17
Lynn
I can't remember the sequence.
Really there was no sequence. It was all one event; one single event, which became my life. Where, with the exception of that first month with Winston, my life had always been school or my work, which was the same thing, and everything else only interruptions; now sex, the peculiar submissive, helpless sex to which Brad subjected me, was my life and I was impatient with everything else. I wanted to get back to it; even, I must confess, back to him. Jefferson was more beautiful--that is wrongly stated, for Brad had no beauty whatsoever, except perhaps the beauty of power and intellect--and Jefferson could always make me come; but there was something about him that remained detached and mechanical.
After using me, Brad sometimes made me spend the night in the same bed with him, naked of course, and usually in bondage, my wrists and ankles encased in steel or leather cuffs so I would always be aware of my condition. One night when I awakened, he was on his side, facing away from me, his body a huge hulking shadow. Amazingly I felt the impulse to roll toward him, to press my naked body against his hairy back, to cuddle with the whale. And after a while I did.
I knew I was obsessed. But I did not have the least desire to end my obsession. I actually wondered if I was going through some hormonal change, though I was much too young for menopause. Or as if I had been given some aphrodisiac that kept me constantly sexually aroused. As Brad says--and that is part of it: inside that grotesque form is one of the finest and most original minds I have ever encountered--it is a conceit to call ourselves rational animals. We are Homo insipiens, not homo sapiens.
Cocks, hands, tongues, fingers, breasts, cunts, dildoes, fists, bodies, ropes, chains, sperm, whips--though it was a long tantalizing time before he whipped me--filled my body, my mind, my life. I did not want it any other way.
As I said, the sequence doesn't matter. It was all one.
----
Mid afternoon. New York. In my street whore outfit, including wig, I walk through Times Square to the 42nd Street subway station where I board the C Train and ride all the way to the Bronx and back. Brad and Jefferson board as well and sit at the far end of the car. As instructed I take a seat facing toward the center, where everyone can see up or, if standing, down my skimpy dress. There is a small calculated risk that someone I know professionally might enter the car, but I don't care. Perhaps I am beginning to want to be found out, to have this all come into the open. Various men position themselves opposite me; others sit beside me and 'accidentally' brush against my thighs or breasts; still others stand directly in front of me, their legs against mine, their greedy eyes devouring my cleavage. In the Bronx I cross and uncross my legs, then sit with them spread apart and give a teenager carrying a book bag home after school a show that probably provides material for his fantasies for months.
----
Mid afternoon. New York. Wearing a blue pinstriped business suit, similar to a man's, but tailored snugly to my body with the skirt ending at mid-thigh, and black, sensible heels, I sit in the comfortable living room of an Upper East Side apartment on Fifth Avenue, almost directly across Central Park from Brad's.
Four other women, girls actually, are there. Three watching daytime television; one, a black student at Columbia, studying a chemistry text. The black girl is fashion model beautiful; the other three cheerleader pretty.
When the buzzer rings, Heather, the madam, dressed as I would at Broadthroup, comes from a back room where she has been doing some accounting. The television is turned off; the chemistry text disappears.
Heather has advised me to sit demurely, feet on the floor, ankles crossed, but with ample thigh showing. The black girl, whose working name is Clarisse, sits beside me, composed and cool. The cheerleaders exude bubbly enthusiasm and youth. Something for everyone.
From being one of LA's cheapest, I have become, as promised, one of New York's most expensive whores.
I did well, making more than $2000 that afternoon. A lot of men want to fuck the boss, though frankly they did not do it well. Heather urged me to work for her full time. Considering that the money was cash and could be kept tax free, I did some mental calculation and realized that I would make more than I ever had in my life prior to getting my partnership.
----
Early evening. San Francisco. In the back of a rented limousine in which Brad has collected me after my meetings in Silicone Valley, I lean against the corner of the seat, my skirt pushed up, my legs apart and facing him, and lightly stroke my clit, as he has directed me too. The dark glass partition separating us from the driver is raised.
"Whose clit is it?" he asks. We both know it is a rhetorical question.
"Yours."
"Keep touching it, but don't come."
"Where are we going?"
"A place I know in the city."
"And what is going to happen?"
"Do you dance?"
"Dance?"
"Yes. Dance. You know what dancing is. Waltz. Tango. Fox trot. Rock and Roll."
"No. Not much."
"That's what I expected. Too studious to go to the prom."
"I went to the prom."
"That makes one of us. Anyway dancing isn't what it really is about. You can fake it."
Unlike Boston, San Francisco's residents never permitted the Interstate to block off their waterfront, thus avoiding Boston's Big Dig that is now rectifying the error of the 1950ties at an expense of eleven billion dollars and has disrupted the city for years. When the highway ended near the base of the Bay Bridge, the limousine followed surface streets until it pulled up in front of an old movie theater.
I was surprised when Brad told me, "Put your panties back on." As I did so, he pressed the button that lowered the partition. I noticed the driver's eyes home in as I lifted my hips and wiggled on the pale blue tonga. "I won't be long," Brad told him. I noted the pronoun. So he was leaving me here alone.
By the time the driver had come around to open the door, I was dressed. We respectively walked and waddled across the sidewalk to where a doorman/ bouncer, who looked like a biker, acknowledged Brad with a friendly enough "Hello, Mr. Rankin."
The lobby was shabby carpet, cigarette smoke, and a peculiar smell, which I soon came to know was disinfectant.
Behind what had been the snack bar stood a tired blond, selling condoms and various sex toys. A zombie. I'm not sure she even noticed us as Brad directed me to an unmarked door.
The manager's office was a small cluttered room, dominated by an unexpected teak desk of elegant Scandinavian design, with a similar chair and a sofa, which were in sharp contrast to several old gray painted metal filing cabinets, and rows of shelves cluttered with papers against one wall.
"Here she is, Sam."
"Hey, Brad," a rail thin, weasel faced forty-something man sitting behind the desk replied. As I had come to expect and accept, his eyes moved up and down me. "A real beauty. A gem. Where did you find this one?. Though," eyes up and down again, "the clothes are wrong. And the shoes. We can find something. Clothes don't matter," he leered. "She won't be wearing them anyway. But the shoes do. One of the other girls will have something. Close enough anyway."
Brad nodded. "You know what to do. I'll leave her in your hands. I'll be back later." And with that surprising quickness of his, tuned and was gone.
I did not even consider asking any questions. I had learned to accept whatever was to happen to me. So I stood silently after I heard the door close, until Sam said, "So, what do you want us to call you?"
"Whatever. Linda."
