He was a regular client; not especially frequent, but certainly regular. He would call every two months or so, sometimes every two weeks; the longest interval had been three months. He had been calling for nearly three years now.
She wondered what his story was. He didn't talk much, and he didn't want to have sex with her. It could have been disquieting and, in the beginning, it had been. But now she knew what to expect. Which didn't stop her from being extremely curious.
At the appointed time, she knocked on the door of the usual hotel room. He opened it wide, standing aside to let her enter. She walked in and stood before the bed, unbuttoning her coat, taking it off and laying it on the back of a chair. He was sitting on the bed now facing her.
Standing there in only a deep blue, lacy thong with matching garter belt and stockings, and high-heeled shoes, she wondered again to herself what his story was. He was quite a good-looking man, in his forties probably, but looked kind of sad, empty almost. He turned to where it lay beside him on the bed, and picked it up with two hands, cradling it almost reverently. He extended his arms to offer it to her, and she took it by the shoulders, dropping it towards the floor and stepping into it, slowly and steadily. She inched it up her legs, pulling it little by little over her hips, sliding her hands through the armholes, and using her opposite hands to move it slowly up her arms and onto her shoulders.
