I sat in the darkness and watched Kat snooze on a tiny cushion in a 10-foot by 10-foot cage in the middle of a large, otherwise vacant warehouse. Her head was tucked into her arms to shield her from the single bright light overhead that bathed the cage completely and blinded her to anyone...or anything...in the darkness beyond. The bars were made of inch-thick stainless steel. The door opened with a skeleton key that appeared to be a hand-hammered.
We'd found our way here through Billy. I still hadn't wrapped my head around it. When we'd started this impossible journey, Kat had five partners before me. Now, barely a year later, she was well over five hundred...and had done things I'd never thought of, much less thought possible.
After her initial gloryhole experience and subsequent encore gangbang, Kat and I returned to Billy's seedy little adult bookstore on Highway 71 three times over the ensuing six months. With Billy working his text groups, the private Subreddits, and older forms of anonymous communication, like Internet Relay Chat, each of her appearances attracted a progressively growing number of participants and a number of others who wanted to gawk or make a digital memento.
It didn't take long for me to discover how an outdated business like Billy's continued to operate. When we returned for Kat's second gangbang, I overheard a few people quietly discussing the Bitcoins they'd transferred to Billy for the opportunity to participate merely as onlookers. "Adult Books" was a front for Billy to pass money through. I stopped short of seriously thinking about the other revenue streams Billy might be cleaning through the storefront. I was sure I didn't want to know.
I didn't convey my knowledge or suspicions to her, but I did start to wonder in the middle of the third gangbang if Kat suspected Billy was charging for her appearances. While the vast majority of her anonymous lovers never said anything and a few were extremely, vulgarly vocal, it dawned on me that there were a few with whom she shared quiet conversations on the mattress.
I hadn't asked, assuming it was merely attempts at a somewhat more private vulgarity, but noticed her staring at Billy while one of the 89 men from that night whispered in her ear. On our way home that night I'd tried, diplomatically, to get details of the conversation.
"Oh, you know," she'd responded breathily. "Mostly, the quiet ones want me to come see them, take me to dinner, give me gifts, buy me things." She was quiet for a few beats, then added. "Give me money. Nice stuff. A few of the whisperers are truly perverted. One of them is telling me he wants to take pictures of me with his dog. He doesn't get more detailed than that, but he..."
Her voice trailed off and the familiar vacant look on her face appeared. It meant she was somewhere in the recesses of her mind, overcome with her imagination. "Maybe they don't want the others to know how perverted they are," she finally offered, returning to the present. "Even among perverts I guess there are some lines that shouldn't be crossed publicly. I don't know."
Mostly? "Give you money? But...," I stumbled, still examining her answer, "but that--"
"--would make me a prostitute," she concluded, preventing my faux paus. "A whore. I'm already a slut. It's not that much of a leap." She shivered. "Really, though? Not phased by the pictures with--"
"And you're--"
"It's not like it's an original idea," Kat interrupted. Out of the corner of my eye I could see her examining me. I didn't turn my head to look but I knew she was smiling.
"You mean--"
"Prostitution is the oldest profession, I mean." She paused, then added, "Were you thinking of something else?"
I drove in silence, still processing.
"Would it be so bad?" she asked. "Right now I'm fucking them for free. At least, I'm not charging anything."
She suspects what I suspect.
"Would it bother you?" she went on. "Having a prostitute for a girlfriend?"
I didn't answer.
"Of course it wouldn't," Kat continued. "It doesn't bother you to have a slut for a girlfriend. You didn't mind sharing me with anyone who wandered into an alley. Or an adult bookstore. You can't tell me you haven't thought about it. Having the men pay to fuck me? Anyway, I don't want to wait two more months to go back. How many did I fuck tonight?" The emphasis wasn't lost on me.
"I don't know," I mumbled, my head still swimming.
"Bullshit," she said quietly. "How many? You always keep count."
"Eighty-nine tonight. Eighty you've never seen before."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah. I know faces."
"Wow. So that's...254. I only need 46 to get to 300. We could make our own movie called '300,'" she giggled. "You got it all on video, right?"
I nodded. The casual way she discussed it was a bit disconcerting. It had been exciting originally, but now...now it was almost monstrous. Long gone were the days when she thought having slept with five different men made her a slut.
