"Good evening, monsieur. My name is Eloise, and I will be serving you tonight."
The delicate features of the prostitute were flushed and slightly fearful, but her eyes remained dull, as if she had been broken in one too many times. She was clothed in a worn corset, with silk ribbon crisscrossing up its scarlet front insinuating its own untying. The skirt dangled dangerously below her hips exposing her flat stomach, and ended below her thigh-line with loose strings of damaged lace tickling her knees.
Eloise stood a petite five-foot-two. Her features were doll-like and girlish, yet underneath her excessive rouge, one could see scars on both her neck and above her breasts. She couldn't have been old; her nubile body projected a woman in her early twenties. One could tell that she was one of the girls men liked to be rough with.
The brothel was one of those extraordinary places with red walls and red drapery. Everything was three colors- red, black, and white. There were women smoking long cigarettes in classic clothing. Someone played jazz tunes on the piano downstairs. Everything seemed to be made of silk and velvet. Even the girls.
In high class whorehouses, especially in France, one would think that only gentlemen visited. Unfortunately, perfect gentlemen in the outside world, could be real beasts in the world of the brothel. Girls were treated for injuries frequently, and often the encounters with clients seemed more like rape than intercourse. Eloise's body language radiated fear. Her last three clients were brutal, and she was still quite sore from their visits when this man walked in.
The man was handsome, a plus for Eloise, who was used to overweight brutes. But often the most handsome ones were the roughest in bed. The man raised his eyebrows at the red interior of the room- including the heavy red drapes, the red tapestry rug that stretched from one corner of the room to the other; the red sheets on the low-to-the-ground king sized bed; and the red outfit of the prostitute.
The man didn't like red much; he found it an agitating color. He was clothed in a beige floor-length trench coat which was unbuttoned to show his off-white collared shirt and grey slacks. He had a good face; masculine, with a square jaw, expressive eyes, and a wide, sensual mouth. His hair was neatly trimmed, and he walked in with a fedora matching the beige of his trench. It worked for him. His expression seemed somber.
He spoke to Eloise in perfect, concise French.
"My name is Laurent," he gave her a joyless smile as he removed his coat and hung it on the hook beside the door. He set his hat neatly on top of it.
"Are you alright?" he asked the slightly shaking Eloise.
"I'm just cold," she said, biting her lip. An obvious lie.
"Oh, well that can be easily taken care of," he chuckled. His voice was deep and rumbled in his throat. Eloise blushed, suddenly ashamed of herself in front of this confident, handsome man. He seemed to be in his late thirties; his face had started to show some age, and rudimentary crow's feet had formed in the corners of his eyes.
"You're quite pretty," Laurent noted, as he advanced toward Eloise. She tensed.
"Thank you, monsieur," she stammered, her hand nervously reaching to entwine itself in one of her strawberry-blonde curls.
"Of course, that's expected," he continued, "when I asked the madam for the prettiest girl she had."
Eloise couldn't stop the feeling of pride that welled up within her and she smiled with slight embarrassment. Laurent towered over her and put a large hand on her shoulder.
"Eloise. Are you afraid of me?"
"No sir," she shivered, biting her lip before rehearsing the words the madam taught her to say: "Why would I be? I want you...I want you to...fuck me."
He chuckled in her ear. "Bad word," he said.
He had to bend down slightly to kiss her, and when he did, she seized up, bracing herself. His arms seemed to encompass her completely, seemed to swallow her whole. His hands held her shoulders with tenderness, his lips danced with hers expertly; this was a man who knew how to seduce a woman. He felt her small tongue try to pry his mouth open but it remained shut to her surprise.
"Why are you eager for what you don't want?"
Because I want to get it over with, she thought, but didn't say anything.
"Have you been hurt?"
"I can't say," she answered warily. He shrugged and kissed her again.
"So small," he whispered into her ear. Eloise could feel his hands on her hips; his thumbs making little circles through the corset. Heat flowed to her face in the form of a blush.
"No one has ever pleasured you have they?" his voice sounded bemused. She stared at him in shock.
"They come in here, take what they want from you and leave you unfulfilled. Poor girl." He paused, kissed her sensually on the curve of her neckline before pulling back to continue. She missed his touch.
"Here's a woman who has had sex a million times, yet has never been satisfied. Another thing- I'm an art collector, so you can assume that I like beautiful things," Laurent's eyes bore into Eloise, dominating her with his gaze. "And here," he continued, "is a beautiful thing. Beauty should be admired, no?"
