The Accidental Call Girl Read online

  ‘Beautiful,’ he pronounced as the rain lashed down, pausing to cup her left buttock and give it a squeeze. ‘Now lie quiet and be absolutely still. I won’t be but a moment.’

  Oh no, he’s leaving me!

  John strode away through the trees, in the direction they’d arrived from, and Lizzie was left, bared to the elements . . . alone.

  9

  The Lashing Rain

  Where are you? Where are you?

  The minutes stretched out. The rain poured down. Her skin and hair were wet through. The pit of her belly ached with desire. She could hardly keep still, even though he’d commanded her to.

  Perhaps a little adjustment of her position would allow her to rub herself against the hard bark beneath her, through John’s jacket, and stimulate her clit? Surreptitiously, she worked her hips, adjusting the angle, spreading her thighs, rocking. The result was worse. She was more roused, more needy than ever. If he hadn’t tied her hands she’d be rubbing herself by now.

  Testing her bonds, she found them firm, but not uncomfortably tight. He knew what he was doing. How many women had he tied up before? How many women had he punished?

  Dozens, I’ll bet. Who could resist him? Even if I hadn’t had a curiosity about BDSM before I met him, I’d certainly be into it now.

  She wriggled again, trying to get off, knowing she couldn’t. Unless, of course, she could will herself into it? But even John Smith and the fantasies he inspired in her weren’t quite capable of that feat.

  But still she rocked and jiggled, imagining him touching her, spanking her, fucking her. Even the sound of footsteps approaching couldn’t stop her and she was still moving as she saw John appear in the periphery of her vision.

  ‘Didn’t I tell you to be still?’

  She craned around and found him smiling indulgently. But for once, his beautiful grin wasn’t what caught her attention. No, it was the thin, freshly cut switch he was slashing experimentally through the air. No great student of the natural world, Lizzie had no idea what kind of tree it might have come from, but it looked narrow and fierce and unsettlingly cruel.

  Ignoring his query, she made one of her own. ‘How did you manage to cut that? More boy scout skills?’

  He approached fast, still swishing his new implement, and sweeping his wet hair back from his brow with his other hand. He was just as saturated as she was now, his expensive shirt and trousers drenched. But it didn’t seem to bother him too much, and the way the sodden linen clung to his crotch only outlined the fact he was hard as rock again.

  ‘I always carry a Swiss Army knife. You never know quite when you’ll need one.’ He slipped his hand into his trouser pocket, and drew out the famous knife in question. It was a small version, but obviously just as effective.

  ‘Must be useful for all the stones in horses’ hooves you have to deal with,’ she shot back.

  ‘I’ve used it for that in my time,’ he replied equably, stowing away the knife and returning his attention to the switch, running his fingers along it then swishing it again.

  Momentarily, Lizzie was distracted, though. John rode horses? What kind of life did he have, away from all this? She knew nothing of him, and suddenly wondered why the hell that was. The first thing she did, usually, when she met someone, was look them up on the internet, on Google and Facebook and Twitter, and yet this time, when finding a man’s provenance would be critically important . . . she hadn’t done it!

  You’re making me crazy, Mr Smith. You’re making me lose it.

  But as he laid the switch across the crown of her buttocks, she resolved to rectify her omission. She would find out who was this devil who’d bewitched her.

  ‘So, how many strokes do you fancy?’ He drew the thin wand over her skin, as if he were painting with the rainwater on the canvas of her body.

  ‘Well, I rather thought that wasn’t really up to me,’ she replied, trembling wildly. Despite the rain, it wasn’t really cold, but still she shuddered and gooseflesh popped up on her skin. This organic instrument of discipline was far more ominous than the hand, or the plastic ruler.

  And yet John was a master. In every sense. She knew in her gut that he was supreme at this, and knew exactly what he was doing. He would only ever hurt her in the way she wanted and craved. In all other ways, he would take care of her.

  ‘No, it isn’t. I was just messing with you.’ His smile was like a sunrise polished by the rain.

  ‘Half a dozen. Just half a dozen. That thing looks vicious.’

  ‘Ah . . . bold . . . For that, I might give you twice as many.’

