though, not by a long shot. But, there’s one particular lady who did like to hear me talk dirty now and again.’
‘Who was that?’
Damn, she was asking questions again, and that was bad form for an escort.
‘An older woman of my acquaintance. I’ll tell you about her sometime. Now, do you think we might resume our phone sex? I was enjoying it. Where are your fingers now?’
Lizzie sank more comfortably into the pillows, and slid her free hand back inside her sleep shorts. She was still hot, still wet. Still almost there, despite everything.
‘One lot holding the phone, naturally . . . the others still in my knickers, in the usual place.’
‘Wonderful! At the risk of sounding like the world’s worst cliché of a mucky telephone pervert . . . what are you wearing? Do you wear knickers in bed? You said you were scruffy . . . How scruffy?’
Lizzie smiled to herself. He did sound like a telephone pervert, but in the most luscious and desirable way.
‘I’m wearing a pair of soft jersey shorts and a plain white tee shirt. Nothing too glamorous, just sleep grunge.’
‘Mm . . . I’m picturing the scene . . . white tee shirt. Thin cotton, with erect nipples evident beneath. Little, tight grungy shorts, with your hand inside them, fiddling about . . . And you’re super wet, am I right?’
‘Yes.’ She was a swimming pond, almost ready to come.
‘When you were masturbating before, what were you fantasising about? Tell me. What gets a woman like you going? What are your secret turn-ons?’
A woman like her? How little he knew. Or perhaps not? He might have rumbled her and was playing her along. As an older man, and one infinitely more sophisticated than any she’d ever met before, he was difficult to read.
‘A woman in my line of work? Well, I fantasise about sitting in front of the telly, in a puce velour tracksuit, eating crisps and watching Countdown . . . Now that’s exotic to me!’
‘Bettie . . .’ His voice was low and warning, utterly thrilling. Just as it would have been in that dungeon she’d fancied him in.
‘All right already . . . I was fantasising about being in a dungeon and you punishing me, if you must know. You and your kinky ways have warped my mind.’ She was already back there, hanging on the chain, while John prowled around her, whip in hand, ready to lash.
‘Am I more kinky than most of your clients, then? I would’ve thought you’d see all kinds, get asked for all sorts of things.’
‘I do, but it’s like we said . . . where punishment’s concerned, it’s usually the men who want me to thrash them. Being on the other end of the stick, so to speak, is a novelty.’ And a gigantic turn-on. Her sex was dripping, making a damp patch on the back of her shorts. Impatient with them, she whipped them off and flung them away, spreading her thighs wide now unhindered. ‘John, I just took my shorts off . . . do you mind?’
‘But I didn’t give you permission.’ His voice sounded like navy blue velvet, rich and dark. She’d played right into his hands.
‘Forgive me, master. Shall I put them back on?’
‘No . . . leave them. Are your legs spread wide?’ She could swear he could see her. How could he do that? Was he a remote viewer, or some kind of wizard?
‘Yes, master.’
‘Now, place your free hand on your thighs. Don’t touch yourself. Just talk to me. If you disobey me . . . if you come . . . I’ll know, and I’ll punish you even harder next time we meet.’
Oh no! It wasn’t the punishment that bothered her. She was suddenly yearning for that. It was the not touching. Her clit was throbbing, aching, yearning for contact. She could swear it was twice its normal size, swollen and sensitive.
‘Do you understand me, Bettie?’
‘Y—yes, master.’ Her non-phone hand felt like a useless object pressed against her inner thigh, but she couldn’t move it. She was immobilised by his will.
‘So, let’s talk about this fantasy dungeon of yours, and
‘Who was that?’
Damn, she was asking questions again, and that was bad form for an escort.
‘An older woman of my acquaintance. I’ll tell you about her sometime. Now, do you think we might resume our phone sex? I was enjoying it. Where are your fingers now?’
Lizzie sank more comfortably into the pillows, and slid her free hand back inside her sleep shorts. She was still hot, still wet. Still almost there, despite everything.
‘One lot holding the phone, naturally . . . the others still in my knickers, in the usual place.’
‘Wonderful! At the risk of sounding like the world’s worst cliché of a mucky telephone pervert . . . what are you wearing? Do you wear knickers in bed? You said you were scruffy . . . How scruffy?’
Lizzie smiled to herself. He did sound like a telephone pervert, but in the most luscious and desirable way.
‘I’m wearing a pair of soft jersey shorts and a plain white tee shirt. Nothing too glamorous, just sleep grunge.’
‘Mm . . . I’m picturing the scene . . . white tee shirt. Thin cotton, with erect nipples evident beneath. Little, tight grungy shorts, with your hand inside them, fiddling about . . . And you’re super wet, am I right?’
‘Yes.’ She was a swimming pond, almost ready to come.
‘When you were masturbating before, what were you fantasising about? Tell me. What gets a woman like you going? What are your secret turn-ons?’
A woman like her? How little he knew. Or perhaps not? He might have rumbled her and was playing her along. As an older man, and one infinitely more sophisticated than any she’d ever met before, he was difficult to read.
‘A woman in my line of work? Well, I fantasise about sitting in front of the telly, in a puce velour tracksuit, eating crisps and watching Countdown . . . Now that’s exotic to me!’
‘Bettie . . .’ His voice was low and warning, utterly thrilling. Just as it would have been in that dungeon she’d fancied him in.
‘All right already . . . I was fantasising about being in a dungeon and you punishing me, if you must know. You and your kinky ways have warped my mind.’ She was already back there, hanging on the chain, while John prowled around her, whip in hand, ready to lash.
‘Am I more kinky than most of your clients, then? I would’ve thought you’d see all kinds, get asked for all sorts of things.’
‘I do, but it’s like we said . . . where punishment’s concerned, it’s usually the men who want me to thrash them. Being on the other end of the stick, so to speak, is a novelty.’ And a gigantic turn-on. Her sex was dripping, making a damp patch on the back of her shorts. Impatient with them, she whipped them off and flung them away, spreading her thighs wide now unhindered. ‘John, I just took my shorts off . . . do you mind?’
‘But I didn’t give you permission.’ His voice sounded like navy blue velvet, rich and dark. She’d played right into his hands.
‘Forgive me, master. Shall I put them back on?’
‘No . . . leave them. Are your legs spread wide?’ She could swear he could see her. How could he do that? Was he a remote viewer, or some kind of wizard?
‘Yes, master.’
‘Now, place your free hand on your thighs. Don’t touch yourself. Just talk to me. If you disobey me . . . if you come . . . I’ll know, and I’ll punish you even harder next time we meet.’
Oh no! It wasn’t the punishment that bothered her. She was suddenly yearning for that. It was the not touching. Her clit was throbbing, aching, yearning for contact. She could swear it was twice its normal size, swollen and sensitive.
‘Do you understand me, Bettie?’
‘Y—yes, master.’ Her non-phone hand felt like a useless object pressed against her inner thigh, but she couldn’t move it. She was immobilised by his will.
‘So, let’s talk about this fantasy dungeon of yours, and
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