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Christina
After shoppingwith Thomas and enjoying some time this weekend not spent on whatever strange client is next, I head back to my room and decide to relax some before my next client that managed to affect me in a way I never thought possible. I slip into a hotel bathrobe and start laying out the clothes I will wear tonight, the makeup I will put on and other assorted tasks in preparation.
I hear a knock on the door. I go to answer and find a hotel concierge holding out a box. "This is for you," he says. "It comes courtesy of a Mr. M."
I didn’t know Mr. M, was going to send me gifts and my heart flips twice and I eagerly rip open the packaging, lifting off the box's lid. Inside, I find an elegant black evening gown and a note. The note reads,
"Rose are red, violets are blue, get ready for an unforgettable evening because I can't wait to feast uponyou."
I hold the note in my hands. "Sounds like an interesting guy," I say sarcastically. “Mr. M seemed much more suave on the phone,” I say to no one but myself. I can’t help but wonder if I’m underestimating the client. The truth is, I’m still thinking about David and what he did to my body. I don’t dislike my work, and I find I’m getting further and further away from a comfortable distance between my attraction to David and my pleasure in prostituting myself. That’s right, fucking men for money — or what I do right now, somewhere between fucking and not — and fucking my stepson have started to be at odds. I actually laugh out loud at the notion. How did my life get to this point? My problems aren’t money and a shitty husband anymore, though, so I can at least appreciatethat.
That night, I slide into the black evening gown sent by the mysterious Mr. M, and I drive myself to the nightclub that Thomas instructed me to go to via text. I park, walk into the doors of the club and am immediately taken aback by the club’s decadent décor. Chandeliers hang from the ceilings, red plush chaise lounges are strategically placed across the room, votive candles light the tables, and the walls are painted a deep burgundy. A DJ plays an eclectic mix of music.
A man in a dark suit with a silver tie approaches me. "Ms., I am here to take you to the party," hesays.
"Are you Mr. M?" I ask, seriously doubting that but I have toask.
He chuckles "Me? Oh no, but you will meet him shortly."
Together, we walk out of the backdoor of the club and leave in a silver Mercedes that is waiting for us outside.
I realize that without Thomas, I would be nervous right about now. I am with a strange man, in a strange car, headed for a strange place, and I am blindly traveling without any answers. Isn't this what horror movies are madeof?
But Thomas promised me that I would always be safe, and I believehim.
We travel for a few miles until the driver pulls up a gated driveway of a palatial home. This isn't an ordinary home—with its tall columns, circular driveway, tennis courts, water fountains, and Olympic-sized swimming pool, this is a mansion.
The man in the suit ushers me out of the car and walks me into the foyer of the home. "Enjoy your evening," he says, and turns to walkaway.
"Wait," I say, calling afterhim.
"Where do I go from here?" I ask. "Where is Mr. M?"
But the man doesn't answer, and so I am left wondering where I should head next. Hearing music and lively chatter coming from an adjoining room, I decide to head in that direction.
In the next room, I find myself surrounded by men in expensive suits and beautiful women in elegant dresses, their hair and makeup and bodies perfectly accessorized. I quickly realize that these women are not wives, or girlfriends—they are all high-end escorts and this party must be for the benefit of a select group of wealthymen.
I take a seat at the bar and order my favorite drink, a cosmopolitan. As I sip the drink, I look around. It is then that I notice—the men were not only groping and playing with these women like expensive toys, but they are passing them around and sharing them with one another. The women smile, and laugh, and eagerly play their parts.
A shiver runs up and down my spine. Mr. M said I’d submit to him, that he’d blindfold me and he’d touch me. I hope that hasn’t changed. I am getting used to the new rules, the no-touching rule, and so soon I’m breaking it. I don’t want it to be for a party full of entitled, wealthy men. I want it to be for the mysterious Mr. M.
Just then, a tall man sits next to me. He is holding a blindfold, and before I can look up at him, he ties it over myeyes.
So this is the mystery man. He certainly exudes a dark charm. And he doesn't seem nearly as crude as his letter.
I tremble for a moment, getting used to the newfound blindness I have and knowing that it is in a room full of men and their escorts.
“May I have this dance?” Mr. M asks. “I won’t let you fall,” he says. I hear his voice through the music and it sounds different. I mean, it reminds me of David, but that’s crazy. All clients that intrigue me, or bore me, tend to make me think of David. I push aside the thought andnod.
I grab his hand and let him direct me to the floor. We dance, slow, fluid steps. I nestle into his broad chest, and he keeps one hand on the small of my back, and it slowly moves it toward my ass. There is no doubt as to why I am here; he made that known. He gets to touch me. I think to myself that not long ago, a man paying the right price could. Now, this is something that I reserve for Mr. M.
The ambience of the room, the inherent helplessness the mask imposes on me, and the intoxicating presence of my mysterious client all have me realizing that I have desire for him welling up withinme.
"Do you like my house?" heasks.
"This is your house?" I reply, taken aback. "You own this entire place?"
"I do," he says. “And I’m going to take you my bedroomnow.”