  You won’t.

  Somehow she knew that six was all she’d get.

  ‘Are you ready?’

  She nodded, choked with apprehension . . . and anticipation.

  ‘You must be quiet and good and still and make me proud. Can you do that?’

  She nodded, sincerely doubting she’d achieve any of it.

  ‘Very well . . . then we begin.’

  Before she had time to think, there was a high whistling swish and the first cut landed. Even though she’d no chance to brace herself, it didn’t feel so bad . . . didn’t feel like anything . . .

  Then her heart started beating again and electric fire arced in a fierce agonising line across the crown of both her buttocks.

  It was astonishing. It took her breath. Blanked her mind. A shrill cry breached her lips and echoed around the little dell, and to her astonishment she realised she was rolling to and fro on the tree trunk, her feet kicking madly.

  Oh God, that was only one.

  The second was better . . . or worse . . . she couldn’t tell. It was just another line of fire that lay exactly parallel to the first.

  ‘Oh God, oh God, oh God,’ she chanted, twisting her hands in their bonds to try and grab herself.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ instructed John softly, and she instantly desisted.

  Another stroke fell, right on the under-hang of her bottom this time, and she shrieked and shot forward over the tree trunk, nearly plummeting head first over the other side of it.

  As she flamed and burned, John paused and rested a cool hand on her heat. ‘Steady, my lovely one,’ he whispered, the touch like a blessing. Then he sought her fingers and coiled them with his for just a moment. A surge of strength coursed through Lizzie from the point of contact, and courage too. She quieted, fell still, braced by his benediction.

  Then he was beating her again, the last three strokes. They were harder than before, taxing her to her limits, but she kept dead still and uttered not a word even though her bottom felt as if it were roasting in a furnace, and she couldn’t tell where one stripe ended and another began.

  The switch whistled through the air, but this time Lizzie saw it fly away across the dell, out of the corner of her eye.

  Just six strokes. Exactly as she’d specified. She almost laughed, savouring a revelation in the pain.

  Good God, I really am in charge, aren’t I?

  ‘Jesus, you’re adorable.’ John’s voice came in her ear. He’d flung himself alongside her, heedless of grass and mud, and buried his face in her hair. Lizzie pressed herself against him, not caring that his body rubbed against the fire in her bottom, making her hiss through her teeth.

  ‘I want you,’ she whispered, her voice breathy, the wind still knocked out of her by the thrashing.

  His lips pressed against her neck, hot with passion and, as he kissed her, she felt him working on the ribbon that held her wrists, to free her. Loosed, she rocked back on her knees, twisting to fling her arms around him and embrace him. Every move stirred the pain in her buttocks, but she didn’t care. She even welcomed it. The fierce marks were another bond between them.

  ‘Oh God, let’s fuck,’ growled John, starting to pluck at his shirt, then wrenching it open to send buttons flying amongst the grass and ferns and undergrowth. Leaping to his feet, he kicked off his shoes, tugged off his socks, then attacked his trousers, shucking them off and tossing them over
the tree trunk.

  When his boxer briefs went the same way, he stood before her, a god of fire and rain, his erection jutting from his groin.

  Lizzie shuffled towards him, lured by that magnificent rod, but John put his hand on her shoulder. ‘No . . . I want you to have pleasure too, my sweet Bettie.’ He sank to his knees beside her, fishing into the pocket of his trousers across the tree as he did so. ‘I want you to ride me into oblivion, you gorgeous goddess,’ he said, producing a condom with a flourish. ‘I want to see your beautiful body and your lovely face as I come.’

  Rolling onto his back, apparently oblivious to mud and grass and twigs, and creepy crawlies various, he gestured to her, inviting her to join him. With a grin, he tossed her the condom.

  All a jitter, and still constantly aware of her blazing bottom, Lizzie grappled with the wrapper, then prized out the fine contraceptive within. She half wondered if John wanted her to do the ‘put the rubber on with the mouth’ trick, but as she’d never done it, and suspected she’d make a not very authentic mess of it, she positioned the condom carefully over the fat tip of his cock and rolled it down as deftly and lightly as she could. He was close to the edge, she could tell, because he rocked back onto his elbows, his handsome face turned to the stormy heavens, his eyes closed. As she enrobed him, he opened his mouth as if to drink the rain that teemed onto his face.

