Anna awoke drained and irritable. She had slept in, not because she and Stephanie had dined late or because she had drunk copious amounts of wine—she hadn’t—but because when she’d arrived home she had not been in the mood for sleep. Instead, curled under a blanket on the sofa, she’d flicked despondently through each and every late night television channel.
She’d also reflected on the danger of allowing herself to be drawn back into Adam’s world.
While he’d been away, everything had changed. More to the point, she had changed. She was no longer the naïve and susceptible girl he had found so easy to dominate. Once he’d discovered she was back on her feet and carving out a future for herself, he wouldn’t be interested in her anyway. So what was the point?
And that was why, despite having agreed to consider Stephanie’s request, she had no intention of actually doing so. It wouldn’t be prudent to tell her though. After all, she relied on the goodwill of the agency for an income.
Anna switched channels again. And again.
Whichever way she looked at it, she was damned. Of all her clients, Adam had been the only one to challenge her professional veneer. No one else had ever done so. Perhaps because no one else had wanted the responsibility. Wasn’t she the one expected to put in the effort, not the other way around? At best, her clients considered her unrestrained and enthusiastic performance no more than they deserved, given the amount they were paying to use her body. At worst, well, if they remembered the name she went under, it was a bonus. But regardless of all that, every one of them went back to their wives and partners without giving her a second thought.
Adam had been different. He had taken the time to get to know her—as much as a client could ever do when paying for sex. Then he set out to discover the chink in her armour.
Somewhat exasperated, she pointed the remote at the television once more. Why was there never anything on when she wanted to watch? Sports on at least two channels, the repeat of a daytime soap on another; even the documentary on the third was a good twelve months old. She hadn’t even a decent movie to play on her DVR. She flung down the remote and threw herself onto her back.
Why had he chosen her, and not another escort? Had her detachment really been such a challenge? In her experience clients expected little more than a charade, and that was what made the role so easy. But he had delved further, seducing her into exposing an unhealthy desire for punishment and atonement that, until then, she’d no idea existed.
He’d become her nemesis, shaming and humiliating her at will, until soon she’d craved such debasement.
Mea culpa.
She shuddered and glanced around uneasily, wondering if it were possible for him to know that at that moment she was thinking of him. A disparaging sound rose from her throat. She needed to get a grip. Really, she doubted he had any idea Stephanie had even talked to her yet.
She threw off the blanket in exasperation and got up to make herself a mug of hot milk. The last thing she wanted was to lie awake all night, going over and over the same ground. It wasn’t as if she didn’t understand the psychology of the situation. In taking the path she had, she’d fallen well short of her father’s expectations and her mother’s dreams. Worse, her mother had gone to her grave believing her daughter was something she was not. What would she think now? A career in ruins, unless it was her life as a prostitute under consideration. She was certainly successful in that respect.
Opening the fridge, she took a carton from inside the door and tipped milk into her favourite mug—one decorated with a Noah’s Ark of colourful cartoon animals.
She couldn’t believe she hadn’t considered the possibility he would return from overseas. After all, he owned a residence in one of the most affluent and leafy fringes of the city. She should know; she had been there many times. Or that in doing so, he might re-establish contact with the agency.
She wondered what he would do if she refused to see him. Would he simply move on, as he had done before? Or would he continue to use the agency, only instead of booking her, ask for someone else?
She wasn’t sure how she felt about that.
Of course she had no right to expect exclusivity. From Adam or anyone else. Especially since he was exactly the type of client the agency catered to most.
Leaning against the bench, she folded her arms and watched her mug spin slowly around and around inside the microwave oven.
No. He would definitely book someone else. And do it without a second thought.
Would any of the other girls respond to him as she had done? Who could tell? Perhaps he would find someone even more docile, more accepting.
More wanting.
Back on the sofa, mug in one hand, she picked up the remote control and went back to pressing button after button in the hope of finding something, anything, to take her mind off his request.
There was nothing, and eventually she turned the screen off. Plunged into semi–darkness, the ceiling took on the sodium yellow of the mooring and walkway lights, six floors below.
She hadn’t known what she was getting into the first time Adam had booked her, and she had returned home shaken and upset. Not that he had done anything to make her feel that way. It had been her reaction to his demands—and the knowledge she had willingly handed over control—that had left her in such a state.
She had even tried to turn down a second booking, although to give Stephanie and the agency their due, there was never any pressure to accept clients. Him, or anyone else.
Placing the remains of her milk on the coffee table, she drew the blanket up under her chin and closed her eyes.
There was a tightness in her stomach, as if long dormant nerves were coming alive. She breathed slowly. In. Out. She hadn’t felt this way for a long time. Not since he’d gone.
Shifting slightly to find a more comfortable position, she passed a hand over her aching breasts. Cupping and caressing herself she forced her fingers into the thick toweling of her robe and squeezed the pliant flesh as hard as she could.
He had called them tits. Breasts were for good girls. Hers were tits, or hooters, or jugs. Udders even.
It was not as if such derogatory words were new to her. Often uttered by clients as they raced to orgasm, their baseness would wash over her as meaningless background noise. But when Adam used them, it was different.
The thought ignited a heady spasm of pleasure, and her back arched.
He’d demeaned her with names and worse, much worse. And she had reveled in it.
