Pretty Baby

It's not just about the sex.

Part Three: Passion, Pain, and Retribution

Cleo's words echoed in my mind:

"Even your own mother wouldn't recognize you when you're all dolled up. Trust me."

She wasn't kidding

, I thought, staring at my reflection that Wednesday evening.

I barely even recognize myself!

Cleo had shown me how to apply my new makeup, which resulted in a dramatic, startling transformation. My cheekbones were brought out and made sharper, making my face seem more narrow as it tapered to my chin. Almost cat-like, in a way, I thought. Very sexy, and playful at the same time.

The new base gave my skin a soft golden glow that blended with my minimal tan. The costly mascara and eye liner brought out the green in my eyes, making them vivid. With my hair in a professional bun, secured by a golden clip, I did, indeed, look totally different. I still looked like a teenager, just . . . a really,

really

elegant teenager.

I giggled.

Well, hello Miss Rockefeller . . . .

I didn't feel nervous at all about my first 'date.' In fact, despite that all I knew about the guy was that his name was Thomas Dunson, I was actually pretty excited.

I smoothed down the silky blue dress I wore. It hugged my body and delved really low in the front, showing off practically half my breasts, and was essentially backless. The hem of the skirt stopped about three inches above the knee. I wore some of my new jewelry, including a couple bracelets, the pendant Ian had given me (the sapphire matched the dress perfectly), a gold ankle chain, and of course, under my dress, my new gold waist chain. Four-inch heels completed my outfit.

No underwear. "Escorts only wear underthings if specifically requested," Cleo had told me.

I felt my arousal growing. The dress was so sheer I practically felt naked. Anyone giving me even a casual glance would be able to tell I wasn't wearing panties. I smiled naughtily at the thought.

Alyssa Green, sex kitten

, I thought.

Only, I'm not Alyssa right now.

"Yvette," I said carefully, watching my lips move in the mirror. Cleo had told me that it was necessary to use a different name, just in case I met someone I knew. She assured me that, with a different name, and a different way of moving and talking, I would be able to deflect any suspicion of who I was.

"Yvette," I said again, and grinned. I had always thought the name was perfect for a porn star. Or an escort. Suitably sultry, and a little mysterious.

I smoked a cigarette as I waited, practicing my 'posing.' Cleo had taught me how to sit in a way that was both elegantly charming and sensually teasing. Everything about the way I acted when on a date was to 'exude sex,' as she put it. Not to be obvious that I was being paid for sex, I nevertheless had to convey the idea to others that I was a sexually skilled and confident woman . . . the kind of woman men desired.

"Most of the men you will meet are married," Cleo told me. "Do not ask them about their wives, their families. If they bring up the subject, fine. Some of them will actually want to talk about their lives. You will find that you will be as much a therapist at times as a lover."

"But I don't know anything about psychology," I lamented.

"Honey, you're a woman. Use your instincts. Listen to the men, to what they say. They will value your input, your viewpoints, if for no other reason than because you give them the best sex in the world."

I chuckled. "So it isn't just about the sex, huh?"

"Oh, it's about the sex, honey, believe me, it's about the sex," she said. "After all, that's the main reason they're shelling out the money to be with you. And speaking of which . . . ."

"What?"

"Just remember that these men are paying for your company, for your sex. When you're fucking them, they are the best lovers in the world, even if they aren't, and they give you the best orgasms you've ever had, even if they don't. When you're sucking their cocks, you've got the tastiest dick you've ever had in your mouth. But don't expect them to be gracious. Some men will want to share the pleasure, but most of the time, it's all about them. Don't expect reciprocation."

I nodded, understanding what she meant. "What if they wanna do something I'm not comfortable with?"

"You mean, such as anal sex, bondage?" she asked.

"Yeah. Stuff like that. 'Course, I've never tried anything like that . . . I don't know, I might like it."

She smiled. "We screen our clients pretty well," she said. "We find out what they like before matching them with a girl. Ian told me you're not very experienced, so we won't give you any of our 'special' clients, not unless you tell us otherwise."

"'Special' clients?"

Cleo nodded. "Men who like to get a little freaky," she said with a soft laugh. "Some of them can get pretty bizarre. Fisting, watersports, S&M."

I frowned. "I don't know what any of that means," I said, feeling overwhelmed.

