by Eden Myles
“Let me guess. You plan to expose us.”
I nodded. I had a bad habit of getting drunk fast and sloppy. When I went out with my roommate Cookie, all it took was a couple of beers or a glass of wine and I started waxing on about all the woes of the world. I hated that about myself. Alcohol just opened me up. “I’m a student journalist at CUNY,” I explained. “I’m writing an article about the sex trade in New York. Well, I was, but then I found these journals by a man named Tiberius Sloan…”
“And now you plan to write about the Society.”
“The oldest gentleman’s club in New York? A secret society of men who brutalize women? I need to write about the Society, and about men like you!”
“What about men like me?” Mr. Ishikawa said. His sharp, narrowed-eyed attention was now wholly focused on me.
I felt my pulse ticking in my throat. My heart was beating much too fast, probably from the alcohol. “You don’t respect women. You treat them like…possessions to be used.”
“Is that what you’ve observed tonight, Felix? Women being brutalized? Women being used?”
I sat drinking my wine, thinking. Admittedly, I had expected something a little different than what I’d encountered here tonight. I wasn’t sure what, exactly, but it wasn’t this. For one thing, I’d thought it would be all women, but there were gentleman who kept courtiers—male companions—and a few female gentleman as well. I hadn’t anticipated that and it had thrown me a little.
Truthfully, none of the courtesans or courtiers looked like they were being held against their will. In some ways, it reminded me of some of the wilder parties my friends had dragged me to, the ones hosted by Doms who kept dungeons in their homes, with subs on leashes crawling around on all fours. In the beginning, I’d been faintly horrified by it all. Then I’d talked to some of the subs and discovered they’d actually given consent to this, that they were okay with it, even got off on it.
But just because the women here tonight had agreed to be treated this way didn’t make it right.
Mr. Ishikawa took my drink from me. “First of all, let me be perfectly clear about something, Felix. There is not one person at this gathering tonight who is here against his or her will, not one person being forced to do something he or she does not approve of. There are stringent rules in effect, and safewords used and enforced at all times within the Dollhouse. Those rules and safewords are there to protect both courtesans and gentleman.” He gave me a poignant look. “Do you understand the concept of SSC?”
“Safe, sane and consensual? Yeah,” I told him. “I researched the BDSM lifestyle before I did this.”
“Do you feel those rules were broken tonight? Do you feel anyone was at risk in some way?”
“No,” I told him honestly. “But that doesn’t mean they can’t be. Look, I want to know everything about the Society. I’m not judging—well, I’m trying not to judge—but I do want to understand it. And I do plan on writing an article about it.”
I wondered if that was such a smart thing to say. Mr. Ishikawa might not be Yakuza, and the Society probably didn’t have much in common with the mob, but the men out there in the other room were some of the most powerful in New York. I knew if they wanted to ruin me, to shut me up, they probably could.
“Do you?” the man standing over me said.
“Tell me,” I retorted. “If I’m missing something in all this madness, some purpose to these gatherings—this lifestyle—tell me what it is.”
Mr. Ishikawa stared down into his drink. “It’s obvious you’re quite resourceful, quite intelligent, Felix. What if I showed you, instead?”
My heart beat a little faster as I wondered what he meant. From out in the hallway I could hear footsteps as gentleman walked their courtesans up and down the halls. I thought about calling out to them, letting my presence be known, but I decided I wanted to hear what this man had to say first. Curiosity and alcohol had bolstered my courage. “What exactly do you mean?”
Mr. Ishikawa smirked. “Do you know who Gloria Steinam is?”
I sat up straighter. “Of course. She’s a famous journalist, feminist, and a political activist. She started Ms. Magazine…”
“Many years ago, she also went undercover at one of Hugh Hefner’s nightclubs as a Playboy Bunny in an attempt to better understand the lifestyle before she wrote about it.”
I was smart enough to catch onto what he was suggesting. “You think I should be a courtesan before I write about the Society?”
He came and sat beside me. He rested his arm on the back of the settee, dominating the space around him. Again, I was acutely aware of his heat and scent. His presence seemed to wrap itself around me. “What would you say if I took you on as my courtesan? Just for a couple of months. I’ll pay you well. At the end of two month, you’ll get your story, and I’ll make no attempts to keep you from writing it…”
“But,” I said, because I sensed a but in there somewhere.
“No but. You’ll see the lifestyle from the inside out, rather than as a stranger looking in, trying to make sense of everything.” This close, I realized Mr. Ishikawa’s eyes weren’t black at all, not in the Asian sense. They were a dark, stormy blue, so dark they looked black in certain light. He watched me with a stillness I found unnerving, like he could sit there for days, unmoving, a statue. He had pale, poreless skin and luxurious black hair, like a man of all smooth contrast, not the rugged type I was used to seeing, to dating. He smirked thinly, but it was as much of a mask as the one I gripped with stony fingers in my lap. It revealed nothing more than what he was willing to show me.
“You’re afraid,” he finally said.
I sort of scrunched back in my seat but tried not to be too obvious about it. “No.”
“What are you afraid of? That I’ll hurt you?”
“Will you?”
