Amateur Days

Book 2: Lustful Longing

by Emma Allan

Genres: Erotic & Steamy Romance

Synopsis

A chance encounter with a stranger in a hotel has turned Diana Wilson into a new woman. Now she's joined a high-class escort agency and, together with her beautiful friend Ann, is making men's fantasies come true every day of the week.

But though her seductive skills are raking in the money, the truth is that blonde and bosomy Diana is not swayed by the cash. She likes men too much. And women. Diana's in love with her work. That's why she's strictly an amateur - this is the one job she'd do for nothing . . .

Part two of the Lustful Longing series.

Discover Piatkus Entice: temptation at your fingertips - www.piatkusentice.co.uk

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 256

Sample

The timid knock on the bedroom door did not wake her. Diana Wilson was already awake.

‘Come,’ she said imperiously.

Her husband, Charles, shuffled into the bedroom carrying a breakfast tray. On the tray was the newspaper, a pot of coffee, a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and two slices of wholemeal toast. Charles had not forgotten a neatly pressed white linen napkin either.

Diana sat up in bed. These days she slept naked. She did not bother to cover her breasts as she propped herself up against the pillows and Charles set the little wicker supports of the tray on either side of her lap. Her breasts were large but firm, their generous curves miraculously defying gravity as they tilted upward from her chest. Her nipples were big too, and for some reason were erect, the tender flesh corrugated and hard. Surrounding them her areolae were circles of a dark musty brown.

Relieved of the tray, Charles stood in his pyjamas and Paisley dressing gown looking at his feet, knowing better than to leave the room without permission. He could not stop himself from trying to sneak surreptitious glances at his wife’s naked flesh.

‘Go and get ready for work. Come back in fifteen minutes,’ Diana ordered, her expression of contempt set in stone.

As soon as he had turned his back to leave, her face cracked; she could not help herself from breaking into a huge grin. Two months ago her life had changed. Totally. From being an obedient and faithful wife, prepared to put up with her husband’s drinking and total lack of interest in her, she had become, so it seemed, a person in her own right, a woman with her own needs and, more essentially, the means to satisfy them.

It was all about sex. Ultimately it had been her dire sexual frustration that had catapulted her into her present position. If her husband had been at all interested in sex with her she would have not been tempted to accept the proposition of a stranger, albeit a handsome and attractive stranger, who had mistaken her for an escort in a hotel bar. But he hadn’t and the frustration of being ignored sexually for years had lead her to the stranger’s room. And that had been the beginning.

Over the next weeks she had been to lots of stranger’s rooms. She had discovered her own vibrant sexuality. Like a volcano lain dormant for years, it had exploded, overwhelming her with feelings and sensations she would not have believed possible. Her body had become a well of untold pleasure. Sex took her over, invigorated her, vitalised her, made her realise what she had been missing all those years, made her a new woman.

Not wanting the experience to end she had enrolled in an escort service. Her first encounter had been accidental. But she didn’t want to have to rely on chance. It was too important. By chance, however, it was through her enrolment that she had discovered the reason for her husband’s lack of interest in having sex with her. Asked to help out Domina, one of the escort services more esoteric girls, with a client, she was astonished to find her husband was that client and even more surprised at the services he required. Naked, gagged, blindfolded and chained to a punishment frame her husband had been whipped, abused and humiliated while she looked on. Her husband wanted to be a slave and Domina had been his regular mistress.

At first Diana had been horrified and returned home determined on divorce. But her mood had changed. If her husband wanted to be a slave then he could be her slave, at least until it suited her. Considering all the money he’d spent and all the lies he’d told to visit Domina so frequently, she would be quite happy to treat him like dirt. And if she got bored with taking her anger out on him she could always throw him out. With what she knew about him there would be no trouble over the divorce. Meanwhile, for as long as it amused her, she had decided she would let him serve her in the way he seemed so keen to do …

Diana drank the orange juice and poured herself a cup of coffee. Tonight was Carolyn’s party and she was going to spend the day looking for a house. It was going to be a busy day.

She had decided to buy a new house. She wanted something bigger, something in the country just outside London, not in the suburbs, something old and pretty, something that did not remind her of her marriage and her previous life. With what she was earning now, she could afford it.

Not that she was doing it for the money. The money was a bonus, the icing on the cake. If she was honest with herself, really honest, she would have to say she would do it for nothing. The excitement she felt, even with the most unprepossessing client, had not diminished. She still got hot and sticky with anticipation. She had tried to analyse it and had reached the conclusion it was something to do with the fact that when she met a man it was for one reason only: sex. No skirting around the subject, no will-I-won’t-I. They were both there for sex, plain and simple. Somehow it was the directness of it that made it exciting. The money was incidental, welcome but irrelevant.

Only eating one slice of toast she read The Times until fifteen minutes later, exactly, there was another timid knock on the bedroom door.

‘Come,’ she said, resuming her cold ungiving tone.

