by P. Roper
At my nod, she continued. “In you get. Don’t be rigid. Even in nets, you’re still a showcase.”
Once I climbed into the net and lay down, she repositioned me slightly and then walked away. As the apparatus began to ascend, the lights dimmed. Soft back lights and spotlights were all that illuminated the eerily silent space. But the quiet didn’t last long. You could hear the money in the voices drifting around as the room slowly filled. The venue was rumoured to charge three times what mine in New York had. For both cover and services. Time would tell.
I settled in above the empty stage for an hour, catching curious looks from who I could only assume were regular attendees. I was fresh meat. A rare commodity in this world. I knew that what they could see of me from that angle was merely a tease. But from the amount of glances I caught, the interest was already there.
Being in the net was comfortable; I could essentially just lay there and observe the whole venue. But when the band took the stage, I saw the downfall. I was within reach of some tall motherfucker of a bassist. The guy had a gleam in his eye and a smirk plastered on his face. Throughout the entire night, the band played on and off. Every time the asshole was on stage, he repeatedly reached up, tweaking my exposed nipples through the net.
I was wound unbearably tight by the time the event came to an end. When they finally let me down, allowing me to storm in his direction, nothing was stopping me. I got in his space, backstage and the sound of my hand making contact with his face rang out amongst the post show bustle.
“Didn’t your mother ever teach you to keep your hands to yourself?!”
“Honey, you’ll learn quickly things are different here.” His accent was thick and his eyes were lined. A hand, adorned with rings and black nail polish reached up, skating across my still bare skin. “I was told to touch you. Instructed by the coordinator. This is how it is here.” He pinched my nipple again and winked before saying, “Stick around and enjoy the after party. Maybe it will help you loosen up some.”
He turned and walked away, leaving me wanting but still furious. Who did he think he was, talking down to me like that? I stalked myself to the backstage bar, asking for two shots of tequila. Downing them, I looked back at the crowd of other showcasers and the like. I wondered absently how many of them spoke English, deciding to wander and see if any of them would talk to me. This was a deeply cliquey world; I knew this from the year I spent on the New York scene. And here, no one covered up once the clients had all left. They danced and laughed and drank freely, still almost naked.
Making my way back to the bar I recognized the face standing on my side of it. Of course it was the bassist, who had apparently lost his shirt in the last hour or so. The man was sexy as sin and he knew it. A devious smile overtook his features. “Pretty girl, have shots with me,” he nearly bellowed. Handing me two glasses, he turned back to retrieve two of his own. “Welcome to Europe. Take the American stick out of your ass and maybe fill it with something more interesting. I promise that your value here will grow exponentially.” He lifted one glass to his mouth, nodding that I do the same. The second one followed for each of us.
I’m not sure when it happened, but before long I found myself with my tongue in his mouth. We were both sweaty, skin slipping against each other, as we stumbled our way down the hall. Bumping into walls, attached at the face, our hands seeming to explore almost frantically.
I heard a lock click and gasped. In a second of eye contact, I understood. This was happening, in a bathroom apparently. The man had wound me up for hours and I was about to find a much needed release. “Figured you’d want a door between us and the hundred or so other people out there, if I was going to be filling you,” he shrugged. The man was blunt, but fuck he was hot.
The lace that had been covering me tore into an actual scrap with a practiced flick of his wrist. A moan left me before he spun me around and bent me over the pedestal sink. I could see him in the mirror as he unbuckled his belt and tore open a condom. My eyes rolled back in my head when he pushed a finger inside me. Sliding out, he added a second and then a third for good measure.
Pumping only a couple times, I almost whimpered when he slid them all out. My breath hitched as his thick cock replaced them. He fucked me hard and fast. My tits bounced in the porcelain basin while his thumb sunk to its hilt, into my asshole. He reached with his other hand to rub and pinch at the over-sensitive nub there. Even more pressure built as he slammed in and out of me. I came so hard that night, I literally saw stars. He continued to bounce me between the sink and his thighs until he found his own release. Removing his thumb then the rest of himself, he discarded the condom and pulled a tee shirt out of his back pocket. “Stand up,” he practically growled.
When I obliged, he pulled the shirt over my head. What had fit him like a glove earlier, I was thankful to swim in. “Fuck, America. I head back to Oz tomorrow afternoon. But I’ll fuck you until my flight has to leave, if you’ll let me?” I nodded, unable to find my tongue. Unlocking the door, I slipped into the hall and headed for the room I knew held my bag, feeling his heat directly at my back. I grabbed the bag and envelope of cash for the night, before returning to where I had left him. A tanned hand landed at my hip, leading me toward the exit doors and into a car when it arrived.
Neither of us found sleep that night. Hours into the morning, he called us each a car. At the curb, he turned to me. “Gotta feeling you’ll get on just fine here,” he chuckled. “Don’t be stupid and take care of yourself, America.” He pressed a kiss to my forehead and squeezed a handful of my ass that was clad in a pair of borrowed (never to be returned) sweatpants, before ushering me into the waiting car and turning for his own.
