Escort in Training Chapter 4
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Monday, 7.40pm
I’m well into getting ready. I’ve just showered again, this time without company and without the audience. Even the two chairs the men were sitting on this morning weren’t there. I’m starting to wonder if it was all a dream. I’d ask my room-mate, but she’s just so damn unapproachable. She pretty much acts like I don’t exist. Fine, Petra, I’ll do the same to you then.
She stalks out of the room in her towel. I assume she’s heading for a shower too. I’m glad she’s out for a while: this room needs a break from awkwardness. And I’ve got some thinking to do. What to wear? What exactly is tonight all about, and where is it going? Every answer seems to lead to another question around here. But I’m excited.
The full-length mirror in my corner of the room catches my eye. Show me what you’ve got, Emma.
I throw my towel on the bed, turn on the light and step up to the mirror, hands on hips. It’s a long time since I’ve been able to check myself out like this: my mirror at home is rubbish. I smile, because I do like my reflection.
My eyes are drawn to my breasts: I’ve always thought them my strongest feature. You couldn’t fail to notice ripe, lively nipples like those. They seem darker than last time I looked. They protrude ever so slightly upwards, like flowers striving for the sun, from bouncy coconut-sized mounds that scream vitality and youth. Any bigger and they’d be trying to droop, but these tits are just right.
I cock my head to one side, pleased with the naked girl before me. She’s a tiny bit paler than I’d like, but that’s being English for you. The flip side to that is that she doesn’t have any tan lines. Down there, I’ve got my usual landing strip. South of that, I’m freshly waxed. All very tidy, and I assume Miss Jackson approved of my efforts since she didn’t say anything.
I turn around and look over my shoulder. Yes, this all looks very nice too. I can’t wait to see longer hair flowing down my back, but we’re looking good. My skin is having a good summer: it’s nearly flawless. My arse isn’t as tiny as, say, Petra’s, but it fits my average proportions well. It melts pleasingly into my thighs, which taper down into knees and calves a little more gently than some of the girls here. I’m not one for the anorexic look: there’s some genuine girl-next-door substance to me. More than one boyfriend has told me he liked that, so I’m okay with me being me.
Yes, I can live with the rest of these women. We all have our pluses and minuses, I’m sure. Petra and her friend can fuck off. Whether I will perform as well as they can when push comes to shove…I have no idea.
Monday, 9pm
I’m not waiting for Petra. Lilia has come to prepare with her, and they are still farting around in our room, finishing up their makeup. I smoke a calming cigarette by the window – my first one since leaving London - watching the two of them flap away at the dresser. I hope they’ve noticed how little I needed to tart myself up to look knockout.
I bump into Simone as I head down the hallway towards the stairs. I figure she must be my neighbour. And doesn’t she look great! She’s gone for a red dress, pretty conservative really, cut at the knee and only exposing a bit of neck. But she’s working it: it really suits a tall woman like her because there’s still a lot of curvy leg on show. Especially in those high heels.
“Hey Simone, you look great!” I tell her. She smiles back at me.
“Aw, but you look better!” she says in her near-perfect English. “Blue really suits you.”
I hope she’s not just being polite. Picking out clothes isn’t my strong suit, and I’d be wasting my time trying to get an opinion from Petra and Lilia. I’ve gone for a figure-hugging number. My hem is higher than hers and this dress leaves my shoulders bare. It’s backless too.
I feel sexy in this shiny new piece, and Simone just made me feel sexier. I’m such a sucker for a formal evening do. Which is just what this feels like. For now.
We walk towards the stairs together, each clutching our little handbags. Butterflies begin to dance in my abdomen now: I haven’t had a feeling quite like this since high school.
“Kinda weird, isn’t it?” I venture. “It feels like we’re going to the prom…what with this being a school and all…”
Simone laughs: “Yeah. Only we don’t know who our dates are!”
“And we don’t know if this is quite going to turn out like a normal dinner-dance…”
“No…they don’t like to volunteer information, do they? But take it easy, I’m sure we’ll be just fine whatever happens. Just enjoy it and go with the flow.”
We’re outside the banquet room now. Wilfred is at the door, ushers us in.
“Miss Carling, Miss Veenstra, good evening. Please come in.”
Before I can even take in my new surroundings, a man steps forward.
“Hello Emma, I’ll be your partner for this evening. I am Rupert.”
