Page 3 of Obedience

If I survive having to escort to pay for everything, Dylan thought, but instead she bulged her eyes and billowed her cheeks, letting a breath escape slowly. ‘If I get there, Pri.’

‘I have every faith in you. Doing it when you’ve got all this on as well…and being a geriatric student—’

‘Oi! The word is mature, Mrs Anjali.’

Priya chuckled and shook her head. ‘I’m kidding. Doing all this studying at the ripe old age of twenty-eight…it’s very impressive, hen.’

‘Well, it wasn’t an option way back when, so on I crack!’ She winked at Priya. ‘We’ll see anyway. As you know, a career in cancer research is the only option for me, sooo…’ Dylan stood, trailing off while flashing Priya an anxious grin. ‘I’ll be absolutely stuffed if I bugger it up now.’

‘You won’t bugger it up. You just have to get started with that bloody diss—’

‘Ey, Pri, do you wanna hear a joke?’ Dylan said, clunkily segueing into a change of subject, something she was particularly good at.

Priya flared her nostrils and gave Margaret a knowing look. ‘Aye, go on.’

‘Did you hear about that frog that couldn’t get into town for work this morning?’

Priya’s eye roll was almost as loud as her inhale. ‘No, I didn’t, as a matter of fact.’

‘Yeah, sad business really. His car got toad.’

Priya snorted a laugh, shaking her head at Margaret as Dylan laughed far too emphatically at her own joke—again, something she was very good at. ‘This child of yours, honestly.’ She huffed out some air. ‘Take your time in the shower, Dyl…we’re okay here. I’m starting this feed, and then we’re watching last night’s Corrie before tonight’s Corrie.’

‘Okay, ladies, I’ll leave you to it. I haven't watched Coronation Street for years.’

‘You’d still be able to pick up the plot…the characters are all the bloody same.’

‘Ken Barlow can’t still be going strong, surely?’

‘As an Ox, Dylly, and don’t call me Shirley.’

Dylan belly laughed while winking at her mum. ‘Right, I’ll be quick. Love you, Margarillo,’ she said, turning to leave.

Stopping at the door frame, Dylan turned to catch Priya’s gaze. Framing a heart with her thumbs and fingers over her chest, she mouthed a silent thank you. Priya caught the silent gesture and winked, her hands never straying from the task of preparing Margaret’s feed.

After bounding up the stairs two at a time, a childhood habit that used to drive her mother to distraction, Dylan headed to her room. She’d claimed the master bedroom once her mum moved downstairs, turning her old childhood room into a proper study when she started University. The space was Dylan’s sanctuary. Victorian period features grounded by a deep blue rug over the oak floorboards, with high, white-glossed skirting boards leading to green walls. Above the black cast-iron fireplace hung a huge, framed film promo print of Portrait of a Lady on Fire, styled to look like an oil painting. It captured Héloïse on a beach in her green dress, her gaze fixed out to sea.

A white plaster ceiling rose, and cornicing showed off their exquisite detail against the matte walls. In the bay window, deep white sills sat under walnut Venetian blinds that matched Margaret’s room downstairs. A double wardrobe occupied one alcove, while a dark green leather Chesterfield chair, with ornate turned wooden legs, sat in the other. It was her mum’s favourite piece of furniture, the place she used to sit to crochet or read. A black angle-poise lamp leaned over the leather chair, while two smaller bedside lamps suffused the king-sized bed in a warm glow. Behind and above the chair, the rows of shelves almost bowed under the weight of Dylan’s queer literature collection.

After throwing her bag onto the bed, Dylan padded out onto the long landing. A threadbare carpet runner lined the centre, leaving the worn hardwood visible on either side. Grabbing a fresh towel from the airing cupboard, she headed toward the excruciatingly dated bathroom. The bathroom walls were half tiled in a cream and blue nautical theme—a design that her grandparents had chosen just before Dylan was born. The other half of the walls was plastered and painted an insipid peach. A chrome shower, with an annoying incessant drip, hung over the white enamel, claw-foot bath with a wraparound shower curtain, and while the toilet made a honking noise like a ship coming into port when flushed, it worked. For now, it would have to do. A bathroom glow-up was on Dylan’s ever-expanding list of things to do and to pay for.

