The Accidental Call Girl (7 page)

She wanted it. So much . . .

She wanted everything.

Silky arousal pooled beneath her where she sat. Helplessly, she oozed, a creature enslaved by her own senses. Wanton. Willing. Available.

Faintly, the shower teemed on, in the bathroom. What would happen if someone came to the door? Some hotel employee, perhaps with room service, and on getting no answer they might use their pass key to enter and find her here, bound, exposed, blind and available.

A waiter might come in and be unable to resist the delicious female dish presented to him. He might grab her crotch, just as she longed for John to return and do. Unknown fingers might push and poke at her, rubbing her clit to see if it were possible to rouse her against her will; perhaps wiggling into her vagina, mock-fucking her.

Groaning, she wriggled and rocked on the chair, imagining some stranger playing with her, crudely defiling her while John relaxed on the bed, watching the show. Perhaps he might issue instructions,
pinch her clitty
,
make her come
.

‘Oh please,’ she murmured to nobody in particular, longing to be used and fingered.

A door opened and every muscle in her body went taut. Was it the bathroom? Or was it the door to the corridor outside, as she’d feared . . . or yearned for?

Footsteps approached. They sounded as if they were heading from the bathroom, and muffled, as if made by bare feet.

John?

The hand she’d anticipated clasped her pussy, finger diving in, making her whimper and struggle. The pressure was firm, but not quite enough, devilishly measured to tease and taunt, but not grant climax.

In a cloud of familiar fragrance, a face nestled against hers, a cheek brushing her hair as the probing fingertip skirted her inner sex lips, her perineum, the margins of her entrance. She felt him scoop a little of her juice, rub it between finger and thumb, assaying her.

‘Randy little trollop,’ he whispered. ‘You’ve made a mess on the seat with your wetness. You haven’t got a bit of selfcontrol, have you? You’ve just been sitting here getting hornier and hornier . . . What have you been thinking about? Cock, is it?’

Unable to speak, she nodded, wishing her hands were free so she could reach out and grab his crotch as he’d grabbed hers. As if he’d heard her, he stood up and edged to her side, abandoning her sex as he leant his pelvis against her arm. Through the cloth of her jacket, and whatever he was wearing, she felt him like an iron bar, jabbing at her, the mass of him intimidating.

‘Have you been thinking about it?’ He rocked, pressing harder, and holding her by the shoulder, keeping her steady. Damn him, was he getting himself off that way?

‘Yes, I’ve been thinking about your cock, master. I couldn’t help myself.’

She couldn’t see his smile, but she could swear it was there. As best she could within the restriction of her bonds, she pressed herself against him, circling her shoulder to caress him.

‘Be careful . . . be very careful.’ He reached down and touched her lips, running his fingertip across the lower one. When she darted out her tongue to caress it, she tasted her own foxy flavour, and when he turned his hand over, she pressed a fierce kiss of fealty against his knuckle.

‘What do you want, Bettie?’ He spoke quietly, almost kindly.

She didn’t have to think. ‘To see you, master. If it pleases you.’

‘It’ll cost you, sweetheart. That and your naughty thoughts . . . it’ll cost you in pain across your beautiful bottom.’

‘I don’t care . . . master.’

With a flick the dark scarf around her head flew away. It went fluttering to the floor, but she had no time to observe it. She could only look at John. He’d been a devil in the dark, but in the light he was an angel.

Not sure what she was expecting, she was caught by surprise at the sight of what he wore. Masters wore black, didn’t they? Sombre, unrelieved, sometimes . . . Often, tight-fitting leather.

But John had on a very light, off-white shirt, made from cheesecloth or some other floating fabric. It was open down the front, revealing a firm, well-shaped chest, a little tanned and with a scattering of sandy hair across his pectorals. A pair of old, very old jeans clung to his hips and thighs, their venerable state bordering on bleached white, and worn paper thin at the knees. His strong, narrow feet were quite bare. He’d been towelling his hair dry and it was all soft curls; his face looked fresh, his jaw newly shaved.

‘Satisfied?’ He struck an attitude.

‘No.’

‘No? What, then?’

He was a feast, and she wanted to gorge her senses on him. See every bit of him, touch every bit of him. Taste . . .

‘I don’t know . . . To touch you, I think. To convince myself you’re real.’

