The Accidental Call Girl (30 page)

Unsurprisingly, it fit perfectly too, and John’s fingers were deft and gentle, fastening it in place without disturbing her carefully arranged hair. Satisfied with it, he drew her towards a long mirror that hung on one wall, presumably placed so guests could check their appearance before they joined the party.

Lizzie caught her breath, her lingering doubts evaporating. What a couple they made. John elegant and tall in his dark suit, snowy shirt and plain dark tie. He wasn’t in evening dress, but he cut a perfect figure all the same. Beside him, she should have seemed an ordinary girl . . . but she didn’t. She didn’t even seem to be herself with this new look. A princess stood beside her prince, taller and straighter and more stylish than she’d ever looked before, even though her shoes weren’t the most toweringly high.

It was difficult to see his expression behind the mask, but Lizzie could have sworn John was just as stunned as she was. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, then shut it again, just smiling.

Beside her, the security man said, ‘Your phones, please, if you would. And, of course, any cameras.’ He proffered the tray again.

Of course, they wouldn’t want anyone sneaking risqué photographs at an event like this, even if people were masked. Lizzie took her phone out of her bag, but felt a pang. It was irrational, but what if something happened? What if Brent rang? Despite being drenched in John’s presence, thoughts of her friend still surfaced in her mind. He’d told her to go, to enjoy herself . . . or he’d be cross with her. But still she couldn’t help worrying about him, and how brittle he’d seemed lately.

She turned to John, watching her from behind his mask, mysterious and inscrutable. She could almost imagine he’d read her thoughts, the impression she so often seemed to get from him.

‘Shall we?’ He offered her his arm and she slid her hand under it, relishing its solidity. They were in a dream, but he was real beside her. The man who’d touched her and pleasured her and let her see new things. She’d never felt inferior to him – she didn’t have that kind of complex – but she acknowledged that knowing him had changed and broadened her horizons.

Even when he was gone, she would never be the same.

They entered a vast, high-ceilinged hall, flanked by pillars that supported a balcony above. Soft classical music was playing in the background, but she couldn’t have put a name to it, and there was a lively hum of voices as a counterpoint. Advancing into the room, they were greeted with discreet smiles, and the occasional ‘Hello, nice to see you again,’ aimed at John. The masks were obviously a formality. Everybody seemed to know everybody else, but John’s hand over hers, where it clasped his arm, seemed to induce a protective field of safety and confidence around her. She didn’t feel shy.

It was a diverse gathering. Many people were in formal evening dress, but just as many were in cocktail wear, most of the men in the sort of suits that had become a major turn-on for Lizzie since she’d met John. A waiter appeared beside them, offering a selection of drinks on a tray, Champagne, glasses of what looked like whisky and gin, and also softer stuff, fruit juice and water. Lizzie took a Champagne, resolving it would be just one, to take the edge off her nerves. She couldn’t help grinning when she looked beyond the tray. The masked waiter was bare chested and wearing leather trousers. She would’ve thought him a stunning hunk if she hadn’t already been with the most handsome man present.

Taking a sip of Champagne, she looked further into the room. ‘OK?’ said John beside her, running the backs of his fingers down her bare arm.

‘Yes . . . fine . . . This is all very glamorous, isn’t it?’ Her gaze flitted hither and thither as she trembled at his touch. ‘And . . . um . . . interesting too,’ she added, eyes widening.

There was more than just posh evening wear on show. Observing the throng more closely, she saw fetish wear too. Men and women in leather and vinyl. Corsets. Cut-outs. Collars. Chains. Masks that were far more forbidding than their own party-wear versions. Gimps and executioners. Dominatrices and masters.

‘Good to see you again, John,’ said a low, husky voice from just behind them.

They turned to find a stunning blonde smiling at them. She was quite tall, and her hair was a beautiful cap of platinum curls. Her gown was strangely retro, power wear from the 1980s almost, with big, big shoulders and flounces. With it she wore long, tight black satin gloves that reached above the elbow, and her mask was glittering with precious stones.

‘And to see you too, Joanna.’ Lizzie watched John’s face closely, looking for tell-tales. Was this a former lover of his? She was certainly beautiful enough, and her confident presence was breath-taking. ‘I’d like you to meet Bettie, a close friend of mine.’