Charles advanced into the room, wearing his business suit. It fitted him a great deal better than it had. Charles’ extensive paunch was beginning to recede. Diana had put him on a strict diet and his consummation of beer had been completely curtailed. She had put him on a strict exercise routine too. In fact everything about Charles’ life was strict at the moment.

‘I’ve finished,’ Diana told him.

Without a word, Charles took the tray from her lap.

‘Come straight back,’ she said as he took the tray downstairs. She pulled back the bedclothes and got out of bed.

By the time she had showered Charles was back, standing uneasily by the door, looking at his feet. Patting herself dry with a large white bath towel, Diana came back into the bedroom from the en suite bathroom and clucked in annoyance.

‘Didn’t you knock?’ she said. ‘I didn’t tell you to come in.’

‘I thought …’ he mumbled still looking down at his feet.

‘When are you going to learn Charles? I do your thinking for you.’

Satisfied she was dry Diana dropped the towel and stood in front of the long mirror on the wardrobe door. She was pleased with what she saw. Her tall body was firm and ripe, her skin a glowing fresh pink, her long almost-blonde hair shining and clean. She was the picture of health. Though her breasts were large and heavy, the rest of her body was slim, her navel iron-flat, her waist waspie and pinched, her legs fine and contoured with well-defined hollows in her thighs under the shadow of her pubic triangle. She turned round and looked over her shoulder so she could admire the rich curves of her buttocks. Her arse was high and tight, its central cleft deep and dark. She turned again and watched herself as she ran her hand into her thick fair pubic hair, fluffed up by the towel. She stroked it gently. The hair was so thick it completely hid the crease of her sex.

Ignoring Charles completely, she walked over to the chest of drawers where she kept her underwear. She had bought a lot of new lingerie in recent weeks. She intended to buy a lot more. Before what she had come to think of as The Event, her encounter in the hotel bar, she had thought little about what underwear she wore. Cotton knickers and practical bras. Now she luxuriated in silks and Lycra, satin and lace. Before, she hadn’t even owned a suspender belt. Now she had basques and teddies and suspender belts and G-strings all in matching colours: dark blues, flame reds, exotic purples, not to mention black.

Rifling through the drawers she found a set in black silk and lace – a deep-cut bra, French knickers, suspender belt. From another drawer she took a packet of gun-metal grey stockings.

She knew Charles was watching her every movement though trying to pretend he wasn’t. Where once he had not had the slightest desire to look at her, naked or dressed, now he would drool over her. He knew he was not allowed to touch. He knew this display was deliberate, part of his punishment, a tease, part of her control over him.

Diana slipped into her bra and reached behind her back to clip it into place. It pushed her breasts together slightly to form a deep cleavage. She pulled the suspender belt around her waist and clipped that on too, its long black suspenders hanging down over her thighs like strange, alien fingers.

She held the French knickers out in front of her, pulling the waistband open before she bent to put her feet in them. She made sure she bent with her back to Charles so he would see the whole of her sex, fringed with thick pubic hair, but exposed, a long slit of labia, fleshy, thick labia, and the puckered corona of her anus, like an inverted barnacle. Slowly, she straightened up again, pulling the lacy silk over her finely contoured thighs, up over the curves of her buttocks until the waistband fitted neatly over the waist of the suspender belt and the secrets of her sex were veiled by soft black silk.

Charles’ erection jutted from the front of his trousers. It would get no relief.

Diana sat on the edge of the bed. She undid the cellophane packet and extracted the stockings, letting the packaging drop to the floor by her feet.

‘Pick it up,’ she ordered.

Charles stooped forward immediately, reaching for the cellophane, his head inches from her knees, his erection nudging into his navel. As he stood up he eyed the triangle of her lap where the black silk struggled to contain her thick pubic hair.

She rolled one of the stockings into a neat pocket around the reinforced toe and extended her leg. She pointed her toe and pulled the pocket of nylon on to her foot. Slowly she played the nylon out over her calf, up over her thigh. Her toe pointed directly at her husband’s tumescence. His eyes watched every movement. The crotch of the French knickers wasn’t tight like some of the panties she wore. With her leg raised he could glimpse, no more than a tantalising glimpse, the lips of her sex.

He gave up any pretence that he was staring at the floor. He watched as the grey nylon, woven with Lycra to give it a slippery sheen, encased her thighs. He watched as her long elegant fingers took the tongue of metal at the end of the suspender and slipped it between her creamy flesh and the nylon, then pressed the little rubber circle down into it catching the darker grey welt of the stocking and pulling it into a taut peak. The rubber was covered with a little sash of black satin cut on a diagonal like the blade of a scalpel.

Diana repeated the process with the other leg. She wanted him to remember how she had looked: he would carry the image with him all day. She pulled the second stocking over her leg, smoothed the nylon completely flat then clipped in the suspenders at the front and side of her thigh. She stood up and smoothed the nylon again, running the palms of both her hands up the shiny material, making sure it was not wrinkled.