Chapter 2
As weeks passed, I grew more and more comfortable in the unfamiliar city. I checked all the tourist spots off my list first. I spent days wandering Jordaan. I found myself enchanted by the old buildings that had been given new life in the shape of galleries and shops, cafes and bars. I walked along the Prinsengracht, reflecting with tears in my eyes and on my face, after spending some time in the Anne Frank house. I soaked in as much art as I could in places like the Stedelijk Museum and the Rembrandt House.
Ultimately, I found myself a little apartment in De Baarsjes. It was situated above a small coffee shop and a used bookstore and the air always smelled of fresh brew, paper and ink. It was a tiny space but it was mine. I slept on a mattress on the floor for months before I managed to get around to actually furnishing the place. But I picked up small things in my explorations that made it feel like home.
I was almost nocturnal, arriving home after work as the coffee shop down stairs was opening for the day. But the routine suited me. It offered me both opportunity and peace; the bustle of nightlife and the quiet of dawn. The sweet, middle aged coffee shop owner often met me with a hot drink in the early afternoons when I woke and headed out for the day.
I acquired what I could only describe as regulars. Men and women from all over the world, who would request me in cages. It was a powerful feeling, but I was always quickly reminded of my place when the specific requests came in. They made it perfectly clear that I fit a profile. While it was a privilege, it led to a fairly lonely existence.
Between working nights and quickly taking the place of some of the most popular showcases, friends were hard to come by. But that wasn’t a surprise. This world wasn’t as friendly as its counterpart, stateside. As a result I began filling makeshift bookshelves, adding several new books a week as I finished them.
Getting lost in make believe worlds, wearing cozy socks and giant knit sweaters while rain ran in rivers down my windows, became how I passed most of my time. And when the sun came out I would spend hours taking pictures with the camera I had bought in my first week. Wandering The 9 Streets and across The 7 Bridges. I loved capturing the vastness of the city, especially the view from the top of the Public Library and the calm that settled over the Rijksmuseum in the early morning.
I got into the habit of writing down some of the more obscure requests I got through this job, a memoir of sorts; and almost all of them belonged to this guy or someone from his cohort. He was fairly harmless but his requests were often elaborate and everyone quickly came to know that I was clearly one of his favourites. The man had asked me to do a number of things. From a basic striptease to getting fucked by several people. But never him. He touched my skin occasionally though, almost skimming it as if to check that I was in fact real. The man was strange and he made me curious. He also never spoke to us, only the handlers. But he was definitely the reason that all my bills and loans were paid. He showed up to the first showcase of every month, like clockwork. I was certain that the way he threw around his money was definitely the reason I graduated from cases to cages.
After almost a year in Amsterdam, my life had become something I couldn’t have even imagined. My small apartment, that I kept dark and quiet with thick curtains and cozy with more throw blankets than any one person should ever own, still smelled of coffee and books. It was my solace; filled with the sparse collection of things I had crossed the ocean with, but also with things I had gathered more recently. I had made it onto the call list for every premiere event that my venue held. My life became almost charmed without me even noticing it happening.
I had heard whispers that one of the biggest showcases of the year was imminent. Several venues from all over Europe, coming together in an undisclosed location. Our city was set to be ground zero for the event. Clients from all of them, coming to get a taste (so to speak) of what the other exclusive communities had to offer. Greta and Aric had made it clear that I was expected to headline the 2 week-long event. Meaning I would literally sleep and showcase for a fortnight. This one event could potentially set me up with enough to buy a house and retire from this lifestyle. I could become almost anyone at that point. So I agreed. I mean, how could I not?
I took the week before the event off but the day before doors opened, I spent hours acclimating myself to the enormous space. It was a warehouse. The walls were completely lined with stacked, glowing cases. Hundreds of them, where performers like me would simply stand on display like life-sized dolls. Each case was assigned a number and if that number was called, whoever was in that box would be collected and delivered to the client that requested them. There were stages throughout the interior of the massive space, as opposed to cages, surrounded by seating. This place looked infinitely more like an actual strip club than any of the venues I had ever seen. A very large square bar sat dead center, stocked with only the most expensive bottles. Silks were strung up here and there too, but it was clear that there were few acrobatic performers on the call list.
“You made it!” Aric exclaimed, rushing toward me and pulling me into a hug. “It’s something, isn’t it,” he noted, acknowledging the space. “Did you get your map and schedule? Or have you just arrived?”
“Map? Is this place that big?” I knew my face also mirrored my surprise. “I literally just walked in. What’s the deal?”
“Sign in there,” he pointed to the largest stage, surrounded by a dozen semi-frantic looking people. “Then I’ll take you for a tour.”
