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“I think you’ll be pleased, Christine,” she says in a light tone. “It’s not so different from the usual, and can be even better actually. This will be good for you,” she says in a persuasive tone.
Holy cow. I can’t believe we’ve gotten here. Clarissa’s actually telling me that escorting is going to help me? I suppose in a certain sense, it could.
“Okay, tell me about the client,” I invite. “And how much will I make if I do this?”
Clarissa chuckles.
“That’s my good girl, keeping your eyes on the prize. But I’m happy to say that because we work only with an elite clientele, we are able to charge the top of the market, and for your particular situation, the rate is two thousand a night.”
I gasp.
“Really?”
She giggles merrily on the other side.
“Yes, but remember the agency’s cut is 20%, so you’d get only 80% which is a healthy sixteen hundred dollars. Still, it’s a lot and I promise this client is handsome, charming, and very, very wealthy. So what do you say, hon? Would you like me to set you up?”
My heart’s racing and one hand rubs absentmindedly at my chest, as if trying to slow the rapid beating. The truth is that even for that kind of money, I want to say no. My body’s not for sale, and it never should be, but at that very moment, the baby kicks, and my hand slides over my belly. I’ll do anything to take care of my son, and my choices can’t just be about me anymore. They have to be for both of us, and the money Clarissa’s offering could be a lifesaver. Slowly I nod.
“Yes. I’ll do it.”
She clucks approvingly.
“Great. I’ll put together some papers for you to look over, and just send them back to me after you get a chance. Then, I’ll be back with the details for your first date. Congratulations, Christine. You’re making a very brave, courageous choice for your child, but I think you’re going to have fun too. A little bit of fun before you give birth is warranted, right?”
I swallow.
“Yes, it is. Thanks.”
With that, we hang up and I stare sightlessly at the non-working fireplace in my small studio. I sure hope Clarissa’s right, because at the moment, I’m terrified I’ve just gotten myself into a mess that I’ll never be able to escape.
4
Damon
I smile to myself while taking a sip of bourbon. A younger version of me never would have imagined using an escort agency to find a date, but there’s a first for everything. So here I am, sitting at the bar of the Redwood Hotel. At least the escort agency has good taste. This place is high-end, from the huge oak bar to the pendant lamps throwing dim spotlights across the shiny surface. Elegantly dressed guests lounge on velvet covered sofas, chatting with their heads close together while enjoying top shelf liquor. This is my kind of place, that’s for sure.
But I’m antsy because I’ve never used an agency before. After all, finding women to date isn’t the problem. I’m rich as fuck, and that means a lot in a city like New York. Not only that, but I have jet black hair, blue eyes, and work hard to keep my body in shape. So yes, there are ladies galore throwing themselves at me at every chance they get.
The problem is my so-called “kink.” Not only do I like my women thick with ample curves, but I like them generous and fertile, and preferably pregnant. It’s something about the way a woman’s body grows and expands when she’s got a child in her belly. I love the fullness of their thighs, the softness of their upper arms, and the gentle glow that seems to emanate from within. Even the way women waddle when they’re pregnant hypnotizes me.
But that’s the problem: where am I going to find a bevy of beautiful pregnant women to date? Where would I find even one pregnant woman to date? I suppose I could get married and keep my wife constantly knocked up, but that hardly makes sense given my current lifestyle. I enjoy being a single man in Manhattan because I’m free to do as I please, with nobody to answer to other than myself. So City Girls seemed like a decent option seeing that I’m not exactly about to give up my playboy lifestyle.
My eyes flit to the entrance of the bar. Where is my date for tonight? The hotel itself is pretty busy, but still, there aren’t exactly a lot of pregnant women wandering to and fro. As I wait, a bartender strolls over to top off my drink.
“Another shot?” he asks.
I push the tumbler forward.
“Make it a double.”
With that, he nods and pours the amber liquid before throwing in some ice. I take a sip and the bourbon burns as it slides down my throat. Ah, perfect. But then, there’s a horrific crash over by the door and everyone turns to look.
“Shit, what was that?” a fellow patron mumbles. “An earthquake?” There was definitely the sound of glassware shattering, and I spot a waiter by the entryway getting down on his hands and knees, doubtless to do some cleaning. Wow, it looks like he had a full platter, judging from the scattered tableware and steaming mess of food on the floor. But then my breath hitches because there’s a woman hovering over him, looking horrified and ashamed. Even though she’s pregnant, she too tries to get down on her hands and knees to help, but the waiter stops her. I can almost hear him saying, “No madame. Please, let me. You’re pregnant.”
She flushes a bright red as the maître d’ runs over, gesticulating wildly, and tendrils of curls begin to stick to her flushed face. That’s my cue. Even from across the room I can see that she’s upset, and I immediately cross the room with a few long strides.
“I’m so sorry,” the woman apologizes. Tears are forming in her eyes as she clasps her big belly protectively. “Sometimes I forget I need extra space with my new form. It gets in the way and I brush against things when I don’t mean to. I’m so, so sorry.”
