Twisted Fairy Tale
The Gingerbread Man Part I
As an escort, the Gingerbread Man puts women’s need’s first, but with this stunning red head, he might have bitten off more then he can chew
He’d been in such a hurry to leave the club, he hadn’t even bothered to grab his jacket. Getting out of there was top priority, avoiding that woman’s clutches, although she’d give him a terrible rating. So far he had racked up an unblemished 5 stars, but walking out on tonight’s date with Olivia Baker would put an end to that.
His escort bio read:
“Gingerbread Man: Good enough to eat! With a gym-honed body and a sparkling wit you’ll enjoy each moment spent in the company of this fascinating guy who’ll put your needs first. He enjoys luxury travel, fine dining and the theatre.”
Anyone who belonged to the Close ConnXions agency would recognise the euphemisms for liking role play and being submissive. His agency name referred to the golden tan he liked to maintain and his blonde hair with red highlights.
He walked as fast as he could away from the industrial estate where the club was located; a discrete, anonymous building, inconspicuous amongst the businesses which operated during daylight hours.
He was trying to dispel the memory of Olivia dressing him in a giant towelling nappy and parading him around the club. She’d booked a private room and invited a select audience to witness her spooning baby food into his mouth before urging him to suckle on her pendulous white titties. Silently he cursed the agency for sending him that gig — they knew her kinks didn’t align with his. Gingerbread man enjoyed spankings and sensory deprivation, but age play was a hard limit.
His pride in his muscular physique meant he was a happy exhibitionist, frequently coated in a sheen of sweat, either bound or gagged. He found it easy to lose himself in the pleasure of being punished by a powerful woman. Whether it was a paddle, strap or flogger applied to his backside, he relished the building heat as blows rained down on thighs or buttocks; layers of pain swelling his cock with excitement.
Powerplay made him hard and humiliated simultaneously. Restraint and shame made his dick throb with lust. When a woman commanded him to kiss her shiny boots or lick and suck at her pussy until she was swollen and running with juices, his emotions were hectic and euphoric.
He picked up the pace, this part of town was rough at night. The cutting wind pressed his white shirt against his torso, while a sing-song voice in his head chanted. “Run, run as fast as you can, you can’t catch me, I’m the Gingerbread Man.”
Suddenly he was aware of blinding headlights, which sped in from the right. He teetered on the edge of the kerb, urgently ceasing his momentum to avoid stepping into the path of the oncoming vehicle. He put out his hands for good measure, the recognised gesture of stop/surrender, then heard the tyres squeal as a big, luxury car skidded to a halt. Its full beam flooded his face which made him squint. He stumbled round to the passenger side and the driver buzzed down a window.
“I could’ve killed you!” The driver’s voice was deep and cultured, but she was irritated.
“I know, I’m sorry. I promise I’m just a regular guy — can you give me a lift?” Pushing his blonde hair out of his eyes he gave the attractive driver his most appealing expression.
“I’m headed out of the city, does that suit you?” she replied.
Gingerbread man’s eyes travelled over her outfit, a form fitting red dress worn with a wide black belt which laced like a corset and cinched in her waist. The sweetheart neckline hinted at a dark shadowy cleavage buttressed by the curves of her breasts. He felt a stirring in his jeans, his erection pressed against the buttons of his flies; when working as an escort he went without underwear for speed.
He nodded enthusiastically while operating the door handle so he could quickly swing into the confines of the leather seat. With a press on the accelerator, the car sped silently away, leaving Olivia Baker and the O.T.T. Sex Club far behind.
In the car’s dark interior, he took time for his eyes to adjust, then drank in the vision that was his rescuer. Her fiery red hair was wavy and tousled, loosely tamed into a plait which rested over one shoulder. In profile, her bust was truly magnificent and he admired what he could discern of her curves and shapely legs, which were fastened tightly into black suede high-heeled boots which laced all the way up to her thighs. His boner stirred again, chafing against his jeans while he’d lay money a drop of precum had gathered at the tip of his helmet. His rescuer was a fox.
The lights of the city sped by in a blur, it was so late only pubs, clubs and a few convenience stores were open. On the streets people were either dressed for a night out, or homeless folk wearing lots of layers with no shelter. This reminded him sharply that his cash and door key were still in his jacket, back at the club. His eyes slid sideways again, studying the woman at the wheel. He wondered why she was alone on a Saturday night.
“I don’t want to hold you up if you’re meeting someone … drop me anywhere,” he ventured.
“It’s not a problem, I’m on my way home.” Her deep voice was a purr, sexy as hell.
“Oh, so you live outside the city?”