My first instinct is to snigger. Rupert? Was everything going to be like time-travel in this place? But when I look at him properly, the smile is replaced by a gape.
He is an astonishingly good-looking man. Tall and handsome as they come, he looks absolutely right in his gleaming tuxedo. Probably in is mid-thirties, he looks at me with dark, soulful eyes and I melt. This doesn’t happen to me very often. This is already beating my school prom by a country mile.
He holds out an arm to me. I take it. This man knows what he is about. And this ball is the real deal. I look around the room as he leads me into it. It’s been transformed since the last time I saw it. Gone is the long dining table, replaced by a handful of round tables about the edge of the room. The tables stand on fine rugs, but the centre of the room is cleared – it’s presumably the dance floor.
The thick auburn curtains are closed over the French doors that lead onto the terrace. Soft lights complement the chandelier centrepiece, giving the whole place a cosy, warm ambience. There’s a man playing relaxing welcome tunes on a piano in the corner. It all feels like an intimate wedding reception: there’s nothing to suggest we’re at a school for budding whores. The sort of place you can tell your mother about with a smile on your face.
The room is already fairly full. I recognise Miss Honeywell and Miss Jackson, chatting together, champagne glasses in hand. Several of my fellow students are here, each with a date at her side. I notice right away that not all of them have been as lucky as me. Though all the men are groomed and dressed to perfection, and most seem to radiate a certain assurance, some of them are considerably older than my father. Not all have my man’s attractive features.
A couple of gorgeous waitresses clad in black and white circulate the room, offering drinks. I don’t recognise them as members of our group, but I take some champers nonetheless. I can only imagine it’s a big part of life in this world, and fortunately I love the stuff.
“Come and meet my friend Harry,” commands my companion. “We do a lot of business together and travel all over the world.”
An odd opening line, really, but I follow him to a couple standing a few paces away. The man I take to be Harry is handsome in a different way: he’s got a decidedly Scandinavian look, with blonde hair, blue eyes and a casual goatee. But when he opens his mouth to speak, I know he’s a Scotsman. And I’ve got all the time in the world for that accent.
With him is an English girl I’ve yet to meet properly. I can’t help noticing her red, kissable lips and the way they contrast with her fair skin. Strawberry blonde, on just the right side of short to be cute, and with an accent far posher than mine, she must be the English Rose so many foreign men seem to crave. Harry introduces her as Jane.
She shakes my hand without warmth, says ‘Oh hello, pleased to meet you,’ with a smile that’s obviously fake. I have a good sense for duplicity, and I’m getting a strong feeling of it at this moment. She avoided my eye all afternoon at our tour of the premises. I bet she’s forgotten my name already. She strikes me as too stuck-up to be a hooker…but who am I to say? I don’t know if I’m going to cut it either. At least Jane pretends to be friendly. Unlike some people I’ve come across.
* *
I begin to relax and enjoy the evening. It’s the first time anything has felt remotely normal in this house. Not that miniature embassy balls – there can’t be more than 45 people in the room – are an everyday experience for me. Nor is being on the arm of a handsome, confident stranger who looks after me all night long. But I feel beautiful, and I feel wanted.
I’m glad to finally have the chance to mingle properly, especially since my room-mate seems a lost cause. The alcohol helps, of course, and I’m well into my third glass of champagne by the time our food arrives. It’ll take more than that to get me drunk, but it does make me stop over-thinking where I am and what this is all about. Maybe I have stepped into some kind of time machine, but the champagne and my date make me inclined to just enjoy it all.
As luck would have it, Petra is at my table. I’m amused to see that she’s drawn a short straw with her date: her man Ralph is well past sixty, and his weather-beaten look suggests he’s enjoyed his life up to this point. If she’s annoyed to be paired with him, she doesn’t show it. She’s civil to him, but doesn’t volunteer much. Watching them across the table, I see a hooker for the first time. Nothing less could explain these two being wedged together, especially her air of disinterest. I can’t imagine he’d be too thrilled by her company, but I dare say he couldn’t dream of anybody so gorgeous without the help of his fat wallet.
And yes, she is hotter than ever tonight. I can’t deny it. She’d be well worth the money for any guy. I don’t think a ball gown is really her style, but her face would be worthy of any magazine cover. She’s clearly put time into it, though, with those trimmed eyebrows and big lashes. And her skin is probably more picture-perfect than that of anybody here. Again, no surprise with all those lotions I’ve seen in our room. Her pointy little ears really make her though, especially with her hair pinned up tight as it is tonight. If only the woman would smile, she’d be a princess!
