The Introductory Session
There are a lot of fucking weirdos in the world. I know because some of them are my clients. Something about money and privilege turns men into perverts, and you don’t want to expose the wife to those unseemly urges. Not when you can hire a high-class call girl and meet her in an upscale hotel.
It was the W Hotel today, near Union Square. I crossed to the elevators and checked Henry’s email again. New client, two hours. Super asshole about privacy. Put on the blindfold before you knock on the door.
I slid a hand into my designer bag, past condoms and sex toys, to locate the black eye mask the client had provided. It couldn’t be a pink, fuzzy, soft blindfold, or one of those cucumber-scented spa things. No, it was heavy black leather with a buckle in the back. Like I said, fucking weirdos. Here’s some news for the privacy assholes of the world: We escorts are as concerned about our privacy as you are. The escort-client relationship is a covenant. You don’t out me, I don’t out you. Let’s keep things pleasant and professional. I know how much you’re paying. To the best of my ability, I’ll treat you well.
I stopped outside a corner room on the eighth floor and double-checked the number. My stomach jumped a little. You never knew what you were going to get with new clients. Henry checked them out pretty thoroughly, but still, you never knew. Money and respectability didn’t mean you weren’t going to death-choke a whore on the eighth floor of the W Hotel.
I’d had pretty good luck the last ten years, so it wasn’t that hard to pull out the blindfold—okay, let’s be honest, leather fetish mask—and strap the thing onto my eyes. Maybe he was really that concerned about privacy. Maybe he had some kinky games in mind, which might be fun. Maybe he was butt ugly. There was no way for me to find out. I couldn’t see a damn thing.
I knocked on the door and hoped he answered before someone came strolling down the hall. What would they think of me in my pale pink, skintight, high-class-whore business suit and stilettos, with the black blindfold strapped onto my head? They’d probably think, pfft, New York, and go about their business.
I heard the lock click and I felt very, very nervous, since I couldn’t tell if or when the door opened, or who might be standing there to guide me inside. I jumped when the client took my arm.
“Miss Kitty, I presume?” His voice was deep and lacking inflection, or maybe I was just lacking the vision to see his expression.
“Meow,” I said, flirting into the darkness. “That’s me.”
Miss Kitty. Sweet, petite, sensuously feline, but not in a pet-play kind of way. Unless the client was into it. I had long, white-blonde hair (fake, so fake) which I straightened to a bouncy shine twice a week. Unlike my hair, my size D boobs and curvy body were all natural. I was a friendly, pretty, brown-eyed, bleach-blonde kitty, ready to crawl into your lap and blow your mind.
The faceless stranger pulled me into the room and collected my wrists behind me in a rough, strong grip. “I’m not going to call you Miss Kitty. What’s your real name?”
And my real name—Chere—came spitting out of my mouth. I can’t say why, except that his forceful grip compelled me to reveal it.
“Chere?” he repeated, like a taunt. He was cinching my hands behind my back with, oh my fucking God, zip ties. I could hear the susurrating sound of the tiny tabs and feel the unforgiving plastic. Jesus. Zip ties. So murder-y.
“Since this is an introductory session, we should talk for a minute before we go any further,” I said in a firm voice.
“Oh, I think I’m going to run this rodeo, especially considering what I’m paying to have this ‘introductory session’ with you.”
Don’t freak out. Don’t freak out. Just because his voice was deep and harsh, just because he felt big and muscular, just because I couldn’t see a thing, just because my hands were zip-tied behind my back…it didn’t mean I was turning my last trick.
“Don’t struggle, or those ties will hurt your wrists,” he said. He picked me up and deposited me in a chair, one of those slick, padded, modern chairs they had at all the W hotels. I usually liked being manhandled, but I didn’t like it as much when I couldn’t see or move my arms. The room was silent. He was still. I didn’t know if he was close to me or far away.
“Will you take off the blindfold?” I begged in my sweetest voice.
“No.” Not his sweetest voice. More like his deep, rough, mocking voice.
“Pretty please? I’m dying to see what you look like.”