12
Lynn
As the first isolated pinpoints below hesitantly interrupted the solid darkness that I knew was the Mojave Desert, then quickly multiplied into the million glistening lights of the Los Angles Basin, I felt the now familiar tension in my stomach, the quickening of my pulse.
I had gone into the bathroom and removed my undergarments as soon as the fasten seat belt sign went out after takeoff, even though I could have waited several hours. I wanted to feel my nakedness, my bare thighs rubbing together. Again I felt the flight attendant's eyes on my legs. This time it was a man. And I must admit that when the passenger sitting next to me, an overweight lawyer in his sixties, dozed off, I reclined my seat, turned onto my side, and touched myself. Not enough to come, but keeping myself on the edge, extremely aroused, half imagining myself in that vault, attached--that is the word I used--to those bizarre structures--though I could not quite imagine how. My imagination did not go further to what would happen next. Somehow it changed in my mind lying there on the 747 speeding west, I was in the vault yet I felt the rough bark of that giant redwood to which Winston had tied me in Muir Woods. And the damp mushroom smell.
So it was almost sick with excitement that I disembarked at LAX, eagerly searching the crowd for Brad's fat form and found Jefferson's handsome form instead.
He took my carryon bag and arm and with little conversation led me through the terminal to the waiting Rolls Royce where Brad too was distant and abrupt.
We had hardly pulled away from the curb when he pointed to a plastic bag on the seat between us.
"Strip and put those on."
I found that I no longer even considered asking a question or offering a protest about the heavy traffic surrounding us.
Opening the bag, I took out a shiny black plastic shoulder bag, a tiny stretchy scrap of bright red material that pretended to be a dress, black thong panties, really nothing more than a g-string, bright red backless sandals with 4" heels, a lipstick the same shade as the dress and shoes, and a wig, straight. shoulder length, ash blond hair.
By the time I had completed the change, the Rolls Royce had moved from the airport onto the freeway and was speeding north, not south toward Brad's house
Brad leaned back and watched me wordlessly, his eyes examining my body during its interval of nakedness, though it was still all but naked once I had struggled the dress into place. It was little more than a tube, cut straight at top and bottom, extending from just above my breasts to just below the juncture of my thighs. And with a tendency to ride up.
"A mirror folds down from your right," he said, when I came to the wig.
The wig was beautifully made and fit perfectly. The hair was long, hanging down below my shoulders, When I pulled it on, the transformation was startling. I did not recognize the woman in the mirror. I sat for a moment stunned.
"The lipstick," he prompted.
I was already wearing lipstick. A darker red. I had put it on just before the landing for him. This was a brighter red, matching the shoes and dress.
I glanced down at my body. The dress was stretched skin tight over my breasts, leaving cleavage exposed, and though my nipples were just covered, they might as well not have been.
"Am I permitted to ask what is happening and where we are going?"
"No. But I don't mind telling you. Do you recall saying you are my whore? That you want to be my whore?"
Almost imperceptibly, I nodded.
"Well you are on your way. Most whores start at the top and work their way down. You are going to do the reverse. First you are going to be a cheap whore, then later I'll arrange for you to be an expensive one."
I was too shocked to speak. I hadn't expected this. But then the nature of the whole--what was the word? 'Relationship'? Hardly. 'Business'. 'Thing'. was the unexpected. Was that I had no control. Was fear. And excitement. And I was afraid. And excited.
Jefferson turned onto the Santa Monica Freeway and drove east for several minutes before taking an off ramp and heading north toward Hollywood on surface streets. I did not know exactly where we were until we came upon the glaring lights of Sunset Boulevard.
A few blocks east on Sunset, he pulled to the curb in front of a drugstore.
"You'll find money in the purse. Go in and buy some condoms. Get at least a dozen."
The Rolls always attracted attention, so all eyes on the busy sidewalk were focused when the rear door opened and I climbed out. People actually stopped in their tracks as I clip-clopped in the absurdly high heels into the store. And two or three men followed me. I don't know what they took me for: a starlet or a whore or both. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the storefront. No, of a stranger's reflection. What else could a woman who appeared in public looking like that be?
Walking up one aisle and down another, I finally found the condoms on a bottom shelf. As Brad had no doubt known. I tried bending from the waist, but the dress rode up exposing my ass to the delight of two teenagers. Squatting was not much better, but I did it quickly and took my purchase to the check out, where the clerk, another young kid, smirked, "Have a good night." With all that has happened, it is not possible to say I have never been more embarrassed and humiliated. I teetered back to the Rolls as quickly as I could. Both Jefferson and Brad were amused.
Jefferson turned right off Sunset and then left onto Hollywood. I began to notice young girls standing on the sidewalk, sometimes alone, sometimes in groups of two or three, expectantly facing the oncoming headlights. My body involuntarily trembled.
We pulled into the parking lot of an old rundown two story motel, whose flickering yellow and blue neon sign proclaimed it "Dreamland Arms."
"Ask for a room and an extra set of keys."
"But.." I started to protest.
"He won't ask for any identification or credit cards. Just pay whatever he asks in cash."
A cigarette burned carpet lead to a small registration desk behind which sat a young black man, who glanced up at me from a text book he was studying. His eyes moved from my face slowly down to my feet and then back up to my breasts as I walked toward him.
"I want a room."
"Just for yourself?" His voice was soft and tired. As though at his age he had already seen too much.
"Uh. Yes."
"For how long?"
"Just the night."
"Luggage?"
"The...the airline lost it."
"You with that car out there?"
"Yes."
"$200."
I opened the shiny black purse and counted out ten twenties.