There are three other classmates at our table. One of them is the tall brunette I’d showered next to this morning. And she is really tall. I always thought men avoided women of that stature, but maybe she brings something else to the table. Her name is Carrie and she’s also English. She wears black lipstick and a dark palette of makeup; her voice has an irritating nasal aspect. She’s from Sussex, I discover, educated at a rather strict convent school. She’s spent some years in the police force.
Carrie is happy enough to chat, but she has an annoying way of cutting people off when they’re talking to her. Even her date, who is half her height and receding. It’s almost as though she’s familiar with all of this, and feels as though she’s in charge. I try to probe a little into her presence here, and she candidly tells me she has been working with a mentor of her own for several months since quitting the police just after her 28 th birthday. She hasn’t done ‘paid work’ yet but keeps mentioning ‘the scene’. I have no idea what she means, so I just nod as if I understand.
The most interesting chat I have is with Latifa, though. I think it was her whose zippy firm figure and perky tits I’d noticed in the showers earlier. I’d thought then that she was tanned, but now, on closer inspection and hearing her name, I suspect she’s just plain exotic. I try to guess from her skin tone, which in truth is neither tanned nor Mediterranean. It’s more caffe latte, but with an extra dash of milk. And those intense green eyes…they’re not from around these parts.
“You’ll never guess,” she says to me, laughing as she confidently took the hand of her fine-looking companion Edward under the table.
“I guess not,” I say. “I’m thinking your background is a little more interesting than mine?”
“Well it’s pretty unique. My mother is Omani but my dad’s Irish!”
“Oh, wow…that’s an interesting combo!”
It comes to me now, where I’ve seen that look before. It’s the dazzling prettiness you get when you mix Arab with North European. I’ve had a couple of colleagues of such descent, and both were drop-dead stunners.
“So…your English is perfect accent is pretty hard to place,” I continue, fearful of inadvertently causing offence. “Did you grow up in England then?”
I can’t imagine she’d be here if she’d been raised in a conservative place like Oman.
“Nope,” she shakes her head forcefully. “I’m pretty much Omani born and bred. Fully Muslim.” She winks at me when she says this.
“Wow,” I say again. “Then this is….er….especially naughty for you, isn’t it?”
“My parents allowed me loads of freedom of thought – my dad was a big part of that. I went to a typical local school, veils and all the rest of it, but at home my sisters and I were never censored. And we travelled a lot. I knew what was out there in the world.”
“Well, so did I! But this….this is a big step all the same…”
She shrugs.
“It’s something I’ve been thinking about for a long time. I saw things in Dubai and I saw things in Amsterdam. And…I enjoy being with a man.”
She smiles into her date’s eyes as she says this. This girl has got attitude in spades.
“My parents might be liberal but they sure as hell wouldn’t like to hear about this,” she continues. “As far as they know I’m studying in Newcastle. Which I am…but we’re on a term break and I thought this would be a fun way to spend it!”
She’s warm with her escort in a completely unforced way. I can totally imagine she’d genuinely like to make love to him, and that she’d be spectacular at it. Her hair is long and gently curled: I’m really envious of it. And I already know she has a body to die for. I’m not jealous, exactly, but I admire her for her looks and candour. Above all, though, for her easy manner. I can’t bring myself to be so flirtatious with my guy, even though he’s cute as hell and his cologne smells out of this world.
I’m constantly aware of him, though, and constantly aware that I have surely got the hottest date of anyone here. It brings a quiet smile to my lips every so often, especially when stony-faced Petra and her man catch my eye. More so when I think of the lacy red g-string and bra I’m wearing. But there’s so much else to take in.
There are a few women not from our group, whom I take to be mentors. Miss Jackson is there, but doesn’t seem to have a partner like some of her colleagues do. I wonder if she’s watching how I behave tonight. And then there are the extra men. Perhaps twelve of them, occupying a couple of tables on the other side of the room. I make out that one of them is the man who woke us this morning and sent us to the group shower. He has a stern look about him and doesn’t seem to engage the others much.
They too are a mixed bunch in terms of looks and ages, but I can see from here that they’re preened to perfection, each of them exuding sophistication. But they don’t seem to have dates: they spend the evening talking amongst themselves. Occasionally they glance in our direction, and once or twice I get the feeling I might be the subject of their chatter. I try to ignore the rising pride in my belly, but that gets a little harder when Rupert takes my hand under the table after dinner.