"That's why we got you those books," said Cleo meaningfully. "Read them, cover to cover. You'll find things you might want to try, and things that may disgust you. As you gain experience, as you try new things, you may become paired up with some of the specials."

I nodded, thinking. Being an escort, I realized, was more than just fucking.

"Just think very carefully about trying something new. You go too far, too fast, and you might end up getting hurt."

I frowned. "What do you mean?"

Cleo was careful with her words. "Some of our clients have specific . . . tastes," she said. "Rape fantasies, as an example."

"Rape fantasies?"

She nodded. "They want to pretend they're taking a girl against her will. That takes an awful lot of trust and confidence to pull off. Not many of us can do it. I've known a few girls to try and indulge such fantasies, only to end up finding out they made a mistake."

I swallowed nervously. "Do you . . . ." I began.

"Sometimes," she said. She smiled. "Honey, I've been doing this for seven years. I've done it all."

I took a deep breath.

"Hey," she said, taking my hand. "Don't worry about things like that. Ninety-nine percent of the time, the men you're with will just want a good old fashioned, balls-to-the-wall fuck. Or two. Or three."

I laughed, my fear fading away.

"They'll treat you like a goddess, worship everything you do, just because you're the eager little sex kitten they fantasize about," Cleo said. "Don't worry, honey. You're gonna be fine. Just remember: they're paying for enthusiasm and skill. You can't wait to satisfy them in every way possible."

I went through that conversation, just the day before, as I waited for my driver. When the knock sounded, I was startled, my heartbeat suddenly increasing in tempo. I got up, looked through the peep hole, saw a man in a chauffeur's hat.

Showtime

, I thought. I grabbed the long, simple coat I had hung on the wall and slipped it on. It covered me from neck to calf. Cleo had told me that I should always wear the coat to and from the car when leaving or coming home, to reduce suspicion about my activities.

I opened the door, making sure I had my little purse and keys. The man on my doorstep was in his early thirties, I figured, and had a very professional air about him.

"Miss Yvette?" he asked.

I smiled. I really liked the way my new name sounded. I nodded.

He gave me a curt nod. "Your car awaits, Miss."

I took a breath.

Here we go.

"Lead the way."

***

My ride was a black Lincoln Towncar, with dark windows and a lot of room in the back. There was a little dry bar stocked with top shelf liquors, and a little compartment for my coat. I stayed away from the alcohol, not wanting to start my first date drunk. I needed to be clear-headed and focused.

The driver didn't speak to me during the drive, and I didn't expect him to. Cleo had told me that the drivers were only there to get me from point A to point B . . . although, she added, they also doubled as protection, 'just in case.'

There was a radio tuner and CD player installed in the back, and I tuned in my favorite hip-hop station, singing along softly to Britney's words. I felt a little more relaxed, but my anxiety remained. I wondered what Mr. Thomas Dunson would look like, what he would want.

We arrived before a five-story building off the highway. The parking lot was like the car lot of a luxury car dealer. Jaguar, Mercedes, Lexus, Porsche, Land Rover . . . even a few Ferraris and higher-end Acuras, and some stretch limos. My driver got out, opened the door for me.

"There is a man in the lobby," he informed me. "You are listed as Mr. Dunson's guest. He will tell you where to go."

I nodded. "Thanks," I said nervously.

The driver gave me a reassuring smile. "You'll do fine," he said. He held up the tiniest cell phone I had ever seen. "All the numbers you need are already programmed into the memory. If you need me, just speed-dial Number One. I am never far away."

I nodded, feeling reassured. I took the phone and dropped it in my purse, then headed to the door.

The building was very unassuming. I had seen it often from the highway. It did not seem like the kind of place where rich people would gather. In the soft-lit lobby, a man sat behind a semi-circular desk at the far end. Above him on the wall was a simple sign in silver block letters:

'The Carousel Club.'

The man, stocky, pudgy, looking like an ex-cop, watched me approach. There was no one else in the lobby. My heels clicked on the tile, echoing off the walls.

"May I help you, Miss?" he asked, making no effort to hide his admiration of my body.

"Yes. I'm Yvette. I'm Mr. Dunson's guest," I said.

He looked down at something beneath the counter, then nodded. "Take the elevator to the sixth floor," he said. "Mr. Dunson is waiting in the Green Room."

