by Alexa Davis
"Come on, girls, let's go. I'm getting tired," I said, suddenly no longer in the mood for shopping.
"Yeah, and I'm out of money," Clara agreed. We strolled through the mall towards the exit walking three abreast with me in the middle, when suddenly my two friends came to an abrupt stop, jerking me to a halt along with them.
"Oh, my God! It's him!" Suzanne gasped, and I turned in the direction of her pointing finger.
"It is him! We have to get a picture or an autograph!" Clara squealed with excitement.
I struggled to keep up as my two roommates ran towards a crowd of screaming fans and flashing paparazzi who were now surrounding the entrance to one of the unrented spaces in the mall. The mob was so thick, I couldn't see past them to determine the source of their excitement, but whatever it was it must be huge. Turning to my friends, I asked, "Who is it? What's everyone freaking out about?"
"It's Tristan Porter, the host of Pick Me. He is so damn hot, my panties are melting just being this close to him." Suzanne flushed. I knew they were both a big fan of the show, but I'd never seen it. My parents never let me watch much television when I was growing up, and I never developed much of affinity for it. Especially these catty reality game shows where everyone was just looking to stab each in the back as they clawed their way to the top, all just so they could gain money or fame. I wanted money and fame, too, but I was willing to work for it, doing whatever it takes to succeed on my own. Even if that meant taking a job as a whore.
"And, he is so fabulously rude," Clara said excitedly, like that was a compliment. "When he starts insulting the contestants on his show, it is the best part. He can be so mean, but he's so brilliant; and he's always right. He knows what's going to make a good investment and what's not. It's why everyone wants to be on the show."
I sighed and rolled my eyes. "He sounds horrible. I refuse to watch his show. Why would anyone want to watch an obnoxious billionaire demean a bunch of desperate people begging him to invest in them. I hear he brings out the worst in people and hearing you two talk about him, I'm sure of it."
"No, you don't understand; he is brilliantly smart, wildly charismatic, and sexy as hell. He's got it all; and everyone either wants to be him or fuck him," Suzanne tried to explain.
"Well, not me," I insisted.
While Clara and Suzanne ran forward, trying to get closer to him, I stepped back and watched as the crowd followed the poor man out of the empty building space. Reporters were shouting at him, "Tristan, are you planning to open up a store here? What will it be? Are you buying the whole mall? Will you tear it down for an apartment complex?"
"That's my business, not yours," a deep male voice said, and I was startled by how familiar it sounded. I strained to see over the crowd, but it was still too thick and I couldn't identify the speaker.
"Tristan, do you have any comments on your recent divorce?" another reporter shouted out.
"No, and I won't take any questions concerning my ex-wife. I divorced that bitch and that's the end of it," the voice of Tristan Porter said, and I felt my heart catch in my throat. I knew why I recognized that voice – it was my mystery Boss at Whip. The way he said the word bitch was unmistakable.
The crowd parted and suddenly there he was, plain as day. Striding angrily away from the swarm of paparazzi, Tristan didn't look where he was going and plowed right into me, knocking us both to the ground.
The paparazzi cameras went wild and I was blinded by the flashing lights. His team of security guards moved in, but he held them off with a raised hand. Tristan got up off the ground and held his out to me to help me get up and when I rose, our eyes locked. I knew at once that he recognized me, too, but he pretended not to and said callously, "Watch where the hell you're going from now on."
"I will. I'm really sorry," I stammered, overwhelmed by the attention of the crowd and the realization that I had been hired as the kinky prostitute of such a rich and powerful celebrity. No wonder he wanted his identity kept anonymous and guarded his privacy so vehemently. What would the world say if they knew about his kinky dark side? It would ruin him, for sure, but I for one would never say a word.
He turned to the paparazzi and said assertively, "I'll give you a full interview concerning my plans for this mall in just a moment, now give me some privacy to make sure this woman is uninjured.” Hungry for the interview, the crowd backed off and the team of guards formed a wall between us and them. Tristan turned his back away from everyone so no one could see. Speaking in very low voice, he asked me softly, "Are you hurt?"
"No, I'm okay." I flushed. So he did recognize me! My heart soared at the realization, but I knew I couldn't let it show.
"Good." He pressed a card into my hand and said, "This is my private number. Don't tell anyone you have it."
I nodded mutely and shoved the card into my pocket before anyone could see.
"Don't let this happen again," Tristan said to me loudly and clearly for all to hear. The wall of guards parted, and he strode back to the crowd. With his usual bravado, he said to the paparazzi, "Now, you want an interview about why I'm at this mall. Go fuck yourselves! And, you want an interview about my ex-wife; tell her to go fuck herself! There, that's my interview. Time’s up; goodbye."
