Strictly Business: Callie (Gold Club Staffing #1)

  Strictly Business

  (Gold Club Staffing #1)

  Cheri Wood

  This is a work of fiction, meaning that all the people, places, and situations found in this book are the product of the author’s warped imagination and are not based on anyone or anything the author is familiar with. This book does not in any way claim to be quality literature and has been produced solely for entertainment purposes. The author had fun writing this book and hopes that likeminded individuals will have just as much fun reading it.

  Copyright © 2017 Cheri Wood

  All rights reserved.

  Cover image under license from Shutterstock

  I

  When my husband goes to work in the morning, I switch my red light on. Metaphorically speaking, of course. A flashing red light in the middle of our quiet suburban street would surely grab the neighbors’ attention. They’re a nosy bunch as it is; they don’t need the extra incentive to come snooping.

  Tom thinks I work for a temp agency. He’s not entirely wrong. However, the agency I work for is very selective about both its employees and its clientele. They’re also under strict instruction not to send me to any of my husband’s colleagues or coworkers. New York may be a large city, but the legal community is tight, and I can’t risk being recognized at dinner.

  I’m putting the finishing touches on my makeup when my cell phone buzzes. The agency. I hope I haven’t had a cancellation. Tom may call himself an up-and-coming lawyer, but he’s not raking in the cash, and we have a mortgage to pay and living expenses to cover. As risky as my current career is, I’m making well above average for a full-time office worker, and I’m putting in far fewer hours.

  Obviously, I never planned on becoming a… well, I can’t really call it ‘escort’, can I? I’m not exactly being escorted anywhere when I meet a client. Our meetings are more of a behind-closed-doors kind of thing.

  When I married Tom almost six years ago, I was getting by taking odd jobs while trying to find the time to work on my writing in the hopes that one day I’d be able to make a living as an author. After years of trying to do it all, Tom encouraged me to focus on pursuing the craft, saying I could work from home and he would take care of me. It eventually became painfully obvious that living off of one paycheck wasn’t a viable option, neither for the sake of our finances or our marriage.

  Maybe it would have been different if I could have given him children, but my body had a different idea. Tom started hinting that I get a real job again, and so I started sending out resumes and going on interviews. I was competing with college graduates and falling embarrassingly short until I came to Gold Club Staffing. I was there to interview for a temp job as an office assistant, but instead I was shown to the director’s office – Madam Director, I should say – who made me the proverbial unrefusable offer. From that moment on, my life changed forever. At least on the inside.

  In the beginning, I had a knot in my stomach every time my phone buzzed, every time I took the elevator up to the Gold Club Staffing offices, every time I walked into a room to meet a client. Today, I’m picking up my phone, hoping I don’t have a cancellation. Yes, my life has definitely changed. Or maybe it’s just me.

  “Hello?”

  “Callie?” Amber, the booking agent at GCS and Madam Director’s right hand, says and I confirm before she continues. “I’m just calling to let you know that your twelve o’clock will be in conference room B today.”

  I feel a flutter of excitement in the pit of my stomach. I’m meeting Mr. Hush today, and being assigned to conference room B gives me an idea of what to expect. Obviously, Mr. Hush is an alias. I’ve never actually spoken to him, or seen him. He’s careful about revealing his identity so he always asks me to wear a blindfold for our meetings.

  It was intimidating at first, but first meetings are always monitored by Madam Director and knowing that helped some. What helped me relax the most, though, was Mr. Hush’s attitude. Without a single spoken word between us and with my eyes covered, as per his instruction, my other senses came alive. He was gentle and attentive the first couple of times we met, making me trust him by touch and taste alone.

  “I understand,” I tell Amber. “I’ll be there.” Truth is, I can’t wait.

  GCS

  The offices of Gold Club Staffing are located in a high-rise in the city, and take up two levels. The conference rooms are on the top floor and the offices are on the floor just below. The temp agency is legitimate, and clients book office temps in the same manner as they book other services. It makes for the perfect cover.

  I get off on the 29th floor and head straight for the employee entrance. I swipe my card and enter. The office temps never come in here. At most, they go to reception or Madam Director’s office. Back here, there are dressing rooms and showers. Each dressing room has a staircase leading into one of the conference rooms on the 30th floor.

  Clients go straight to the top floor and use a temporary pass code to enter their chosen conference room. They’re not actual conference rooms, of course, and each one has a purpose. One of the other girls explained it to me when I first started.

  “I’m sure you can figure out what the A stands for,” Trish said as we sat down in the employee lounge room to go over the ground rules and I colored, wondering if I’d be required to let someone into my body that way. I wasn’t sure how I felt about it, seeing as I didn’t even let my husband in there.

  “B is for bondage, there are all kinds of restraining equipment in there. C is for Coitus, for lack of a better – or cruder – word, meaning it’s just plain old sex. D is for double – Cindy and Mindy usually team up, but if you want to try it, just tell Madam Director.”

  I shook my head at that. While I could certainly appreciate the female body in art, I never had any inclination to reach out and touch.

