Girlfriend By The Hour

Girlfriend By The Hour

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Details

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Summary

When Imogen accidentally interviews to be the social companion of Andre Lachlan, she never imagines what the job will entail.

Summary

When Imogen accidentally interviews to be the social companion of Andre Lachlan, she never imagines what the job will entail.

Chapter7 (v.1) - The Envelope

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: March 28, 2015

Reads: 1471

Comments: 3

A A A | A A A

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: March 28, 2015

A A A

A A A

The nightmare always began the same way. A cluttered warehouse, box towers reaching to the ceiling, a fire. Imogen ran through the maze, desperate to find the exit, but she kept returning to the same stack of wooden crates. She knew it was the same stack because one of the boxes was damaged. A single doll hung from the hole, its wide, empty eyes staring her down.

When she returned from her fourth circuit, the doll was melting. Its red hair had burned up to its head, its ivory skin was charred on one cheek. The other cheek had melted away, revealing bloody bone. Imogen didn’t have time to think about it, but the image stayed in her mind as she took off for the fifth time.

And then a stainless steel door was right in front of her, and she felt relief for a heartbeat before she realized there was no handle. It hadn’t been removed, it simply didn’t exist. She threw her weight against the door, hoping it wasn’t sealed, and a silent sob of pain escaped her. The fire was on the opposite side of the door, as well.

Taped to the door was an envelope with a name written on it: Aubrey. Imogen hesitated. It wasn’t for her. It was for Aubrey. She wasn’t Aubrey.

She opened her mouth to scream for help. Even if the other side of the door was on fire, there could be someone there. Together they could escape. Or maybe the other person could get out and send for help.

Nothing came out of Imogen’s mouth but a nearly inaudible squeak. She tried over and over again until her throat went raw from pulling smoke through.

The envelope. Imogen wasn’t Aubrey. Aubrey was gone, ceased to exist at fifteen years of age, wiped from the world. Or before that. Aubrey never existed, not really. And Imogen wasn’t Aubrey.

She was going to die. There was no way out of the warehouse. The first burned on all sides of her. There was nothing left to do but open the envelope.

The contents of the envelope were always the same, but Imogen was in a dream. She couldn’t possibly know that except the terror. She knew she absolutely did not want to open the envelope, but it was impossible not to if she was Aubrey.

And Imogen was Aubrey. Once, current, and future, the fact was as incontrovertible as breath. She took the last of those breaths, the very end of oxygen before the fire stole what little remained, and tore through the heavy manila paper.

It contained a single photograph.

A young girl, no more than ten, her body mutilated. Fingers chopped off, skin flayed from her chest, eyes sewn shut. Blood bubbled at her lips.

Bubbled, so the girl was still alive. Barely, and not for much longer.

Imogen awoke in a cold sweat. She sucked raggedly for the clean air while she oriented herself, telling herself over and over again it was just a dream. The same fucking dream she had every time there was a thunderstorm. She felt around the bed, hoping Sal had crawled in as she sometimes did, but of course that hadn’t happened. She wasn’t home.

She grabbed her phone to check the time. 12:53. The Polexia run she’d bailed on in favor of some shitty sleep wasn’t even over. Tina had given her a pager in case she needed anything, but she didn’t want to interrupt the run. She sighed and climbed out of the comfortable bed to hunt down a glass of water.

The house was every bit as labyrinthine as the nightmare box maze, but thankfully all the doors were open. Even in the waking world, Imogen had issues with closed doors. Nothing as debilitating as her fear of thunder, but her 3-bedroom apartment was deliberately chosen because Sal and their other roommate got to have rooms around a corner where Imogen’s quirk wouldn’t invade their privacy.

Tina hadn’t led Imogen up or down any stairs so she assumed she was on the ground floor. In her initial sweep, she found only entertaining rooms—a formal dining room, a library, a casual den, and what she supposed was a parlor. When she reached the front hall, she chose the staircase going down. Perhaps they’d actually entered through the back and the ground level was below.

