She sat alone in the dark.
A street-lamp below the window of her sixth-floor apartment's front room scattered some incidental light against the open drapes and threw a vague pattern on the ceiling, but very little of its illumination was able to penetrate the deep shadows of the room.
There was only the orange glow of her cigarette, a winking ember floating in the gloom.
Then there was a soft pah sound, as the filtered end of the cylinder left the light suction of her glossy-red lips. Then the dull ping of the cigarette being tapped against the edge of a crystal ashtray, crowded with crushed butts and ash.
Her name was Cynthia Lynx. The Lynx part was a stage name, of sorts. The last name listed on her birth-certificate was Rowlings. She'd adopted the alias of Lynx when she'd begun hooking, seven years before. She'd stopped turning regular tricks for the last year and a half or so, taking on johns only when her bank account got anemic, but she'd kept the working moniker.
Lately, she'd been able to entirely avoid having to throw up her legs in the air for money. Off and on for the last six months Cynthia had been working for a private eye named Arnie Bascini. He was a low-rent hustler who specialized in entrapment for his clients, such as catching a targeted prominent citizen in bed with a pretty young thing and taping the proceedings. Cynthia was frequently featured in the part of the p.y.t.
She allowed that it was a fairly fucked up thing to do, but it beat selling her white ass on some corner. And although Arnie was a walking ball of snot he paid in good green legal tender. But now, Cynthia was leaving that behind too.
It was because of last Tuesday. Last Tuesday she'd done something different for Arnie.
The way he had laid it out to her was that a client of his suspected his girlfriend was gambling at an illegal private casino being run out of the back of some jazz club down in the Fillmore District. The detective had sent Cynthia to the Café of the Prison Moon to check it out.
The Fillmore was a part of the city formed by a patchwork of re-development gentrification areas and low-income Black neighborhoods mixed together. The jazz club was on one of the border streets, pulling in a mixed crowd of wannabe hip White yuppies, culturally varied Buppies, and too-cool-for-school folks of the 'hood. It was a popular hangout.
After Cynthia had slipped on a short and basic black angora dress she'd taken herself to the Fillmore. When she'd gotten there the joint was jumping.
There were a good many things she had told Arnie about the club. One thing was that Arnie's client could relax. There was no gambling at the Café of the Prison Moon. The private backroom was a BDSM club. Cynthia had found that out when a tall man at the door had invited her in for a peek. Arnie's client's girlfriend wasn't blowing money at a blackjack table, she was on her knees blowing any man who granted her the privilege of serving him.
Yes, there was a great deal she's shared with the private dick about the Prison Moon. And there were a few things she had no intention of telling him, or anyone else, about. Ever.
Cynthia shivered in remembrance.
She certainly wasn't going to tell Arnie that within twenty minutes after she'd first said hello to the handsome stranger who'd ushered her into the backroom that the man had thrust one hand between her thighs and used the other to pull the neckline of her sweater-dress down, until her large and pale breasts had bounced free. In the private room of the club, she'd been made to cup and offer them up to her arrogant, demanding lover. And she certainly wasn't going to tell the private-eye how the stranger had bent her over a table and fucked her while she screamed out in lust, but only after she'd fervently and loudly begged for his cock for nearly five minutes.
She'd put on quite a show for the assembled masters and their girls.
The former prostitute blushed at the hot memory of it, as her eyes welled with tears. Cynthia was a pro and he'd had her begging, panting for it. Taking her brutally, mercilessly, he had made her cum until she had passed out whimpering.
And here it was, Tuesday again.
He'd said he'd call her on Tuesday. At eight.
Cynthia stabbed out the cigarette, then immediately tapped a new one out of the pack.
It wasn't love.
She was clear on that, because Cynthia didn't know what love was. No, what she felt for the stranger was a raw and yearning need to surrender to him. He had dominated her so easily and she despite her shame she desired that experience again, however much the memory brought fresh humiliation. Still, to walk such a path was dangerous. She ran the risk of losing herself to such a man, it didn't help matters that something in her wanted that loss of self, of responsibility. Something needy in her wanted to fall and to be caught in strong, masterful arms.
No you don't, she admonished herself. Its only a fantasy. A stupid, sick, and bullshit fantasy.
The phone rang. Cynthia jumped in there in her chair in the dark, frightened cold. A second shiver ran through her form. The phone rang again. She let it ring three times before picking up on the fourth.
"Hello?"
"Hello, Cynthia. Unsure whether to answer or not?" The tone was conversational and confident, the voice of a man who knew nothing too bad was going to happen to him any time soon. Nothing he couldn't handle.
At the sound of his deep and modulated voice, her chill was replaced by spreading warmth, its epicenter her moistening sex.
"Yes." Cynthia answered, somewhat shakily. She had to make a deliberate effort to keep from adding the honorific sir. Or worse, master.
