1. An Extra #2
At five-foot-ten, Dylan had a striking, muscular frame.
Adorned with various tattoos over her chest, arms, and legs; which served as quite the USP in the world of escorting.
Though she identified as a cis lesbian—and adored being a woman—Dylan leaned heavily into her androgyny; thriving in the space where femininity and masculinity blurred.
These things alone were enough to keep her regular clients coming back, though it was her incredibly talented mouth and outrageously gifted fingers that ensured they never requested anyone else.
Some of Remi’s clients paid for her time as an escort—evenings out and company—rather than for sex. The rest, however, were older, ostensibly straight women who like to be, in their own words, “thrown around a bit” and dominated.
Being strong meant Dylan could lean into that particular role of Remi’s with ease, though she had honed a sense of professional and personal detachment.
The risk of her climaxing with them wasn’t an issue, but she understood what they needed; the irony was that these women needed her to climax.
They wanted to feel the lesbian experiment they had paid for, give in to them, to know that their own charms were powerful enough to make an orgasm burst from her.
When they’d shout, “Come for me, Remi!”, Dylan couldn't bring herself to disappoint them. She’d become a dedicated thespian for their sake, faking her orgasms with a precision that would make Meg Ryan proud.
When she left them, she needed to be sure they felt as desirable as they hoped they were.
If they needed to see her climax to believe in the fantasy, explore their curiosity or queerness, Remi would give them the best show in Greater Manchester.
***
In the bathroom the fiercely dominant persona of Margot slipped away entirely, as Greta anchored herself to the sink; fingers blanched as white as the cold porcelain beneath her hands.
Breathing heavily, her vibrating legs were on the cusp of forgetting their role in keeping her upright.
She was so turned on and wet, it irked her.
Tightening her grip she sucked in a breath.
The cold air hitting her lungs brought with it the terrifying realisation of the degree to which she had just lost control, almost fully.
Greta was angry that she had instructed Remi to use her mouth and that it made her come so hard, three times.
The feeling of wanting to drag Remi to her, to tear her trousers and underwear off and feel her weight, naked and pressing against her, made her stomach roil.
Yielding to that was absolutely not an option.
Staring at her hands, she forced the annoyance back, refusing to let it manifest as tears.
In five years, she had cried a lifetime's worth, she was absolutely done with tears.
After retrieving a hair clip from her washbag, she scooped up her thick brown waves and pinned them up, needing the weight off her hot neck and shoulders.
Returning her hands to the cold porcelain, she fixed her gaze on her reflection.
The odd silver strand in her hair caught the soft light above the mirror, reminding her to make an appointment at the salon, yet another thing on the ever-expanding to-do list that her career left little room for.
Wiping a smudge of liner from her bottom lashes with the pad of her finger, she waited, her breathing falling quiet as footsteps sounded outside the bathroom.
The bedroom door opened and clicked shut, and only then did she turn on the shower.
Keeping her eyes locked on her reflection, palms pressed hard against the cold surface, Greta tethered herself so she wouldn’t relent and ask Remi to join her.
Remi was not Greta’s type. Not in the slightest. She had always been attracted to feminine women; women she herself looked like.
Long hair, brimming with femininity from their mannerisms to their clothing, every fibre of their being would scream fem.
By specifically requesting someone who wasn’t her type, Greta believed her choice of escort had been strategic.
Without the distraction of attraction, she could stick to her rules and avoid the complication of catching feelings.
It protected her very precious time and eliminated the use of the dreaded dating apps and small talk she had no interest in having.
The meetings she and Remi had provided everything she wanted, neatly packaged and entirely under her control.
Although five years had passed, life was still completely unrecognisable.
Needing a distraction from the visceral pain of grief, Greta had thrown herself straight back into work after it happened, but everything outside of her career remained so far removed from what it used to be like she still couldn’t catch her breath.
But she had what she needed. Her work was her life, and she had her sexual need—albeit a new type of sexual need—satisfied by Remi.
With her forehead pressed to the warm green tiles, the water hammered against Greta’s back.
A familiar pressure still pushed behind her eyes, but she pretended it wasn’t there.
Having just experienced three of the most intense and—at ￡300 an hour plus the cost of the room—the most expensive orgasms of her life, she should feel satisfied.
Instead, the void remained; a hollow ache that could never be filled.
The wound she carried was open, raw, and she was still bleeding from it.
It wouldn't heal. Nothing could heal it.
On days like today the haemorrhaging in her heart could exsanguinate her completely, provided the invisible hands around her throat didn't crush her airway first. Turning off the brass taps, she stepped out of the shower and wrapped herself in a huge white towel. It was time to go home.
Hair down and makeup a soft, subtle glow, Greta was ready, with Margot concealed from the world in an oversized green jumper, high-waisted jeans, and brown brogues.
Looping her bag over her forearm, she left the do not disturb sign hanging over the door handle and left the room, leaving the sea of crisp white linen on the massive hotel bed behind her, pristine and untouched.
The decoy overnight bag sat on the ottoman to be collected tomorrow when she returned to check out.
The elaborate charade always felt like an outlandish waste of money and time, but it was the price of her privacy and her needs.
Remi being in her apartment was—and always would be—out of the question.
Prepaid rooms and pseudonyms, while using the hotels and AirBNBs within the city she lived in, made her movements easy to hide.
Greta had become adept at hotel rotation, never using the same hotel twice within a certain time frame.
Adopting the role of a businesswoman, she would enquire after the hotel’s Wi-Fi reliability for international calls she’d never make.
It was a carefully choreographed dance; Greta would arrive first to set the stage, followed by Remi, whose professional discretion was exactly what she paid for.