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I’d thought the rest of the place was opulent. This room gives new meaning to the word. It’s like stepping into a royal bedroom. It’s grand and luxurious, down to the last detail. I want to absorb them all, but then Cesar’s words ring in my head. Ten minutes before my bidder arrives.
A red folder sits on the ornate ivory desk in the corner. It’s small and thick, like the kind restaurants use to conceal the bill. Inside, I learn President Grover Cleveland had once slept here. Huh. I’m instructed to go to the attached bathroom and prepare myself in whatever way I desire, which I take to mean to quickly swab off for hygiene.
I hope he has to do that, too. Nothing worse than a sweaty dude climbing all over you. Oh my god. Some dude is going to be climbing all over me soon. There goes the dry mouth again.
Per the list, check out is at seven in the morning, but if he wants to leave earlier, he can. A grandfather clock says it’s midnight now, and I struggle not to get lost in calculating my hourly rate.
Stay present.
The instructions say I’ve signed up to do whatever he wants, and there are a variety of lubricants and toys in the nightstands, but absolutely no bondage is permitted for safety reasons.
They really have thought of everything, haven’t they?
Also, no extra people will be involved. I hadn’t thought of that, but I guess it’s a relief. Tonight is going to be strange enough without adding a three-way into the mix. But with him being able to leave whenever he wants, I wonder if that means he could have bid on more than one woman. I mean, no reason not to—not like he’s mine for the night or something. But since he’ll be here in ten—no, nine minutes now—I wonder if I get first dibs or if he’s already been with someone else tonight.
Huh. Not sure if that bugs me. But it doesn’t really matter, does it?
At the very bottom of the instructions, it reads, “You are to be completely nude when your bidder arrives.”
Somehow that line makes all of this realer than real. I take a deep breath, blow it out in a puff, and hurry to the bathroom. It’s pretty and elegant, and I have absolutely no bandwidth to revel in any of it, because I’m in a panicked hurry. I pee and use the softest towels I have ever touched to wipe down the rest of my body. Once that’s done, I’m already naked, so I hang my clothes in the closet and dash to the bed to shove under the covers. An appropriate place to hide, I think.
Thankfully, the mattress is much more modern than the rest of the furniture. In fact, I doubt it’s ever been slept on. No divots and it’s super comfy. The sheets are smooth and cool, and if I weren’t so nervous, I’d think I was in for a night of the best sleep of my life.
But I am nervous and I’m sure I won’t get any sleep tonight. Not if he’s got erectile dysfunction pills.
From the bed, I can take in my surroundings. Everything is old as dirt. I’m guessing it’s all Victorian, like the rest of the place. There’s scrollwork on the corners of things and gold accents abound. The bed itself has a curtain thing behind the headboard, as though I am on a different kind of stage and about to perform.
Which, in some ways, I am.
The rug beneath the bed had been super soft, and it had a pattern at the edges—some kind of old timey vine thing. It’s all so old that I’m starting to worry about my bidder. Do they keep all of this antique stuff around so he won’t feel so old?
An unsettling thought.
Or maybe it’s so pretty in here so the women can have something nice to look at instead of her ugly bidder. Maybe that’s why the lights are so low. Because wealthy men can obviously get laid easily, so why else would they have to resort to this?
On a whim, I dart out of the bed and lower the lights more. I’m not sure I want to know what he looks like. Not that I’m shallow—not much, anyway—but, besides the possibility of him being unattractive, some added anonymity seems like a good thing. Unfortunately, I cannot figure out how to lower the lights over the bed. They’re dim enough to be flattering, but not low enough to make me invisible. Hopefully, he’ll climb on top of me and remain backlit, so I don’t have to know who he is.
Thankfully, there’s no chance he’s someone I know. I don’t know anyone with this kind of money. Sure, there’s the clientele at the law firm, but most of them are so old they wouldn’t possibly?—
Oh god. What if it’s a client?
Then, I definitely don’t want to know if it is. I’m glad I turned the lights down. Not dark enough to stumble, but dark enough to conceal. Better for everyone involved, really. And hell, does it really matter if it’s a work client? I’m quitting the law firm, anyway.
With that thought, I’m grinning. My first smile since I walked into the presidential suite to sell my body to a stranger. Huh. I wonder how long this auction has been going on. Maybe President Cleveland slept here because he was a bidder. Wouldn’t that be an interesting historical footnote?
My smile dies when I wonder if this is going to be terrible. He could have bad breath or be a bad kisser, or worse, not want to kiss at all. What if he’s too rough or not rough enough? Maybe he’s a biter. Security is out there, but?—
I am panicking over nothing. This will be great. Camille wouldn’t do this every year if it sucked. She doesn’t strike me as the kind of woman to put up with anything she doesn’t like.
Besides, if the sex is bad, who cares? I’ve had plenty of bad sex, especially in the last two years. Thanks, Trent, for lowering my standards when it comes to sex. At least I’m getting paid for it this time.
Three ninety. I’ll pay off my loans, quit my job, and start my real life as a photographer. Mom will ask how I did all that, and I’ll lie and tell her I got a bonus at work. I don’t enjoy lying to her, but if I told her the truth, I’d never hear the end of it, and she doesn’t need to know about any of this.
Ever.
She doesn’t need to know her daughter had sex for money. I’d thought it was awkward when Mom caught me making out with Billy Crane in my room when we were supposed to be studying. I’m not sure what level of awkward comes from her finding out something like this, but it would be much worse than that, I am sure of it.
Sitting alone and naked in the bed reminds me of every gynecology visit I’ve ever had. There’s a sexy thought to get me in the mood. Better sarcastic than so anxious I might pass out, though, and no joking will shake this clinical feeling.