His sandy eyebrows shot up. ‘That’s rather fanciful. Of course I’m real. But if you need convincing, yes, you can touch me, but I’ll punish you all the harder for your whims, beautiful slave, believe me.’ He moved closer, filling her head with the scent of his cologne. ‘Do you think I’m worth it?’

‘Yes!’

Leaning over her, his soft shirt brushing the side of her face, he reached behind her and unfastened her wrists. Freed, she reached for him, not sure what to touch or sample first. After a heartbeat’s hesitation, she laid her hand against the muscle of his chest, fingers spread.

Oh, he was so warm, and his skin so smooth. She stroked, loving the crisp yet silky texture of his chest hair. Edging forward, she kissed him there too, unable to resist putting out her tongue and licking his nipple.

‘Ooh, that’s nice,’ he crooned. ‘Do that again.’

Circling with the tip of her tongue, she tantalised and teased the little pink-brown bud, flicking at it, loving that it was erect, just like hers. When she started sucking, he held her head, compelling her to continue, commanding her to pleasure him in this small thing. Sliding her arm around him, she reached up to toy with his other nipple with her free hand, but he knocked it away, plucking at the little crest himself, squeezing and pinching. She could see the action out of the corner of her eye, and it inflamed her. He just didn’t care. He did what he wanted, pleasuring himself right there in front of her, even though he was supposed to be playing the stern disciplinarian. When he murmured, ‘Mm . . .’ and shimmied against her, she almost came on the spot.

‘I bet you give marvellous head,’ he said, easing her away from him. ‘I shall look forward to that. But first, I really want to punish you. Quite hard. Are you OK with that?’

Nodding furiously, she was too choked with lust to speak.

With a smile, he dipped down gracefully and unfastened her ankles from the chair. Again, it seemed bizarre that he should kneel before her, and yet when he straightened, he’d lost none of his dominant aura. He was the strangest master, not a bit like the way she’d anticipated a dominant man might be, but somehow his very unusual approach made him stronger rather than weaker.

He pulled her to her feet and drew her against him, holding her body tight to his as he took her in a rough, messy, annihilating kiss that decimated the finish of her clear lip gloss. His tongue owned her, and he held her head immobile, ravishing her mouth. When her arms lifted of their own accord to embrace him, he made a warning sound in his throat, then kissed her more savagely than before.

Against her belly, his cock was a knot of iron.

Then suddenly the kiss was over as abruptly as it had begun, and licking her gloss off his lips, John took her by the arm and propelled her to the bed. ‘Lie face down, pussy near the edge. Stretch your arms out in front of you. You can grab the duvet if you need to.’ As if she were an object, a doll, he adjusted her position as soon as she was prone, adjusting her thighs, parting them, making sure she was on show. The fact that she was fully clothed, apart from her bare bottom and her exposed pussy, only made her feel more deliciously subjugated. It was as if she was just an arse and a sex to him at the moment, the rest of her temporarily of little interest.

As he leant over her, she felt the brush of his floating shirt again. ‘Don’t feel you have to be stoic, Bettie,’ he said, drawing a fingertip down her bottom cleft and making her squirm. ‘In fact, I’ll enjoy it more if you cry . . . or maybe even scream a bit.’ His finger tickled her anus. ‘I’ve been told the sound-proofing in this place is second to none, so you won’t disturb anyone except me.’

Choked with lust, Lizzie rocked her pelvis against the bed. How could he stir her like this, with little touches, and soft, yet menacing talk? Her body was screaming already, aching for something to happen. She wanted to mash her sex against the mattress, work her clit against something, anything, and she could feel a wet patch forming on the duvet beneath her crotch.

She longed for him to push a finger into her vagina and fuck her with it, but though she had no doubt that in his eerie way he knew exactly what she craved, he didn’t oblige her.

In silence, he walked away, and she could hear him sorting through objects in the drawer. Choosing something to use on her? She’d half expected a hand spanking was coming first, but now she suspected something more severe. Wanted it, really. She was afraid of pain – in fact she’d always been a baby about it – but perversely she was longing for it too. For the new experience, for the test. She wanted no half measures, and she knew that John Smith would not short-change her. After all, he’d paid her a princely sum in order to do exactly what he wanted with her. And offered a generous bonus, in case he marked her.

Oh, bring it on, you devil! Bring it on!

