Page 4 of Obedience

The Scortare escort agency app pinged as Dylan scrolled. She thumbed open the notification:

Miss Margot Grenson. Friday 1st, 5pm.

A week away. It wasn't soon enough, and the later time was a slight change from their usual routine, but it was confirmed, much to Dylan’s relief. She had been half expecting a call from the agency, or a notification that Margot had complained about the change in protocol. Even though it was at Margot’s behest, the deviation felt so massive that Dylan wouldn't have been surprised if the agency had flagged it after a call from Margot. But so far, the silence was reassuring.

As one of Manchester’s most exclusive escort agencies, owned by an Italian millionaire, Scortare’s standards were so high that any reported deviation from established boundaries would result in an immediate firing. Dylan had secretly hoped the sudden shift had meant something and would maybe prompt an extra meeting, but it hadn’t. She lay back on the bed, her fingers restlessly tapping against the phone resting on her belly, debating whether to notify the office as Margot had demanded.

Nothing you do to me is free of charge.

***

Greta closed the Scortare app and tossed her phone onto the sofa. There was no notification for an extra charge yet, which annoyed her, mostly because she would now have to chase it which, she remembered, was entirely of her own volition and kind of the point. She had been so adamant that the escort would never use her mouth that she’d instructed the agency to issue a fine of sorts if she ever broke the rule. An unusual request, but the agency was amenable. Believing that the embarrassment of the surcharge would be enough to deter her had worked for two years. Today, however, she had fucked up. She knew she had.

Sinking into the blue velvet sofa in her open-plan kitchen, she chewed on the inside of her cheek, her body unable to release her pent up tension, despite being ensconced among the cushions. Beige lounge pants and a grey T-shirt hung comfortably against her curves, her hair piled into a messy bun. Twisted toward the floor-to-ceiling windows of her penthouse apartment, she watched the evening settle over Canal Street. Below, the warm white streetlights around Sackville Gardens cast long shadows over the couples on the benches, people walking their dogs, or just passing through. Beyond the green trees and pink cherry blossoms, the bars along the canal grew steadily brighter and busier as the last of the daylight slipped away.

Tapping her fingers against the backrest, she toyed with the idea of requesting a new escort, but Remi was just too good. It had taken two years to hone their roles into something that worked for her. Remi was dutiful and perfectly obedient. The mere thought of starting over with someone new was exhausting. It had taken too long to reach this level of precision, and Greta, if she were honest, had grown to very much enjoy Remi’s aesthetic. The sight of Remi’s strong, tattooed hands against her own pale skin pleased her. The way Remi moved with a strength that was brimming with both obedience and forcefulness, turned her on more than she would care to admit, even to herself.

Greta never wanted gentle sex; if she wanted Remi to fuck her against a wall, she would without breaking a sweat. The sensation of Remi’s body and skin lingered on Greta’s palms. She could almost feel Remi’s muscular arms and the way she would hold them as Remi fucked her. Strong fingers digging into her thighs to hold her steady as Greta leaned into the safety of Remi’s firm body. Occasionally, for a split second, she wondered if Remi could be a tender lover, but she stopped the thought the moment it entered her mind.

In her forty-nine years, Greta had never thought it possible for a woman to possess such skilled fingers, or to handle a strap-on so sublimely. The mere image of Remi in tight Calvins, the dildo bulging beneath the cotton, was often enough to bring Greta to a climax within minutes of reaching for her vibrator. Greta would often fight the strong urge to book Remi more often. Although the high agency costs and hotel fees weren’t an issue financially, it was a ridiculous notion to allow it to escalate from more than once a week. But Remi’s mouth was new. It was a complication. A beautiful complication.

Leaning forward to the low table opposite her, she closed her fingers around the stem of her wine glass. The table was a single, massive slice of Maple, sanded and waxed to pale perfection. It had been carved from a tree felled by a storm in Montreal, where she and her wife, Muriel, had holidayed. A piece Muriel had commissioned a local carpenter to create and shipped home as a surprise for their fifth wedding anniversary. Now, the grain and history of the wood glared up at her. Running her palm over the smooth surface, she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply.

Muriel’s face on the day she had unveiled the table was still clear and sharp in her mind. The weight of her wife throwing herself into her arms, as they shared a kiss so deep Greta felt she’d never need oxygen again, still pressed onto her chest. The ghost of Muriel’s tongue still danced in her mouth. Her kiss had been everything, a restorative balm that healed Greta even after the toughest days. The perfection of her mouth was something Greta could not bear to forget, or worse, replace. It still filled her. The memory of it and the agonising, desperate need for it still consumed her.

Drawing in a deep breath, she pressed her hand to the smooth maple, the wood cold against her palm. Exhaling sharply, her eyes snapped open as the image of her wife—lying cold, her alabaster skin tinged blue—flashed behind her eyelids. The heat drained from Greta’s cheeks as the phantom pressure of Muriel’s body pushed against her face; hard and still as Greta waited, head pressed to her chest, for the heartbeat she never heard or felt again. The rhythmic beat of life was gone. There was only the A&E bay, the curtains unable to contain her gut-wrenching wailing. Muriel’s auburn hair was the only colour against the cold clinical grey.

