There was something special about your first client. Whether the experience was good, bad, mediocre or straight up awkward, you were guaranteed to remember it forever. Worse, she was a regular at the brothel. Essentially, she had more experience at my job than me. I tried to find comfort in that -- she probably wouldn't remember the service I gave her today. I was one of tens. Maybe hundreds. She'd only remember me if I faltered in a truly remarkable way. Which I would not. I'd follow the script I'd practiced over and over in my head. And in an hour, it'd be over.
An hour seemed a terribly long time. That's how long it took me to cook dinner when I was still human, not eat it.
"Stop, Evandar," I muttered to myself. "This isn't helping."
Instead, I practiced some grounding in the too-short hall on my way to my rooms, where she would be waiting. Five things I could see--wait, how did blind people do this exercise?--Focus! Sweet baby backpack, I was all over the place. Five things. Gilded gold frames around Victorian style portraits. Chandeliers, also gold, sporting LED candles. Wrought iron door handles. Uh, dark wood siding halfway up the wall. Deep red paint on the top half.
Okay. I took a deep breath that I didn't need and put my hand on the curly handle of my door. It was cold. That was one of the four things I could feel. Second was the plush carpet underfoot, that gave as I trod on it. I entered my boudoir. The air within my rooms was warmer than that of the hallway. Probably because of the nudity that was to come. I hoped it wouldn't make the chill of my skin even more obvious to her. But maybe the clientele liked that. One more.
I could feel the utter stillness of my being. No heartbeat. No breath. A slight tremor in my hands.
Finding three sounds was easy, I heard what I expected to hear -- my client, Emmaline, in the shower. Low instrumental music that seemed to come from everywhere but nowhere. And the low hum of electricity in the power boards, out of sight behind the heavy wooden furniture that populated the room.
I read over Emmaline's intake form one more time and left it on top of a tallboy. She wanted to shower together and the only place I couldn't touch on her body was her feet. Which... why would I? She'd ticked a box to indicate she liked to play a dominatrix role, which seemed to conflict with the other workers advising that she liked her hair pulled. How exactly I was going to reach her head when we were getting down to business, I wasn't sure anyway.
It wasn't worth worrying about.
My stomach dropped as I laid eyes on her naked. We'd met briefly, of course. She'd chosen me from my introduction. But her average day at the office attire had hidden most of her natural assets. My body no-longer produced a flush of arousal, but my mind somehow still could, and that caught me of-guard.
"Madam Emmaline." I lowered my eyes and bowed my head to her, while continuing the grounding exercise. The brightly lit apricot tiled bathroom smelt like Lemongrass -- that's what I put in my diffuser.
She looked me up and down slowly, a reminder that I was expected to disrobe. Odd that she required me to shower. But then, the training videos had said many clients wanted to cuddle afterwards, and that whilst cunnilingus was guaranteed in every booking, some clients required additional help achieving orgasm. Because for them, this was about sex. And companionship. Fulfilling fantasies, not just my belly.
I unbuttoned my crisp white shirt, removed it, folded it, and set it on the basin.
"Evandar." My name on her lips was a purr. Like she could taste it. Like she approved. I met her gaze. She had pale eyelashes and ginger eyebrows that hid in the pink of her skin. Her lips were fat and red and made my empty stomach contort with longing. "Come here."
I stepped up to the edge of the shower's spray, my slacks unbuttoned, but not yet unzipped. Her nipples were huge. One breast was bigger than the other. She had either a white ink tattoo, or an intricate scar over her solar plexus. There was a softness to her I wanted to fall into. Instead, she grabbed my waistband and I stumbled into the shower's spray.
"That was the only thing you'll be doing half arsed between us, understand?"
My mouth went dry. "You can have my full arse."
Realisation of what I'd said crept over me and I laughed at myself in horror.
The side of her lip twitched upwards. "Remind me, Evandar, do you do impact play?"
The words I'd practiced scraped out of my throat. "For the right price."
Genevieve had said that was the best response for any spur-of-the-moment request. It would buy me a few moments to decide and then if I didn't want to do it, to name an obscene amount. I wasn't here for the money anyway, that was a side benefit.
She slid her thumb along my top surgery scar, then followed my ribs around until her hand cupped my back. Maintaining eye-contact, she drew me fully into the shower until her breast squished against my body. "Tell me the price then."
She moved both her hands to my zipper while I stood there frozen. I'd lost all control of this session. At this point, she was escorting me, not the other way around. What would a lady like this--a client who spent at least a grand a month at this brothel alone--consider too much? And how much impact would be involved in said impact play? What was too high but not laughably so to allow someone to beat you?
At least I couldn't bruise. I'd still look fresh for my next client. If there ever was one. Might be better to put a stake though my own heart and just be done with this mortification.
"Nine hundred an hour. More if you want to break my skin." I sounded confident, at least.
My slacks made a wet splat and covered the drain at our feet.
"What's your safeword?"
"Won't 'stop' do the trick?"
Her amusement was palpable. She nodded.
I grabbed a cloth. "Can I wash your back, my lady?"
"You may."
I discarded my briefs as she turned around, releasing me from her gaze. She waited, hands braced against the glass wall. Soaping her up gave me a second to breathe. Only a second though. She spread her legs so I could wash between them. Between her cheeks too, on the way down.
Once she was soaped up, I hung the washcloth from my forearm and massaged her lower back. She moaned, the sound echoing in the small room and vibrating though my chest. I wanted to hear that sound again. I worked her muscles until my thumbs ached, then slid my palms down the curve of her lush behind, releasing the tension there too. It was a weird angle, but I found I enjoyed touching her. It gave me time to egg myself on. By the time I slid my hand down the valley, letting her cheeks splay over my forearm, I wanted to touch her there. When I drew back, my arm was slick with more than bodywash -- the bubbles had turned red.
She heard my awe catch in my throat.