Tristan strode out the nearest exit with his team of security guards surrounding him, blocking the crowd from following him out the door. A car was already waiting for him on the curb and so sooner had he climbed inside, than it sped off into the distance and he was gone. The crowd dissipated almost as quickly as the reporters and cameramen no doubt went to contact their employers and the fans went to tell their friends about their exciting encounter.
Clara and Suzanne huddled around me, gushing like schoolgirls over their first crush.
"I can't believe that just happened!" Clara cried out. The truth was that I couldn't, either. I needed to sit down. I was still in a state of shock over what I had just learned.
"You are so lucky to have bumped into him like that!" Suzanne said.
"Crashed into him is more like it," I said with chagrin.
"What did he say to you?" Clara wanted to know.
"Yeah, you look like you've seen a ghost or something. What happened?" Suzanne asked.
I shrugged my shoulders like it was no big deal and said casually, "Nothing really. Up until now, I didn't even know he was."
It wasn't entirely a lie, but it definitely wasn't the whole truth, either. My friends gushed and talked about the excitement of being so close to the Tristan Porter for the rest of the day. I pretended to listen, but all the while, I kept thinking of the card with his private number I had hidden in my pocket and wondering what would happen when I saw him again next Friday night. My mystery Boss had a name now, but I found a strange comfort in knowing that my identity was still a secret to him. It gave me an odd sense of power in our otherwise very lopsided relationship. I held something very powerful him that he didn't have over me: his identity. I had never told him my name, and while he had given me his number, he had no way of contacting me. I could end things between us anytime I wanted simply by quitting the club and never returning there again, and he would never know who I was or how to find me. I decided that was a safety net I would keep in my back pocket. If ever things got too scary for me in this new underground world I was embroiled in, I could escape unknown and always be safe, while the richest, most powerful man in America could not. At least one tiny person knew his secret – and that was little, insignificant me.
Chapter Two: Tristan
I couldn't believe I'd run into the hot blonde with the amazing tits right there in the fucking mall. It was an act of foolishness to give her my fucking private number, and I had no idea why I'd done such a boneheaded thing. All I knew for sure was I couldn't get that damn sexy Bitch out of my mind.
Ever since we'd been together, my dreams had been full of thoughts of fucking her and I'd wake up with a killer hard-on. I couldn't wait for next Friday, and even thought about calling Craig at Whip and d
emanding that he call her early for a midweek session, but that would be like admitting I couldn't stop thinking about the Bitch and there was no way in fucking hell I was going to do that. Besides, drawing out the anticipation was kind of fun. It gave me time to really plan out all the things I would do to her when I finally did see her again.
There was a high-priced escort service I relied on for normal sexual needs that weren't based on BDSM and I had them send over one their girls to the mansion to take care of my hard-on. As the redheaded whore was sucking me off, my cell phone rang and I went ahead and I told her not to quit sucking as I picked it up. It was one of my advisors, Avery.
"What the fuck is it? I haven't even had breakfast yet," I barked at him. The fucking asshole knew not to call me this early in the morning unless it was an emergency, and more often than not, the bullshit he panicked over did not qualify. I had a feeling this case was no fucking different.
"Have you read the morning papers yet?" Avery asked, sounding freaked out as usual. The dipshit was the biggest fucking pussy in the world, and if he hadn't been so Goddamn good at making me rich, I'd have fired him years ago. As it was, he still had a job as long as my profits kept rising, but my patience did have limits and calling before breakfast was walking on dangerous ground.
"No, I'm still in fucking bed," I responded to his stupid question while the redheaded whore went to town on my balls. Suck 'em baby, just like that while I come all over your face, I thought.
"Well, you'd better read them and then hurry up and get in here. We've got some major damage control to take care of P.R. wise."
"Yeah, so fucking what? We always do. Don't call me with this kind of bullshit again or you’re fucking fired. I'll be into the office when I'm good and fucking ready."
I hung up the phone and let the redhead wash my come off her face before kicking her out the door with a wad of hundred dollar bills shoved in her g-string. Then I took a shower, got dressed in my gray suit by Dolce and Gabbana, put on my favorite blue pinstriped tie, and went down to the dining room for breakfast.
The maid brought me out a cup of coffee and a stack of newspapers. It was my morning ritual to read them all, from the New York Post to the infamous Wall Street Journal, while the cook prepared my breakfast every day. Then, when I was done eating and had finished reading the last page, I'd have my driver take me to work.