Green Room. Got it.

"Thank you," I said, then headed to the elevator. I heard the man make a soft, appreciative whistle behind me. I smiled.

This is gonna be fun . . . .

At the sixth floor -- which struck me as odd, since I thought this was only a five-story building -- I stepped out into a small lobby with red-painted walls and soft lighting. There was something gentle and operatic wafting out from hidden speakers. There were two doors in the far wall and a woman in a long black gown seated on a little chair. She stood as I emerged. I thought she looked something like Elvira.

"Good evening, my dear," she said with a smile. Her voice was smooth and sultry. I figured she could have a career as a phone-sex operator. "Are you meeting someone?"

"Yes. Mr. Dunson. I was told he is in the Green Room."

'Elvira' gave me a very appraising look. "Lucky him," she said, and gestured toward the left-hand door. "The Green Room will be toward your right, through the Lobby."

"Thank you," I said with professional grace, and headed to the door. It opened before me, and sound flooded out.

It was like an exclusive nightclub beyond, with a large sunken room about a hundred feet to a side, and broad steps leading down to the main floor. There was a neon-lit bar at the far end, and a broad central dance floor of polished tile that rotated slowly on a raised platform. Thus the name 'Carousel Club,' I figured.

Strobe lights and disco balls hung from the ceiling, and naked girls writhed in brass cages. To the left and right, steps lead up to broad archways. The walls beyond the left arch were gold; through the right, they were green.

Hundreds of people milled about, talking, drinking, dancing. I recognized some faces from local newspaper snapshots and TV interviews, and thought I saw a couple reasonably well-known actors and actresses. There were a few girls like me, dressed to the nines and hanging off the arms of men much older than they. But there were older women, too, women of society, standing with their husbands or lovers. The male escorts were breathtakingly gorgeous.

I looked to the brass cages, watching the girls dance. They were completely naked except for heels and some jewelry, and wore golden body paint. Their pubic mounds were shaved totally smooth. They danced as if possessed, paying no attention to anyone around them. Their movements were very sexual and seductive, touching their breasts and crotches, gyrating up and down and flashing their legs open.

While men and women watched the dancers, admiring them and making comments, no one approached them to tip or talk. It seemed they were just part of the environment, the ambiance.

Wonder how much they get paid,

I thought.

The hard dance beat pounded through me as I headed across the main floor toward the Green Room. Men and women both looked me over. I maintained my 'poise and grace,' keeping my head held up, remembering the lessons Anne and Cleo had taught me.

"You must always be confident and self-assured."

At the entrance to the Green Room, which consisted of large, curved booths and a few tables, soft lighting provided by amber-shaded lamps, a girl not much older than me approached. She wore a sleeveless tuxedo shirt and short black skirt, held a tray in one hand with a small stack of linen beverage napkins upon it.

"Meeting someone?" she asked.

"Mr. Dunson," I responded.

She smiled, and glanced around the room. She pointed toward one of the booths, beside which stood a small group of men in expensive suits, joking and sipping drinks. "Blue suit, grey hair," she said, then winked and headed away.

I looked at the man she indicated. He was short, at least middle-aged, with thinning grey hair and a thick graying moustache.

Not exactly GQ,

I thought, but he seemed handsome enough. I approached him, thinking,

I'm going to be fucking him before the night's over. Hope you've taken your Viagra, Mr. Dunson . . . .

I felt my pussy getting a little moist.

". . . twenty-five minutes of negotiation, and they gave in just because I mentioned the loss of equity on their Tokyo property! I didn't know what to do for the rest of the day!"

The men all laughed, then fell silent as they noticed my approach. Six pairs of eyes wandered over me with the hungriness of starving men. I settled my eyes on Mr. Dunson's. "Hello, Thomas," I said.

He breathed in, giving me an impressed look. The other men, I could tell, were instantly envious. My ego soared. I gave Thomas my complete attention, again remembering my lessons.

"The man you are with is the most important man in the world."

"Gentlemen," he said proudly. "This is my Yvette." He gestured for me to step close, and slipped his arm around me. I stood a good inch or two taller than he. I acted like I had known Thomas for a while, which was evidently what he wanted.

His friends introduced themselves, fumbling over one another to take my hand.

"Delighted to meet you," I said. "Charmed." "Enchante."