One of the strings precariously holding Greta’s heart in place snapped, as the sharp chime of a phone notification forced her back into the room. The distraction was a relief; life had a habit of doing that. She had come to accept that nothing stops when your heart is broken. The tsunami of grief simply drags you along, the debris lodging itself in your ribs and spine as you go about life. A life that carries on around you while you stand bleeding and broken in the middle, with no other choice but to find a way to carry on. She kept her fingers pressed into her brows for a long minute. Leaning back into the sofa, Greta blew out a long breath, thumbing open her phone to a WhatsApp message from the agency:

Additional Fee now payable. Please follow link to app.

Satisfied and reassured that Remi knew better than to disobey her, even when they weren't in the same room, Greta closed the screen. Tipping the wine glass to her lips, her mind immediately pivoted to work and her borderline impossible schedule. As an oncology consultant at one of the Northwest’s biggest hospitals—The Pankhurst Cancer Institute—and an honorary lecturer at The University of Manchester, Dr Greta Vincent’s life was a succession of packed hours, leaving almost no room for anything else. Between her NHS patients, cancer research, and academic endeavours, time was her most precious and guarded commodity. The time she spent with Remi was non-negotiable self-care, and an absolute necessity—one she was beginning to anticipate with a dangerous level of excitement.

Reaching the poured concrete kitchen island, Greta set her glass down. The clink of her glass against the surface echoed through the cavernous room. After refilling her wine from the fridge, she retreated to her office. She ordered a pizza from Nell’s and settled into her chair, promising herself that she would only spend an hour on her inbox, a vow she invariably broke.

Chapter three

Gotham

‘Can anyone explain how KIT inhibitors halt oncogenic survival and how this mechanism differs from that of PDGFRA inhibitors?’ Greta’s voice projected confidently across the auditorium.

Holding her glasses by the arms, she pressed her other hand firmly into the lectern. As always, she was every bit the powerhouse. Dark hair flowing loose, kissing the shoulders of her silk blouse, tucked neatly into wide-legged trousers that rested perfectly over her heels.

A sea of blank faces stared back. During the Pandemic, she had pined for this proximity, but the strong human presence now often offered nothing but an irritating silence. Behind her, the massive screen lit up the faces of the first few rows of PhD students. Greta tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and raised an expectant eyebrow.

Huffing out a breath, she tilted her head as she slid her round tortoiseshell glasses back on. ‘Nobody?’ Still nothing. ‘Well, in that case, this might be a good place to stop, at least until one of you actually has something to offer.’

Her sigh reverberated through the speakers and bounced off every surface. She waited one more beat. The lecture had fifteen minutes left on the clock, but Greta had precisely zero fucks to give for non-participation; her time was far too valuable to spend it being blinked at. She didn't bother hiding her eyeroll as she began to gather her things. Snapping her laptop shut, a ripple of uneasy glances moved through the auditorium. The students waited for the punchline, but it never came. Instead, they watched in stunned silence as she draped her jacket over one arm and gripped her laptop bag with the other. She stepped off the platform, dipping for her small holdall in one fluid motion, and disappeared through the exit. Only then did the room erupt into a frantic hum of mutters and nervous giggles.

Today was not the day to antagonise Greta. A week of restless sleep had left her nerves frayed. She had been unable to silence the incessant chattering monkeys in her head, and they had spent far too many hours whispering about Remi. The meeting with Remi at Hotel Gotham was later than usual to accommodate the lecture she had just given, a scheduling conflict she would rarely allow. As her Uber crawled across the city, the stagnant Friday afternoon traffic did nothing to tamp down her annoyance. By the time the facade of the art deco hotel loomed into view, Greta was seething.

Upon entering the grand but intimate hotel lobby, she was greeted by the polite hotel reception staff who obligingly checked her in, confirming that, yes, the hotel Wi-Fi was problem-free, so her international work call would not be jeopardised. Greta requested that a bottle of Champagne be delivered to her room as soon as possible. Not, she thought, conducive to fake international work calls, but she also felt uncharacteristically less inclined to care. She didn’t usually drink when she met with Remi, but today, she needed to take the edge off. The hotel lobby was so incredibly small that Remi, arriving shortly afterwards—she realised as she scanned the space—would be glaringly obvious but her fatigue had clearly weighed heavily on her decision making that week.

Instructions had already been sent to the agency. Remi was to arrive already strapped, dressed in dark blue tailored trousers, a crisp, high-collared white shirt, and a waistcoat. Lube was to be ready in her pocket—Margot had no patience for fumbling—alongside the remote for the built-in vibrator.

Turning to face the full-length mirror, Greta sipped her champagne, the cool effervescence tingling against her lips and tongue. The amber light from the geometric glass lamps bathed the Gatsby-esque room in a sultry glow that felt worlds away from the university’s fluorescent harshness. Beneath her, the black and white herringbone floor was striking and sharp. The room was a plethora of bold colour and texture. Gold curtains draped against floor-to-ceiling windows, framing a bed of crisp white linen; a long, turquoise ottoman sitting at its foot. On a far wall a freestanding copper bath stood poised on a platform, its own mirror reflecting the black glass table beside it.

With her attention fixed on her own reflection in the black and gold frame opposite, Greta let her gaze travel over her Agent Provocateur underwear, purchased specifically for today. A maroon satin and black laced matching underwear set, smooth bare legs leading to black, nosebleed-inducingly high heels, which would make her usual five-foot-six height now around the same height as Remi. Despite the week she’d had, she couldn’t help but admire the view. She looked sensational.