a golfing trip with one of his cousins. I’d left the children with Fran, a woman from the school, whose daughter was good friends with Lizzie. She also had a son who was just a bit older than Dylan. That didn’t leave Kate with a playmate, but Fran was baby-hungry and more than happy to have a two-year-old running around the house again.