"Well, Tommy-boy," said a rather large man in a brown suit, ogling me openly. "Guess I have to apologize. I was beginning to think you made up this juicy little morsel."

Thomas grinned, obviously enjoying having me hanging off his arm like a prize. He gave my ass a squeeze, then pushed up on his toes to kiss me. He smelled like cough drops, and his moustache was scratchy. But as if he was the most important man in the world to me, I moaned softly and gave him a tender, moist kiss. I slipped my hand to his chest, licked his bottom lip. I was careful not to make too much of a show of it; I was there to boost his ego and be his devoted companion, not embarrass him.

"Yvette, my dear," said Thomas, looking like a kid on Christmas morning who just opened the one gift he had been begging for all year. "Would you like a cocktail?"

"Mmm, I'd love one," I said, smoldering my eyes. "Are you drinking your usual?"

Thomas grinned as I played along, and held up his drink. "You know me. Scotch on the rocks."

I took his glass and sipped the sharp-tasting liquid, trying not to frown.

Yuck! Why do guys like this stuff?

"Would you like the same?" he asked.

I smiled fondly upon him. "I think I'm in a vodka mood tonight," I said.

He nodded. "Martini?"

I kissed him again, lightly. "Sounds yummy."

Thomas beckoned one of the cocktail waitresses over, ordered me a drink. He kept his hand on my butt almost the whole time as he and his friends talked about business. I was in the dark most of the time as to what they were discussing, but thankfully, none of them asked me anything. They just stared now and then, sneaking glimpses of my cleavage and legs.

Thomas and I sat down in the booth, and I cuddled against him without being too 'girly' about it. I held his hand and traced random patterns on his thigh. The bulge of his erection was obvious. He talked some more with the other men, and included me in on some of the conversation, mentioning aspects of our supposed relationship. I had to think quickly as I played along.

"Which company was Mr. Takamura with, again, honey?" "Oh, yes, I loved the opening of the Hartford Theater!" "Hmm, of course I remember Dr. Rodriguez' birthday party ball. We had a lot of fun that night, didn't we . . . ."

I was careful not to drink too much, and nursed my single martini over the course of an hour and a half. The alcohol helped me relax and become more comfortable with Thomas and the others. He really was a sweet man. I noticed the wedding band on his finger but got the impression he was no longer married. Neither he nor any of the others mentioned his wife.

At one point, Thomas excused himself, saying he had to use the men's room. I gave him a kiss and a quick, casual grope, making him smile and shudder. He couldn't wait to get me alone, I knew. And to be honest, I was getting a little itchy as well. Not that I found Thomas particularly attractive, but the idea that I was an escort -- that I was being paid to eventually make love to this man -- was really turning me on.

I lit a cigarette as I waited for Thomas to return. The other men were engrossed in conversation, not really paying me any direct attention. But the big one in the brown suit, George his name was, took advantage of Thomas' absence. He leaned toward me across the table with a lecherous look.

"Whatever he's paying you," he said. "I'll double it right now."

I fixed George a look, blowing smoke in his face. He blinked profusely and coughed. "I don't know what you're talking about, sir, and frankly, I'm offended," I said.

He pinched his eyes and sneered at me again. "Oh, come on. We all know what you are. So what's your price, baby? I can show you a better time than that little man."

I wasn't fazed. Cleo had told me there would be moments like this. I looked George dead in the eye and said, "I hardly think that's possible."

George blinked, surprised at my response and the implication it carried. I noticed Thomas returning across the room and gave George a smirk. "Now, if you will excuse me, my lover is returning."

I stood, leaving George stunned and wondering. Thomas gave me a wary look, but I assuaged his fears as I cupped his scratchy little face and smothered my lips against his. He moaned and settled his hands on my hips.

"Thomas," I said.

"Yes, dear?"

"I'd like to dance."

He gave me a dreamy look. "Anything you want."

***

Thomas wasn't much of a dancer, so I took the lead and rubbed up against him sensuously. I encouraged him to touch me, and didn't protest when one of his hands slid under my dress, right there on the dance floor, and tentatively touched my bare pussy. He moaned in my ear as I gyrated against him, my back to his chest. I bent my knees and pushed my ass against his crotch, making him gasp and tremble. I could feel his stiff cock rubbing between my cheeks.