Tuesday, 10am

My mood is even more terrible when I wake up. Now I’m not just frustrated, I’m tired too. My first response to the morning is to frown and sigh.

The Colin Firth-lookalike rouses us again, pulling back the curtains to more blazing sunshine and birds chirping merrily. I notice that it’s an hour later than yesterday, but the lie-in doesn’t seem to have made much difference. I’ve got a faintly fuzzy head after the champagne.

I wonder if today will be another never-ending tease.

I begin to think it will be as we hit the showers. We have an audience again, but this time it’s Rupert and Harry. That makes the whole thing tougher than yesterday, when the watchers were strangers. I simply can’t bring myself to make eye contact, and finish washing as quickly as I can. Thinking of how much I want him isn’t going to help right now.

I’d love a penny for his thoughts, though.

Back in our room, I find the bed has been made. The housekeeping is pretty sharp here, that’s for sure. I notice an envelope propped up against the freshly-plumped pillow. It has my name on it, written with black ink in gorgeous cursive script. Miss Emma Carling.

I glance over to Petra’s bed. No letter there. Nothing for the pro hooker. My trepidation builds – are they kicking me out? Did I do something wrong last night?

I sit down in my big, soft towel and tear the paper open. My fingers clutch at something thick and smooth: it’s some kind of photographic paper. Two pieces. I pull them out of the envelope. And I gasp.

It’s me. Yesterday. Bent over in Miss Jackson’s office, baring my everything. So that’s what she was doing behind me, the sly woman. She must have used a phone, because I hadn’t heard a shutter click. Incredible.

I have no idea what to think, so I look at the second picture. My God. It’s a close-up. A butt fills the frame, and between the cheeks I can clearly see an anus and a pussy. I can only assume they’re mine, and feel myself turning bright red. Even though I’m alone in the room.

I’m a mixture of curious and offended. I’m not thrilled she took these pictures without my knowledge. I’m also kind of fascinated to see how I look. I’ve never seen myself from behind, at least not like that. It’s never occurred to me that bending over reveals quite so much.

Of course it has, you’ve seen porn! You just didn’t want to think about what you were showing.

Yeah, I have seen porn a few times. And come to think of it, I compare quite nicely. My waxing girl did a great job. There’s no trace of a hair from this angle, and my puckered arse hole is bald as can be. My sex is neat and red. The labia are welcoming but don’t dominate my vagina.

I’m fascinated by the smooth sliver of pink nothingness between my two holes. I’ve been licked there a few times, but never had any sense of how it looked to another. Now I can see it all: pussy, perineum, anus. I feel slightly turned on to think that these are mine. I shake my head: this gets more surreal every hour.

I switch to the first picture. There’s no doubt it’s me, even though I can’t see my face. The pose looks just how it felt: a girl with her hands around her ankles and dark hair dangling down to the floor. Toned legs and tight ass, all the tighter as the muscles strain and stretch. I can see my school uniform on the chair in the background.

Yup, it’s me all right. I’d better stay on Miss Jackson’s good side.

Suddenly Petra bursts through the door. I didn’t hear her coming down the hall – must’ve been too tied up in my reverie. I quickly try to stuff the photos away.

I’m not quick enough.

“What’s that?” she says, a little spicily, her voice huskier than ever.

I don’t really want to tell her. Much less show her. But I’m dying to know if she’s had something similar, so I pay the price.

“Erm…I just found these on my bed. Someone put them here while we were in the shower.”

I hand over the photos, which she takes with interest. And I feel an ocean of blood rush to my face.

Emma, what have you done?

“This is you?” she asks, curtly. “When did they take this?”

There’s no fooling her. May as well spit it out.

“It was…it was during my mentor meeting yesterday morning. With Miss Jackson.”

“Oh,” says Petra. “I have her too…”

“Oh cool. Did she…um…make you strip?”

“Yes. I did. But when I was naked I just stood up straight in front of her. I didn’t see her take pictures.”

This is turning into the longest conversation I’ve had with Petra. She looks across to her bed, a little hopeful. I see her brow furrow when she sees there’s nothing.

She starts to walk away to her side of the room, lost in thought but. She looks a little perplexed. I watch her as she goes to the window, her wet hair straggled out across her neck, shiny shoulders on either side.

So, am I the only one with the porno selfie delivery? I shake my head again, and suddenly I think to check the envelope again.

There’s a note. Thick, barky paper. The same elegant handwriting.

‘Dear Emma. I thought you might enjoy these. You photograph beautifully from behind. I would like you to report to the Lachlan Room at midday. North wing, second floor. Miss Jackson.’

Monday, midday

Fuck, I wish they’d tell me what’s going on for once. How am I supposed to choose an outfit for a mystery appointment? But I figure I can’t go wrong in the pink tank top, dinky denim shorts and flat white tennis shoes I’ve chosen.

The uncertainty is getting on my nerves, which are still jangling with desire after last night. Back home I would have long since gotten over myself by now, distracted myself with some everyday pastimes. It’s different here. There’s nothing else to think about. There’s no hiding from my horniness.

They keep building me up and taking me down. The balls, the showers, the kinky photos. I get the sense of a brooding sexual storm building. This is a sex school, isn’t it? I just don’t want to think too much about what this appointment might be. Expectation won’t be a good thing right now.

I stop outside the door, just another big, solid wooden door like all the others in the house. It’s labelled Lachlan Room in gold-carved lettering some way above my eye level. I knock, cautiously.

A male voice invites me in. I’ve heard that voice recently. Very recently. Can it be…?

Rupert.

He’s sitting in a broad, red-leather wing-back armchair, something in his hand. He looks very, very comfortable and pleased with life.

“Hello Emma. Shut the door behind you.”