The booze is taking effect on the room and on me. The whole scenario is making me a little giddy, itching for a snog at least. But I’m just plain confused. I know what the old Emma would do: she wouldn’t be shy to encourage her chosen guy but also wouldn’t rush into bed with anyone. I’m pretty sure I know what Emma the booked escort would need to do. But Emma the escort-in-training? She has no idea what’s expected of her. So she waits.
And now, dinner done, a band has replaced the piano. Couples move to the dancefloor. Rupert and I are among the first. I feel right at home here. It’s mostly waltzing – what else? – but I know where to put my feet. So, inevitably, does Rupert, who leads like a real gentleman. There’s literally nothing I’d change about him.
But I would like to know a few things. What is his business here and how did he get to be my date? What does he do when he’s not here? He’s made me curious all night by asking me all about myself while giving little away. I press him again when we’re close on the dancefloor, but he hushes me by putting a finger to my lips.
“Don’t be a curious girl, Emma,” he says in his public-school accent. “A lady does not ask too many questions. She should relax and let herself be taken care of.”
Fuck, that’s a good answer.
My tongue wants to dart out and touch his finger. I only just stop myself.
Close your eyes, Emma.
I can feel desire having its way with me. And it has nothing to do with why I’m at the school. It’s the ball, the drinks, the dancing. It’s Rupert.
We dance for what feels like hours. And now we’re on the terrace. Champagne still flowing. It must be gone midnight. Just Rupert and I. Looking out over the pool. He has his arm around me.
And still he wants to know all about me. My schooling. My parents. My relationships. Where I learned to dance. The job I’ve just left.
And still he won’t give anything away. Except that Rupert is not his real name. He says it with a tiny smirk and looks me dead in the eye.
It’s a starry night, warm by English standards, but I’m glad of his body warmth pressed up against me. A few other people are also outside now, but I’m so wrapped up in myself now that I’ve no idea who. I’ve forgotten that I might be under observation. My yearning for a kiss is off the scale now: I’ve resorted to just looking up at him, my pout speaking louder than any words could.
Any moment now, surely.
But suddenly, Rupert yawns and takes his arm off me.
“It’s been a wonderful evening, Miss Carling. You’re an absolute delight for a gentleman, let me tell you. Alas, I must turn in now. And you shouldn’t stay up too late.”
I gape at him, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He just takes my arm, leads me into the room, then bids me good night with a peck on the cheek.
Monday, 2am
I toss and turn, a million miles from sleeping. Damn him, that Rupert, he’s made me like a coiled spring. The whole day has. Twice I’ve been naked and watched. And then the dance party, where everything was so right, so fucking right, but everything petered out.
Here I am in a whore school, so fucking horny, but I don’t know what to do about it. I shake my head, wonder if tonight was supposed to be some gigantic tease.
I feel my own hand burrow under the lining of my little shorts. It seeks out my desperate button and I shudder as my middle finger brushes it for the first time.
Seriously, Emma, not now. You’re not alone.
Not sure if Petra is awake or asleep.
I dip into my slit, rub gently along its length. I can’t believe I’m actually wet already. The stress of work has deadened my libido for months now, but tonight seems to have revived it. Big time.
You’ll get noisy. You know you will.
I push two fingers inside my cunt, hard. I feel my shoulders curl as I throw my legs open beneath the covers. Rupert is kneeling above me, poised.
Why are you teasing yourself?
The voice of reason is shouting too loud. Reluctantly I yank my fingers out, flip over, bury my head in my pillow and groan softly. Pure frustration.
The thought of finding relief in the bathroom crosses my mind. Or the garden. Hell, maybe even that sauna. But surely going out alone will be scary. And I might get in trouble, even though nobody said anything about a curfew.
I resolve to do the English thing and suffer in silence. I wonder if Petra is lying awake, thinking the same thoughts. But I guess not - she’s dead inside, isn’t she? Pity: I’d consider turning for her right now. I hate her, but she is one of the most attractive women I’ve ever met.
Every now and then I catch a whiff of the scent of my own cream that coated my fingers as I jabbed them inside of me, and have to force my thoughts elsewhere.
It’s a long, long time before sleep finally takes me.
