by Daemon Rider

Disclaimers: They’re mine. Don’t borrow without permission. It’s two women. It’s sex. If you shouldn’t be reading it then don’t.

Thanks are due to “Belle” – who although she doesn’t know it – or me – was the inspiration for Carolyn. Though I hasten to add Carolyn is NOT her.

Feedback is always welcome: daemon_rideruk@yahoo.com .

Copyright © 2004 by Daemon Rider. All Rights Reserved.

---

It all began on Saturday. It was just after lunch and I stood looking into my wardrobe, well not so much a wardrobe as a boxroom with wall to wall garment racks. I have clothes for every conceivable occasion, and a good many inconceivable ones. Today, though, I couldn't for the life of me think what to wear. I usually know exactly what each client wants. But this was a completely new situation for me. Perhaps I should give you some background. But first dear diary, help me choose an outfit. The red or the black? The black? Yes, I thought so too. Silk undies, I think, also in black. And definitely black stockings. I'm sure she'll like the same things most of my male clients do. But I'm getting ahead of myself here.

Back story, yes I promised some back story. Well, in case you hadn't already gathered, I'm a working girl. Oh, not just any old type. I'm not a street walker. I'm not some cheap tart. I'm a very expensive and very exclusive call girl. If you want me, you book in advance and you pay very handsomely for the privilege. I have perhaps a dozen regulars. Today's client was not a regular. I have some contacts within the best of the London hotels, although the hotel owners would be appalled were they aware of that, and occasionally they'll call my manager, no darling, not my 'madam', my manager, for a casual appointment. The client is always screened. This happens perhaps once every couple of months. Today's prospect was one such, there was nothing unusual there. The circumstances were what made this so unusual.

First, the client was a woman. Now don't misunderstand, I have no objection to sex with women. In my off duty hours I'm bi-sexual, I'm every bit as likely to be wrapped in a woman's arms as a man's when I wake after a fun night out. It's just that women never, ever book working girls, well not in my experience, anyway. Secondly, the hotel contact had rung me, not my manager, and practically begged me to accept the commission. And to cap it all off, it wasn't the client herself who had requested a call girl. It was the client's business connection. I was developing the feeling that I was a bribe of some kind and I wasn't sure I liked it. But, a commission is a commission.

Hmm. Another problem presented itself, my make up. I doubt a woman will appreciate blood-red nails and lips, most women have better taste. What would I like to see? Now that's not particularly helpful really. I'm a girly sort of girl but what I like is androgynous or heading towards butch, not other girly girls. I know, I know, I'm bi, I like men, why would I like a butch woman and not a girly girl, wouldn't I want the difference? Well only someone who really doesn't understand butch girls would ask that. A butch woman is so different to a man, anyway, that's what I like and as I said - it was no help deciding on make up. I settled for pale coral lipstick and even paler nails. Thank god I've always had short nails, not talons, for those clients who like that look I have false nails I can use.

Should I take some toys? Yes probably, if she wasn't expecting me I doubt she'd be prepared. Would she like toys? I had no idea. I couldn't believe how much I was agonising over this. I never spend this much time worrying and preparing for male clients. It's one, two and I'm ready. I grabbed a pair of stilettos from the rack. Oh Lord, yet another problem, even in heels I'm shorter than most men but a woman? Well if I'm taller than her she'll just have to deal with it. This dress needs - no - demands heels!

Four o'clock and I arrived at the hotel. The concierge was expecting me and quietly informed me that my client was in the lounge bar. I had no trouble spotting her. She was the only person in the room, except for the hotel staff, who seemed to be dancing around her like courtiers to a king - on the off chance that she might want something. That told me she must be quite important. Her clothing re-enforced the fact that she must have money. She was wearing scruffy jeans and a well-worn biker style leather jacket. One simply does not sit in the bar of the Park Lane Hotel dressed in that manner unless one has either a great deal of money or considerable self-confidence. From what I could see my client appeared to possess both. I was inordinately pleased to see that 'butch' was definitely the right description for her.

I walked to her table and stopped. She glanced up from her laptop with an enquiring expression. Oh damn, it looked like she had no idea who I was or why I was here. It was about to get awkward, I was obviously a present but it seemed I was an unexpected one. Oh well, time to start earning my wages.

"Terri Jackson?"

"Yes, that's me." A thick cockney accent. Now that didn't scream money.

Her expression was still indicative of her bemusement, but was it my imagination or was there interest in her eyes? She allowed her gaze to sweep my body top to toe and then back. Thank heavens for small mercies; at least she was interested in women. I can't begin to imagine how embarrassing this could have become if she'd been totally straight!