“Yeah, I like the suburbs. In nice neighbourhoods, folk keep themselves to themselves.”
He pondered that: he enjoyed total anonymity in the city, but was curious why she sought privacy. As an escort he’d learned people shared more details if you didn’t ask outright questions, rather rolled with what they said as if you were already clued up. As he pondered his next remark, the gridwork of streets gave way to wider roads lined with trees. Gingerbread man wasn’t familiar with this neighbourhood, but it looked classy.
“You got somewhere to go?” she asked, tilting her head towards him.
“Not anymore.” He kept his eyes on her face.
“Wanna come back to mine? Have a drink?”
Now that was more like it! He agreed, muting his enthusiasm so he didn’t seem desperate. Foxy lady drove the car smoothly to her place, swinging the wheel so it coasted behind a hedge and down a drive. He was mostly booked by clients who’d rented hotel rooms, but her home was certainly impressive. Trying not to stare, he took in the manicured gardens, the many windows and the high-tech security system as she let herself in.
“What’s your poison?” she called over her shoulder.
He followed, admiring the expensive neutral decor and many shiny surfaces. After she flung her coat and bag on a leather club chair in the hallway he became almost mesmerised by the sway of her curvy hips as she swanked ahead of him, stopping at a table topped with glasses and crystal decanters.
“What’re you drinking?” He hedged. Clients usually chose for him.
“Scotch on the rocks.”
“I’ll have whisky too, but with a squirt of soda if you have it.” He should’ve guessed she’d drink like a guy. “Great place you have here, do you live alone?”
“Most of the time,” she sipped her drink, watching him over the rim of her glass, “my husband works abroad.”
They moved to a seating area, plush sofas with huge cushions were grouped around a glass coffee table through which he could see stacks of photographic books. Perhaps he’d stumbled into the pages of an interiors magazine. When she sat and crossed her elegant legs, the red dress rode up her thighs, and he struggled not to stare.
“What keeps you busy?” she asked, her dark eyes were alert with intelligence.
“I keep rich women company.” There — he’d said it. He braced himself for a reaction of disgust or fury that he was used to from people outside the agency.
“D’you enjoy it?” she sipped her drink.
“Yes — usually.” He shrugged, not sure why he was being so open, but he felt a connection and honestly, he had nothing to lose.
“So you take them out, to the ballet, the theatre, that sort of thing?”
“Yeah, sometimes.” He swirled his whisky, making the ice tinkle, but didn’t elaborate, so the silence was heavy for a beat.
“What else do you do?” She set down her drink, leaning towards him.
His eyes lingered on her wet her lips when she flicked out her tongue. All of a sudden his skin felt too tight, particularly his straining cock, which pulsed in his jeans.
“I let them bind me, punish and fuck me.” Then he took such a gulp of scotch that it burned his throat.
“Delicious!” she smiled, before settling back, spreading her arms wide along the cushions. “Would you like to be fucked by me?”
For a moment he was dumbstruck, until his pulse kicked up and his engorged prick jumped, trying to answer for him. “I work for an agency, the women usually book me online.”
“But you’re not working tonight?”
“I had a booking,” his shame at the earlier events made him hang his head, “but I had to break the arrangement.”
“So I rescued you?”
“That’s about the size of it.”
“And you don’t have any more — ah — engagements for tonight?” She was keeping it businesslike.
He shook his head.
“That’s settled then, I’ll pay you to stay the night.” She downed her drink and stood up, smoothing her dress over her thighs while holding out a hand to shake on the deal.
As he grasped her hand it occurred to him that she hadn’t asked his rates, but living in a place like this he supposed that money wasn’t a problem.
“Follow me,” she said, sashaying ahead of him, through two large reception rooms towards the back of the house. “You can take your clothes off here,” she indicated a small changing room with a slatted bench and hooks on the wall, the kind you’d find in a spa. “When you’re naked go through that door and you’ll find the pool and the jacuzzi, I’ll meet you there.”
The situation and the turn of events was slightly strange, but the Gingerbread Man felt tingles of anticipation as he undid his shirt and peeled off his jeans. He left his clothes hanging on the hooks, neatly placing his shoes under the bench.
A glimpse of himself in a long mirror threw back a comforting reflection. His abs were defined like the blocks on a bar of chocolate and his thick cock stood proud from his hairless crotch, already semi aroused by the physique of his foxy hostess. His skin looked golden and flawless. He ran his hand through his silky hair and winked, “you’ve hit the jackpot with this one mate!” before pushing through the door to the tiled pool room.
[Part 1 of 2 — To be continued …]
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