I’m well into getting ready. I’ve just showered again, this time without company and without the audience. Even the two chairs the men were sitting on this morning weren’t there. I’m starting to wonder if it was all a dream. I’d ask my room-mate, but she’s just so damn unapproachable. She pretty much acts like I don’t exist. Fine, Petra, I’ll do the same to you then.
She stalks out of the room in her towel. I assume she’s heading for a shower too. I’m glad she’s out for a while: this room needs a break from awkwardness. And I’ve got some thinking to do. What to wear? What exactly is tonight all about, and where is it going? Every answer seems to lead to another question around here. But I’m excited.
The full-length mirror in my corner of the room catches my eye. Show me what you’ve got, Emma.
I throw my towel on the bed, turn on the light and step up to the mirror, hands on hips. It’s a long time since I’ve been able to check myself out like this: my mirror at home is rubbish. I smile, because I do like my reflection.
My eyes are drawn to my breasts: I’ve always thought them my strongest feature. You couldn’t fail to notice ripe, lively nipples like those. They seem darker than last time I looked. They protrude ever so slightly upwards, like flowers striving for the sun, from bouncy coconut-sized mounds that scream vitality and youth. Any bigger and they’d be trying to droop, but these tits are just right.
I cock my head to one side, pleased with the naked girl before me. She’s a tiny bit paler than I’d like, but that’s being English for you. The flip side to that is that she doesn’t have any tan lines. Down there, I’ve got my usual landing strip. South of that, I’m freshly waxed. All very tidy, and I assume Miss Jackson approved of my efforts since she didn’t say anything.
I turn around and look over my shoulder. Yes, this all looks very nice too. I can’t wait to see longer hair flowing down my back, but we’re looking good. My skin is having a good summer: it’s nearly flawless. My arse isn’t as tiny as, say, Petra’s, but it fits my average proportions well. It melts pleasingly into my thighs, which taper down into knees and calves a little more gently than some of the girls here. I’m not one for the anorexic look: there’s some genuine girl-next-door substance to me. More than one boyfriend has told me he liked that, so I’m okay with me being me.
Yes, I can live with the rest of these women. We all have our pluses and minuses, I’m sure. Petra and her friend can fuck off. Whether I will perform as well as they can when push comes to shove…I have no idea.
Monday, 9pm
I’m not waiting for Petra. Lilia has come to prepare with her, and they are still farting around in our room, finishing up their makeup. I smoke a calming cigarette by the window – my first one since leaving London - watching the two of them flap away at the dresser. I hope they’ve noticed how little I needed to tart myself up to look knockout.
I bump into Simone as I head down the hallway towards the stairs. I figure she must be my neighbour. And doesn’t she look great! She’s gone for a red dress, pretty conservative really, cut at the knee and only exposing a bit of neck. But she’s working it: it really suits a tall woman like her because there’s still a lot of curvy leg on show. Especially in those high heels.
“Hey Simone, you look great!” I tell her. She smiles back at me.
“Aw, but you look better!” she says in her near-perfect English. “Blue really suits you.”
I hope she’s not just being polite. Picking out clothes isn’t my strong suit, and I’d be wasting my time trying to get an opinion from Petra and Lilia. I’ve gone for a figure-hugging number. My hem is higher than hers and this dress leaves my shoulders bare. It’s backless too.
I feel sexy in this shiny new piece, and Simone just made me feel sexier. I’m such a sucker for a formal evening do. Which is just what this feels like. For now.
We walk towards the stairs together, each clutching our little handbags. Butterflies begin to dance in my abdomen now: I haven’t had a feeling quite like this since high school.
“Kinda weird, isn’t it?” I venture. “It feels like we’re going to the prom…what with this being a school and all…”
Simone laughs: “Yeah. Only we don’t know who our dates are!”
“And we don’t know if this is quite going to turn out like a normal dinner-dance…”
“No…they don’t like to volunteer information, do they? But take it easy, I’m sure we’ll be just fine whatever happens. Just enjoy it and go with the flow.”
We’re outside the banquet room now. Wilfred is at the door, ushers us in.
“Miss Carling, Miss Veenstra, good evening. Please come in.”
Before I can even take in my new surroundings, a man steps forward.
“Hello Emma, I’ll be your partner for this evening. I am Rupert.”
My first instinct is to snigger. Rupert? Was everything going to be like time-travel in this place? But when I look at him properly, the smile is replaced by a gape.