"I'm Carolyn."

She rose to her feet and extended an arm - to shake hands. I was relieved to notice that she was around two inches taller than I am, even with my heels. The offer of her hand simply stressed the fact that she had no idea who I was. Mentally cursing her business associates I drew a deep breath.

"You are acquainted with Cooper and Sons?"

Gesturing for me to sit, she smiled. "You're with them? I don't recall seeing you in their offices; I would have remembered a lady as attractive as yourself."

Oooh, a charmer. A working class gentleman dyke. How very nice. A call girl doesn't always like her clients - it's important not to dislike them of course, but it's a slice of luck to get one you might actually enjoy spending time with. And I was being paid to spend quite a long time with her. But first I had to get through the explanation. "I'm not with them; I've been, er, hired by them."

Her face was open, encouraging me to continue, although she still had a degree of puzzlement visible in the warmth of her grey-green eyes.

She motioned for a waiter and ordered coffee, raising an eyebrow in my direction. I nodded. Coffee having been served she waved the staff away. They left reluctantly. Leaning back against the studded leather armchair she smiled again. "Ok, shoot."

I put my cup down. "I've been hired to keep you company, to entertain you for the weekend. Your business associates seem to believe you need a little - um - stress relief." I watch her eyes turn to chips of slate as her face became expressionless.

"Let me get this straight. Those half-arsed slimy little sidewinders have bought me a flamin' hooker. A hooker - to bribe me into giving them that contract they're so bloody desperate for!"

I wasn't enamoured of her descriptions but I couldn't fault her grasp of the situation. I sat back and waited to hear what she wanted to do.

I was gobsmacked. I couldn't bloody believe it. They'd bought a hooker. I felt anger wash over me. To get what they wanted they supplied me with sex. Just what the fuck did they think I was? The working class wanna be who's playing at business - got to have her brain between her legs - chuck her a bit of sex and she'll think with her clit and sign the contract? Any hooker this hotel supplied had to be expensive; it must be costing them - what? - thousands? Suddenly it struck me as funny. I couldn't help it I laughed. Christ, were they anxious for the deal or what! Well I'd always been told it was rude to refuse a gift. And she was a looker. Just my type, I wonder how they knew to go for green eyed and blonde.

I sat back at looked at her. She was gorgeous, and classy. An upper class whore, it sounded daft, but she was all that and more. It wouldn't hurt to spend time with her, after all at least she knew what to expect, and I knew that I'd get laid. That cut out a lot of the crap - the circling and wondering that always happens when you pick someone up in a bar. And let's face it. I was horny. What did she say her name was? Carolyn - that was it. "At least they knew to send a woman." She smiled and relaxed a bit. "So what do you know about me? Did they give you any idea what to expect?"

She shook her head, "No, all I was told was your name and that they'd paid for the whole weekend, starting Saturday at 4pm and ending Monday morning. Coopers asked the hotel staff to help arrange an escort for you." I grinned at her use of the euphemism. "I have an understanding with the hotel's assistant concierge so they booked me. They paid extra for the short notice."

"Ok. I guess I'd better fill you in on who, and what, I am. We can do that over dinner." She looked surprised. "Look, you're mine 'til Monday, right?" She nodded. "Well that's about 40 hours from now and I dunno 'bout you but though I'm a bloody sex maniac even I can't shag for 40 hours solid!" She smiled at that, a proper smile. I like a woman who smiles and doesn't simper, can't stand women who simper.

"So, dinner. And maybe a play or a film or something." She hid her surprise quickly and well, but I caught it nevertheless. "I'm a bit of rough trade granted, but I'm smart rough trade." I spoke softly, hurt, Lord only knows why, what do I care what a tom thinks of me?

She looked apologetic immediately. "I'm sorry."

That was all she said. I was glad about that - no elaboration, no fake 'I didn't mean it' just a quiet apology. I decided I liked this woman. Coopers probably had no idea who the hotel would supply but I approved of the choice. And, if the warmth in my crotch was any indication, my clit approved too.

She looked up at me and grinned, "What would you do if I said I wanted to see 'La Traviata'?"

The reference escaped me for a moment or two before it clicked. "I'd strangle you with my bare hands," I replied, matching her grin.

"Right, I need to change into something a little more..." I looked down at my scruffy jeans...."suitable. And put this laptop back in the room. Did you want to leave your case?"

She looked at the satchel she was carrying. "I'd better leave it. It's not ...quite suitable, to carry to a restaurant."

"Tools of the trade?"

"Toys," she stated as we walked towards the lift.

