The Escort

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A BBW escort finds love.
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DawnJ
DawnJ
323 Followers

She had never forgiven herself, she realized as she lay in the tub, the froth of suds hiding her flesh even from her own eyes. After all these years, all these missed opportunities, all this shame, she was still unforgiven by the one person from whom she most needed it. The pain of that hit her square in the chest, and she raised a hand to rub the ache away, disturbing the blanket of bubbles, and seeing the ghost of a ripe breast beneath the water. The tears slid down her cheeks, adding their salt to the sweet flavor of jasmine in the bath.

If she hadn't been so needy, if she hadn't been so sure she was unattractive, if she hadn't been so afraid to say no, maybe things would have been different. Maybe she wouldn't be where she was now, a lonely, fat, middle-aged whore, no longer wanted by anyone. Her lifestyle belied her dark secret. A pleasant, fairly successful writer of fantasy whodunits by day, she had become a call girl -- an "escort", if you felt like being kind -- by night (and remained that way for five years), right when her life had gone south after the wedding-that-wasn't.

Tonight, after the last client had left, and she had taken the limousine he had left for her back home, she had known she couldn't do it anymore. Fat was no longer in -- hell, it had only really been "in" because she catered to men with a taste for extra flesh. Her body was not even HER temple any more, let alone one any man worth his salt would find an interest in worshiping in. Her last client had been warm, sweet, even loving, as he had always been in the four years they had known each other. But she had sensed, when he had kissed her goodnight, that it had been the end. She would never see him again. He had had his fill.

And so had she.

Stupid, that's what she was. It took that moment of realization for her to recognize the feelings that she had never examined, where he was concerned, as love. Foolishly, she had fallen in love with her john -- her Matt. How or when exactly that catastrophe had happened she didn't know, but the hurt she nursed as she sat in her bath now, trying to wash away her sins, would never be calmed. No balm would ever salve the deep wound that loving a man, who in all likelihood despised her, had left behind.

She closed her eyes on the memories, but they marched past, like a silent movie, only in living color. Matt on the sofa in the suite they always used, his shirt unbuttoned, the silky chest hairs teasing her eyes, feathering her fingertips with the promise of sensual delight. Matt at the sliding glass doors, only his trousers on, the sunlight making him glow like a god, his chest muscled, his shoulders broad. Matt in the rumpled sheets, his long leg curled over her spine, his body warm and aroused, his mouth leaving a trail of fire wherever he touched her. None of her other clients had left her feeling the way he did, and stupidly, she had just assumed it was because he was the kindest.

He HAD been the kindest, the sexiest, the most attentive, the most romantic.

The phone rang, but she could not rouse herself enough to get out to answer it. She heard a male voice, but it was muffled, and she closed her mind and let it go. She'd hear it soon enough. She had the rest of her life to hide and heal her broken heart. Finally, when she began to shiver in the increasingly chilled water, she pulled the plug and rinsed herself with warm water from the nickel-plated shower-head. Reaching for the thick, over-sized bath towel, she wrapped its warm buttery folds around her and stepped onto the thick rug. Her toes sank deeply into the pile, and she reached down and dried between them, then walked into the adjoining bedroom, sitting before her dressing table and beginning her nightly ritual.

The phone rang again. She ignored it, wondering vaguely what could possibly be so important that anyone would want to call her at three in the morning. The answering machine came on again, and she listened idly, until the voice, its English accent marked, made her eyes widen. She paused, her fingers suddenly trembling on her cheek.

"Gael, I know you're there. Pick up the phone."

The last person she wanted to talk to was Matt. She sat still as a stone, as though she thought he would think she was not there if she remained quiet.

"If you force my hand, I'll do the one thing you fear the most."

She was a stone, unable to move, wondering what he could mean.

"Right then."

A click broke the spell that she seemed to have been trapped under, and she moved, rushing from the dresser, knocking over the dainty stool, and rushing to find something to put on before he came. Because she knew he would come. How he knew where she lived she did not know. Truth be told, she did not care in that moment, being more concerned to shore up her failing defenses in anticipation of an assault of the kind she had not ever faced before. Clothing was a barrier, and if she dressed in as unalluring a way as possible, perhaps she could stop whatever plan he had in mind.