He is an astonishingly good-looking man. Tall and handsome as they come, he looks absolutely right in his gleaming tuxedo. Probably in is mid-thirties, he looks at me with dark, soulful eyes and I melt. This doesn’t happen to me very often. This is already beating my school prom by a country mile.
He holds out an arm to me. I take it. This man knows what he is about. And this ball is the real deal. I look around the room as he leads me into it. It’s been transformed since the last time I saw it. Gone is the long dining table, replaced by a handful of round tables about the edge of the room. The tables stand on fine rugs, but the centre of the room is cleared – it’s presumably the dance floor.
The thick auburn curtains are closed over the French doors that lead onto the terrace. Soft lights complement the chandelier centrepiece, giving the whole place a cosy, warm ambience. There’s a man playing relaxing welcome tunes on a piano in the corner. It all feels like an intimate wedding reception: there’s nothing to suggest we’re at a school for budding whores. The sort of place you can tell your mother about with a smile on your face.
The room is already fairly full. I recognise Miss Honeywell and Miss Jackson, chatting together, champagne glasses in hand. Several of my fellow students are here, each with a date at her side. I notice right away that not all of them have been as lucky as me. Though all the men are groomed and dressed to perfection, and most seem to radiate a certain assurance, some of them are considerably older than my father. Not all have my man’s attractive features.
A couple of gorgeous waitresses clad in black and white circulate the room, offering drinks. I don’t recognise them as members of our group, but I take some champers nonetheless. I can only imagine it’s a big part of life in this world, and fortunately I love the stuff.
“Come and meet my friend Harry,” commands my companion. “We do a lot of business together and travel all over the world.”
An odd opening line, really, but I follow him to a couple standing a few paces away. The man I take to be Harry is handsome in a different way: he’s got a decidedly Scandinavian look, with blonde hair, blue eyes and a casual goatee. But when he opens his mouth to speak, I know he’s a Scotsman. And I’ve got all the time in the world for that accent.
With him is an English girl I’ve yet to meet properly. I can’t help noticing her red, kissable lips and the way they contrast with her fair skin. Strawberry blonde, on just the right side of short to be cute, and with an accent far posher than mine, she must be the English Rose so many foreign men seem to crave. Harry introduces her as Jane.
She shakes my hand without warmth, says ‘Oh hello, pleased to meet you,’ with a smile that’s obviously fake. I have a good sense for duplicity, and I’m getting a strong feeling of it at this moment. She avoided my eye all afternoon at our tour of the premises. I bet she’s forgotten my name already. She strikes me as too stuck-up to be a hooker…but who am I to say? I don’t know if I’m going to cut it either. At least Jane pretends to be friendly. Unlike some people I’ve come across.
* *
I begin to relax and enjoy the evening. It’s the first time anything has felt remotely normal in this house. Not that miniature embassy balls – there can’t be more than 45 people in the room – are an everyday experience for me. Nor is being on the arm of a handsome, confident stranger who looks after me all night long. But I feel beautiful, and I feel wanted.
I’m glad to finally have the chance to mingle properly, especially since my room-mate seems a lost cause. The alcohol helps, of course, and I’m well into my third glass of champagne by the time our food arrives. It’ll take more than that to get me drunk, but it does make me stop over-thinking where I am and what this is all about. Maybe I have stepped into some kind of time machine, but the champagne and my date make me inclined to just enjoy it all.
As luck would have it, Petra is at my table. I’m amused to see that she’s drawn a short straw with her date: her man Ralph is well past sixty, and his weather-beaten look suggests he’s enjoyed his life up to this point. If she’s annoyed to be paired with him, she doesn’t show it. She’s civil to him, but doesn’t volunteer much. Watching them across the table, I see a hooker for the first time. Nothing less could explain these two being wedged together, especially her air of disinterest. I can’t imagine he’d be too thrilled by her company, but I dare say he couldn’t dream of anybody so gorgeous without the help of his fat wallet.
And yes, she is hotter than ever tonight. I can’t deny it. She’d be well worth the money for any guy. I don’t think a ball gown is really her style, but her face would be worthy of any magazine cover. She’s clearly put time into it, though, with those trimmed eyebrows and big lashes. And her skin is probably more picture-perfect than that of anybody here. Again, no surprise with all those lotions I’ve seen in our room. Her pointy little ears really make her though, especially with her hair pinned up tight as it is tonight. If only the woman would smile, she’d be a princess!