The bottom floor felt much more lived in. She found a small gym, a large office set up with four computer desks, another den with an exceptionally squishy sofa and the largest TV she’d ever seen, and a massive, state of the art kitchen. It took a good five minutes before Imogen found glasses that looked more suitable for late-night water than a black tie dinner party. Once she’d drunk enough, she washed it and put it back in the cabinet just in case it was some sort of heirloom crystal.

Imogen thought she’d traced her steps properly but found herself in a hallway she hadn’t yet seen. There in front of her was a closed door.

This is normal, she told herself. Normal people had closed doors. They had pantries and laundry rooms and linen closets. Holiday storage, summer wardrobe. Silly to leave those doors open. No reason to peek inside. Imogen wasn’t even the snooping type. She never looked in medicine chests or checked browser histories.

But this door, it was like that damn nightmare envelope. She knew not to open it, but she had to.

The doorknob was cool to the touch. That was a good start at least. It opened silently into what, at first glance, was a black void. She exhaled before pushing the door a little further, then froze.

Light flooded into the room, illuminating its true contents. Black floor, black walls, black ceiling, and within its confines a giant, black satin draped bed with a wrought iron frame that latticed over it. Also, a rack with an extensive collection of whips and ropes. Several hooks hung off chains draped from the ceiling. Loops were moored to the walls and floor. Additional storage cabinets, objects she couldn’t quite identify whose functions she didn’t want to guess.

And there on the floor, maybe ten feet in front of her. For one horrible moment, Imogen didn’t even know what she was looking at. A couple, tangled together, all ropes and contorted feet and a bare, shapely rear facing right at her. Shaved, caramel toned head buried—

“Oh fuck,” Imogen breathed voicelessly. Andre and…well, that was probably Amanda…in the midst of…this was a sex dungeon or something.

Of course. This was why Andre was okay with public relationships that lacked intimacy. He had a sex slave. That’s what rich people did, right?

Amanda’s head popped up, startled by the light or Imogen’s breath. Her eyes went wide and her arms flew up to cover her exposed breasts, highlighted by the rope twining between them. Andre’s head craned back to see what the distraction was, but looked more irritated by Imogen’s presence than embarrassed to be discovered face deep in a partially hogtied girl’s vagina.

“I was looking for water,” Imogen whispered.

“Go back…” Amanda started to say before twisting around to look meaningfully down at Andre.

“Speak,” he said. Imogen noticed Amanda’s collar and dog ear headband. In the blurry periphery of the light shaft, there was a furry tail attached to—well, Imogen knew exactly what that was, although she’d never considered trying one before. Certainly not one with a tail.

So this was…fuck. Cosplay? Imogen didn’t know enough to even classify it.

“Go back the direction you came, kitchen is just past the computer bay,” Amanda continued with Andre’s completely condescending permission. But whatever, clearly she liked being a dog. “And I’m Amanda. You’re Imogen, right?”

There was no right answer. She was Imogen of course, but there was nothing she could say that would make this moment any less awkward, which was all she wanted in the world.

“Well, this isn’t exactly how I wanted to meet you,” Amanda continued, her voice all extroverted pep. “I’d planned on—babe, your penis.”

“Babe?” Andre snapped as he maneuvered around Amanda’s rump to tuck himself back into his pants.

Imogen tried to look away, but it was like a goddamn train wreck. She should have been the least uncomfortable person here, but Amanda was all perky bounce and somehow Andre was still hard.

Amanda was grinning broadly, but she said from the side of her mouth, “I thought ‘babe’ would go better than ‘master’ in front of her.”

“I need to pee,” Imogen whispered.

Andre flopped his arm out, pointing to the left. “Bathroom’s right there. Close the door behind you.”

“Okay.”

The bathroom was amazing, the floor crafted from blue, glass pebbles and shimmering grout, the walls accented with a sandy texture. All the fixtures were rich cobalt, including a bathtub and shower stall both large enough to accommodate at least two people.

Imogen processed this slowly while she sat on the toilet waiting for her bladder to do its thing. Focus on the tub, she told herself. And the scent. It smelled like the ocean, which didn’t normally conjure pleasant thoughts for Imogen, but it was better than thinking about—

--What the fuck.