Five outfits later, she returned to the one she had begun with. Black socks on her feet, black jeans, and a thick, bright blue sweater that reached to throat and wrists, no makeup, and only her coconut-flavored lip balm to keep her dry lips moist. She passed a comb through her hair, and stuck it in a scrunchie, and slid damp palms down her thighs when the doorbell chimed. She should be asleep, not entertaining gentlemen callers at this ungodly hour!

The heavy door admitted him, and she watched as he turned and closed it, snicking the locks back into place. He was also in jeans, but he wore a heavy bomber jacket over a plain black tee, and a scarf adorned his neck. His black boots were heavy but silent on her shining wooden floors as she led him into the den. She would have preferred the more formal space of the living room, to keep a distance between them, but the painters had left cloths over everything in preparation for the work later.

She gestured for him to sit, but she remained standing by the door, like a deer ready to bound away at the first sign of trouble.

"What couldn't wait till next time, Matt?"

His eyes told her he was not fooled by the question, and his words confirmed it.

"There won't be a next time, Gael, and you know it."

Plain words, no inflection, except for the conviction in his words, and the fire in his eyes. She swallowed, and garbed herself in bravado.

"Who died and made you the boss of me?" she asked, remaining by the door, and giving the lie to her question.

He stood up, and suddenly the space was too small.

"Would you like something to drink?" she asked, backing away from him and trying not to give away her panic by rushing into the kitchen ahead of him.

He reached her before she reached safe ground, stopping her in her tracks by the closet door. His insistent fingers, hard on her upper arm, pulled her around to face him.

"How much longer, Gael? When will you stop?"

His eyes -- wide, the color of fresh-brewed coffee -- bored into her own, pinning her in place as deftly as if she were an insect on display.

"I...I don't know what you mean!" she protested.

"Don't lie to me, Gael. And even more, don't lie to yourself!"

His voice was rough now, whether with anger, which she had never heard from him, or with desire, which she should have recognized and didn't, she couldn't say. But she could tell that he was in the grip of a strong emotion, for she felt the faint trembling of his hands as he held her, the way his body trembled every time, just before he orgasmed. She was distracted by her need to know what he was feeling, as much as by her need to feel him closer than he was.

This was wrong. He was a client, nothing more. There WERE no feelings between an escort and her clients. She shouldn't care what he was feeling, only how she could make it better. And yet, as she tried to get the words out, to ask how she could serve him, he made her look into his eyes, and the emotion she saw there silenced her as surely as anything he might have said to her.

She tried to wrench away from his restraining hands, but he refused to budge, and she felt tears welling. She lowered her head, suddenly angry that he could make her cry, after five years of cool-headed, hard, empty sex.

"Let me go, Matt!" she demanded, her voice hoarse, as though she wanted him more than her next breath -- not at all the effect she was going for.

"No!"

A harsh sound, and then he pulled her all the way into his hard body and kissed her. If she had thought he was ever aroused by her, the kiss he laid on her just then told her she had been sadly mistaken. It was ravenous, as though he had never feasted from her bounty before, as though this was their first kiss, promised and anticipated over long months of separation.

"Please Matt, please!"

Begging...she had been reduced to begging! Because she knew if he kissed her again, even a chaste peck on the cheek, she would fall apart, and before she knew it, she would be confessing to feelings that he could not possibly return. She would never live down the embarrassment of an unrequited love for a client.

"What are you so afraid of, Gael? How long have we known each other? Huh? What don't you understand, after all this time?"

He was angry. Finally, there was an emotion she could name, though she didn't understand it. What did he have to be so angry about? What had she done? She cast about in her mind, trying to recall their last evening together. He had come right on time, as he always did, and she had noted that he looked especially exhausted. He had said it was nothing, but she could feel his preoccupation, through their dinner by the fire, to the drinks and the sex. He had seemed almost animalistic, rough with her in a way that frightened as it excited her. He had seemed almost rabid in his desire, as though he thought she was going to disappear and he needed to keep her there with him...