There are three other classmates at our table. One of them is the tall brunette I’d showered next to this morning. And she is really tall. I always thought men avoided women of that stature, but maybe she brings something else to the table. Her name is Carrie and she’s also English. She wears black lipstick and a dark palette of makeup; her voice has an irritating nasal aspect. She’s from Sussex, I discover, educated at a rather strict convent school. She’s spent some years in the police force.
Carrie is happy enough to chat, but she has an annoying way of cutting people off when they’re talking to her. Even her date, who is half her height and receding. It’s almost as though she’s familiar with all of this, and feels as though she’s in charge. I try to probe a little into her presence here, and she candidly tells me she has been working with a mentor of her own for several months since quitting the police just after her 28 th birthday. She hasn’t done ‘paid work’ yet but keeps mentioning ‘the scene’. I have no idea what she means, so I just nod as if I understand.
The most interesting chat I have is with Latifa, though. I think it was her whose zippy firm figure and perky tits I’d noticed in the showers earlier. I’d thought then that she was tanned, but now, on closer inspection and hearing her name, I suspect she’s just plain exotic. I try to guess from her skin tone, which in truth is neither tanned nor Mediterranean. It’s more caffe latte, but with an extra dash of milk. And those intense green eyes…they’re not from around these parts.
“You’ll never guess,” she says to me, laughing as she confidently took the hand of her fine-looking companion Edward under the table.
“I guess not,” I say. “I’m thinking your background is a little more interesting than mine?”
“Well it’s pretty unique. My mother is Omani but my dad’s Irish!”
“Oh, wow…that’s an interesting combo!”
It comes to me now, where I’ve seen that look before. It’s the dazzling prettiness you get when you mix Arab with North European. I’ve had a couple of colleagues of such descent, and both were drop-dead stunners.
“So…your English is perfect accent is pretty hard to place,” I continue, fearful of inadvertently causing offence. “Did you grow up in England then?”
I can’t imagine she’d be here if she’d been raised in a conservative place like Oman.
“Nope,” she shakes her head forcefully. “I’m pretty much Omani born and bred. Fully Muslim.” She winks at me when she says this.
“Wow,” I say again. “Then this is….er….especially naughty for you, isn’t it?”
“My parents allowed me loads of freedom of thought – my dad was a big part of that. I went to a typical local school, veils and all the rest of it, but at home my sisters and I were never censored. And we travelled a lot. I knew what was out there in the world.”
“Well, so did I! But this….this is a big step all the same…”
She shrugs.
“It’s something I’ve been thinking about for a long time. I saw things in Dubai and I saw things in Amsterdam. And…I enjoy being with a man.”
She smiles into her date’s eyes as she says this. This girl has got attitude in spades.
“My parents might be liberal but they sure as hell wouldn’t like to hear about this,” she continues. “As far as they know I’m studying in Newcastle. Which I am…but we’re on a term break and I thought this would be a fun way to spend it!”
She’s warm with her escort in a completely unforced way. I can totally imagine she’d genuinely like to make love to him, and that she’d be spectacular at it. Her hair is long and gently curled: I’m really envious of it. And I already know she has a body to die for. I’m not jealous, exactly, but I admire her for her looks and candour. Above all, though, for her easy manner. I can’t bring myself to be so flirtatious with my guy, even though he’s cute as hell and his cologne smells out of this world.
I’m constantly aware of him, though, and constantly aware that I have surely got the hottest date of anyone here. It brings a quiet smile to my lips every so often, especially when stony-faced Petra and her man catch my eye. More so when I think of the lacy red g-string and bra I’m wearing. But there’s so much else to take in.
There are a few women not from our group, whom I take to be mentors. Miss Jackson is there, but doesn’t seem to have a partner like some of her colleagues do. I wonder if she’s watching how I behave tonight. And then there are the extra men. Perhaps twelve of them, occupying a couple of tables on the other side of the room. I make out that one of them is the man who woke us this morning and sent us to the group shower. He has a stern look about him and doesn’t seem to engage the others much.
They too are a mixed bunch in terms of looks and ages, but I can see from here that they’re preened to perfection, each of them exuding sophistication. But they don’t seem to have dates: they spend the evening talking amongst themselves. Occasionally they glance in our direction, and once or twice I get the feeling I might be the subject of their chatter. I try to ignore the rising pride in my belly, but that gets a little harder when Rupert takes my hand under the table after dinner.