I sat sipping the drink my client had poured for me while I waited for her to shower and change. She'd said 'the room' - it turned out to be the penthouse suite, which added to the impressions I'd initially received that she was money. The accent spoke of new money and I realised I was genuinely interested in hearing her story. How strange. I don't, as a rule, care about a client other than to know what they like to do, or have done to them, in bed. I had no trouble imagining what she would be like, she had confidence and charm and I could sense a spirit of adventure. I would venture that she would be open to experimentation, she would expect to give and receive and judging by the way she carried herself, she would be uninhibited and downright fun. I was looking forward to it.

The good thing about female clients is they tend towards a lack of selfishness. Not all clients want to give pleasure. Not all care whether I enjoy what they do or not, apart from as a sop to their egos, after all it's my job, I'm expected to serve not be rewarded other than with monetary compensation. Women do care, and I was willing to wager that Terri would do her utmost to ensure my enjoyment and satisfaction was a great as her own. I was more than happy. It promised to be an interesting weekend.

My reflections were brought to an end at that point by the re-appearance of my assignment. Her hair was still damp from the shower but she'd gelled it back. She was wearing black leather trousers, black boots, black silk shirt and carrying a black leather trenchcoat. She grinned at me, which turned her reasonably ok features into very attractive in a butch, handsome sort of way. I felt my stomach lurch. Oh dear, turned on by a client, tsk tsk.

"Do I pass muster?" she enquired.

I realised I was staring. "My you do clean up nicely."

She laughed. "So any thoughts on what you'd like to do? Theatre? Cinema? There's that ABBA musical if you're into that sort of thing. Or a new Ayckbourne at the 'National' or Stoppard's Hamlet spin-off at the Old Vic."

"ABBA sounds good, but isn't it sold out for the next few months?"

"What's the point of money if it can't buy stuff that I want when I want?" She raised an eyebrow.

"True! Could we try for the ABBA musical then?"

So we did. I enjoyed the show immensely. Afterwards we dined at Manzi's Restaurant. I was slightly surprised by her choice and mentioned that fact. Her response made a great deal of sense. Expensive restaurants aren't always the best, why pay a lot for an indifferent meal when you can go to a mid-range establishment and eat really well. I have to admit, she was right, the food was wonderful. She was a good conversationalist, intelligent and widely read but not afraid to admit when she had no knowledge of a given subject. Talk over dinner roved through many areas, except anything personal in relation to her or her business. That was remedied over coffee and liqueurs, well I had a liqueur she had a scotch.

Dinner was over and I had a whisky, it was a damn' good whisky. Carolyn had some sort of fancy drink - it was green! Damn it - a drink's not supposed to be green. It also looked sweet and sickly enough to fell a diabetic at twelve paces, but as they say 'horses for courses', if that's what she wanted well, who am I to refuse a lady? Yeah, a lady, she might earn her living on her back - or some other more interesting position - but she was a lady nevertheless and it brought out that butch protective streak I have.

The waiter had been such a superior twat throughout the meal that I contemplated ordering a cigar just for shock value. I decided not to, partly because it probably wouldn't shock him but mainly because I didn't want to taste of cigar later. Plus I was supposed to have given up smoking anyway. And it would have ruined the scotch. I watched her add cream and two spoonfuls of sugar to a poor inoffensive little cup of coffee and recalled promising her some background on me, the guttersnipe millionaire. I had managed to talk about everything else under the sun at dinner but conversation had reached a natural pause so I figured it was time to divvy up. I picked up my coffee - black, no sugar the way God intended coffee to be drunk - and cleared my throat.

"I used to be a gardener, 'bout six years ago, working for not much more than minimum wage, but I loved it, outdoors, my own boss, a physical job but with the satisfaction of watching all that colour and beauty come together at the end. I earned enough and had saved so that I had my own house. I had a steady girl; I moved her into the house and signed half over to her. I was happy. She was ambitious for me, wanted me to do more but I was content. Then suddenly, four years back I found out my life wasn't as rosy as I'd been thinking. My girl wasn't really my girl - and the child she decided to tell me she was carrying was fathered by the man who's now her husband. They still live in my house - although of course it's not mine now. I found myself bankrupt and with nothing. That's what you get for trusting a woman. Bitter? Me? Too bleedin' right, mate. I was living in a bedsit and on the dole. I went to buy a packet of fags and had exactly one pound left in change. I thought 'what the hell' and bought a lucky dip on the lottery. You know that old saying 'lucky at cards unlucky in love?"

I looked at her and she nodded. "Well it's true. The ticket had the six winning numbers. It was the only winning ticket. Fifteen million pounds. I got me a broker and invested - against his advice - in high risk but high profit ventures. Every single one of the little buggers came home for me. So I did it again with even higher risk, higher profit stuff and when that went better I did it again. Everything I touched turned to gold. Now even my accountant doesn't know exactly how much I'm worth..."

