Follow Your Fantasy: Deeper

1

She never calls me, you think.

You pick at your noodles – some shiny, greasy mess from the Chinese take out again – and toy with your phone. It's a well practised routine with recognisable signs you're about to cave in and make the call.

Just like the last times you've given in to the urge for some excitement, food has stopped having any taste and you're restless and ready to scream at the mediocrity of daily life.

Well, the mediocrity of your day to day existence. Giselle's life, you know from the all too limited occasions you've been a tourist in her world, is far from dull. Fancy hotels and film sets and packs of slavering men completely under her control are the routine for your sexy almost-twin.

You toss your phone aside and push the noodles away. If you knew why she didn't call, that might make it easier, you tell yourself.

The first time, of course, you had to call her. She was the one who'd given you her business card after all. The card you'd stuttered, speechless over, knowing even then that she'd seen something in your eyes that you didn't allow yourself to see in the mirror.

Perhaps that was what it was. You look so alike, she just saw herself in you and that was enough for you to imagine what you could be. Unfortunately, the similarities between Giselle and you end at the way you look. Your day starts and finishes on the sofa in your tiny apartment, after a dreary day of commute, office, commute, TV, eat, sleep. Even the day off you've got tomorrow is just another helping of The Same with a side order of Routine. Grocery shopping and running errands is all you have planned.

You can see that Giselle doesn't need you to liven up her days like you need her. But after that last time, when you'd shadowed her in stripping off for a roomful of bachelors, playing with her breasts and sliding your fingers inside her for her pleasure as much as the roaring spectators? After that time, surely she'd have wanted to bring you along again?

Something warm uncurls between your legs as the memories wake up. The roaring spectators as Giselle's brown nipples pressed against yours and she tugs your top down, exposing you to them first. Her fingers playing out what they wanted to do to you, if only they could touch. Her writhing against the men while you took your satisfaction, even as they thought they were the ones being serviced.

Then the silent drive home, the curt goodbye and the packet of money she'd handed you with no more than a 'See you around, doll'. Even though you'd known it was just a cash transaction for her, you'd thought, well, you'd thought…you were a team.

It sounds pathetic even in your own head. The cringey idea of saying it aloud is one of the many things that's kept you from dialling her number. That and a million other reasons why you don't go around wearing designer dresses and getting paid for sex from strangers.

You sigh and shuffle into your bedroom. You tell yourself you're just going to lie down and read a book, but you hesitate at the wardrobe and take another step back into the night it all started.

The red dress. The one that got you mistaken for the escort in the first place. It's hanging in the dry cleaner's bag it's been in ever since that night, out of place among your more usual flowery tops and cargo skirts.

You shrug out of your jeans and T-shirt and pull the dress up over your hips, slipping on a pair of high-heels and zipping it up at the back. A softer featured version of Giselle stares back at you from the mirror. You've let your hair grow like hers and it curls above the tops of her breasts – your breasts, you correct yourself mentally. You wonder…how much could you look like her if you tried?

You pick up base and a blusher brush and shade and highlight your cheekbones and nose to harden the lines of your face. Then you line your eyelids heavily, winging the black pencil out to the sides to elongate your eyes. A few strokes of charcoal shadow and two coats more mascara than you'd normally wear and it's her appraising you. She looks you up and down and turns to admire herself, scornful and confident. The kind of woman who'd make whatever damn phone calls she wanted.

You stride back to the living room, stilettos loud on the wooden floor. The neighbours won't like that, part of you thinks, but, you bet Giselle's have far more noises to put up with than shoes.

Your phone has fallen halfway down the back of the sofa cushion. You retrieve it, and then hesitate before unlocking the screen to…do what? Text? Call? And say what?

Or...

  Text. Get invited to Giselle's house the next day. Get changed in the bathroom.

  Call. Giselle invites you to the hotel with her client.

2

Your nerve fails and you opt for the coward's medium of choice. You type, delete, retype and redelete a message four times before it sounds casual but daring enough.

Hey Giselle, hope you're having a hard night. I wish I was! Last time was amazing. If you've got any more bachelors you need a hand, or a mouth;) with, I'm all yours.

You sit back, now stuck with looking at your phone far more intently than you were at the beginning of the evening. It's nine thirty. She's bound to be busy by now and if she is, she's not going to be checking text messages.

All dressed up and no place to go. Now you wish you'd called but you can't call on top of sending an unanswered text. This is as fraught with rules as dating!

After an hour of waiting, you accept that your made-up reflection is as close to the reality of Giselle as you're going to get and wash your face back to the real you. The you who's going to bed alone.

The sun shining in through a gap under the blinds wakes you up but it's the beep of your phone that makes you open your eyes.