The booze is taking effect on the room and on me. The whole scenario is making me a little giddy, itching for a snog at least. But I’m just plain confused. I know what the old Emma would do: she wouldn’t be shy to encourage her chosen guy but also wouldn’t rush into bed with anyone. I’m pretty sure I know what Emma the booked escort would need to do. But Emma the escort-in-training? She has no idea what’s expected of her. So she waits.
And now, dinner done, a band has replaced the piano. Couples move to the dancefloor. Rupert and I are among the first. I feel right at home here. It’s mostly waltzing – what else? – but I know where to put my feet. So, inevitably, does Rupert, who leads like a real gentleman. There’s literally nothing I’d change about him.
But I would like to know a few things. What is his business here and how did he get to be my date? What does he do when he’s not here? He’s made me curious all night by asking me all about myself while giving little away. I press him again when we’re close on the dancefloor, but he hushes me by putting a finger to my lips.
“Don’t be a curious girl, Emma,” he says in his public-school accent. “A lady does not ask too many questions. She should relax and let herself be taken care of.”
Fuck, that’s a good answer.
My tongue wants to dart out and touch his finger. I only just stop myself.
Close your eyes, Emma.
I can feel desire having its way with me. And it has nothing to do with why I’m at the school. It’s the ball, the drinks, the dancing. It’s Rupert.
We dance for what feels like hours. And now we’re on the terrace. Champagne still flowing. It must be gone midnight. Just Rupert and I. Looking out over the pool. He has his arm around me.
And still he wants to know all about me. My schooling. My parents. My relationships. Where I learned to dance. The job I’ve just left.
And still he won’t give anything away. Except that Rupert is not his real name. He says it with a tiny smirk and looks me dead in the eye.
It’s a starry night, warm by English standards, but I’m glad of his body warmth pressed up against me. A few other people are also outside now, but I’m so wrapped up in myself now that I’ve no idea who. I’ve forgotten that I might be under observation. My yearning for a kiss is off the scale now: I’ve resorted to just looking up at him, my pout speaking louder than any words could.
Any moment now, surely.
But suddenly, Rupert yawns and takes his arm off me.
“It’s been a wonderful evening, Miss Carling. You’re an absolute delight for a gentleman, let me tell you. Alas, I must turn in now. And you shouldn’t stay up too late.”
I gape at him, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He just takes my arm, leads me into the room, then bids me good night with a peck on the cheek.
Monday, 2am
I toss and turn, a million miles from sleeping. Damn him, that Rupert, he’s made me like a coiled spring. The whole day has. Twice I’ve been naked and watched. And then the dance party, where everything was so right, so fucking right, but everything petered out.
Here I am in a whore school, so fucking horny, but I don’t know what to do about it. I shake my head, wonder if tonight was supposed to be some gigantic tease.
I feel my own hand burrow under the lining of my little shorts. It seeks out my desperate button and I shudder as my middle finger brushes it for the first time.
Seriously, Emma, not now. You’re not alone.
Not sure if Petra is awake or asleep.
I dip into my slit, rub gently along its length. I can’t believe I’m actually wet already. The stress of work has deadened my libido for months now, but tonight seems to have revived it. Big time.
You’ll get noisy. You know you will.
I push two fingers inside my cunt, hard. I feel my shoulders curl as I throw my legs open beneath the covers. Rupert is kneeling above me, poised.
Why are you teasing yourself?
The voice of reason is shouting too loud. Reluctantly I yank my fingers out, flip over, bury my head in my pillow and groan softly. Pure frustration.
The thought of finding relief in the bathroom crosses my mind. Or the garden. Hell, maybe even that sauna. But surely going out alone will be scary. And I might get in trouble, even though nobody said anything about a curfew.
I resolve to do the English thing and suffer in silence. I wonder if Petra is lying awake, thinking the same thoughts. But I guess not - she’s dead inside, isn’t she? Pity: I’d consider turning for her right now. I hate her, but she is one of the most attractive women I’ve ever met.
Every now and then I catch a whiff of the scent of my own cream that coated my fingers as I jabbed them inside of me, and have to force my thoughts elsewhere.
It’s a long, long time before sleep finally takes me.
Wynona
- 05.04.2021
- 14
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- Category:
- Straight Sex
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