  “E is another plain-old-sex room, except there are magazines and movies if the client wants to multitask. F is for fellatio. G is for Group – that’s for when the client wants to bring a colleague or something along – don’t worry, the accompanying party – or parties – are vetted the same way as the clients.”

  I was pretty sure I wouldn’t want to be part of a group encounter, but up until that day, I hadn’t been sure I would be able to sell my body, either. Things change.

  “H is for hands, and it’s the only room without a bed. The clients who come in during a short lunch break might go for that, and the girls working that room can squeeze in two clients an hour – no pun intended. I is for… well, it has a stripper pole that’s looks like a capital ‘I’, so I guess that’s why we call it that,” Trish shrugged.

  My mind boggled as Trish went through everything with so little drama and completely without shame. It was business, pure and simple.

  Today, two years in, I am just as detached as Trish. Except for the days Mr. Hush comes in for a meeting.

  I can’t explain it; there’s something about him that makes me feel different about what I do. With him, it’s not just a job. It’s about mutual pleasure. It’s only when I’m with him that I feel like I’m cheating on Tom.

  I push away the flutter of guilt and do one last check in the full-length mirror in the dressing room before I slip on a silk robe and climb the stairs to conference room B.

  It’s not my favorite room by any means, but with Mr. Hush, I don’t mind the cuffs or the leather straps. He usually only uses it for foreplay, anyway, and then I’m free to touch and taste him again, which is the best part.

  I hang up my robe on the hook beside the bed and put on the blindfold waiting for me on the nightstand. Then I lie down in the middle of the bed and wait
for him.

  GCS

  I try not to count the minutes, but with little else to do, I reach two and a half before I hear the door click open. I tense a little, the ridiculous fear of it being someone else accidently walking in washing over me and making my body break out in goose bumps. He doesn’t speak, as is to be expected, which means I can’t be sure that it’s really him. As he comes closer, though, I know. I recognize his cologne. I smile.

  Cool hands skim my body and I shiver. It’s a chilly day today, he probably didn’t wear gloves on his way here. The hands smooth up my arms, putting them over my head. I feel and hear the cuffs click into place, restraining me. The hands move back down my arms, only skimming the outside of my breasts on their way down to my hips.

  Leather straps wrap around my ankles and secures me to the bedposts. I tug on the restraints to test them, and they hold. I can raise my knees a little, but I can’t close my legs all the way.

  Mr. Hush’s hands leave my body for a moment, and I hear him walk over to the wet bar on the other side of the room. A cork pops and something effervescent is poured. Champagne, I expect. He returns and I listen as he tastes the drink, then cool glass press against my breast. The glass tips and liquid spills onto my nipple. I gasp. He does the same thing to my other nipple, and then glass meets glass as he sets the flute down on the bedside table. His lips are cool but his tongue is warm as they press against me, sucking the champagne into his mouth and tugging on my sensitized nipple at the same time.

  I moan. Moaning is allowed; I just can’t say any actual words to him. I wish I could talk to him, but maybe this is for the best. Not having the faintest idea of who he is, this stranger that takes me on a weekly basis, is the one thing stopping me from getting any ideas about leaving Tom for a life with my mystery lover. It’s a horrible thing to even think, but it’s true. I’m lying to everyone else; I can’t lie to myself, too.

  The glass is back, this time resting just below the contours of my belly. He tips it and the remaining liquid pours down between my legs. He doesn’t waste any time licking it off from there, either. I’m writhing, silently begging for release, but he won’t allow it. Instead, he blows on my bare, wet skin and I whimper. Then my ankles are freed and a naked, hard body moves into position over me. He doesn’t wait for permission – I can’t give it verbally even though I want to – and surges inside of me. He must have sheathed himself while he poured the champagne, because latex rubs against my inner walls.

  Clients of Gold Club Staffing must always wear protection unless otherwise agreed between the parties. I suspect the rule is often waived behind closed doors, and providing he’s clean, I wouldn’t mind feeling Mr. Hush move inside me without barriers. In fact, I ache for it. But his rules are clear. No speaking. So I can’t tell him. With my hands still restrained, I can’t even show him.

  I’ve tasted him before, both in conference room F and C. Always blindfolded, so I’ve had to rely strictly on touch. Except the times I have my hands tied behind my back while kneeling on the floor. It’s the ultimate surrender of control, as I can neither move, speak or communicate with my eyes. The first time, I was told in advance that I would have to bite him if I couldn’t take it anymore, but that would surely have ended our standing appointments. So I gagged, drooled and cried but never once bit him and afterwards, he tended to me like an injured waif. It took months until I was asked to revisit the scenario. I agreed.

  He finishes before I do, but he makes sure I climax before pulling out. He releases my hands and kisses my wrists. Then he’s gone.

  I wait for the adjoining bathroom door to click shut before I take off the blindfold and grab my robe off its hanger. I wish I could stay; I wish I could walk into that bathroom and see his face. But the job is done and I need to go and get cleaned up. I head down the stairs to the dressing room and then over to the showers.

  Cindy and Mindy are already in the shower room, helping each other clean off. I say a brief hello and walk over to a free shower stall. They’re ten years younger than I am, and I know it’s only a matter of time before Madam Director decides I should be put out to pasture – or out to office work, as the case may be.