And goddamn her bladder. She could swear she had to pee, but it refused to cooperate. She did know what could help though: alcohol. And there were at least two bars in the house. She could get crazy drunk and forget about what she’d seen. Maybe if she got blackout drunk, it would work retroactively obliterate what was indelibly burned into her retina.

No, that was crazy. There was a much better way to burn away the gross feeling Andre’s little scene had left within her.

 

~..~

Amanda cleared her throat. “Game on?”

“Get off.”

Amanda sighed but did as instructed, then waited patiently for Andre to untie her. He picked her up out of habit and carried her to Heaven. It was his responsibility to take care of her, but his heart wasn’t really in it.

Christ, what a disaster.

He dutifully massaged soothing cream into Amanda's ankles and thighs, kissed her like he always did, and praised her fervently because, as always, she deserved it.

The entire time, his brain was stuck on Imogen.

What kind of house guest peeked behind closed doors? She'd never been here before, didn't know anything of the layout. Sure, Hell was pretty much the nightmare scenario, but it would have been just as bad if it was his bedroom. An occupied bathroom may have been even worse.

He reminded himself she had come to his home in a state of duress. Also, it may have been rude to simply abandon her as he had, but still. When they discussed this tomorrow, he fully planned on focusing on her poor manners. What he did behind closed doors was his business, not hers. He had nothing to be ashamed of.

But, ulk. This might be a rocky year after all. The look on Imogen's face had been a thin veneer of nonchalance over pungent disgust.

On his way to his bedroom, Andre noticed the lights on in the gym. Through the open door, he saw Imogen running on the treadmill. She was dressed in the pajamas Tina had provided for her, loose cotton pants and a tank top with an image of a teddy bear pulled tight across her chest. She was braless, her breasts lifting and falling against her rapid tempo. Without any tennis shoes to thump against the mat, Imogen was a flipbook of blind innocence unaware of the voyeur hiding in the shadows.

Andre should have been ashamed of this self-assessment, but that was a sentiment he rarely indulged in. So he embraced his predilection, sliding down the wall and leaning back to watch in a more comfortable position.

Imogen reached up to tame her sleep-mussed lion's mane. Andre was rewarded with a brief glance at the underside of her breasts, flushed pink from exertion, before she fixed her shirt.

He was truly incorrigible.

She maintained her pace for another minute before tapping a button. The machine accelerated, and she bent low to match it. She repeated the process several times, reaching a dead sprint.

Andre brought his feet to the ground, concerned she might fall and hurt herself. He didn't know what preparing to stand would do, but he had no other ideas.

She maintained the frantic pace for no more than a minute before her feet faltered. He sprang up, but he hadn't even stepped forward before one of her hands flew up to her mouth and the other slammed into the kill switch. By the time the machine came to a stop, she was crying hard, loud sobs and painful gasps that carried to Andre in a tangible wall of misery.

Shit. He'd been careless, ignoring the usual lines he drew with his companions. Complete stupidity had brought her here tonight when he could have just as easily taken her home. He knew the girl was sensitive, had caught that ten minutes into the interview and spent the entire evening exploiting it. He should have stayed up with her tonight; he’d just been so frustrated on the way home.

He took care of the women in his life. His mom and sisters, Tina and Amanda. When they were sad or sick or scared or angry, he made them feel better. But what could he possibly do against inclement weather?

Imogen dropped to her knees gracefully before bringing her hands down and pausing on all fours to catch her breath. Sweat rolled down her forehead, her cheeks, her arms, dripping onto the mat. Her chest heaved, giving Andre an unobstructed view down her collar. He didn't want that, not now.

He walked to the kitchen to get her water, the whole time concocting a story about getting it for himself before seeing her in the gym. Or, not seeing her, definitely not witnessing her falling apart like that. No, hearing the whir of the treadmill.

The story didn't matter; she was asleep when he returned, stretched out on her stomach where she'd landed. He didn't want to wake her, so he set the glass down next to her and retrieved some blankets and a pillow. When he made her as comfortable as he could manage without stirring her, he turned the lights off and went to his room.

He spent a sleepless night there.


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