Smiling at his use of her
nom de voyage
, she felt the touch of his hand on her back as pure energy. Her confidence surged again. He was proud of her. His eyes told her he was getting a thrill, presenting her like this, as if she were some special goddess, just as exalted as the glamorous Joanna.

‘Lovely to meet you, Bettie.’ The blonde paragon caught her in a brief, but surprisingly warm hug. ‘Are you a regular at dos like these? I’m sure we haven’t met before.’

‘No, this is my first time. John teased me with the prospect of an
Eyes Wide Shut
experience and it was just too tempting to pass up.’

Joanna grinned, suddenly looking much younger and far less intimidating. ‘Ah, I remember my first time . . . It was like being Alice in twisted Wonderland. But luckily I had a man just as wise and wonderful as your John to guide me through . . . and I’ve never looked back.’ A fond look crept into the blonde woman’s face. A look of love.

‘Where is he, by the way?’ said John, glancing around.

‘Oh, he’s paddling some slave or other in the cellar, I think . . . or fucking him, I don’t know. I watched for a while then I fancied a wander around.’

Lizzie sipped her wine quickly, not really tasting it, even though it was luscious. Clearly, Joanna was far from the jealous type. The blonde gave her a searching look. Had her shock been so obvious? What a faux pas. This was supposed to be any anything goes sex party; it didn’t do to react like an outraged virgin.

‘I think I’d better go and check on him now, though,’ Joanna said cheerfully. ‘Kevin has a habit of getting swept away on a wave of his own bullshit sometimes. It’s probably about time I brought him down to earth again.’ She winked. ‘Maybe give him a taste of the medicine he’s dishing out.’ She squeezed Lizzie’s arm. ‘Enjoy this gorgeous man, kiddo. Ciao!’

They watched Joanna glide away, elegant and confident, like a queen. ‘Is she a dominatrix?’ Lizzie asked, gathering her own confidence. The woman was a beauty, but wasn’t she one too? Every now and again, she intercepted admiring glances her way.

John smiled, his hand flexing against her back as if he’d noticed her little moment, and wanted to reassure her. ‘Sometimes . . . yes . . . but like a lot of people who enjoy pain and pleasure games, she’s a switch. She makes a beautifully composed submissive on occasion.’

Lizzie could see that. Her own conclusions seemed to tally with those who really played. You could still be strong, even if you submitted to someone and let them spank you. And people didn’t always want the same thing, all the time. She still had to ask the question, though.

‘Have you punished her?’

‘Yes, a couple of times, as part of impromptu scenarios.’ His shrewd blue eyes narrowed, ‘And no, in case you were going to ask, I’ve never fucked her. She and Kevin do have a fairly open marriage, though.’

Does he think I’m jealous? Why would he care if I am?

They wandered along through the party. It seemed convivial, and relaxed, but quite normal at first . . . until they passed through another, smaller reception room, and encountered a gathered group, who seemed to be all observing the same thing. The avid watchers seemed happy to open their circle and let in newcomers, however.

A woman in a gorgeous electric blue evening dress was bent face down over a table, with her frock pulled up and folded over her back. Her bare bottom was striped with crimson red, lurid against the paleness of her skin, and she was being rogered furiously by a completely naked man wearing only tight-fitting black hood. Somehow he was managing to perform with his hands bound behind his back and his vision obscured by the mask. His bottom was red too, and the chain attached to the collar round his neck was held by another woman sitting beside the couple, on the table.

Lizzie’s heart pounded as she watched the moaning woman scrabble at the table as the hooded man laboured away inside her. Her feelings were as confused as her body was excited. Did she want to be the woman being fucked? Or the woman in charge? The one in a short black dress, holding the chain? The dominant girl’s eyes glittered behind her mask, and her face was flushed. It was easy to imagine her demanding service from any man that took her fancy any minute now.

Or any woman.

Lizzie wondered. In this world of fluid sexuality, anything would go. She didn’t feel threatened, but somehow, she wasn’t ready to plunge in. Turning her head, she caught John’s eye and realised he was watching her, not the performance. Their gazes locked.

What do you want? Do you want to show me off that way?