  I’m turning 34 next year. I’m lucky to have breasts small enough not to sag yet, and I spend hours at the gym and at home in front of workout DVD:s to keep in shape, but there’s no fighting the aging process. Pretty soon, I’ll have lines on my face and silver streaks in my hair. Hopefully a few grays won’t show among the blonde ones, but no amount of fillers and creams can stop the lines from forming sooner or later.

  I was 31 years old when I started working for Gold Club Staffing. I still don’t know how I got picked for it. Maybe Madam Director saw something in me that would outweigh my age. “Women hit their sexual prime in their 30s and 40s,” she said. Maybe she was right. I was definitely feeling like I was going through puberty all over again. I couldn’t stop thinking about sex. Meanwhile, Tom and I weren’t having it. It was a recipe for disaster.

  Realizing my mind is going down a depressing route, I divert my thoughts to my latest encounter with Mr. Hush instead. Soon, I have to banish those thoughts, too, as my sex is clenching, grasping at thin air, and my nipples are stiff little beads.

  “Want some help?” Mindy asks, her arms folded on top of the low shower wall separating the stalls. I look over, no doubt with a questioning look in my eyes, because she elaborates on her offer. “I don’t mind. I finish Cindy off all the time.”

  I feel my cheeks heat. “Thanks, I’m fine.”

  “Okay,” she shrugs. “See you around.”

  I can’t help watching her walk out of the shower room with enough bounce in her step that it should make her butt jiggle. Of course it doesn’t. I swallow the bitter pill of jealousy and finish my shower.

  II

  “I have to go to a charity dinner Friday night,” Tom tells me as he loosens his tie. He got home a few minutes ago and has yet to kiss me hello. Clearly he’s still in business mode. “Significant others are expected to attend.”

  Is that what I am? Which one - significant or other? “Okay,” I say, taking out my earrings. I’m exhausted and was just getting ready for bed when Tom came home.

  “The firm’s bought several tables, and we’ll have a couple of clients joining us, as well. I need things to go smoothly.”

  Like I’m incapable of kissing the asses of high-powered business men? I stifle a scoff. If he only knew what I do on Wednesdays...

  “I take it these are important clients, then?” I ask, keeping my voice smooth and non-confrontational.

  “All clients are important, Callie.” Could he be any more condescending? “But I’m hoping to land one of them for myself. This guy could make or break my career.”

  “Who is he?” I ask, more out of politeness than genuine interest. At least I manage to say it without yawning.

  “His name’s Nicholai Astor.”

  My jaw drops a little. “As in the Astor family?”

  “No relation, unfortunately - at least as far as I know. He’s successful in his own right, though, and he hasn’t even hit 40 yet.”

  Like Tom has. I wonder if he’s as self-conscious about his age as I am about my own. After all, up-and-coming is usually used to describe those fresh out of law school, not the ones who’ve been practicing for more than ten years and still haven’t peaked.

  “Well, I’ll make sure to be on my best behavior,” I say sweetly. Tom doesn’t notice the sarcasm.

  “Good,” he says and goes into the bathroom to brush his teeth and use the toilet. Not necessarily in that order.

  Meanwhile, I’m having evil thoughts about announcing to Tom and his oh-so-important potential clients that his wife screws people like them on a daily basis. Maybe they’d like a sample hand job under the table at the big charity dinner? In the spirit of giving and all that.

  Obviously, I’m never going to do anything of the sort. Still, it’s satisfying to know I could end Tom’s career with a few
words if I wanted to. I don’t know who this woman is that I’ve apparently become.

  GCS

  My promise to be on my best behavior is put to the test as we sit down to dinner on Friday night. One of Tom’s colleagues, Sam, is at the table along with his wife, who has blue blood spilling out of her ears. She looks at me like I’m trash, even though I’m wearing my best black dress with a discrete silver chain around my neck for contrast. Maybe it’s because the dress has straps so thin you can’t wear a bra underneath it. My breasts are taped, though, so it’s not like I’m flashing anyone.

  As I take a sip of my wine, I happen to look over at the dining room entrance and I almost choke. I quickly cover my mouth with the napkin. Tom asks me if I’m all right, but I can tell what he’s really saying is ‘what the hell is wrong with you?’. I tell him I’m fine and take another sip to prove it. It’s not like I can tell him a client of mine just walked into the room.

  The client is in his 50s and I know him only as Rob. I have no idea if that’s his real name or not. I met with him in conference room H the first time. The second time it was conference room F where he stuck his finger up my ass while I sucked him off. He wanted the third time to be in conference room A. I respectfully declined.

  ‘Rob’ is approaching our table, moving like an overweight tiger. I keep my eyes fixed on the wine still left in my glass. I need a refill. Stat.

  “Robert, good of you to join us tonight,” Sam exclaims and rises from his seat. Oh crap. “Come, sit. Where’s your lovely wife?” he asks.

  “Out with a migraine,” Rob says and pulls out a chair. I feel his eyes on me, but I have to meet them or Tom will know something’s wrong. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” he says, holding out his meaty hand in my direction.

  I look at the index finger he once jammed past my sphincter and push down the urge to gag.