Page 5 of The Alpha Escort Agency
He sighs and opens the first email.
We thank you for your submission blah blah blah but on this occasion blah blah blah we unfortunately cannot accept blah blah blah would be interested in seeing your future work blah blah.
The usual rejection, then. He's pretty numb to it by now. Anyway, it's not why he does this. He submits so few photos these days, only continuing on the off chance that one day someone somewhere will like one enough to publish it.
The second email from the agency informs him they have a new client for him. This is good news. His old, most regular client met the love of her life six months ago and no longer requires his services. The rest of his clientele is mainly made up of one-offs — Omegas who have found themselves without help at the last minute or who are between relationships. It's good to have another client on the books, adds to his security.
Not that he's panicking. He's had this job for coming up five years and it’s the way of things; gain clients, lose clients. It’s a constant ebb and flow, and in some regards it's better that way. Part of the appeal of the job in the first place was the detachment. The opportunity to see to a need without becoming involved. And, of course, the money had also been an attraction.
It was precisely a year after Joanna left, when finally it sunk in that she was never coming back, that he looked to the classified ads to find an arrangement for himself and instead saw an advert for male Alpha escorts. It seemed like the answer to all his problems. A way to support himself while indulging his love of wildlife and photography — two activities that didn't pay the bills, no matter what he told his grandparents.
If he imagined he could just shoot off an email and be accepted as a male escort at the Alpha Escort Agency, well, he was wrong. After the requirement to fill out an online vetting and application form, they had invited him to a three-hour interview.
The agency was based a few streets from London's Soho. A shiny, sleek office on the first floor of a red brick office block; the agency's logo buried among others for what looked like PR, marketing and creative agencies — as if they wanted to position the agency as a serious business, not some seedy operation. A young Beta man in a sharp suit and trendy glasses manned the reception desk, and Rory assumed they'd hired him as someone who wouldn't letch all over the other employees. The man asked Rory to sit on one of the designer plastic chairs in the foyer while he photocopied his passport and afterwards led him to an internal room with walls of glass and more white plastic furniture. Here Rory'd been required to fill out a psychological profile and two different questionnaires, one about his sexual history and the other a multiple choice with questions on everything from his belief in God to his favourite colour.
At first he sat twiddling the black biro in circles around his index finger, tugging at the brand new royal blue suit he'd bought for the interview, trying to determine what it was he needed to say to answer the job description. In the end, he gave up and answered truthfully. He'd shaved for the interview and tied back his shoulder length hair. He was pretty sure long hair wouldn't be on the agency's shopping list — he'd seen the other Alpha's on the agency's website, all with short clipped hair — but if they didn't want him for himself, he would find another job. He was in good shape, reliable, well-mannered. He hoped that would be enough.
Once he completed all three exercises, he leaned back in the chair; the legs squealing with his weight and looked about. The glass walls made the office seem like a labyrinth, the type of maze of tunnels and corridors that scientists forced rats to explore. Sound filtered through from strange directions, and the smells and scents that drifted in were intermingled and confused.
For a second he wondered if this was a strange social experiment and contemplated leaving, but then the receptionist came and took him through to another meeting room. This one larger, with solid walls, decorated with a strange mixture of modern art and photos of happy-looking couples.
Three people sat behind the dark wooden table, all three standing to shake his hand. All three were women, and from their scents he guessed two were Omegas (one mated, one doused in heavy blockers), the third a Beta. The Beta was young with a short platinum hair cut, the blocked Omega stern-looking behind a curtain of heavy makeup and the last Omega, older and clearly the boss, her heavy, expensive necklace and rings a clear giveaway.
"Mr West, perhaps you'd like to begin by telling us a little about yourself."
This seemed like a strange question. What did they want to know? His dick size? How long he could last? If he knew where a woman's clit was located? The Beta appeared to note his hesitation.
"Where are you from? What do you like to do?"
It felt more like a date than an interview until the end when the boss lady, Andrea, removed her glasses and looked him straight in the eye.
"Mr West, I want to be clear you understand what this job entails. It's not an easy gig, an easy way of getting your end away, so to speak. Our clients pay for a superior service. They expect to be well looked after with care, consideration and, most of all, respect. They need to be treated like Queens, lavished with your attention."
He nodded and answered, with no hint of contrition, "Isn't that what all women deserve."
"Yes, Mr West, but especially our customers." She picked up her spectacles by their arms and tapped them on the surface of the table. "It is demanding work. While we will give you ample time off for recovery, most of our Alphas find they don't have the time or energy to dedicate to a romantic relationship outside work, and it goes without saying that relationships with clients are strictly forbidden."
"I understand." He tugged at his jacket.
"And you are still willing to accept the job?"
He paused. "Yes."
Then they asked him to strip to his underwear, and the Beta had taken a few shots of him against the paneled wall with a digital camera.
They offered him the job the next day and sent him on a week's training to teach him how to cook, clean and be a "gentleman". It was a waste of their time and money. His nan had taught him all those things herself.
His first assignment, as the agency liked to call his requirement to go fuck an Omega through her heat, had been a trial run, a test to check he was indeed up to the job and had the required stamina and equipment. Apparently he passed with "flying colours" and the number of assignments increased after that until he'd saved enough money for a deposit to buy his place and his truck and live a comfortable life; watching birds, taking photos, and fucking women for money.
Chapter 3
This is feeling like a lousy idea. An insanely, ridiculous, foolish idea. Alice Turner is not the type of woman who does assertive risqué things like paying for sex. What on Earth had possessed her to think she was?
And now, as a consequence of such foolhardiness, here she is, sitting in the bar of a flashy hotel — somewhere the prices on the drinks menu make her eyes water and the other patrons look as if they've stepped off a runway.
Why did she arrive early? How could sitting here growing more skittish by the moment ever prove to be an advantage?
Ok, so she'd worried that if he had got here first, she'd be required to walk across the bar towards him, and knowing her luck, end up falling on her arse. But that potential embarrassment seems trivial compared to this torture.