Nodding, I wandered over, giving them my call name and home venue when asked. In return I was handed a tote bag filled with papers, a red lace mask, an earpiece case, and what I could only assume are an assortment of product samples. As I return to Aric I pull out the mask, “Red? I don’t have any red underwear or shoes. And there’s no time to break in new ones. Why didn’t you warn me,” a note of panic is evident in my question. Black had been my uniform for so long that it was all I bought anymore.
He shook his head at me, linking his arm with mine. As he began to walk through a set of double doors he said, “Honey, it’s just the mask. Colour denotes your status. Black for cases, gold for acros, red for headlines. You’re good, I promise.”
I took a breath, replacing the mask before hitching the bag over my shoulder. “Good. So, you gonna show me around now? Can’t be getting lost in this labyrinth tomorrow.”
Aric showed me the change rooms, which had lined a long hallway extending in both directions on the other side of the double doors. A set of stairs took us to the second floor. It held a sound booth with a one way glass floor, prompting me to notice the mirrored ceiling when we eventually reached the main event space again. That second floor was also home to dozens of private rooms. Some of those also had glass floors, I assumed to add an element of voyeurism to the space. I spent a good 2 hours there, ensuring I was set for the weeks to come, before returning back to my quaint little home.
When I arrived the following afternoon the place was buzzing. It was filled with flitting performers who all seemed to need something from one of the handlers. I smiled to myself, wondering how many of them were dramatically out of their element. Most of them, I knew, would be in cases and I noted the acrobats warming up on one of the empty stages. Bartenders were checking lists while costumiers like Greta adjusted masks and garments.
I made my way to the back hall, finding my call name, along with those of a handful of others from my venue, outside a dressing room door. Several sets of eyes met mine as I entered the room, most of them making their surprise and then annoyance at my presence clear. I was diligent about arriving on site ready to go. So as I slipped all of my things into my bag, I retrieved a small lock, an earpiece, and my red mask. Finally I shucked my silk dress, leaving me in nothing but heels and lace underwear. I secured the mask on my face, tucking my bag into one of the small cubbies at the back of the room and locking it. Aric had a spare key, but I attached mine to the inside of the arch of my shoe, in case he wasn’t available when it was time to leave in the morning.
I knew that the stage just to the left of the bar would be mine. It thankfully wasn’t a large one, so I wouldn’t have to pace much. As I ran my hand along the soft edge of a booth attached to my stage, the lights began to dim and I couldn’t help but smile. Almost show time. Inserting and turning on my ear piece, I hopped up on stage. A quiet fell over the warehouse and when I glanced around, everyone was in place. The glass cases on the walls were all filled with very still performers and acros hung gracefully in their silks. Living art. Low music trickled into the room and waiters in mostly white lingerie held their trays, ready to take drink orders from patrons who would walk through the doors at any moment.
The first week was fairly calm, though a few familiar faces hovered around my stage. Hands reached out to smooth themselves over my skin whenever I crouched low or lay down arching my back in a stretch. My number got called a few times, mostly for lap dances. Some right there in the booths around the stage while others preferred to be in private rooms. The second week is when N showed his face. I saw him here and there. But on the same day he arrived, so did someone else. I noticed that the man wandered, almost appearing lost, for the whole first night; only requesting a number from the wall after emphatic encouragement from some of the group he was often surrounded by. I ended up locking eyes with the stranger repeatedly, through that second week.
He held more of my attention than he should have, but I still had a job to do. Twice that week, N requested me. The first time he just sat and watched as I fucked myself, leaving the room before I even finished. He made that an early night for me because once you’re pulled to a private room, you don’t return to the floor. The second time, he waited until the very end of the night and had a handler tie me up upstairs. They brought in 2 other girls, all
3 of us in red masks. He watched as the two of them made me come a few times, as he had on other occasions. But then he actually spoke, dismissing them both.
He walked up to me, pants undone and dick still in his hand. I was sure he was going to try to fuck me, without prior agreement. But instead, he released himself to use both hands to pinch my nipples hard enough to make me cry out. Then he turned on a vibrator that had been on the table, pressing it against my clit. I squirmed, over-stimulated and so close to coming from the contact But he shook his head, resuming stroking himself. He growled as he came all over my chest before replacing my lace underwear that had been discarded earlier. Then, as he inserted the thick and frantically humming vibrator inside me, a sadistic smile touched his face. Taking care that it wouldn't fall out, he turned the vibrator to full speed and reached up to firmly pinch my nipples again. Then he slipped out of the room leaving me writhing and helpless, still tied up tightly.
I eventually managed to shift enough to push the humming device out of me but not before I was dripping sweat and it had thoroughly exhausted my body. It had to have been at least an hour before Aric found me and rushed to untie me. He had come looking when I didn't show up to retrieve my things before leaving for the night. He helped me down the stairs on my shaky legs and drove me home that night. Aric urged me to take the following night off, but I knew I couldn’t. I just needed sleep and a really long shower. I did ask him to contact the coordinators and have N barred from returning, though.