A Weeend Away

If there's one thing I don't need tonight, it's the sound of my roommate adding another notch to her bedpost.

Trina's words are ridiculously intelligible through the paper-thin apartment wall. "Mmm...so good...I fucking love it!"

I didn't catch the guy's name before they made a beeline for her room, but whatever Random Dude is doing to her, Trina fucking loves it. She generally does love it. I wonder whether she even knows his name.

I close my eyes and silently pray for sleep. I'm going to Las Vegas tomorrow, for shit's sake. And I'm going with a man I hardly know. Until a week ago, I knew him only as Mr. Double Espresso, though his habit of visiting the coffee shop at 5:00 in the evening recently inspired me to start calling him Mr. Happy Hour. The name has caught on among my fellow baristas.

"Oh, God, please don't stop!" Trina whimpers. I look at the clock on my phone for the millionth time and swear under my breath.

I have to admit that I found Trina's antics arousing at first. For the first month or so, I routinely got myself off to the many filthy noises that I could hear from my bed--the moans, the porny dialogue, and the thump of the headboard. Now it's just annoying as hell unless the guy happens to be good at dirty talk. Most of the dudes Trina brings home stay tight-lipped until the grand finale.

"Baby, make me come," she whines.

"Yes, baby," I whisper, "please make her come so I can get the fuck to sleep."

As Trina's moans rise in volume and frequency, I mentally take inventory of the outfits I've packed for Vegas. What does one wear when one is staying in a high-roller suite with a virtual stranger--albeit a sexy stranger with an English accent--and getting paid for sex?

The contract said nothing about sexual services, though. Mr. Happy Hour's lawyer was quite clear about that.

Random Dude groans hoarsely, briefly drowning out Trina's cries. Thank God! I was starting to think he'd never finish. Any minute now, he'll be shuffling out the door, never to be seen again, and I can get a measly three hours of sleep. I settle comfortably on my side and breathe a sigh of relief, but before I can drift off, I realize that they're still talking. He sounds like he's trying to reason with her; Trina sounds like she's begging.

"Get out while you can, dude," I mutter to myself.

I hold my breath for a long moment as I wait for him to sputter more apologies on his way out of the bedroom, but instead, I hear Trina moan. He goads her on with a little dirty talk that I can't quite make out. She answers with a breathy giggle.

I roll my eyes.

I turn on the bedside lamp and open my email to review the contract for the millionth time. I smirk as I recall the moment the lawyer walked into the coffee shop and said he was acting on behalf of Mr. Theo Whitlock. He had then shown me a photo of Mr. Whitlock on his phone. I immediately recognized the impeccably dressed man with the boyish smile.

"Oh, Mr. Happy Hour!" I'd blurted out. "I--I mean Mr. Double Espresso." I smiled sheepishly at him.

"Er, yes," he responded, pocketing his phone, "but I recommend calling him Theo."

I lowered my voice so that the customers in line behind him couldn't hear. "Um, he's not suing us or something, is he?"

"No, Ms. Keller." He scanned the shop for an empty table. "I suggest we sit for a moment."

"How do you know my name?"

"You'll have to direct that question to Mr. Whitlock." He gestured to a table in the back corner. "Shall we?"

People toss the word "surreal" around a lot, but the next few moments were truly surreal if not batshit. The lawyer's calm, almost bored expression was the weirdest part. I stared at the $100,000 contract as he explained the terms of employment. I was to accompany Theo Whitlock on a trip to Las Vegas, all expenses paid, on a date and time of his choosing. When prompted, I was to entice a man of my choosing into sexual activity that I was free to stop at any moment. My assigned security detail would assist in stopping the activity if necessary and would ensure my safety when I was not in the company of Mr. Whitlock.

"So...what does Mr. Whitlock get out of this?" I asked.

His face was inscrutable. "I'm only here to review the terms of employment. Shall we continue?"

The contract only got weirder. I was to encourage the sexual encounter only to the extent I felt comfortable. Mr. Whitlock reserved the right to stop the sexual interaction fully and immediately. I would then be expected to accompany him to a private location where he would discipline me.

My eyes widened. "He'll do what now?"

The lawyer took a sip of coffee. "The limits are outlined here." He turned the page and pointed to the section.

My eyes flew over the text. Mr. Whitlock reserved the right to do any or all of the following: confine me briefly in a room, use sexually derogatory language, and use non-injurious physical force for the purpose of correcting my behavior.