She heard a swish of something in the air, and out of the corner of her eye she saw what was producing the sound. A ruler. A simple blue plastic ruler, one of the very same bendy kind they had at home, and which she used for quick measurements on dress patterns.

‘Do you need a safe word?’

What was he talking about? Then, it dawned on her. Goddammit, she was supposed to know all this stuff. It was supposed to be second nature. Straining to track him as he moved behind her, she could see the duvet out of the corner of her eye, and said, ‘Chintz!’

‘Good choice,’ he said, sitting down beside her, half twisted sideways on the bed. Face pressed to the duvet, it was difficult to see him, but his presence overwhelmed her. His weight at her side; the scent of him.

‘Your bottom is very beautiful, Bettie. But it’ll be even prettier when it’s red.’

With that he slapped down hard with the plastic ruler, right across the crown of both her buttocks, catching them both in one blow.

‘Yowch!’

It hurt, God how it hurt! The ruler wasn’t all that substantial but its flexibility gave an evil little flick to it. Radiant heat bloomed in her flesh, sharp and keen, making her wriggle.

‘Keep still,’ he ordered, placing his free hand flat on the middle of her back, then lashing her again, this time landing two or three swift blows in quick succession.

Grabbing the duvet, Lizzie tried to hold still, but it was a trial. The heat was furious, much more so than she’d expected. It wasn’t a bit like the pathetic, half-hearted spanking games she’d played with a boyfriend or two. This was real, unrelenting, and serious. John was working the plastic ruler methodically over her bottom, covering it in a pattern of strokes, not leaving any area unvisited.

‘Oh . . . Oh . . .’ she chanted, gripping fistfuls of the chintz duvet cover, straining every sinew to remain motionless but failing miserably. Her pelvis had a mind of its own, and she was circling and rocking, spreading her legs to try and rub herself against the mattress and get some ease for her throbbing clit.

John merely smacked her harder, catching her upper thighs above the tops of her hold-up stockings, angling the ruler to strike the inner slopes of her buttocks, close to her anus.

She wanted him to stop. She wanted him to go on and on. The blaze in her bottom was like white heat, warping her mind. Clutching madly at the bedding, she hauled herself forward a bit, got some purchase with her knees, then gyrated her hips, humping the mattress as the blows rained down. Her body in motion didn’t seem to distract John from his purpose in the slightest. He just kept spanking, and spanking, layering the smacks now, making redder the zones that were already red.

‘Come up on your knees now, Bettie, that’s a good girl.’ Manhandling her, he lifted her up, and she sobbed when his thumbs dug into her punished flesh. ‘I’ll do your thighs now,’ he said in an almost gentle voice, as if he were offering to apply sun cream or some other benison. In a couple of brisk jerks, he pulled down her stockings to the knees, then set about the tender skin of her thighs, lashing, lashing, lashing the ruler, patterning the newly revealed areas in just the way he’d already coloured her bottom.

‘Oh God, oh God,’ Lizzie chanted, burning with the flames of pain that licked her haunches. Yet still, she could feel her sex dripping, her arousal oozing down her legs, her labia puffed and pouting, her anus winking with each blow as she clenched herself. She was still moving when the ruler stilled, resting across her sizzling cheeks.

‘Had enough?’ Twisting, John inclined across her, then, with one last tap flung the instrument of her torment away. ‘I think I have.’ His lips settled against her hair, infinitely gentle. ‘You’re rather magnificent, you know. A natural. I’d never believe you were a working girl.’

She’d forgotten. She’d completely forgotten. Again. She’d been so into it, so swept away by the intensity. To her horror, a tear oozed out from the corner of her eye, running across her face.

John scooped up the moisture with his fingertip. ‘I hit too hard. Didn’t I? You’re not really into this.’ He leant and kissed the track of the tear, infinitely gentle.

For a moment, Lizzie felt as if she were floating up from the bed. She felt very odd. Even the burning heat in her bottom was distant. If she were to roll onto her back, reach up and draw John’s lips to her own, she had a feeling she’d barely register her spanking.

‘No . . . No, you didn’t hit too hard. Not at all.’ She rolled, then hissed between her teeth. Hah, she
did
notice the spanking. In fact she far more than noticed it, but still, the clear blue of John’s eyes, and the strangely solicitous expression in them over-rode the discomfort. ‘I liked it . . . I actually liked it a lot. So sue me if I’m a kinky whore who gets off on her work.’