I do as he instructs. And I look around. It’s like a spacious hotel suite, this room, albeit one from several decades ago. There’s a four-poster bed, several chairs like the one he’s sitting on, and even a fireplace. The smell is off wood and leather. There’s absolutely nothing feminine about it.

I’m standing in front of him with my hands behind my back.

“I trust you’ve enjoyed your photographs as much as I have, Emma,” he says with a broad smile. He holds up copies of the pictures Miss Jackson took of me. “As teasing previews go, this is right up there.”

I want to disappear. I can’t believe she’s given him those pictures. I bite my bottom lip, because I can’t think of anything positive to say.

Rupert puts the photos face-up on a small table, takes a final look at them and stands up. He walks towards me and gently cups my shoulders in his big hands.

“You did well last night, Miss Carling. I found your company most ladylike. Even though I could see you wanted more at the end.”

I bite my lip once again. I can think of a lot of positive things to say now, but it’s like someone hit my mute button the moment I walked in here.

I feel the warm breath from his nostrils on my face. He’s a good few inches taller than me. Still smells great.

He moves one hand to the back of my head, gently cradles it.

God, if this is another tease…

“You had that hungry look in your eye,” says Rupert. “You didn’t need to say anything; it’s a look I know well. Leaving you last night was not easy. But we had our instructions.”

I gulp and decide to stop looking at the floor. I raise my eyes to his, smile a little.

Don’t let yourself go, Emma. You don’t know where this is going.

He moves a little closer. Not touching, but close enough to feel his warmth.

“I’ve thought of nothing but you since seeing you in the shower this morning. You made a fine sight in stellar company.”

He drops his other hand to my bum and squeezes it.

“Do you know what I’m going to do to you now, Miss Carling?”

Shit, does he want me to answer?

Only two words come to my mind. Over and over. And over. He’s still waiting. I look away, then summon some power and look back to him.

“Fuck me?” I whisper.

He smiles a genuine, soft, caring smile.

“Yes Emma. I’m going to fuck you,” he whispers back.

Oh God, it’s happening at last. I’m afraid, still afraid, that it might get taken away.

Sometimes a girl wants to make love. Sometimes she just wants to be fucked. And right now I’m in no mood for foreplay. My pussy aches too much.

Rupert seems to read my thoughts. He springs into action.

“I want you naked, right now,” he says, yanking my top over my head to bare my braless tits.

His eyes stay rooted to my nipples as he undoes my shorts and tugs them down to my ankles. My inky-black g-string doesn’t last three seconds as he slips a finger inside its hip and simply tears it open. He doesn’t seem the slightest bit bothered.

“Up you come,” he says hoisting me into his arms by the butt. He kisses me, softly yet urgently. God, it’s good. I wanted that so badly last night. I feel he did too. He doesn’t need to say a word.

I can feel his hardness prodding the bottom of my spine as he carries me to the bed in nothing but my tennis shoes.

He lays me down as gently as his obvious arousal allows.

“Open your legs and wait for me,” he commands. Now I’m gone. If they take this away now, I will simply have to explode.

I brazenly follow his orders and watch him unbutton his shirt. The man is ripped. I twitch. Now his belt and trousers come off. Oh please, hurry, please. This girl needs fucking.

Rupert steps out of his shoes, throws away his socks and is finally naked. Eyes fixed on mine, then darting between my legs, and then back to my eyes, he absent-mindedly plays with his cock. It’s magnificent, fully erect for me. Fuck, hurry!

My cunt is burning with emptiness.

Thank God he is on the same page as me: without another word the handsome Rupert is on top of me, his bulging penis plunged within me.

You really can let go now, Emma.

And I do. I forget where I am, why I’m here, even who I am. All I know right now is that this amazing male and I are one. I think I cry out as he begins to pump and 40 hours of rising tension is finally unleashed from my being.

I keep my eyes open, but see only his enormous shoulders as they work up and down. I throw back my head so I can see the man who is fucking me. It’s magnificent. I groan louder as he fucks me harder. Yes!!

I feel abandon like never before. Even at home I’d worry about making noises that neighbours might hear through the walls. Not here. I probably should, but I’m in no state to care. I’m starting to writhe at the pleasure I’m feeling, my head jerking this way and that and my mouth wide open as I pant like a dog on a summer’s day.

And then I find words: “Yes, God yes...fuck me Rupert. Don’t stop fucking me!”

I see his mouth curl into a little smirk and he heeds my plea.

“Harder! Deeper! Come on!”

I’m not usually a talker, but I’m delirious now. The part of me that fears this being taken away is putting words in my mouth.

“Oh yes…like that….fuck my pussy, fuck it hard…Hard!”

I think I’m getting louder. And he’s definitely listening. The bed is squeaking. I don’t care.

“Go on, go on….keep going…yes, yes….Yes!”

I don’t often come on penetration alone, but it’s totally going to happen right now. It’s been so long coming.

I can’t believe he can go harder, but he finds another gear. He’s grunting with the effort now. I try to wrap my arms around him but I can’t: he’s too big and moving too fast. So I throw open my legs, wide as they can go, spread my arms out wide too. Like I’m making a snow angel.

The feeling is delectable. He is filling me, and every time he rams into my cunt he seems to fill me more. Can he still be getting harder? It feels like it.

“Shit…you’re so fucking huge. Give it to me! Yes…yes…f-f-f-fuck!”

My orgasm surprises me. I knew it was coming, but its speedy arrival is one almighty ambush. My pelvis keeps thrusting and convulsing as my pussy spasms around his cock, which unleashes a great wave of hot semen just as I begin to slow my squirming.

And now, as he too slows, I wrap my legs and arms around his mighty body.

That was worth the wait, Emma.

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