I pointed to the bit about correcting my behavior. "This means spanking, I assume?"

He blinked at me.

"Never mind," I muttered. "Does Mr. Whitlock do a lot of contracts like this?"

"Ms. Keller," he replied, leaning back in his chair, "I'm sure you know I cannot divulge that."

I leaned back, mirroring his body language. "Can you divulge whether I'm likely to have sex with Mr. Whitlock?" I crossed my arms.

"The contract does not list physical intimacy as an expectation or requirement. I do need you to know, however," he said, lowering his voice and looking intently at me, "that you must create and share a safe word with Mr. Whitlock in order for this contract to take effect."

I nodded. "One more question." I bit my lip. "If sex were to happen..." My voice trailed off as I looked at him expectantly.

"Both parties must consent to it." He drained his coffee cup. "Shall we review and sign now?"

That was a week ago. The lawyer had left me Theo Whitlock's number, and the moment I texted him, the game was in motion. I suggested a safe word--anchovy--and suddenly my inbox was full of confirmations--flight itinerary, dinner reservations, spa appointments, personal shopping appointments, and the contract itself.

I look at my signature at the bottom of the scanned contract and tell myself I'm only in it for the $100,000. For me, that money is a chance to go to grad school and maybe even get my own place. The free trip to Vegas doesn't sound too bad either. Despite what my body says when I look at publicity photos of Theo, my mind knows that this is about my future, not a hot Englishman with rather specific kinks.

Random Dude's voice shakes me from my thoughts.

"Such a little whore," he says hauntingly.

"Mmm, you like it."

"I fucking love it. You gonna come on my fingers? Hmm?"

I'm getting wet in spite of myself. Hearing Trina's guy use what my contract would consider "sexually derogatory language" makes me wonder how Theo sounds when he talks dirty. I imagine plunging my fingers into his thick, dishwater blond hair as he stops kissing me just long enough to whisper something filthy against my lips. My hand glides past the waistline of my panties as I close my eyes and picture Theo in place of Random Dude. His posh accent turns phrases like "little whore" into raw poetry. As my fingers circle my clit, I muffle my moan with my other hand. The truth is that I need more hands: my breasts need attention as I writhe on the bed, and my pussy is dying for a couple of thick fingers to fill it up.

For the first time in months, I'm grateful for the pornographic audio coming from Trina's room. It seems she's reciprocating with a blow job. I can hear her moan around his cock as he murmurs something about her slutty little mouth. I picture Theo's sensual lips forming the words, and It's enough to send me over the edge. I bite my lip hard as the pleasure rocks my clit and radiates through my body.

As my breathing goes back to normal, sleep overtakes me.

* * * *

Everything they say about high rollers is true. A chauffeured car sent by the hotel will wait patiently for your private plane to touch down at the FBO. A casino host will lead you to a massive high-roller suite--in this case, the Palazzo's Chairman Suite--and introduce you to the butler before offering to have off-menu items from Bouchon delivered to your room.

As the butler shows me how to manage the remote-controlled drapes and lighting, I hear Theo talking in hushed tones with the casino host, a middle-aged guy who acts as if he's known Theo for a lifetime, and I wonder for the millionth time how many women Theo has paid to stay in this suite with him and play this game. I hate the way the question gnaws at me.

I walk past the grand piano to look at the little heated pool on the terrace. This suite has its own massage room, for fuck's sake. I counted five toilets as the host led me through the rooms. As I get ready to walk out to the terrace for a view of the Strip, Theo's voice is suddenly behind me.

"Do you like it?"

"Jesus!" I gasp as I jump. "I didn't know you were there." We smile awkwardly at each other.

It's been an awkward day. Theo and I made small talk as we boarded his jet, and then he got on his MacBook and seemed to forget I was there. It's just as well; I slept for most of the flight.

"Sorry I wasn't much company on the flight," he says as if he has just read my goddamned mind.

"Oh, well, I wasn't very chatty either," I say with a chuckle.

"It's fine. I'm just glad you found the flight comfortable."

"Considering that I usually fly in the middle seat in coach, I'd say it was...decently comfortable," I deadpan.

His boyish smile lights up his face. "And the suite? Does it meet with your approval?"

I pretend to be in deep thought. "Jury's still out."

He laughs outright, and I remember the repartee he and I indulged in whenever he visited the coffee shop. His laugh turned me on then too. I'd had no idea at the time that he was scouting me for a six-figure sex work gig.

