Damn, she’s so cute. Not even in my imagination did I think she would be this adorable. “It’s fine. But if my client doesn’t know who I am, or can’t read my expressions, it enhances the perceived danger of the sexual encounter.”
Her eyebrow cocks up. “But you are dangerous. That’s what you said and why you wear the mask.”
“A little from column A and a little from column B.”
“Clients? You’re paid.”
I shrug. “I’ve been compensated with guest passes and a free membership. I had a full background check and regular STI tests.” But that’s never an issue. It’s not like I’m fucking them. “Mostly, I work in the playroom and support scenes with couples. I get one of them aroused, and the other partner finishes the job.”
I motion to her arm and she takes it out of the blanket and hands me the ice pack. The swelling has gone down, and the ice has tinted her skin red.
“And you get off too? Right?”
I drop her hand and step away. “This isn’t about me or my pleasure, it’s for them. Think of it more like therapy.”
Her face furrows and she rewraps herself in the blanket. “I’m struggling with the wording, please give me a minute.” She looks at the ground. “Is there an expectation that I should provide you with some sort of physical payment for your help?”
“No!” The word sounds like a bullet ripping through our conversation. She jumps back, eyes wide with flecks of fear. I take a deep breath to calm myself. “No, I do not expect any repayment, money or physical.” I add quickly, “This isn’t a strike either. It was an understandable assumption and a miscommunication on my part.”
She stands and glances around, but is not willing to give up her fuzzy cape. “Oh, ok. I guess I should get going?”
“Strike two.”
She snaps with the harshest tone all night, “What the hell? Why?”
“You’re the most precious person in this room and I will not risk your safety because you feel uncomfortable. We’ll wait until Dimitri comes back with information about your car."
She sits back down, pushing her hair behind her ear, and stares at the floor. I’m worried she doesn’t see the connections yet. She’s too focused on the environment instead of the larger picture. The sex, the fantasy, that’s not what’s important right now.
But maybe that’s what she needs: the physical to break down the emotional barriers. It’s the surreal that will ground her in reality.
She laughs, a cold, harsh sound. “Precious? Because I’m fucking adorable?” She rolls her eyes at me, and the irritation builds. She doesn’t see it. No, worse, she doesn’t believe it. “You’re so full of shit,” she snaps.
Frustration rises inside of me. Why can’t she see what I see?
