The Red Room
Go to the Red Room and wait for me there.
That's all the last email had said, and since I'd received it yesterday I must have read it over again at least twenty more times. I'd met the sender at a club in Amsterdam a week ago, and he'd been breathtaking. Charming, intelligent, and involved in who I was and what I was interested in. Of course, you don't tend to talk about much other than sex at a club like the one I went to, a goth/grunge/industrial haven with smoke machines, black lights, thrumming music, hot bodies in fetish wear, and strong drinks. This is my only indulgence into this sort of lifestyle, or it was... up until tonight.
Right now I'm holding his business card and standing in the lobby of an office suite. It's winter, which means that it's comfortable to wear a bulky woolen coat, boots, and jeans to hide what's underneath. The card I hold is elegant and professional, with his name and title embossed in bold, black ink:
Cain Serafino, Professional Escort
Cruel Indulgences Escort Services
A woman at the main desk takes notice of me and greets me with a smile. I would imagine that a lot of people come here and feel nervous their first time, so without fearing too much ridicule I withdraw the printout of the email correspondence that has my appointment date and time and show it to her. The receptionist politely hands me a key card and directs me past a pair of doors and down the hallway beyond to the last room on the left. I thank her and head inside, and I can hear her pick up a phone as she lets someone know about their 7pm appointment.
Me, in other words.
My flat heels click on the gleaming hardwood as I head down the well-lit hallway. Rows of closed doors set into the beige walls on either side make this place seem very institutional, like a hospital or an asylum. It smells like disinfectant, but beneath that I can smell cologne and perfume. I know I'm not the only one in this wing given the soft, muffled sounds coming from behind a few doors. Are these rooms sound-proofed? My steps come to a halt for a moment as I think about that detail, and I close my eyes. The thought that even if I screamed no one might hear me makes me positively ache between my legs, and that particular reaction makes me just a little bit concerned. God, how debauched
am
I?
Taking in a deep breath and straightening my back with determination, I continue walking, my glance skipping from one glossy black door to another. Each one is inscribed with a word, each word spells out a different color, and just as I get to the door that the receptionist had indicated, my eyes nervously light upon its label. Red. This, obviously, must be the Red Room. My clammy fingers press the key card into the slot reader, and I wait an anxious half second before the little green light glows and the door unlocks with a click.
The minute I step into the studio space I can see that calling it the Red Room must have been unavoidable. The walls are a rich, velvety sanguine red with a texturing that mimics stucco. My boots click on more polished hardwood, the planks dyed a honeyed amber and thickly shellacked. Little divots, dents, and impacts there make it pretty obvious that adventures were had on this floor in the past. On that train of thought I scour the space with my eyes, looking for any signs of stains or filth, but everything looks extremely clean. The only thing that looks slightly worn is the low wooden bench that runs along the wall to my left, all the way around to the wall opposite the door, where the bench ends abruptly halfway across. Stainless steel eyelet screws have been firmly worked into the wood along the sides of the bench, and gleaming stainless-steel heavy chain is draped like a garland from hook to hook, fastened to each screw with clips.
My eyes start to water, and I realize that I've been staring at this bench for at least twenty seconds straight, imagining what it's used for. I blink away tears and sigh at myself, feeling self-conscious and awkward. If I'm unhinged by a bench maybe I should reschedule this. My brows knit as I frown at myself and rolling my shoulders I stubbornly look further up along the walls, refusing to get cold feet. Black wall sconces with slender cylindrical cream shades are situated at about head height every ten feet or so, casting an even, soft glow over the room, and I only realize now that there are absolutely no soft surfaces in here. A corner cabinet in steel to my right is tempting to investigate, but even as I walk over and reach for the handle I notice something in the slightly reflective metal. Why does the ceiling look strange?
And then I look up, craning my neck slowly as I see that the entire ceiling is covered in mirrors. My own flushed face is looking down at me as I gaze up at it, and I can feel that ache between my legs return. "Oh, that's naughty..." I whisper in admiration. For some reason I take delight in studying the room's reflection upside down, and while doing that I end up studying myself. I'm in my late twenties with an Italian heritage that flashes like a beacon from miles away. My skin is naturally olive-tan, and my hair is an inky, beautiful black that hangs straight down beyond my shoulders. I've been blessed with a slim build and cursed with small tits that I absolutely refuse to get 'done'. If my girls aren't enough for some guy, then that guy isn't enough for me. Period.
