"I want $1,000 per week from now on," she said smugly, a deep voice like Bea Arthur's. Victoria sat back behind her large mahogany desk, her auburn hair shining more reddish than normal due to the rays of late afternoon sunshine streaming into the luxurious office secreted within the modest house with many secrets. The rays carried that Casablanca look of dust or smoke and all that was missing was a cat on the window sill to finish the sleepy and exotic appearance of the scene.
She sat there, relaxed but alert and confident, not beautiful but attractive, as it was the air she had, the air she breathed, the air she controlled with her very presence, Jason thought. She worked with what she had and made it compulsive, made men want her, with her dark eyes and thick full lips, all perfectly made up. He had seen her wake up in the morning, and there were rough landscapes of acne scars on both cheeks. They were invisible now, paved with her domination and control. She shifted her bottom on the chair and he heard the sound of satin on leather, a singing, slippery sound.
Earlier in the day, when she had asked him to come to her place, Jason had thought that was odd. Since he had found her months ago, he had always called her when he wanted her. With this call, he had hoped and assumed it was for some sort of game, a sexual game, and he had been excited all day in anticipation. Now she simply said this?
Jason leaned forward in his chair, a look of puzzlement on his face, and said, "What do you mean? What for?"
"Because that's the price I decided on. Could have been more, could have been less," she said with a shrug in her exotic contralto voice. The sound of her seemed to make his breastbone vibrate; it was so full of timber. Then she smiled with her mouth closed revealing her deep dimples accentuated in the shadow of the sun's rays.
"I don't understand," he said.
"What's to understand? You don't need to understand. I want $1,000 per week, and you're going to pay it. It's really quite simple."
"Well, actually no, I'm not going to pay you a grand a week. Why would I do that? I pay you when I use you. That's our deal. That's it. End of story." He was exasperated and getting angry. Was this some kind of joke?
Now Victoria's smile faded icily. "Use me? I see. Well, that was what you thought. This is now. You see, I've been using you; you don't use ME." The implication was obvious.
Jason was steaming as he blurted out, "Why the fuck would I pay that? Fuck you! Who do you think you are? You're a fucking hooker; that's what you are, and you do what I pay you to do, when I want you to do it. Is that clear enough for you?" He stood and leaned on her desk with his chin jutted out toward her, threateningly.
She observed his face and mannerisms, amused. His blue eyes sparked and flashed with anger and his cheeks were rigid with rage. Oh, he was so handsome, she thought, but such a "golden boy", a man with a gift of looks and family wealth. It bought him a law degree and connections and his perfect teeth. This guy couldn't miss, could he?
But he did miss. He treated women badly, and one of those women was her friend. It was time to pay up.
In her long silence after his rant, he started to flinch under her gaze, his left eyebrow twitching. Clearly he was beginning to wonder what she had on him, and she couldn't help it; she laughed.
Struggling to quell the amusing thoughts, she said, "Well, you seem very sure of yourself. Let me explain some things to you Jason. You have a reputation for using women around town. Let's just call me a women's representative to uh, do some adjustments to your attitude, put you in your place. I want you to watch this video please."
Victoria's smugness turned to a calm domination of the situation as she turned the laptop screen around to face him on the top of the desk. Jason looked on, puzzled at her smugness, his apprehension mounting.
The image was of him in a video. He seemed alert but there was a disarming dullness to his eyes as if he was reading a script. He was saying things that he had no recollection of saying. Ever.
It went like this, "Hi, my name is Jason Muller. I am a gay transvestite. I really enjoy dressing up like a woman and getting fucked in the ass. This video will let you and anyone who watches it know that I'm a submissive sissy. I need everyone to know. I'm tired of hiding it." In the video he smiled, totally aware, as he faded away and was replaced by a Jason dressed in a laced up corset and attached stockings getting pegged from behind by an unidentifiable woman dressed in latex and equipped with a strap-on. He also had high heels on and his face was painted with makeup. A blond wig splayed ringlets all over his back and hung to the floor in front of his shoulders as he balanced himself on the floor, doggie style. The woman's face was obscured with a clear latex hood and Jason was grunting and repeating over and over, "Yes, yes, oh my God, yes. Fuck me, please fuck me!" The camera panned around to show his face twisted in anticipated ecstasy, a weak smile on his face. He opened his eyes, which were glazed with lust.
After several thrusts by the woman, she reached around and grasped his penis, almost instantly making him ejaculate, convulsing wildly as he pushed back against her thrusts. He groaned and smiled, staring directly, but unfocused, at the camera. His lips trembled and his eyes crossed slightly. The video faded to white.
The end.
There was silence for a few seconds and then Jason said, "What is this? What's going on here? That's...that can't be me. I, I mean, how could I...uh... I don't understand. You can't do this. I didn't do that. I wouldn't do that. That stuff doesn't even turn me on. That's fake; I didn't do that."
"But you did. Here's the proof." And she tapped the computer gently. "We have the proof."