"Well," he says, turning to our host, "Ed here is going to arrange a late lunch for you. Then you can meet with the personal shopper if you'd like." He steps back toward me, and my heart stops as he places his hands on my shoulders and leans in until his breath tickles my ear. "I hope you'll have time to visit La Perla." His fingers brush over my collarbones as he looks down the neckline of my wrap dress. "Evie," he murmurs as his gaze travels back to my face.

My breath catches as he says my name. And he has apparently been picturing me in high-end lingerie.

"Theo," I whisper, entranced by his mouth. I go on looking at him until the buzz of Ed's phone brings me back down to earth with a sickening thud. I'm not the first woman to be given a personal shopper. I'm not the first woman to stare at Theo's lips and secretly hope that I'm somehow different. I'm here to fulfill a contract, not fall in love.

Theo is still looking at me as if he has all the time in the world. I grin as I find the words to break the spell. "Theo...short for Theobald?"

He laughs and leans down to press a quick kiss on my forehead. I congratulate myself on having broken the sexual tension without making it weird.

"Theodosius?" I say, arching my brow.

"Oh my God," he says with an incredulous chuckle. "Ed," he says, finally shifting his gaze from me, "I'm off to the Baccarat tables. You'll see to it that Ms. Keller is thoroughly spoiled, yeah?"

"Spoiled rotten," Ed replies, smiling at me.

Theo looks back at me on his way to the Italian marble foyer. "Behave yourself, love," he says, and I'm not sure whether he wants me to hold off on seducing a stranger or do it immediately. I look to Ed for guidance--he's seen this game play out more than once, I'm sure--but he's too busy recommending the Salade Lyonnaise.

* * * *

The minute Ed informed my personal shopper, a bubbly 30-something named Caitlin, that I was planning to visit La Perla, she apparently booked it over there and started pulling options for me.

"I don't think we need to do a push-up," she says as she adjusts the straps of my low-cut, red silk bra with black lace trim. "This balconette makes your boobs look delicious."

It's strange to assess the deliciousness of my breasts with a woman I've known for about 15 minutes, but I know this won't be the strangest thing I do this weekend.

"Caitlin, how can this bra be $500? It's pretty and all, but--"

"Don't look at the price tags," she replies breezily as she checks to make sure the underwire isn't poking me anywhere. "Just focus on the feeling. How does this make you feel?"

I study the way the bra seems to make my full breasts look higher and rounder, and I think Caitlin might be right: they do look good enough to eat. "Okay, I admit it's sexy."

"Super sexy," she affirms. "You need the set, including the garter belt." She smiles at my reflection. "He's seriously gonna nut when he sees you."

I burst out laughing. For Caitlin, I'm sure this little shopping day is just a paycheck, but I don't care. I'm having fun.

"Wait 'til you see this corset I picked out for you!" Caitlin squeals as she flings open the velvet curtain of the dressing room. Before the curtain falls, I catch sight of my security detail. Neither Caitlin nor any of the store employees are fazed by the sight of two beefy, besuited men standing around in a lingerie boutique. I can't decide whether it's because they're so used to Theo's routine or because they're Vegas people who have seen it all.

Eventually, we head to the register, where Caitlin simply gives Theo's name. The saleswoman nods and informs me that my purchases will be delivered to Theo's suite within the hour. I thank her and try my best not to look as overwhelmed as I feel.

"Good work, Evie," Caitlin says as we leave the boutique. "Let's celebrate by hitting Dior!"

* * * *

It's nearly 9:00 pm when I saunter back into our suite. As promised, my many purchases have been delivered. Bags from Dior, Balenciaga, and Cartier are perched on the dining table, while La Perla gift boxes wrapped in satin ribbons have been deposited on one of the plush couches. If Caitlin is paid on commission, I hope she's out celebrating right now.

I call out for Theo, but I already know he's not here. The suite is deserted. Theo's security dudes know I'm here alone; they stayed back once they saw me get in the suite's private elevator. I sit on the piano bench and try to figure out what to do next. My eyes wander over to the La Perla boxes, and I decide to start by changing out of my boring-ass underwear. I might feel lost and inept, but I can at least look like a halfway competent seductress, right?

I head to a random bedroom and strip off my wrap dress, cotton panties, and matching bra. Until today, these were my "sexy" options. As I slip on a bra whose cups are made entirely of blush pink lace that does little to conceal my nipples, I wonder how Theo will react if he ever bothers to get his ass back to the suite. I slip on the matching panties and stare at the bedroom door as if I can summon Theo at will. I resent myself a little for being so damned eager to see him.