"So where do I fit in?" she enquired softly.

"My latest acquisition," I stated as I waved the waiter over, needing more coffee. "I recently bought the rights to a computer game and its spin-offs; comics, a movie, merchandise, fan conventions, this thing isn't just a computer game it's huge. Cooper's have a licence to produce some of the merchandise and run the fan group. They rip the fans off, which gets right up my nose and the company gophers know it. The licence is up for renewal in two years. I have to ok that renewal - I can break them and they know that too. So far I haven't signed the new franchise agreement. We meet again on Monday to resume negotiations. I will sign, it would be far too expensive for any new company to start the fan club up from scratch, but they don't know that. I'm hoping to squeeze some concessions from them for the fans. If I cut my own profit from this I want to know it's the fans who'll benefit."

The waiter returned with fresh coffee and cleared the used cups from the table. I waited while once again she completely destroyed her beverage. "Do you not like coffee or something?" She looked puzzled. "Well there's so much crap in that I'm surprised you can tell it's coffee." She laughed. A good strong laugh. I liked that, I hate little girly titters.

"So, the upshot is," she continued her tale, "you are obviously something to do with the contract negotiations. I'm just not quite sure what. I can't decide if they're trying to blackmail me with the information that I'm a dyke." She snorted spreading out her arms. "Like that's a secret? I mean, look at me". I did look, more and more I liked what I was looking at. I couldn't believe it. I was at dinner with a client, which is strange enough in and of itself, in addition I was actually very attracted to her. I was so busy pondering the vagaries of human nature that I almost lost the thread of her narrative. "Or perhaps they want to sully my reputation with the info that I had sex with a hooker, which is equally stupid - do I look like I give a flyin' fuck about reputation? I don't get it." She had the equivalent of a pout in her voice. Patently she was unfamiliar with the sensation of 'not getting it' and she didn't like it.

"Maybe they think that I'll be an excellent divertissement and you'll be feeling so mellow from screwing like bunnies all weekend that you'll agree to all their demands." She laughed and relaxed, which was exactly the effect I'd hoped my choice of terminology would have. Checking that I was ready to go she paid the bill and we left.

She would have hailed a cab but I had felt like a stroll to allow my meal to settle, I'd asked if this would be alright and she readily agreed. That might have been a mistake. The night which had been quite mild turned a little chilly and I had begun to shiver. Terri lived up to my first impressions as a gentleman dyke by promptly draping her coat around my shoulders. It was warm and heavy, very thick leather and it held traces of her cologne. "Dunhill?" I enquired and looking surprised she nodded. "Excellent taste," I added.

As we passed into the less populated part of Piccadilly the heavens opened. As quick as a flash - good lord diary I can't believe I used such a cliché - even here in my private blog, but it was a speedy movement - anyway, where was I? Oh yes, as quick as a flash Terri swept me into her arms and whisked the pair of us into a nearby doorway. I hardly had time to get damp, rained on, you know, that kind of damp. As for the other sort, well, I hadn't not been damp since her first smile!

We remained in the doorway and her arms stayed around me. I hoped this meant she was intending to kiss me. Yes I know, diary, I'm a working girl, but hey, I like to be kissed, if it's done properly. Somehow I thought that Terri would do it properly. By way of encouragement I ran my hands along her arms, up to her shoulders. My, the ripple of the muscles I could feel beneath the silk did things to my libido I wouldn't have believed possible with a client. Did I mention how much I liked a butch woman, especially a tightly muscled butch woman.

And then finally she did kiss me. Very, very thoroughly, and most enjoyably. She started gently and softly, so soft that it was closer to a whisper of breath than the touch of her lips. She ran her tongue along my lips and then nibbled my bottom lip. When she finally deepened the kiss and thrust her tongue into my mouth I was surprised that I didn't come right there and then. If she was half as good at sex as she was at kissing I was going to paradise tonight. Eventually we broke apart, we needed to breathe. I was praying that this meant that she intended to avail herself of my services no matter how she felt about the reasons why she could, or who had paid for them. Payment or no I wanted her, I would have been happy to pay her.

The rain had stopped while we had been otherwise engaged. She released me and captured my hand, tugging me back onto the street. When she spoke her voice was low, it was almost a growl.

"Let's go, I want you naked, I need to feel my hands on you."

That ruined my silk undies, the dampness which had become a river turned into a flood.

Continued in Part 2

Feed the Scribbler: daemon_rideruk@yahoo.com.