“Perhaps a little. I find a moderate amount of pain to be very edifying.” He tilted his head and looked me over very carefully. “If you were my courtesan, I’d stripe your ass with my cane. I think you would look very pretty…stripes for an obvious tigress. If you were very bad, I’d put you on the ropes and fuck you for hours.”
I opened my mouth, closed it. I felt dizzy—the wine, his cologne, his words. But it wasn’t fear, exactly. My father was an oil driller off the coast of Texas. I’d grown up around roughnecks, guys so course and blunt you could have cut sheet metal on their attitudes. I’d never been afraid of any of them. I’d never been afraid of men, period. But now, when I looked at Mr. Ishikawa, his refined, princely appearance, his filthy, lecherous mouth, I felt my insides quiver and threaten to spill out. Just his eyes made the seam between my legs dampen.
“I might hurt you, but I would never harm you,” he explained like there was a difference. His voice was so soft and gravelly I had to strain to hear it. I thought how this must be how he conducted his life in the business world—softly, coherently, without anger, but with unmistakable force, a man used to being obeyed who never needed to raise his voice in the office or boardroom to prove it. “I’m a gentleman; I would never do anything to hurt or scar a courtesan. Of course, I would need to train you properly, and I’m a strict taskmaster about such things.” He narrowed his eyes in obvious challenge. “You would need to obey me, to come when I summoned you, to make yourself sexually available to me when I commanded it. Your body would no longer be your exclusive domain. You would belong to me. You would be my plaything, my doll, my courtesan. But…” His face softened but only a moment, “…I would never harm you or scar you, Felix. We would use safewords and safe sex practices. I would never force you to do anything you didn’t approve of.”
I swallowed hard against the lump in my throat. The rational part of my brain told me to tell him to go to hell and walk out of there with my dignity intact. But there was another part of me—the part that wanted the story almost more than anything—that made me actually consider this madness. If I could get through the next two month, I would have a story that would tru
mp everyone else’s in my class. I could get it published in the biggest newspapers and magazines in the world. I’d graduate with honors.
And, after all, it was only two month. Eight measly weeks. “Say I agreed to this. Would I need to do what that courtesan tonight was doing? Would I need to…perform for everyone in the Society?”
“If we do this, we will begin slowly.” He looked at me, fiercely and demandingly. No one had ever looked at me that way before. “You’ll allow me to take you in hand, to teach you, educated you, discipline you, and as the trust grew between us, we’d explore your sexual limitations.” He smirked again, slyly. Each time he did that, he looked less Caucasian and more Asian, more exotic. Each time it happened, I felt my stomach flip over. “Should you choose to push the boundaries within yourself, I’ll let you experience things that no one else on the outside even knows about. What do you think?”
I sat tongue-tied, stared up at this frighteningly exotic gentleman. I didn’t know what to say. I was crazy to agree, I knew. “Why…?” I took me two tries to get the words out. “Why would you do that? Why would you take me on as a courtesan if you know I plan to reveal the existence of the Society to the whole world?”
“If you plan to write about the Society, it would be in my best interest to give you a proper tour, would it not?”
I nodded stupidly. He had a point.
“If I do nothing, you’ll write your article based on what you’ve seen here tonight. But if you learn what it truly means to be a gentleman’s courtesan, you might be more favorable in your article. In fact, you might not write it at all.”
So he meant to undermine me? “Don’t count on that. I will write it…one way or the other.”
“Then accept my offer. Be my courtesan for the next two months. Experience everything a courtesan experiences at the hands of her gentleman. Then write your article based on your observations instead of some perceived notion of what you think you’ve witnessed here tonight.”
I gave him a shrewd look, or what I hoped was one. “And what do you get out of it?”
Mr. Alex Ishikawa smirked that damnable smirk that told me nothing. “Well, my dear, I get you.”
We sat together for several moments. I listened to the mantel clock ticking solemn ticks and solemn tocks. The room and his scent closed in around me once more. He continued to watch me for an answer. Finally, I took a deep breath and said, “All right. You’ve got a deal, friend.”
Mr. Ishikawa lost his smirk. “Since you’ve agreed to this, you need to be aware that I’m not your friend, Felix. I’m your gentleman. As such, I deserve more respect than that. You’ll address me as Mr. Ishikawa, or, preferably, as sir. Anything else is subject to discipline.” Before I could voice my protest, he said, “Stand up.”
I thought about stomping out, forgetting all about this, but a chance to write about one of the oldest and most exclusive sex clubs in New York City? I thought about Gloria Steinam. She hadn’t backed down, and neither would I. I stood up as proudly as I could, shoulders back, facing forward like a soldier on the firing line.
Mr. Ishikawa lounged back on the settee and rested his chin on his fist, looking me over with a far more critical eye than I was used to seeing, even from my dad and my professors. I started to fidget, and my shoes felt too tight, but he said, “Stop that immediately. Be still, Felix. A proper courtesan doesn’t fidget around like a small child.”
I snorted a response and forced myself to hold still. I soon learned I was breathing just a little too hard. I looked him over in return, sitting there like some conquering Asian emperor examining his spoils, his gleaming black braid, thick, dark lashes, his legs parted enough to make me worry about the snugness of his tuxedo trousers. There was a substantial bulge in those trousers, but I feigned ignorance, though a small, desperate part of me hoped I was at least partially responsible for it and not just the tightness of his pants.
