The Accidental Call Girl Read online

  ‘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.

  John’s eyes dropped immediately, and he shifted position, his hands clasped behind his back. She imagined him back in his public school days for a moment, up before the beak. How adorable he must have looked back then, a golden young Adonis.

  ‘That’s better.’ She advanced upon him, but not too closely. Even in her heels, he was taller than her, and distance granted a better perspective. Breathing evenly, she cast around for a key, something to hang the scene on, and almost instantly it came to her.

  ‘You were stringing me along, weren’t you? You knew I wasn’t an escort, but you still let me believe that you bought my story.’

  He nodded in answer, and she realised he was waiting for permission to speak. It was amazing how completely he’d slipped into his role. She knew he was acting, and that it was all a façade, but wasn’t that what their games were all about? She felt a momentary pang, wishing for something real amongst the theatrics, then stiffened her spine again.

  ‘You may speak . . . but only when you’re kneeling.’

  His head shot up; there was shock in his eyes. She quelled him with a small frown, and he sank onto his knees, all grace and beauty.

  ‘Yes, mistress. I knew.’

  A strange intoxication bubbled in her veins like the Champagne they’d drunk.

  Mistress.

  Suddenly she could be her, that dominant woman.

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘For quite a while, mistress. I suspected you were inexperienced. I sensed you were acting.’

  There was no trace of humour in his voice; the words were quiet and neutral. Passive.

  ‘Were you laughing at me, all the time?’

  ‘No . . . no, not at all, mistress. I was in awe of you. Filled with wonder.’

  He lifted his head a moment, and his eyes were bright. She believed him. And when he shuffled just a little on his knees, his jacket slid sideways a little and she saw his erection, enormous and rampant. She glared at that then, too, even though it made lust surge in her belly; and at the same time she wanted to laugh. Good God, he was an amazing actor too. Somehow he even managed to manufacture a blush, seeing her look at his cock.

  ‘I didn’t give you permission to admire me, or to get hard.’ She moved in close now that he was kneeling, and stood right up against him. He barely had to sway to kiss her crotch.

  ‘I’m sorry, mistress,’ he whispered and, unable to resist, she let her fingers settle on his blond hair, loving its softness and silkiness. Sliding her hand down the side of his masked face, she cupped his jaw, and he turned in towards her touch, like a puppy, nuzzling for affection.

  ‘I just don’t know what I’m going to do with you.’

  It was the literal truth, but she managed to inject a note of the weary schoolmistress into her voice. It seemed to work, because he bowed his head a little lower.

  ‘Any suggestions?’ She took a lock of his hair in her fingers, not pulling, but creating a bit of tension.

  ‘You could beat me, mistress. I saw a suitable implement on the desk.’

  ‘Do you want me to beat you?’ She increased the tension, just a smidgen.

  ‘I . . . I don’t know. Only if it’s your will, mistress.’

  A sweet high thrill rushed through Lizzie’s body, whirling through her sex, her heart and her brain. That hesitation, it was like a thousand words to her. She had actually rattled him, she was sure of it.

  ‘Perhaps it is.’ She swirled the lock of hair around her fingers, then released it. ‘But first you must honour me.’ Taking a step back, she plucked at the hem of her shimmering gilded dress and inched it up, sliding it over her thighs and her stocking tops, until the silky triangle of her coffee-coloured thong of lace and satin was revealed. ‘Kiss it,’ she commanded, ‘but just a kiss. No funny stuff.’

  Leaning forward, he pressed his lips to her pubis, his mouth against the delicate undergarment. She felt him breath in deeply, inhaling her fragrance, the scent of her perfume and the odour of her pussy.

  ‘This slave begs to speak,’ he whispered against her.

  ‘You may, but it will cost you. And remember, my hand is not skilled with the implement. I could hurt you quite badly.’ She wouldn’t, of course, because she’d err on the side of safety, but the threat seemed effective because he gasped.

  ‘This slave begs to pleasure his mistress with his lips and tongue.’

  Lizzie almost faltered, her senses filled with the knowledge of what John Smith could do to her with his lips and tongue. He could make her into mindless, moaning putty in the space of moments. She’d have to be careful, but the temptation was just too great.

  ‘Proceed.’ She adjusted her stance a little, setting her thighs further apart.

  Bowing his head first, as if he were a combatant in some obscure martial art, John set to his task, hooking his thumbs in the strips of lace-covered elastic that stretched around her hips. He peeled the flimsy garment down with slow reverence, working it over the tops of her hold-up stockings, then down to her knees. Looking up to her for permission to go on, his eyes were limpid pools of midnight blue, the pupils huge.

  She nodded, and he skinned the thong right down to her ankles, then held still as she leaned her weight on him, grasping his shoulders as she stepped out of the garment, first one foot, then the other.

  19

  His Mistress’s Will

  The desk was just at her back, and Lizzie settled against it, making John shuffle forward on his knees. She parted her thighs a little, then buried her hands in his hair, urging him forward. In a weird, hysterical moment, she remembered being in a school play, years ago, and uttering the words, ‘Attend me, slave’, when she’d been cast as an exotic princess. It was a good job John was otherwise occupied, or her veneer of power would have been shattered by him seeing her fighting not to giggle.

  All thoughts of past amateur dramatics fled away when he set himself to his task. His deft, gentle thumbs parted her sex lips and, his breath hot on her pussy, he began to lick her slowly and methodically. He gave the best head she’d ever had, she already knew that. But he seemed to be trying to outdo all previous performances.

  He flicked, he teased, he fluttered his tongue, and he sucked. He panted against her sex, tantalising her with the flow of air, then returning to more assertive tactics
. Pleasure gathered like a shimmering plasma in her loins, and without the desk against her buttocks and her grip on John’s hair, she might have tumbled to the carpet, felled by its intensity.

  And yet, in the gathering euphoria, a still voice suddenly spoke.

  You devil, you wicked devil . . . you’re supposed to be the submissive here, and you’re still trying to get the better of me!

  She did laugh then and, despite the barrelling urge to orgasm, and orgasm hard, she gripped locks of his hair hard and tugged him off her. There was a delicious triumph in his yelp of pain and the blurred look in his eyes.

  ‘Not yet, you sly devil,’ she said, still holding his hair, her pussy only inches from his lips, so shiny with her moisture. ‘I know what you were doing . . . trying to make me lose it. Do you think I’m so easy to get the better of?’ He shook his head minutely, constrained by her hold on him. ‘I’ll come when I’m ready, Mr Smith, do you hear me? And not before. Now get up off your knees and stop grovelling around down there.’ She released him and, as he sprang to obey, her dress slithered down around her thighs, denying him sight of her.

  John stood a few feet away, head bowed. Lizzie had a feeling he was laughing inside, just as she still was, but his deportment as a submissive was perfect.

  But what to do now? She had to hold her nerve. Casting around, she saw the ruler again. Well, now was as good a time as any to give it a try. She just hoped she didn’t really, really hurt him because she didn’t have much of a clue how to wield it with precision.

  ‘Right. Across the desk,’ she instructed him, snatching up the whippy strip of wood.

  John glanced up, eyes wide behind his mask. She wondered if he’d sensed her doubts, in the way he was so prone to, reading her. Eyeing him steadily, she schooled her own expression as best she could, glad to be masked herself, so any lack of authority wouldn’t be as apparent. John looked down again, moving to comply with her instructions.