She pulled off her vest, joggers, and damp underwear. After leaving the hotel, she’d ducked into the bathroom of a Pret-A-Manger to change. Leaving the house in her escorting attire was never an option. Whether at a hotel or a private residence, she always found a way to peel off Remi before getting home. Kinks and special requests were commonplace at work, and she had absolutely no desire to navigate the Manchester Metrolink system in anything from a full tuxedo to a gym singlet and lucha libre mask. With a variety of client fantasies to fulfil, Dylan had a strict rule: she never wore her own clothes. Keeping the two worlds physically separate helped her maintain the distance she needed. It was work and a means to an end, nothing more.

As she showered, Dylan thought only of Margot and the look in her eyes when she’d barked at her to use her mouth, the first time she’d done so in two years. They had their routine, Dylan knew her role and had perfected it to a T. For a long time, it had been a bizarre yet carefully choreographed dance that Dylan had enjoyed, but for some time, the steps had started to feel different. She found herself looking at Margot with new eyes, her thoughts drifting back to her during the six days between their meetings.

As the hot water cascaded over her head, Dylan ran both hands over her face, unable to stop thinking about the hours they’d just spent together. They had veered so far from the usual script that the shift felt almost inconceivable. She could still taste Margot, catching her scent in every breath; the smell of their sex clung to her. A heat began to rise again, a fresh wave of arousal at the mere recollection of what had happened in the hotel room.

As her fingertips slowly pushed through her soft labia, her head fell forward as desire saturated her. Slicked and soaked, her swollen clit still throbbed wildly. Standing in the steam her fingers slowly started to move as she imagined fucking Margot with everything she had. She saw the look on Margot’s face, the way she’d ground down onto Dylan’s hand and thrust herself further into her mouth. The sounds of her moans building in volume until she was almost totally consumed by ecstasy, very nearly relinquishing the last of her restraint as she came. Even her hair felt as though Margot’s elegant fingers were still tangled in it, holding her in place, as if even with Dylan’s mouth sucking her and fingers inside her, she still wasn't close enough.

‘Fuuuck!’ Dylan groaned, coming quietly in a matter of minutes. The force of her orgasm so destabilising, her knees nearly buckled sharply, almost tearing down the shower curtain from the rail to steady herself. ‘Fucking hell,’ she laughed lightly under her breath, eyes closed, waiting for the dizziness to pass.

After drying off, she pulled on clean dark grey sweatpants and an old, sleeveless Gold’s Gym sweatshirt. Sitting cross-legged in the middle of her bed, she picked up her phone for a mindless scroll before Priya finished her shift and Dylan took over for the night. After managing alone for so long, the breaking point for Dylan had arrived without warning. Reluctantly, she had asked for help, but ultimately had to fight for NHS care packages, the provision of which wasn’t enough. Now, she topped them up with every penny she had, student loans, grants, savings, and the money earned escorting. Dylan would fuck women however they wanted to be fucked, just to cobble together exactly what her mum needed.

As painful as it had become, she often thought she’d have sex with Margot for free. Usually, while she was being told to “look away” or being chastised in Margot’s low, sultry voice for daring to speak out of turn, she wondered how she could call it work at all. Over the last few months, however, obeying the rules had become a struggle. She longed to rip up the ridiculous rulebook and just touch her.

The flip side was the performance for her other clients. The repetitive theatrics. Dylan adored women, but she struggled with sex when she wasn't actually into it. “It’s work, Dyl”, she’d repeat like a mantra while a bored ‘heterosexual’ housewife from Heaton Moor had her roleplay a builder in tiny denim shorts and a hi-vis vest. The plot of that particular play? She’d popped round to give a quote for some plumbing work. All terribly original stuff, really.

Dylan always felt a stubborn, professional need to ensure they got exactly what they paid for. So, she’d diligently arch her back, find the right notes, repeat their names, and fake the very breathlessness she was supposed to be feeling. Even if, underneath the hi-vis vest, she just felt like a weary, wayward member of The Village People.