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“I like to keep my abs right, boss,” Denzin said, giving her a playful wink as he continued to stroke inside Jann with the passion of scratching an itch.
“It shows,” Desdemona said, taking another sip of wine and letting it stroke her tongue before she gently swallowed. Still holding the glass, she sat back in the chair and took a deep breath that she released slowly and methodically.
“Jann, I guess you’re wondering why the man having sex with you and I are chatting when he’s about nine—maybe ten—inches in,” she said, leaning forward to set the glass on the desk.
“Ten!” Denzin balked. “Tryeleven.”
“I concede,” she said, her voice amused.
The woman looked about the room again.
Denzin patted her right butt cheek and pointed up to the small camera in the corner when she looked back at him over her shoulder.
And as Desdemona looked into her dull eyes she honestly didn’t know which of them was more uninterested. That was slightly shocking. Denzin was well-endowed and skillful. Over the last few years, she’d seen him push many a woman over the edge of passion with ease.
Hell, usually it was like watching really good porn. Bury your vibrating rabbit between your thighs until you cum kind of good porn.
At a heated memory of climaxing with rough cries as she watched Denzin and a lover do the same, Desdemona cleared her throat. “Leave us alone, Denzin,” she said, her voice firm.
He stepped back, freeing his hard inches from inside Jann before grabbing a pair of basketball shorts to pull on over his erection.
Viagra?she wondered with an arched brow and then a double shoulder shrug because she couldn’t blame him if he needed a little blue boost occasionally. He was her dick on demand handling female consorts and testing new courtesans—sometimes without much notice.
“Get dressed, love,” she said, turning her back to the screen to give Jann the same privacy she hadn’t bothered to consider just a few moments ago.
She sipped the wine and smiled into her glass as a butterfly with an intricate black-and-white pattern fluttered its wings and landed on the window, pausing for just a moment before again taking flight. For a second, she was jealous of its ability to just fly away on a whim.
The smile she allowed herself was slight as she turned back to the screen. “This isn’t for you, Jann,” she began, setting the glass on the desk and stroking the fragile leaves of a daffodil bloom. “My patrons trust me to deliver an experience, and while I think you are one of the most beautiful women ever. . . you are not cut out forthis.”
Jann’s disappointment was clear even as she nodded in understanding and slid the strap of her crossbody over her head. For a moment Desdemona wondered if she should’ve gone downstairs and met with her face-to-face, but she decided it wasn’t necessary.
“Selling your body means different things for different people. For some it’s liberation—believe it or not—and for others it’s disgusting and belittling. Then there is plenty in between. Guess what? Every feeling about it matters. There is no law that all women have to think, feel, be, or do the same thing,” Desdemona said, her face pensive. “But what I just saw was a woman who couldn’t hide the shame she felt.”
The woman’s expression revealed the truth of that observation.
“So, if I can give you some advice, love,” Desdemona offered, picking up the counted stack and loading another onto the machine. Soon the rapid shuffling of bills filled the air. “If your situation is desperate enough to do something that disgusts you, then your final recourse may be using your beauty to marry very well or hustle twice as hard.”
Long after Jann was gone, Denzin had reclaimed his bedroom and Desdemona had turned off both the video and intercom. She lay back on the bed with her eyes closed enjoying the feel of the sun’s rays warming her face through the window. Spreading her arms and legs, she gave in to a moment of folly, flapping her arms and legs as if she could fly away like the butterfly on the window earlier.
In an instant she envisioned water quickly rising to swallow her, sinking beneath its depths and feeling drowned. With a gasp, she sat up in bed and released a short breath as she ran her hands through her curls before tightly gripping the soft strands into her fists.
Cha-ching. Cha-ching. Cha-ching.
Her gaze went to her tote. It was the ringtone of the prepaid iPhone that she used strictly for her consorts. Each of her regulars was given a burner phone and assigned a number to keep proof of their communications to a minimum. She released her hair and rose from the bed to cross the room to retrieve the phone from her bag. Number one. “Congratulations on the win last night, Mr. NBA,” she said, turning to lean against the edge of the desk.
The deep voice on the line chuckled. “Time to relax and get ready for game six, Mademoiselle,” he said.
None of her consorts knew her real name or identity. She preferred it that way. Yet another attempted security measure. All called her by her preferred moniker of Mademoiselle.
“The usual?” she asked, looking across the room and out the window at the clear and pristine pool in the distance.
She knew him well. He had been one of her consorts for the past five years. Wins required a courtesan to pamper and adore him. Softly and sensually. Loss required one to berate him. Rough and harsh.
Desdemona knew both her consorts and her courtesans well. Rarely had she not been able to make a perfect fit of the courtesan’s particular skill or personality to the consort’s wants and desires. Wealthy men appreciated that talent.
“I wondered if such a big win was huge enough to bring out the big guns?” he asked.
Desdemona chuckled, but the humor did not fill her eyes. “Big guns mean big money,” she teased, keeping it light.