  Moving around with a thrashed bottom was uncomfortable, to say the least, but somehow the pain only seemed to add a lustre to the experience. Throwing her thigh across John’s lean hips, Lizzie manoeuvred into position, raising high so she could grasp him by the head of his cock and present him to her entrance. He felt huge against her there, warm through the rubber, but she was swimmingly wet in a way that had nothing to do with the rain, so when she bore down, and he bucked up, he slid in easily.

  ‘Oh God. Hell. Yes,’ he proclaimed through gritted teeth, canting up and grasping her by the hips. His fingers caught a sore spot as he held her, and she grunted, but for once he didn’t seem to notice, so lost was he in his own sensations.

  Yes, yes, she answered him, but silently, wiggling in his grip and wanting him to reignite the fire in her stripes. They were badges of honour, and the soreness only stoked her desire all the more. The pain, and the pleasure of him, were indivisible, each increasing the other. She almost felt like inviting him to slap her bottom while his cock was lodged inside her.

  John’s blue eyes snapped open, their wild colour so glorious that her sex rippled around him. ‘What is it, Bettie? What are you thinking? Tell me . . . tell me now.’ He snagged his lower lip as she clenched on him, almost coming.

  ‘I . . . I thought about you slapping my bum. Now . . .’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Before she had time to change her mind, he fetched her a ringing slap on her sore left buttock and she shrieked, pain hurtling through her loins and turning to the sweetest bloom of ecstasy between her legs. Grabbing at John’s shoulder, she loomed over him, reaching down and rubbing her clit as she came and came and came, mashing her body against his . . . and yes, riding him. Riding him hard.

  Tossing her head, her hair flying around her, she rode the pleasure too. John made a harsh, almost ferocious sound, his hips thundering as hers did, lifting again and again as he came along with her. His hold on her was a death grip, tormenting her stripes, and the burn of it only drove her higher. As she soared, she was dimly aware of her own fingers, her fingernails, digging deep into the muscle of his shoulder.

  But the madness couldn’t last and, as she pitched forward, overcome, his arms slid right around her, holding her close, cradling her now, his embrace protective. For some minutes, she couldn’t move, and neither, it seemed, could he. Wrapped together, they held on as the rain still teemed down and lashed their joined bodies.

  Eventually, Lizzie blinked and reached up to sweep her hair out of her eyes. John’s arms were still around her and his face buried in her neck, and when she looked down at his shoulder, so close to her face, she saw the clear print of her own fingernails, outlined in blood that trickled over his lightly tanned skin.

  ‘I’ve hurt you, John,’ she whispered, then lowered her mouth to his shoulder, kissing it better and tasting the copper of the blood.

  Against her, she felt the shake of his body as he laughed softly and, as he shifted, his subsiding cock slid out of her. The feel of it thus was so tender and intimate that she blinked, aware that some of the moisture in her eyes was more than rain.

  ‘Treasured battle scars, sweetheart,’ he said, cradling her cheek and urging her to lift her head. His smile was beatific.

  ‘Yeah, but it’s a real injury, not pain for pleasure.’ She hitched her hips a little, freeing him completely and feeling the glide of his fingers, too, on her punished bottom.

  ‘Worry not, fair maiden.’ He kissed her lips, softly brushing them with his. ‘It’s more than worth it. Far more than worth it. You could have scratched half my back off and I’d still be smiling.’

  ‘But still,’ she said, sitting up, then climbing off him to kneel at his side, grimacing at the twinges in her buttocks.

  ‘Still yourself.’ Straightening too, he pressed on her shoulder and made her turn so he could see her back view. ‘Did I hit you too hard? Was it more than you wanted?’ He reached around and touched the edge of one of her stripes, making her hiss.

  ‘No, not more than I wanted . . . but more than I usually allow.’ Which was the truth. She’d never allowed this before, because she’d never played this way.