He didn’t answer, and his expression grew guarded for a moment, then he smiled and caught her arm. ‘How about we find the buffet, eh? We didn’t really do justice to our dinner, and suddenly I’m hungry.’

‘Me too.’ It was true, she realised. She was hungry. And she felt lighter, somehow, too. As if a pressure were released. John really did expect nothing of her here, save that she enjoy herself; and if that meant simply observing the various spectacles rather than becoming a part of them, well, that was fine.

They strolled through the next room, and the next. The house seemed to be an enormous labyrinth of luxurious furnishings and beautiful works of art, and everywhere they looked there were human tableaux too. Men spanking women. Men fucking women. Women sitting like queens in antique armchairs while men pleasured them with their mouths. Men on their knees. Everywhere. Lizzie noted that the percentage of dominant women tonight was higher than that of men, but she had no way of knowing if that was always the case.

She asked John when they were settled in the spacious salon where the buffet was set out, with plates of delicious hors d’oeuvres and other titbits, and glasses of iced water.

‘It varies. Sometimes it’s all female subs. Sometimes it’s like tonight, with women mostly in charge.’

Caught in the act of popping another heavenly prawn confection into her mouth, Lizzie felt as if she’d been hit by a thunderbolt. Something in the way he’d said it seemed to suggest . . . invite . . . provoke.

‘So which do you prefer?’ she flung out, then concentrated on her food, waiting for his answer.

John took a sip from his glass, his beautiful throat undulating. He’d slipped off his tie and put it in his pocket a short while ago, and Lizzie loved this look of the rakish masked man with an open collar. He was powerful, yet the triangle of bare flesh offered a strange vulnerability too.

‘You know my tastes . . . I like to play the dominant. I think it’s my natural forte.’ He paused, took another sip, then set the glass down on a side table. ‘But I have been known to switch too . . . for the right woman.’

It couldn’t have been a clearer clarion call to challenge if he’d pulled a white glove out of his pocket and flung it down.

In a room where people were talking, where music played, and there was even the occasional clatter of cutlery or glassware, a cone of silence seemed to descend around them. Lizzie wondered if her heart had stopped too.

John’s eyes were clear, blue as the sky, full of his message.

Take it. Take the power. It’s yours.

‘Is that a fact?’ she said softly, gazing right into his eyes, not flinching, not blinking, not backing down.

‘Yes.’ He glanced downwards for a moment, barely for a picosecond, but he might as well have fallen to his knees and kissed her shoe.

Lizzie nodded, acknowledging what had barely been visible. She put aside her plate. She no longer needed food. Or water or wine or anything. She was incandescent with energy. She could do anything.

‘I’ve had enough of this. Let’s walk.’ She rose to her feet and began walking towards a door at the opposite end of the room. She hadn’t a clue where it led to, but she was the Belle of the Ball, she was in charge, she would compel a space somewhere to be suitable for her needs.

Head high, she glided as Joanna before her had glided, but this time, she knew she had a man walking dutifully behind her, in her thrall.

They found themselves in a wide corridor, with a fine Persian carpet runner, and doors stood wide along the length of the space. As if she had willed it, a room presented itself, a smallish, intimate space, something like a private study, lined with bookshelves, a small fire burning, leather-upholstered armchairs before it. It was a man’s sanctum, obviously, but she would rule it. She swept in, heading for the fireplace, aware of John behind her.

‘Close the door,’ she commanded softly.

Enclosed in the space, she felt her confidence falter momentarily, but glancing around and spying a leather-topped desk, she braced up, regaining her power.

Amongst newspapers, books, various desk paraphernalia, she spied a ruler. A simple wooden strip, not whippy like John’s plastic one, but fit for purpose.

She hadn’t even looked at him since he’d followed her in, but she knew he’d seen it too.

Turning, she regarded him, hoping her expression was stern enough without her looking like an idiot. The mask helped, but she was on new ground here, in yet another new world. She had to trust her instincts.

John stood by the desk, his own expression inscrutable, impossible to decipher behind the plain black domino.

‘And what are you looking at?’ Lizzie said softly, the instincts she was relying on guiding her along the path John had always shown her. No shouting. No histrionic strutting. That approach seemed to be working quite nicely for some of the dominas out in the party, but she knew it wasn’t her way.