Yeah, last night was a pain in the ass – literally. Next time, call if you want in. I don't exactly have my hands free for text chats

Knowing Giselle, you wonder who it was, where they were. You close your eyes again and visualise her bent over, offering her ass with her skirt up around her waist and her panties shoved to the side. In your mind's eye her face is turned to the left against a wall, but it's your face at the same time. Someone is squeezing her breasts and then roughly separates her ass cheeks, leaving red marks. You mould the mental image of her until it's fully you you're picturing. You lie on your stomach and push back against the imaginary hands, your own hands opening yourself up to the fantasy.

Your phone beeps again, interrupting the scenario that has taken shape in seconds. You open one eye, reluctant to leave it behind fully but then the phone grabs your complete attention. It's another message from Giselle.

So, I'm bored.

Attached to the message is a photograph of a jumble of boxes and plastic packages. The contents aren't easily made out but some of the names are visible. The Bullet… Rabbit…Love Egg.

Even when she's bored, her life is more fun than yours! In typical Giselle style, she assumes you've understood that was an invitation and that you're accepting. Another message comes through.

You know the address.

She's right, of course, although you've only ever met her outside it before. You don't bother with an elaborate routine and just have a quick shower. Your mood is more relaxed than last night when you were dressing up. A simple sweater dress and tied back hair goes with the slick of mascara and lip gloss that are all you do for makeup. At this time in the morning, you guess you're about to see a more fresh faced version of her too.

Her apartment is in a low rise building on the other side of town. It's just urban enough to be trendy, but suburban enough that the last thing you'd think of as you pull up outside is a sex-worker. You wonder what the neighbours make of all the men who must visit.

She buzzes you up without checking to make sure who you are. It's all so normal you're nervous. Other times, you've always met her at night, slipping into a darker version of yourself. But today, everything is more relaxed. Everything except you.

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.

  Leave the door unlocked. Giselle joins you and shows you how to use vibrators. She invites you to the photo shoot the next day.

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 she speaks directly to you again.

'He wants us both.'

'Both of who?'

'Both of us! Or both of me, I guess, since you started being my twin.'

'Oh, right!' Now you get it.

'That's a yes, doll?' She doesn’t wait for an answer. 'Get over here then '

There's none of the usual mocking challenge to get you to admit you want to break out of your Goody Two Shoes life before she lets you into hers.

She repeats the hotel name twice without any attempt at giving you details. It's completely in character for her to tell you as little as possible, or to give you some detail solely to unnerve you, but something about the way the call started with such obviously fake delight niggles at you.

"Well?" she asks. She's sounding more and more like her usual self as the call goes on.

Something isn't quite right about the switch from BFF to normal Giselle. It's not the terseness that's the strange part, it's the enthusiasm. Unless that was just for the client's benefit, you suppose. You can either pass up on the offer, although it was more like a command, and pluck up the courage to try again another night, or go and see for yourself what's happening. Whatever it is, it certainly won’t be as boring as sitting at home all dressed up with nowhere to go.

Or...

  Accept. Go to the hotel. Giselle and her companian are watching you in the lift. They ask you to put on a performance for them.

  Refuse.

4

At the hotel lobby, you scope the layout while pretending to look for something in your bag, like your room key. Sailing through as if you own the place is the only way to pass as someone with the money-built confidence to belong here. The slightest hesitation and they'll spot you for the interloper you are.

And an intruder into another world is certainly what you feel like. The high concept white and platinum décor and dim up-lighting is the kind of minimalist design that takes maximum spend. Scrabbling in your bag is not giving off the sure-of-yourself vibe you're after, so you aim straight for the lift which opens immediately.

It only just occurs to you as you press the button for 11 that Giselle has given you a floor number but no room. You'll have to work it out when you get there. Maybe she's got a Do Disturb sign on the door. You wonder what kind of room service you're about to provide.

'In a good mood?' Giselle's voice suddenly asks from above your head. It sounds as if she's in the lift with you and you glance around before you can stop yourself.

'Over he-e-re.' Her voice bounces, sing-songy and patronising, off the metal walls. A panel next to the lift buttons lights up and, for a moment, you think you're looking at yourself but then you realise it's Giselle from the waist up, sitting in front of someone's torso. She's wearing only a sheer red bra that moulds to her breasts and shades her nipples into rosebuds.

'Told you,' she says over her shoulder.

Told who what? But then, it's clear who as a man places a hand on her arm and works his way down her stomach and off camera. The background becomes clear and the wall of the man's chest defines itself with the darker indentations of chest muscles and a line of collar bone. You find yourself wondering how far down his hand has gone and what it's doing.