  ‘I’ll compensate you for it.’ He took her hand and kissed it. ‘I’ll make it up to you. Danger money, you might say.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, John, you’re already paying way over the odds.’ She paused. Was now the moment, when he was feeling mellow and well shagged out? ‘Look, I’ve got to tell you. I’m—’

  He pressed the tips of his fingers across her lips, and looked skywards, allowing the rain to patter hard on his face. ‘Not now, eh? I think we need to be moving. Let’s get back to the hotel, and the hot shower and the hot towels, and maybe a nice hot toddy.’ Lithely, he sprang to his feet and then, with no trace of self-consciousness, peeled off the used condom. ‘Do you have a tissue in your bag, sweetheart? Ecology and all that.’

  Clambering up somewhat less gracefully, she cast around for her bag, found it slightly sheltered under a tree and not too wet, and fished in it for tissues.

  Their clothes had avoided the worst of the storm, under the arboreal canopy, but they wouldn’t stay relatively dry long. The rain was increasing rather than slowing down. Pulling a face, Lizzie wrapped the basque around herself, ready to hook it up.

  ‘No . . . not yet.’ John stayed her hand. ‘Bundle your things up, as tightly as you can. We’ll walk to the edge of the woods, put our clothes on, and then run as fast as we can across the park. That way, they won’t get quite as wet.’

  Lizzie opened her mouth to protest, then just laughed. Wild as it sounded, John’s plan made sense. He nodded, pleased with himself.

  ‘Lateral thinking, eh? Am I clever or what?’

  You’re a know it all, Mr Smith. But I don’t mind a bit.

  They gathered all their belongings and began to pick their way along the path, with John indicating the safest places to step with bare feet. It was one of the most bizarre episodes of her life, BDSM games with him notwithstanding, but she felt strangely safe, and nurtured, following his lead. And even though she was supposed to be watching her footing, a lot of the time she was observing the smooth flexion of his gorgeous male arse as he walked ahead of her.

  ‘I know you’re looking at my bum,’ he called out, turning briefly and catching her in the act. ‘If I wasn’t trying to stop you treading on stones and twigs and God alone knows what else, I’d make you walk in front so I could watch your lovely bottom and admire my own handiwork.’

  ‘You’ll get the chance later,’ she flung back, strangely excited. Despite
everything, she wanted to exhibit herself to him. She was proud of the marks still. They were the sigils of his possession and her bravery.

  At the edge of the park, they halted behind a thicket of bushes and dressed, at least partially. Lizzie thrust her basque into her bag as best she could. If she could keep that fairly dry, and her spare knickers, it was only her top clothes that she’d have to dry out when they reached the sanctuary of John’s room.

  ‘Come on, beautiful Bettie, let’s run for it, shall we?’ His expression was merry, like that of a wicked, playful imp and, clutching his shoes in one hand, he grabbed her hand with the other and urged her forward, out into the open.

  Across the grass they hurtled, laughing crazily within seconds at the absurdity of it all, barefoot, squelching and sliding. It was so exhilarating that Lizzie barely felt where he’d beat her. Perhaps the endorphins or adrenaline or whatever it was had cancelled out the ache?

  She wasn’t sure which it was, but she was sure she’d have followed him anywhere. And at a run.

  Please don’t fall for him, Lizzie, she told herself, as he turned and grinned at her, making a sunny day out of a torrential rainstorm. You can’t really have him, and he only wants you for a while . . .

  But it was far too late for that. The deed was done. As they almost flew across the lawn, she’d already fallen.

  10

  Trust

  The stripes were quite red, but nowhere near as livid as Lizzie had expected. Lifting up the back of the thick, fluffy white bathrobe, she checked them one last time before returning to the bedroom to join John. She’d just enjoyed one of the most delicious and welcome showers in her entire life. In the movies, they would probably have shared it, but she’d been grateful for a little time to herself.

  Although John’s room had been furnished and kitted out for a single, male occupant, a phone call to reception had produced a towering pile of extra towels, additional bathrobes, and a complementary basket of feminine toiletries and beauty products. She’d been able to pamper herself far more lavishly than she’d ever have been able to at home, in the process of washing away the last of the mud, twigs and leaves that had still been clinging to her skin despite the sluicing of the rain.