Suddenly, it was important to reassure him. She may have decided never to turn another trick for anyone else, but if he ever needed her, if, by some miracle, he still wanted her, she would never say no to him.

"Matt," she called to him, as though he were a great way off, instead of standing before her, his body touching hers from chest to knees, "I don't know how you knew I have decided not to do this anymore, but..."

She faltered, and his eyes, suddenly clouded by doubt and questions, pushed her to continue.

"...but I will never say no to you."

She lowered her eyes again, feeling a burn of shame she did not understand. She was a lustful woman, and had always been, and it had served her well these last ten years, when she had let herself learn how to please the men she had chosen to serve. So why now, when it was over, did she feel the weight of those words like a condemnation of her, hanging over them like the pendulum in Poe's story?

"Why?"

A single word, but she felt as though her whole future depended on what she said in reply. She looked into his coffee eyes again, and he repeated his question, adding, as though to help her out,

"Why won't you say no to me?"

"Because..." She hesitated.

"Don't lie to me, Gael! The time for pretending is over!" His warning startled her into looking him in the eye again.

"I care for you, Matt!" She held his gaze, though inside she trembled with fear, waiting for the hurt to overtake her when he rejected her. She knew he would be kind, but what was kindness when she would be unmasked, vulnerable, raked over?

He let her go, and she felt the loss of his body heat immediately. She turned away and walked on unsteady legs into the kitchen, reaching blindly for a cabinet pull, opening a door, taking out a mug and placing it on the counter. The crash startled her, and she gasped when she saw the broken remains of her mug scattered across the floor, and felt the warmth of tears on her cheeks.

"Leave it. I'll clean it up!" Matt said, pulling her away from the mess and sitting her on the stool by the center island. "Where do your keep your broom?"

She pointed to the closet by the door, and watched him clean up in a daze. She saw him searching her cabinets, taking out glasses, and looking in her refrigerator. When he came to sit next to her, he handed her a glass of wine.

"Drink up! I couldn't find anything stronger!"

She drank obediently, and when he took the glass from her unresisting fingers, she gathered up her inner strength and waited. He drained his glass, and then he took her hands.

"Gael, was it so hard to say you cared for me?"

Now he waited. She sighed, and then she said, "Yes, it was." She turned to face him fully. "I'm a whore, Matt..."

"Stop it!" His voice was angry again. "Don't you dare belittle yourself to me!"

"But it's true!"

"What do you know about truth?" he demanded, shouting at her. "D'you think you managed to keep the sleaze away from your door by yourself? D'you think I came to see you for four years because I couldn't get my itch scratched somewhere else, with someone else? D'you think you're the only one who knows to do the things you did for me in this town? Well you're wrong! Bloody wrong!"

The tears burst from her eyes, and she scrambled to stand, to get away from the cutting sharpness of his words. My God! She hadn't even been a good whore! Her humiliation was complete. She stumbled and almost fell, but when he reached for her to steady her, she slapped his hands away and ran. She needed to get as far away from him as possible, and the sooner the better....

There was no sound behind her, nothing to tell her she would not escape. She turned to go up the stairs, and felt that iron grip that had held her powerless before. She tugged frantically, desperate to escape the shame that was all she could expect, furious that she was rendered immobile by Matt's superior strength. They were almost of a height, but the extra three inches and fifty pounds he had on her were apparently sufficient to stop her in her tracks.

"If you go up there, you'll only delay the inevitable, Gael. And we both know that right now the last thing either of us needs is another orgasm." He pulled her off the tread she stood on, into his arms, and held her till she stopped wriggling like a worm on a hook. "The next time I lie in bed with you, it will be for all the right reasons, or I'll never lie with you again!"

Instantly the fight left her, but the fury that he would hold this final carrot over her head grew into a roaring blaze inside her. How could he use the one thing it was clear he knew she did not want to lose against her? She fumed as he led her back into the den, and shrugged off his arm as she sat in the straight-backed chair, as far away from him as she could be in the small space.

"How many men have you worked with, Gael?" he began, his voice deceptively calm. She knew now not to take his seeming serenity for granted. He was a volcanic eruption waiting to happen. But she kept a stubborn silence, not willing to quantify her shame.