From the wardrobe she selected a white blouse and a black suit. Very businesslike. With her back to Charles she slipped into a pair of heels, high heels but by no means her highest. Charles would be looking at the way the French knickers just revealed the crescents of her buttocks where they met the top of her thighs.

‘You’d better go,’ she said sitting at her dressing table and beginning to pin her long hair up. ‘I don’t want you to be late.’

‘Oh …’ he whimpered pathetically.

She swivelled around on the dressing table stool.

‘Oh what, Charles?’ She looked at him sternly, her expression brooking no disagreement.

‘Nothing,’ he said turning to go.

‘I’m going to a party tonight with Ann. Make sure you’re home on time. I want the house cleaned up before she gets here.’

‘I’ll be on time,’ he said.

‘Go,’ she ordered. She watched him leave in the dressing table mirror, then concentrated on her hair.

He would be on time. From having been late practically every night – either out drinking with his cronies or tied to Domina’s punishment frame – Charles had got home on the dot every night. Of course, Diana had made it perfectly clear to him what would happen if he was not. He would be out, out of the house and out of her life. She had also made it clear that at the moment his situation was only temporary. She might decide to throw him out anyway. When she found a new house there might be room for him and there might not. It all depended on how well he behaved. So far his behaviour had been impeccable. He had obeyed her to the letter. For Charles, of course, the rod of iron with which he was now ruled was paradise come true. The only question was how long Diana condescended to play her part.

It certainly had its advantages. He would do anything. Clean the house, shop, wash the clothes. Anything he was ordered to do.

She heard the front door slam and the crunch of feet on the gravel drive. Naturally he had to take the train to work these days. Glancing at her watch she hurried with her make-up then left the bedroom just as it was. Charles would clear it up later.

Downstairs she found the car keys and the map of Buckinghamshire she had bought. It would take her forty minutes, she estimated, to drive to her first appointment.

By three o’clock in the afternoon Diana Wilson was thoroughly depressed. She had seen four houses and they were all different shades of terrible – too run-down, too cramped, too damp, or just too plain awful. All had looked wonderful in the estate agent’s photographs taken from a cunning angle that neatly hid their worst feature, on a sunny day.

There was only one more to see, equally attractive from the glossy colour photograph but, she feared, probably destined to be equally disappointing.

The estate agent was young and appeared nervous in her presence. He talked too much and, after the second visit, she had decided to follow him in her car rather than letting him drive her. So, now, she followed his Ford Sierra down a winding country lane and through a pillared gateway cut in a tall thick beech hedge and into the circular driveway of a Georgian manor house, its neat portico flanked by two bay trees topiared into perfect spheres and sitting in large terracotta pots.

Getting out of her car she suppressed her excitement. Though, for once, the picture in her hand matched the exterior view, no doubt there was something untoward hidden away behind the façade that would dissolve her initial impression. There had to be something. A pig farm at the back, a dank dark interior with raging woodworm, terminal dry rot, something.

The estate agent rang the doorbell talking constantly. ‘It’s beautiful isn’t it? Georgian. Grade Two listed. Only been on the market a week. The owner’s got to go abroad apparently. Five bedrooms, three bathrooms, three large receptions. And there’s a full cellar. Very secluded as you can see …’

The door opened.

‘Hello,’ the man standing in the doorway said, ‘please come in. It’s starting to get a bit colder now, isn’t it?’ His voice was deep and rich, the vocal equivalent of velvet. It matched his appearance perfectly. He was tall, with a strong square-jawed face, greying hair and the palest ice-blue eyes Diana had ever seen. Though he was probably in his fifties, his body looked strong and well-exercised; a thick thatch of chest hair protruded from his open shirt at the throat, his waist line betraying not an inch of fat. He wore only a pair of corduroy slacks and the blue cotton shirt.

‘Mr Borland, this is Ms Wilson,’ the estate agent said, emphasising the ‘Ms’ as his boss had told him to do, after seeing a television programme that had proved conclusively that women reacted better if not addressed as ‘Miss’ or ‘Mrs’, and were more liable to purchase whatever they were viewing – clothes, cars, houses.

‘How do you do?’ Borland said, stepping aside to let them into the hall then extending his hand to Diana.

Diana shook it firmly. Their eyes met across their hands. Diana felt as though she had been hit by lightning, a shock that seemed to invade her most intimate feelings.

‘Hello,’ was all she could manage to say.

‘Well, why don’t you help yourselves,’ he said indicating the house. ‘I’ll be down here if you have any questions. Please feel free.’

‘Thanks,’ the estate agent said. ‘We’ll start upstairs shall we?’

Diana wasn’t listening. She was watching Borland walk back into his living room.

They toured the house and the gardens. Diana found it hard to concentrate. Borland’s eyes haunted her. There was something about the expression on his face, something knowing, as if he could read her secrets, knew all her secrets. She felt her pulse racing. He was so attractive, so smooth, so at ease with himself, his power, physical and mental, only too obvious.

She tried to put it out of her mind, but could not help looking for evidence of a woman in the house. There was none.

They left the living room till last. Borland sat reading in front of a big log fire, h. . .