There's a knock at the door.

I throw on a matching pink silk robe and rush back to the living room. "Uh, who is it?" I ask as I approach the door.

"Room service," replies a masculine voice. "I'm here at Mr. Whitlock's request."

Before I can decide whether to keep asking questions or just open the door, I hear my phone ping in my purse. I scurry over to it and see a text from Theo: "I've arranged a surprise for you."

I'm too weirded out by Theo's uncanny timing to write a clever reply, so I just send him a thumbs-up emoji and head back to the door.

A handsome, twenty-something Latino in a white uniform greets me as I open the door just a crack. I notice the words "Canyon Ranch Spa" are embroidered on his polo shirt, along with his name, Benicio.

"You must be Evie."

I open the door more widely and try to look nonchalant. "Um...hi, uh, Benicio from Canyon Ranch Spa."

"Please call me Ben," he replies, smiling. "Mr. Whitlock thought you might enjoy a massage after your long day."

We look at each other for a long moment. His five o'clock shadow frames his full lips. His muscled arms stretch the short sleeves of his shirt. His Adam's apple bobs as he waits for me to answer. He is suspiciously good-looking.

"Did Mr. Whitlock request you specifically, Ben?" I ask, my gaze sharp.

"He, uh--yeah, you could say that."

"And you're here to give me a massage," I confirm, enunciating the word "massage."

He nods earnestly, but his eyes travel down the neckline of my robe, which has fallen open slightly.

"Ben," I say in a saccharine voice, "why are you really here?"

"I, uh, I have an agreement with Mr. Whitlock," he replies. "More like a contract." He gives me a half-smile that I cannot help but find adorable.

"Oh, he's paying you to cheat on him too?" He looks so dumbfounded that I laugh as I usher him into the suite. "Well, you probably know your way around this place better than I do," I remark as I follow him into the living room.

He turns and smiles sheepishly at me.

"Do you also know my safe word?"

"The safe word for me is 'Get the fuck out, Ben.' I'll leave, no questions asked."

"And are you actually a massage therapist?"

"Yes. Fully licensed. I've been with Canyon Ranch for a few years now." He looks me up and down. "The massage I'm gonna give you would get me in trouble with the State Board, though."

I blush as his gaze trails hotly up and down my body. The cynical side of my brain wonders whether he flirts this brazenly with all of Theo's women, but the lascivious side of my brain wants to provoke him.

"You are not the most professional massage therapist I've met," I say, loosening the belt of my robe, "but you might be the most attractive."

"Yeah?" he says, his voice suddenly lower as he openly ogles my lace-clad breasts. He steps closer. "Is it okay if I touch you?" His hands slip inside the robe and glide up and down the sides of my waist.

"You're already touching me," I smirk. "And I think I'm supposed to be seducing you, not the other way around."

He leans in as his hands trail up to the sides of my breasts. "You're seducing the fuck out of me."

The low rumble of his voice makes my eyes flutter closed. "Yeah, okay," I sigh.

"'Yeah, okay' as in 'let's do this'?"

"Yeah."

He grabs my hand and we walk past the little home gym and into a small, dimly lit room with a massage table and marble-top sink.

"Where's your massage oil?" I tease as I let my robe fall to the floor.

"In the cabinet under the sink. It's edible." He watches intently as I unfasten my bra.

"Of course," I say drily. I drop my bra on an ottoman in the corner and blush again as he stares at my breasts as if they're the first he's seen. I have no idea whether his attraction to me is genuine, but he sure as hell knows how to make a girl feel desirable.

I feel his eyes still on me as I quickly step out of my panties. I climb onto the massage table and lie on my stomach. As I hear him open the cabinet and uncap the massage oil bottle, I decide to take the opportunity to dig for information. "So...how many times has Theo asked you to do this?"

Ben rubs the oil between his hands and caresses my back tenderly. "I don't think I can tell you that." His hands move gradually down to my lower back. "I'm kinda supposed to stay in character."

"The character of the hot young masseur who can't resist me?"

I can hear the smile in his voice. "Yeah, not much acting required. But yeah, we're kind of breaking character right now." His hands trail down to my lower back.

"Breaking character?"

"Yeah, we should stay in character when he gets here--pretend we don't know about the contracts and shit." He begins massaging my ass, though it feels more like he's outright squeezing it. "I would grope this ass for free, by the way."