"Shall I tell you how many?" he demanded, his tone still a quiet stroke of sound across her jangled nerves.

She glared at him, wondering how he would know such a thing. She knew very well how many, but she failed to see what that had to do with him telling her she was a lousy lay.

"In the time I have known you, a little over four years, you have served ten men, most over the course of a weekend. And do you know how many of these men has been a repeat client, Gael?"

His voice was lower now, softer, smoother, like melted chocolate being poured. She felt her face flush a deep crimson and looked away to the painting that graced the wall over the fireplace. They both knew the answer to that question, both felt it in the air, suddenly charged with sparks that snapped and crackled around them.

Why was he doing this to her? He had never been unkind to her. Why now? Why force her to face her inadequacies in the one thing she had felt most empowered to do? She bit her lip hard to stop herself from asking, and dug her unpolished nails into her palms.

"Did you ever wonder why I kept coming back to you, Gael? Even once, did you ask yourself why?"

"Obviously it wasn't because I was giving you anything you couldn't have gotten elsewhere!" she answered sharply, throwing his words back at him, trying and failing to keep the hurt out of her voice. She clamped her lips shut, to hold back sobs and pretend a calm she was not feeling.

She felt him pause, felt his eyes take her in where she sat, poised for battle.

"Gael, what are you thinking?" He was suddenly suspicious, suddenly agitated, finally aware, it seemed, that his words may have sent the wrong message. She could see the dawning realization in his eyes, and she flinched when he came and knelt before her, covering her fists with his big hands.

"I'm sorry, baby!" He bent his head to kiss the fists that still curled tightly in on themselves, and then raised his eyes to stare into hers.

"You have always been my best lover!"

She didn't believe him. Those were just the words of a man caught in an act of gross unkindness trying to make amends. She inhaled deeply, and the scent of him filled her nostrils. It was as familiar to her as his informal attire was strange. It was unsettling to feel so ashamed and angry, and yet to find herself suddenly wanting to stroke his hair, to reach over and touch his cheek, to run her fingers over his full lips. She held herself still, willing him to release her, to move away, to let her have the room to stay angry, so she could stiffen her spine. He'd tire of the game he seemed intent on playing soon and leave, and she could commence with hiding and healing.

"This conversation began with you claiming to speak the truth. Want to know what I think the truth is?"

He was still kneeling in front of her, his hands over hers, and she didn't dare to hold his gaze any longer.

"I think you have wanted to stop since we met. I think you only started because you thought this was the only way you could hold a man's attention. I think you have hated needing a man's attention. I think you hate yourself for making this choice."

His voice was steady, almost dispassionate, but she could feel him trembling again, and she wondered that he could be as affected by the things he was saying as she was. How he knew these things she couldn't tell. She had never discussed her life with him before the time they met, nor had she ever asked him about his own. Their relationship had been forged in the here-and-now, in passion's heated before-and-after, so why would he wish to change things by talking about what had gone before? And why would he need to explore her feelings now when they had, by silent agreement, refused to speak of them before?

"And I think you do more than merely "care" for me," he added, his hands suddenly tightening on hers.

She refused to look up, though she knew he must have felt the way her pulse leaped. The last straw would be if he knew how she really felt. With no other option, she studied the ropey manliness of his hands, the long, blunt-tipped fingers, the short, scrupulously clean nails with the little half-moons at their base. She saw the scar between his thumb and index finger on the left hand, old and poorly healed, a constant reminder of something she wished she knew about. Like the scar on his back, just to the left of his spine -- an ugly gash, newer than this one, that made him shake every time she touched it. She had always wondered how he had gotten that wound, but had never asked.

She bit her tongue to stop from asking now. She didn't need to know anything about his life. She didn't need to feel this overwhelming urge to bend and kiss the faded scar on his hand, or reach around to push her hand beneath his tee and slide her trembling fingers over that other fresher wound. She didn't need to wish that they might have the time to speak of why she had done what she would never do again, or why he had kept returning.

DawnJ
DawnJ
323 Followers