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“What’s your name?” he asks, keeping up the pretense that we’ve never met. He looks at the lipstick left behind on my glass, and by the glimmer in his eye and the way he shifts in his seat, I can safely say that he’s imagining that lipstick mark around his cock.
I wonder how long he’s thought about me.
“Holly,” I answer, because tonight, that’s who I am.
“Holly.” He swirls my name around with his tongue like he’s tasting a fine wine. “I like that.”
He tucks a few bills, including a nice tip, into the billfold, his eyes never leaving mine.
He doesn’t wait for me to ask his name, but of course I already know it. I know a lot about him… Things I don’t want to know.
“Jonathan,” he introduces himself.
His eyes blanket me with a satisfied expression. Before holding out his arm for me to take, he asks, “Do you have any idea how long I have waited for this?” His mouth tilts into a pleased smile.
I know exactly how long he’s been waiting: four years.
I slide off the seat, my stilettos planted firmly on the ornate carpet beneath me. “So, Senator?” I take his arm graciously and then grab my clutch from the bar top. “What would you like to do with me?” I ask with a smile.
“What are you going to school for?” Elsie, the elderly woman sitting across from me, asks. Her wrist is adorned with the most beautiful bracelets that tinkle together when she lifts her arm. On her finger is a vintage ring with a large, single diamond at its center. Everything about her screams poise and wealth.
She was introduced to me as the wife of a lobbyist for The National Association of Realtors. Her husband, Otto Reynolds, is in deep conversation with my date, Senator Jonathan Langley.
“Literature,” I answer naturally, taking a bite of my salmon, which is quite flavorful. A glass of red wine sits in front of me, untouched.
“What kind of job will you get with a degree in literature?” She laughs in the condescending way women of her era laugh without meaning to. It’s just part of her upbringing – to look down on girls like me who have this romanticism about life instead of being practical and entering a respectable career path until I marry a judge or a lobbyist and start having babies.
I sit up straighter, setting my utensil next to my half-eaten plate of food. “Do you remember Melinda Carleton?”
She pinches her brows together as the cogs in her mind turn, trying to place the name.
“The woman who won a Pulitzer for the story she wrote for The Post about confidential military papers being leaked to Russian spies,” I refresh her memory, and Elsie’s face opens up in recognition. Everyone remembers that story, it brought down a high White House official. Elsie nods, seeming impressed that I would be so informed about political matters.
“She has a degree in literature,” I explain, picking up my glass of water and taking a sip.
Her mouth forms the shape of an ‘O’, but no sound comes out, having been put in her place, and I should feel satisfied, but I don’t… Because I’m not a literature student, not anymore. I will never write a story like Melinda Carleton did for The Post, or any other paper for that matter.
I’m an escort to the rich and powerful – to men who need discretion. Because if they were found with someone like me, their political career would be over, and I have no intention of having my picture all over the news or bringing attention to the exclusive agency I’m with. To say that Ellen would not be happy would be an understatement.
I’d never work again.
I’m playing a game right now, introduced as a friend of the family, and I mingle as if I’m one of them, as if I will move on to do great things because of my stellar upbringing and family money. But once dinner is over, and for a hefty price, I’ll be taken to a hotel room where Senator Langley will be able to live out the fantasy he’s had for the past four years.
This is the life I chose and I’m not ashamed of it, but I had other plans. These were just the cards I was dealt. So I play my part in the game because that’s who these men want – the fantasy – not the real me.
In some ways I’m no different than these other women at the table, because we’re all getting paid, one way or the other, to fuck their husbands. The only difference for me is that I get to leave in the morning with my money. If they want to leave, lawyers and prenups are involved.
“Would you like dessert?” The waiter’s question interrupts my thoughts and he looks at the guests expectantly, but none are paying attention to him.
Under the table I feel Jonathan’s hand on my thigh, the table linen hiding it from view. His fingers inch further up my leg and slip under the hem of my dress. The waiter stands awkwardly trying to get the attention of the table, unaware that the Senator's fingers are now gliding under my panties.
When he feels that I’m bare, a slow, satisfied smile tugs at the edges of his lips and his eyes dissolve into molten pools of blue. He looks away from me only long enough to address the waiter.
“Yes, dessert sounds good,” he says, sliding his eyes back to mine as he slips a finger inside me. The pulse in his neck flutters wildly and he swallows hard as I part my lips in response.
“I’ll just bring a variety for the table,” the waiter says and quietly dissolves back into the darkness. The entire restaurant feels like dusk, each table only lit by elegant candles while ornate sconces line the red textured wallpaper, and when I tip my head back to look at the ceiling I don’t find one, because it’s decorated to look like an endless starry night.
While the other guests continue their conversations, I grip the edge of the table trying desperately to school my expression as Senator Langley’s finger slowly pumps in and out of me. My clit grows more sensitive with each pass, my body betraying me—reacting because of biology rather than attraction. Every intake of my breath seems to fuel him, to know that what he’s doing affects me. He thinks it gives him power over me.