I wondered what he thought of me. For the first time in my life, I wished I didn’t have a Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Therapy addiction. I wished I worked out at the gym where Cookie and our friends went. I wished I didn’t go to pilate classes to just sit there on my mat and daydream about the people around me instead of paying attention to the instructor. I wished I was taller. I wished I was thinner. I wished…
“Take off your shoes.”
“Why?” The question was automatic for me.
His face darkened and I felt a little spike of worry. The air was suddenly full of fission between us. “A good courtesan doesn’t question her gentleman’s command, Felix. She does as he bades her. Now take off your shoes. I won’t ask you again.”
I stood vibrating with anger. Mine. His. I took a deep breath and toed off my black patent leather evening pumps. That, of course, made me even shorter.
“Now the dress.”
Dear god. I started to sweat. My hands jittered too much to do much of anything but clutch each other.
Mr. Ishikawa waited patiently.
You can do this, I told myself. You’re one tough bitch, Felix.
My fumbling hands found the zipper on the back of the little black cocktail dress, and as I unzipped it, the sound was disconcertingly loud in the room. Cookie’s borrowed dress fell to the floor in a black puddle at my feet, and I soon found myself standing there, shivering in front of Mr. Ishikawa, dressed in only my sensible cotton bra and panties, bought on discount at Costco. God, I felt like such a loser. It was like I was the girl next door both inside and out. Then again, I hadn’t expected to do a striptease for a strange man tonight. If I had, I might have purchased some prettier underwear.
My hands went to hug my too-wide middle, to cover myself up, but he narrowed his eyes. “Hands at your sides,” he said, and I obediently dropped my hands and tried to concentrate on something other than making a fool of myself. I wanted to watch the light playing in my wine glass, or scan the books on the tall shelves, but my traitorous eyes kept wandering to Mr. Ishikawa’s tailor-made trousers instead.
He studied me unhurriedly, unflinchingly, like an important item he meant to purchase. Silence pressed in. I wanted to scream. Finally, he said, “You’re very pretty, Felix. Very sensual. Are you currently involved with anyone?”
“No,” I told him honestly.
“Good.” He narrowed his eyes. “Are you a virgin?”
“What?” I didn’t understand what that had to do with anything.
“Have you ever had a man inside you?”
“I don’t think that’s—”
“It’s important,” he snapped back. “I need to be aware of your level of sexual experience. Don’t lie. You’ll only harm yourself in the end.”
I started fidgeting again, but forced myself to stop. “I’ve made out. I’ve had a man touch me.”
“Lips? Breasts?”
I nodded.
“Did he penetrate you?”
“No.”
“Did you orgasm?”
“No.”
He looked satisfied. “You can put your dress back on.”
“Thank you,” I said, grabbing up the dress. My face was burning with embarrassment.
“Thank you, sir,” he corrected me.
“Thank you, sir,” I said as I zipped up and stepped back into my shoes.
Just in time, too, because another gentleman, guiding his pretty courtesan ahead of him, had stepped into the room, thinking it was empty. The gentleman looked surprised and said, “Ah, forgive me, Alex. I didn’t know this room was occupied.”
“That’s quite all right, Ian. We were done here anyway.” Mr. Ishikawa stood up and offered Ian a little formal bow. He tucked my hand into the crook of his arm and, still smirking, walked me from the room.
***
“So dish,” Cookie said the moment I walked in the door of our shared apartment.
My roommate sat cross-legged on the sofa, while our third roomie, Darren, carefully redid her nails. Cookie and Darren were both studying choreography and modern dance at CUNY,
though they both hoped to transfer to Julliard soon, which was notoriously hard to get into. They were both lithe and graceful, crunchy-earthy, and obsessed with yoga, freestyle aerobics, and all-organic food. They did things like eat nothing but Greek yogurt for three days before a performance and regularly taped the bleeding blisters on their feet. Darren once told me my secret staff of Jolly Rancher candies was the devil’s playground. I’d been lucky to land a gig as their roommate so I wouldn’t need to deal with the insanity of dorm life, but the truth was, they scared the crap out of me.
I knew I should listen to them, cut them some slack. They were cool peeps, and I loved them to death, but I’d never had a best friend growing up, male or female. My dad’s job meant we’d bounced all over the coast of Texas, from one oil rig to another, and no friendship I’d ever developed had stuck for long.
I clutched my purse in front of me, chewed on a rope of my emergency red licorice, and said, “It was really interesting.”
“Just interesting?” Darren said, raising his eyebrows at Cookie.
Darren and Cookie had known each other since fourth grade and I hated that they did that, that they had all these little signals and inside jokes between them. Their Secret Service eyebrow colophon drove me crazy, like they were talking about me behind my back, only right in front of my face. It always made me feel like an outsider around them, like I didn’t belong. Cookie once said she and Darren had made a pact long ago that if neither of them landed a great stud, they would have a baby together someday, just because. It was hard not to feel like a third wheel around folks that close.