Lizzie had the taxi drop her off in front of the place. Her heart was thumping and she nervously clawed the purse with bright, pointy nails as her heels clopped on the sidewalk.
A theater. Seriously?
It was usually a nondescript apartment, or a middling hotel. A few clients had tried to lure her into cheap motels but she always declined -- Lizzie was a high class girl, after all.
But a theater?
Maybe it was one of those guys who wanted her to be their girlfriend for one day. A pretend fiancée, to trick his family and friends and coworkers into thinking he's got the gambler's kind of sex life, the one where you pay upfront and hope the magic will happen a few dinners and movies and nights down the line.
He never did specify, though.
All she had was a time and a place and a note to look for a certain gentleman.
And that time, and that place, was the premiere of Maestro Mancini's latest Violin Concerto at Morius Theater.
And that certain gentleman was to be wearing a suit and a white flower in his pocket: she saw him right away, standing idly by the entrance. She introduced herself with just a little stutter and he smiled. He was a little older than she'd pictured, but not so old that it became disgusting.
The man smiled at her and gestured to follow him. Without a second's hesitation she did, and they were soon making their way through the creamy yellow halls and red curtains of the theater.
After all, the place was too crowded for a serial killer and hey: in case he was a creep, at least she could listen to some good music as she finished him off.
Last but not least, she'd never been offered that many zeroes.
Lizzie was a professional, and she was determined to give this caller his money's worth. She tied her long, blond hair in a chignon, applied just enough make up to make her blue eyes sparkle and her lips enticing. She wore a tight dark red dress that showed off the black choker around her slim neck, just a hint of cleavage, and enough legs to keep walking for weeks around a man's head. On her feet were high-heeled sandals, in black leather, with a white flower on top. As she tied a black belt around her waist, looking herself over in a mirror, all she thought was, "perfect".
A few flights of stairs and a long corridor later, the man stopped in front of one of many small wooden doors that lead to a loge, a private box with just a few seats set high up on the theater wall opposite the stage. He opened it for her. As Lizzie entered the dark room, she heard him wishing a good evening and shutting the door.
At first, she thought it was a prank. Had he locked her in? The balcony was supposed to be facing the stage but the heavy curtains were shut and there was barely enough light to make out the two velvet couches in front of her.
Confused, she went to open the curtains when a dark, deep voice ordered her to stop. She did, with a gasp, and dropped her purse. She went to pick it up, but the voice said, "leave it", and she did.
She realized someone was sitting on the couch right beside her, but she couldn't make out his features. She remained still for an eternity, until he said:
"Take off everything."
She closed her eyes and a small giggle escaped her lips.
All that hype, all that wondering, and he was just another normal client with control fantasies and sexual frustration.
She calmed down instantly and undressed slowly, getting into her best "scared innocent girl" character. In her experience, that was the one these clients liked best.
There wasn't that much to take off, really.
The belt whistled away after a single, smooth gesture, and the buckle thumped on the soft floor. She slowly undid the zipper on her back and deliberately took her time sliding it off her sweet curves, teasing with smooth hip movements.
In the end, the red dress found the floor and she stepped out of it, covering up her full, proud breasts with one arm and her shaved mound with one hand, in a fake display of modesty.
"Shoes, too." The man commanded.
Was he a fetishist, or what? She sighed quietly, then she sat down, her knees tight against each other, so she could unlatch her sandals without showing anything.
Soon enough she felt the carpet under her bare feet; her mind wondered how dirty it had to be.
She was about to ask, "what next?", when the man's soft, deep voice ordered "undo your hair."
She turned aside her head so she could pull apart her chignon with her arm still clutching at her breasts; a few shakes did the rest.
Sensing a pattern, Lizzie began taking off her choker, too, but the man's firm "no" left it there.
She asked herself how he even knew it was there, then she realized that her eyes, too, were getting used to the dark. He'd been in that room far longer, so he could probably see every sweet, delicate curve of her young body.
She focused, trying to make out the man's features through that last layer of darkness, but he thwarted her plans yet again with another firm command: "put your hands on the wall."
Lizzie slowly made her way to the wall, bare feet shuffling on the carpet, and her palms found it cold, and hard.
She made a big show out of uncovering herself, milking the fake shy girl act for all its worth, but in the end she took her position, leaning forward, hands on the wall, blond hair falling over by the side, leaving all her slick back exposed.
Her butt pointed towards the man on the couch, firm and tight and lovely. She stood on her tiptoes, so her legs looked even more supple and perfect.
A draft blew past the curtains on her right, and Lizzie shook in a quiet shiver. She heard the audience gathering outside, and realized how exposed she was, and how close other people were: she could hear the chattering in adjacent loges!