But perhaps she was being a little unfair. Yes, he had demanded her complete submission, and perhaps that was a little extreme, but hadn’t he later given her exquisite pleasure in return?
She replayed the first time he’d used her, and her breath quickened. At first everything had been as normal. Then he had begun to touch her in a way that had left her gasping.
He’d buried two fingers deep inside her. A thumb had massaged her clit. She’d clung to him, an overwhelming and immediate urge to cum racking her body. She rarely came when working.
His response was to calmly inform her that since she was there for his pleasure and not the other way around, he would not allow it. Swallowing hard, she’d fought to regain control of herself. It was his fantasy, after all.
She’d been surprised, though. Clients loved it when she pretended to orgasm, so it was unusual—and not a little frustrating—that when she genuinely needed to do so, it was forbidden.
Perhaps because of that, she’d found it even harder to hold back that night and was soon groaning and pleading, trying to get him to understand that there was no way on earth she could prevent herself from tipping over the edge unless he stopped what he was doing.
Thankfully he’d taken pity on her and transferred his attention to her mouth, pushing his thick, hard cock between her lips and into her throat. He was not the first client to cum that way, but at the time she’d still been awkward and unpracticed.
The following day she’d been mortified. That she’d been reduced to begging a client was not only unheard of, it was completely unprofessional, and that was when she made the decision never to see him again. But her resolve was short-lived. The next time he requested her, she went. And the time after, and the time after that.
Kicking off the blanket, she eased aside the robe and tried to take the edge off her desire by rolling a nipple between her finger and thumb.
Electricity surged through her.
She hated that merely thinking of him could have such an effect on her. Pinching and squeezing the tender nub, she sought pain to return her to sensibility.
She couldn’t go back to all that. She couldn’t.
Her other hand slipped down over her belly as if of its own volition, but on reaching the narrow triangle of fine hair, she hesitated. It would be a betrayal of all she stood for. Her strength, her control, her independence.
Then her middle finger was parting lips already slick with juice and finding her entrance. She allowed only the very tip to enter and it gave easily, welcomingly. She pushed deeper. It felt so good, almost as good as when he did it to her.
Groaning in despair, she drew away to concentrate on her nipples.
She had been taught well.
Cumming should not be a relief. It should not be rushed. Instead it should be sought out as the ultimate connection—an emotional and physical balance of mind, body, and soul.
When her hand lowered once more it was to her clit. Massaging and rotating the sensitive tip she breathed deeply. She was so close. But he was watching her, telling her, not yet, not yet. Obediently she removed her hand and squeezed her thighs tightly together. When the searing urge had passed, she brought her knees up to her chest, fetal-like, and clasped them.
Was he right about her?
He’d called her a true whore. And not just on the one occasion.
Why hadn’t she already gotten out of the industry? Her debts were paid, so was it that the money was too easy or was it something far unhealthier? Something she didn’t want to face? Did she actually enjoy having men paw at her tits and fill her cunt with rubber-sheathed, anonymous erections?
She lowered her legs and again touched her clit with her middle finger. Was that the truth? For all she thought she was a liberated woman carving out her future, was she really little more than a condom-carrying slut, searching for a man to fuck her into submission?
Spreading her legs wide as if wanting to ensure him the best view of her cunt, she began tormenting her engorged flesh.
She was wet, so wet.
Her fingers found her hole again and pushed inside. One, then two.
If it was true, and she wanted to carry on selling her body, she would need punishing. It was the only way.
She had thought she didn’t need him. Thought she was able to cope with her choices.
Her fingers were moving faster.
She was close. Oh so close.
She opened her eyes. She had to stop. Stop before she went too far.
Her fingers were sopping. She couldn’t breathe. It was as if someone was pushing down on her chest.
Fuck, she needed it. Oh fuck.
Please.
Let me.
Her cunt was alive and demanding relief.
She touched her clit again. Pressed down and massaged the swollen tip with a sticky finger.
No.
Let me, please let me. Just this once. I need it.
What do you need?
I need to cum.
Really?
Yesssss.
Not yet.
Please. I can’t do this.
Yes you can.
No I can’t.
You will.
She was panting.
She really couldn’t breathe.
She was so close.
But she removed her hand obediently.
Her legs were trembling. All it would take was the slightest touch, and she would cum immediately.
She pulled on a nipple, groaning deliriously. The agony of denial was exquisite.
You are getting off on this.
No!
Why lie?
Please. Please.
Tell me, why should I let you?
Because I need it.
Need it? Where is your control?
I have none. Whatever you want from me, take it. I don’t care. Take it. Whatever it is. Take it.
Are you sure?
Yes. Do it to me. Please. Let me cum.
Then touch yourself.
Her finger was immediately back on her clit. The relief was indescribable.
Do not cum. Not yet. Wait.
But ….
Her back had arched, and she was wailing in distress.
I can’t stop.
But I want you to.
Please don’t make me.
Don’t you want to please me?
Yes. But I can’t do this.
Of course you can.
I can’t. No more, no more. Please. Whatever you want, it’s yours.
She was incoherent. She felt as if she were turning in on herself. Losing herself inside the dark corridors of her mind.
Please. I’m too close.
Will you come back to me?
Yes.
Willingly?
Yes.
And will you accept my authority?
Nothing more than a despairing groan.
I can’t hear you.
Yessss.
It was a long drawn out whisper.
Then cum for me, Anna.