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“Fuck!” I yell at the pulsing pain.
“Steady,” he says, “relax, nice and steady. Just breathe.”
I breathe, try to relax into the stretch, the heat, the fucking pain.
“That’s it,” he says, “it will ease soon enough. Pain turns into pleasure, remember?”
I nod, trying to stay still, and he’s right, the pain is easing.
“Look,” he says, and I’m deliriously fucking happy as I raise my head, so proud of myself to see his hand all the way inside me. “You’re such a good hardcorer, Ells. You took it like a horny slut, even when it was hurting.”
I glow with pride like a filthy freak.
Yeah, I did take it, and I’m glad I did. He moves his hand a little and it’s so fucking nice. I’m as wet as he was. I feel it deep inside me.
“Want to stop now?” Josh asks, and teases by tugging his hand out, just a touch, making me flinch.
But no. I don’t.
I don’t want to stop at all.
I’m grinning, high as I shake my head.
“Don’t even think about it,” I tell him. “Give me more.”
And so he does it. Tit for tat.
The hardcorer Weston gives the little slut Holly every pump of his fist she can take, and lets her come for the pleasure.
Chapter Twenty-One
“It’s times like this I’m glad I’m not a hardcorer, even if my bank account isn’t.” Ebony shoots me a friendly side eye. “And you didn’t even get paid for it.”
I’ve been telling her about my filthy exploits with Josh as we walk through London, careful not to be overheard from passersby. Hasn’t always worked. We’ve had a few backwards glances.
“That’s one hell of a freebie I got last night,” I say. “Josh’s clients would pay a fortune for that kind of service.”
“Good job you’re his girlfriend then, isn’t it? You get the pleasure whenever you want it, and you can return the favour. Hardcorers united.”
“Hardcorers United, I like it.” I laugh. “Maybe we should start up a quiz team or something? What a name.”
“Or you could use it as a hook. Buy one, get the other partner free. Limited time only. Must include anal fisting.”
“Now that I really do like the sound of.”
We’re still laughing when Eb stops to look in one of the designer store windows. She’s scoping out a beautiful summer dress in bright red poppy print, displayed like a dream on a mannequin. Then she notices the price tag displayed underneath and widens her eyes. It’s four hundred pounds.
“I wish,” she says, and goes to walk on by.
It occurs to me then, just how wide the gaps are when it comes to The Agency pay scale. My filth levels and ambitions have always been sky high, but I had plenty of vanilla proposals early on – mainly from guys offering a few hundred quid for the basics. Back then, when I first heard about being an entertainer, I thought a few hundred a night was crazy money, and it was, compared to my day job. But now, accepting the level of proposals I get offered has put me in a whole other league. The cash value rockets as your naughty list boxes get ticked.
Eb has a few clients who like things a bit different, but most are regulars, wanting the standard week on week. Mouth, pussy, ass – a few hundred a go. She works a fair few nights, so she earns a decent living. But with the house, and the kids, and her husband working for little pay, a dress like that is quite a spend for her.
But not for me. Not anymore.
“Let’s go and take a look at it,” I say and gesture to the entrance.
“Hardly your style, babe. Can you imagine turning up in that to one of your proposals? They want their filthy gothic princess, not a girly girl in poppy print.”
