When she opens the door, you see at least you've gauged your look just right. Like you, she's not wearing obvious makeup, her skin looks clean and shiny and her hair is tied in a loose pony tail. The only difference is she hasn't got dressed. She's wearing a loose fitting, silky robe with blue and white stripes, tied at the waist and crossed with a deep V at the neck. As she moves to hold the door, it slips and slides around her breasts, opening to the flat of her ribcage.
'Kind of overdressed for a pyjama party,' she says, even her voice seeming softer than normal.
You pull your eyes up from her cleavage with effort and she's smiling in a way that says everything you do and think is completely predictable.
'Hi,' you say, unable to think of any clever remark. She doesn't make any move to greet you and your automatic twitch to kiss her on the cheek goes undetected. Are you friends? You wonder if that describes your relationship but can't think of another. Co-worker? Lover? Fuck buddy? Some mix of all three for which there is no word maybe, but friends?
But, here you are – invited into her home, so today is a development in some direction or another. You follow her into the apartment, aware from the way the robe clings to the curves of her behind that she's wearing panties. You bet they match the robe. Lounging around the house in classy underwear is apparently not only for models in catalogues.
She takes you into the living room, a sunny space with a lot of pine and white and none of the boudoir feel you'd have expected. Cardboard and foam chips litter the floor in front of a long cream sofa. The plastic boxes from the photograph have all been hacked up with the pair of scissors that are lying on the floor amongst the mess. None of their contents are anywhere to be seen.
She picks something up from the back of the sofa and hands it to you. It's a slippery mass of silk in red and white stripes.
'Matching bathrobes!' You're touched and then embarrassed at how pleased you sound.
'Two for one offer at Nordstrom's,' she says. 'Chill out. There isn't an engagement ring hidden in the pocket.'
You cover the surface wound with a smile that you hope is convincing and look around, uncertain if she expects you to undress now.
'Shy?'
As usual, she calls you on any sign of weakness or hesitation, giving you that feeling of predictability again. You shrug instead of answering her question, which tells her that shy is exactly how you're feeling.
She doesn't seem to mind though and indicates a door to the side of the living room.
'Help yourself,' she says and curls her legs under her on the sofa. 'To whatever you like.'
You cross the room, slip off your shoes at the door and then open what turns out to be her bedroom instead of the bathroom you'd been expecting. It's exactly as you'd imagine the stereotype escort's room and is clearly designed for clients. Black satin sheets are stretched taut on the bed and piled high with cushions. A mirrored ceiling reflects the bed below and fake fur rugs surround it on three sides. There are photographs of nudes on the walls that manage to be both tasteful and explicit. You recognise Giselle in every single one. It occurs to you that, the same photographer could take those kinds of pictures of you with similar results since you look so alike. You're just not sure if you could pull off some of those poses with the same attitude of challenge and come-fuck-me expression.
The bathroom opens off to the side of the bedroom and continues the theme with subtly sparkling granite tiles and silver fittings. You automatically shut the door even though the adjoining bedroom is empty. You can't help feeling self conscious in someone else's house. Your hand is on the lock to slide it closed as if you're in a public place. You pause. Who are you trying to keep out? There's only Giselle here unless she's got a client hiding in her kitchen. Do you even want to keep her out?
Or...
Lock the door. Use a vibrator alone.
3
Your fingers need to do less work to make a phone call which gives you less chance to back out.
The second it's ringing your stomach goes into freefall. This was a mistake. If she doesn't answer, you'll spend the rest of the night jittery over whether she's going to return your call and paranoid about why she isn't.
It rings on and you wonder why it doesn't go to voicemail. It shouldn't come as a surprise she's too busy to answer. She's hardly likely to be sitting around, staring at her phone at this time of night. Not like you.
She'll know it's you calling as the one, almost personal, thing she did do once was take your photo and add you into her contacts. She'd taken a photo and shown you it before she saved your number. You'd been smiling, shy, at this sudden glimmer that she might count you as someone she knew, maybe even liked. The innocent expression contrasted with the way she'd angled the shot to take in your braless breasts, the nipples pointing through the thin top you were barely wearing.
She'd shattered that naïve schoolgirl hope as soon as you'd got your phone out to do the same thing with a typically derisive comment. 'Wouldn't want to waste my best sexy voice if I know it's just you, would I?'
You'd pretended to check yours for messages and then stuffed it back in your bag, reminded yet again that this was someone you'd never know even if you had had her breasts in your mouth and played with her until she was wet.
You're halfway to pressing the end call button before you realise she's actually answered it.
'Hey, baby,' she purrs in the throaty voice you've heard her use with clients but she'd never have any reason to use with you.
'Giselle?' It's a stupid question. Not only is it her number you've just rung but you know her voice even if it is the vamped up version.
'Baby, I've been hoping you'd call!'
What? Giselle doesn't sit around hoping for a call from you! You're so nonplussed by her enthusiasm that, even if you'd prepared something to say, the words would be dangling uselessly from your lips now.
'Er…ah…I…' you stall feebly. Now, she's going to remember why she reserves no small amount of disdain for you. And then you start to hear what else is audible on the line.
For a start your ditherings are echoing as if you're on speakerphone. But also, there's heavy, exerted breathing near the microphone. And now you think about it, Giselle's voice had sounded further away than the breathing so it can't have been hers.
There's someone else there.
Then, as if to confirm your suspicions, Giselle starts to pant and moan. You listen in, feeling as if you've been invited to rather than being a forgotten audience waiting for one of you to hang up. Maybe you should hang up though. But, if you know anything at all about Giselle, it's that privacy during intimate moments is not high on her priorities.
The man's breathing is louder and you can hear the light slapping sound of skin against skin. Then she starts speaking again, but away from the phone.
'Want me to carry on?' Her voice comes low and far enough away that you have to strain to hear what she's saying to whoever he is. 'Or want two of us to finish off?'
Two of us? There's someone else there as well? You can't understand why she picked up the phone in the first place. You're just about to hang up when there's a scrabbling sound and