My hazel eyes widen as I hear the door unlock again. I had closed it behind me out of habit, and now I turn to look at who might be joining me. A tall man, standing at least eight inches taller than myself, slips into the room comfortably as if he owns the place. It's Cain, his dark, handsome features lighting up with a smoldering expression as he sees me waiting for him. My gut twists and I stare at him, wanting the hell out of him; he's even more handsome here in this place, in this light, than he ever was in the club. And at the club he was
gorgeous
. The man is svelte like a dancer but not effeminate. His facial hair is trimmed close to his jaw, the follicles black like charcoal as it outlines his full, expressive mouth in a goatee. His eyebrows are like thick, bold strokes over his brown eyes, and his hair is just long enough that I can imagine grabbing it as I climax. And there goes my pussy again, aroused to the point of aching at just the thought of it.
Okay, it's probably good I came here tonight.
"Victoria." It rolls from his lips like it's the most perfect thing that he's ever said, and I've never heard my name spoken with such simmering promise. His smile grows as I feel myself flush, and he gestures to my coat. "Please, make yourself comfortable" he purrs, his mouth quirking into a soft smirk as he leans back against the door, arms slowly crossing in front of his chest as he murmurs "I'll wait."
Even as I unbutton my black coat I can see his eyes rake over me, waiting as I reveal myself to him in bits and pieces. He'd told me in our emails that I should come here dressed in something comfortable that I felt sexy in, and soon enough the black camisole I wear is visible, along with the points from my hard nipples. I'm not wearing a bra tonight, though I hardly need it to support anything. With my coat removed and lain on the bench, I take a seat beside it and unlace my boots, setting each one on the floor to reveal that my feet clad in black fishnet. A glance over at Cain reveals that he's enjoying the sight of the stockings, his dark eyes narrowed with delight.
Last but not least I stand with my back to him, though I really don't know why. Modesty? Tonight? My fingers work at the button and zipper of my jeans and I pull these off to bare the rest of my thigh-high fishnet stockings and lacy black panties. Taking in a deep breath, I glance over my shoulder and slowly turn towards the man I'm renting tonight. Why I feel that I have to impress
him
is beyond me, but I still feel nervous as I wait for his approval.
His eyes meet mine, and our gazes connect and twine together before he muses "Lovely, Victoria." I can't help but smile with relief, feeling some of the tension from my frame melting away. As if adjusting his look to match mine, he unbuttons the black silk shirt that drapes perfectly over his long torso and takes it off, folding it and draping it over his arm. A black muscle shirt clings to his chest and stomach in its place, his own nipples pointing against the cotton as he rolls his shoulders. His charcoal slacks are held up on his narrow hips by a black leather belt, the material showing off the perfect curves of his ass as he walks across my field of vision to the cabinet in the corner. With every step he takes, his black work boots thud solidly on the floor, his weight always easily centered as if he could halt his motion on the instant and still keep his balance.
To my frustration he places his body directly between me and the open cabinet, obscuring my sight of what sorts of things are kept inside it. "Are you still comfortable with the terms of our arrangement, Victoria?" he asks as he works, and I swallow.
"Yes."
I can hear a soft chuckle and he pauses to say "Yes... what?"
Heat floods my face to the point that I feel my skin prickling, and I look down at my hands as they wring at each other. "Yes Sir." It feels awkward to defer to someone like this. I don't even use an honorific with my boss; I just call him Terrance.
"Good Girl, Victoria." His honeyed voice flows into my ears and makes my eyes slide closed. He's good; he hasn't touched me yet and I'm already raring to go. Standing obediently in place, even though Cain had never commanded me to remain there, I watch the muscles of his back ripple as his arms move. My fingers tingle, wanting to touch the musculature there and to feel my nails slide over his skin. I want to taste his shoulder and press up behind him to slide my hands down to his belt to unfasten it and reach inside his slacks. My right hand twitches as I imagine tugging the belt free of the buckle, and I'm just mentally unzipping him as he turns back to me, catching me out in a daydream.
I gasp and look into his eyes guiltily as he walks back over to where I stand, and I'm certain that the smile on his lips means that he knows what I was thinking about. Do his other clients undress him with their eyes? What a stupid question - of course they do. I'm berating myself for idiocy even as he fastens leather cuffs to my wrists, pulling the straps tight enough to make sure they don't fall off, but not so snug that they cut off circulation. Each cuff is weighed down with stainless steel D-rings in the cardinal directions, and my arms feel heavy as I lift each wrist to study these new adornments. Even as I admire the look of the heavy-duty leather on my delicate wrists, Cain slowly crouches down in front of me, sinking to his knees by my feet.