"Arrange it with Billy. Sometime soon."
"Why don't we just show up? Like we did the first time?"
"Because there's no one there unless they know I'm going to be there. It would take months to get 46 more."
"Are you serious about the 300 thing?"
Kat laughed. "Of course not." She looked out the window and pulled her legs up snug against her naked chest. "I'm thinking more like three thousand. And I want to talk to Billy before I spread my legs next time."
###
In the past, the "client" told me, this warehouse--one of three on the property--had been used for all manner of genuine work, though he had always reserved a portion of it to 'interview' special women who were referred to him. A contractor supplier had leased the entire property from him once upon a time until the market for new homes in Austin had crashed in the mid-2000s.
They stored scaffolding, machinery, generators, pre-fabricated offices, and everything else under the sun that might be needed at a construction site, enough to fill up all three warehouses, and ran extensive support operations, including a welding and metal fabrication shop for customers with specialized needs. The in-house welder, a frequent participant in the "client's" 'interviews,' had constructed the cage for him.
"There was another," the "client" said cryptically, "for whom I'd originally intended The Cage. Her interview was...astonishing. Perhaps you'll see it one day. She attended my parties for a brief period of time but, by coincidence, I was alerted by a common acquaintance that her father was a high-ranking government official and worked in the intelligence community. Attention I didn't need."
He paused, a slight smile on his face as he visited fond memories. "As chance would have it," he continued, "she introduced me to one of her friends, a transcendently beautiful woman on the cusp of extraordinary fame. She, however, disappeared to Costa Rica before we could interview her and her attitude changed when she finally returned."
He paused as if reflecting on what might have been. "So The Cage sat in a corner, an afterthought hidden by all kind of I don't know what, until a few years ago when my tenant likewise disappeared."
"I've had other tenants," he explained as he walked with me around the property on my inaugural visit, "but the warehouse has remained largely unused by them. I no longer include it in new leases. Simpler that way. I can use The Cage without worry of interruption and I can conduct my interviews in peace."
He stopped abruptly. "Speaking of," he said, turning to face me. "She'll have to be interviewed, of course. I assume that's something you can stomach. You know of my interviews? No matter what they say in the beginning, no matter how coy they pretend to be, or standoff-ish, or prudish, they always end up fucking. Is that something you can watch? Or...take part in?"
"You have no idea," I told him.
"So I've heard." The corners of his mouth turned up slightly as if he was failing to hide a grin. "I suspect it's in the back of every interviewee's mind before they get here, but relatively few appear for their interviews consciously knowing that actual sex will be involved. Does she suspect?"
"She does. Billy said you would want to talk to her about her sex life. He didn't know exactly. At least that's what he said."
"Billy has never been to one of my interviews. Or to my home, for that matter, where I host interview watch parties. I don't find Billy to be tasteful company. So he told you the truth. Billy is not the kind of service provider I want involved in my immediate circle. He's only interested in the fiscal perspective rather than the artistic or prurient opportunity. Did he tell you anything else?"
"He said he thought it probably involved a sexual performance, like a striptease or something similar."
"'A sexual performance like a striptease,'" the "client" repeated. "Did you know Billy's name is actually 'Billy' and not 'William?' Could you imagine having--'"
"Why are you called The Client?" I interjected awkwardly. "I would have thought something more..."
"More like 'the boss' or 'el jefe?'" There was a small amount of disdain underlying his question.
"Yes."
"Because certain persons provide me the very special service of finding me an interviewee. To them, I am 'the client.' But all professionals know that 'the client' is the true boss."
He extended his hand. I shook it. "We have one more engagement before she can be interviewed," I told him.
"Of course," he said, reaching into his suit jacket and producing a business card.
I examined it and saw there was no information other than a phone number.
"Call the number on that card for scheduling," the "client" continued. "Just remember--short skirt, white panties, white thigh-high stockings, and a white button-down shirt with no bra. I prefer pleated skirts. Solids are better than patterns, but plaids are acceptable. Stockings should be plain. Lace at the top is acceptable, but no fishnets and no stripes. Get a cheap dress shirt. The cheap ones are virtually see-through. Broadcloth works best. Oxfords don't work as well."
"No problem. I think she has all of those things already."