"Let's see what Avery is all bent out of shape about today,I said aloud as I sipped my coffee and turned to the first newspaper in the stack. It didn't take me long to find it. It was right there on page two, and when I saw it, I sent my coffee cup fucking flying across the room where it smashed against the fucking wall and shattered into a thousand Goddamn pieces. "That fucking cunt!"
It was a picture of Janice with her face beaten black and blue. A second photo showed huge bruises covering her back and from her fucking shoulders all the way down to the fucking back of her legs. My face was prominently displayed in a separate picture at the top of the article, which read “Tristan Porter's Ex-Wife Bravely Survives Abuse.”
I read the article from top to bottom, twice. Although Janice never comes out and says that I was the one who abused her, the fucking cunt did say that I had forced her to sign a non-disclosure agreement before agreeing to give her any money to live on and that she's been to countless doctors and therapists trying to get over abuse that she'd suffered in the past. The fucking implication that it was me who hurt her was clear, and I slammed my fist against the piece-of-shit table. The worst part was when the fucking cunt said that if I took a lie detector test and was asked if I had ever hit a woman, I would have to answer Yes, and the damn bitch was right. She knew she had me because of my damn BDSM fetish and she fucking knew it.
The story was in every Goddamn paper and I couldn't fucking believe it. My maid came out with my plate of Eggs Benedict, and I pushed it angrily away, yelling at her, "Skip breakfast today. Tell Adam pull the car around. That cunt Janice has gone too far and now she's going to pay."
Chapter Three: Olivia
I couldn't believe it as my friends listened to the story on some gossip news show on television. The images were gruesome, with Tristan Porter’s ex-wife Janice Porter having been severely beaten and bruised. It was sickening to look at and made my stomach turn. The sensational story was everywhere and impossible not to talk about.
"Do you think he really did it?" Clara asked as she stretched out her muscles after exercising in front of the television in her work-out bra and yoga pants.
"No. She's just trying to ruin him after the divorce. You know how vengeful ex-wives can be. Either that or she just wants more money out of him," Suzanne said, digging in the cupboards for something to eat. Groceries had gotten low and I'd already spent the last of my money when the electric company knocked on our front door yesterday demanding two months back-pay or they'd turn our power off. A thousand bucks didn't last as long as I'd hoped it would, and I was already desperate for my next week's pay. Soon, I'd be able to save enough to not have to live so hand-to-mouth, but I wasn't there yet.
"I don't know," Clara said to Suzanne, stretching past her for a bottled water now that her workout was done. "We've all seen how angry he gets on his show. The man definitely has a temper. Maybe they were fighting and he just lost control."
Clara's words filled my heart with fear. I'd seen firsthand what he was like when he was unhappy. Of course, he was completely in control of himself during that time, but what if he wasn't? What if he became truly enraged? What kind of animal would he become then and what kind of abuses would he be capable of?
Suzanne found a protein bar hidden in the back of the cupboard and ripped into it. Then her eyes gleamed with a deliciously naughty thought as she said teasingly, "Or maybe they're into that kind of thing. You've heard of these married couples that are secretly into some kind of bondage thing. Maybe he's a masochist and he was beating her as some kind of kinky sex game."
Clara laughed at the outrageousness of the thought, and I pretended to also before I excused myself to my room. I pretended like I needed to get dressed for the day, but really I just needed to get away so I could compose my thoughts. My heart was beating wildly in my chest, and I felt suddenly sick to my stomach. While Suzanne had just been teasing, her joke had hit too close to the mark. I alone knew that Tristan Porter secretly was a masochist and that he did like beating women in sex games. What if that was what happened to ex-wife? What if they had been playing and he got carried away and really hurt her? It may have started out consensual, but if he ignored her safe word and had her tied down, he could have really hurt her and she would have been helpless to stop him. I couldn't get over the fear that this same thing could happen to me. With shaking hands, I called Whip and asked to speak to Craig Varner.
"I can't work with Tristan Porter anymore," I said, unable to keep the tremble from my voice. "I'll sleep with anybody else, but just not him."
"I'm sorry, kid; but you don't get to pick and chose what clients you'll serve," Mr. Varner said in a bored voice, like he'd given this speech a hundred times to other girls. "It's your job to service whatever clients I give you and to keep them happy. Tristan Porter is one of our best paying clients and he wants you exclusively to himself. End of story."
My heart sunk like a pit to the bottom of my gut. I felt utterly trapped. Swallowing hard, I said, "Well, then I'm afraid I'll just have to quit."
That got his attention. In a worried voice, he objected, "Whoa. I don't want you to quit on my best client, kid. What's wrong? Why won't you work with Tristan Porter?"
I told him about the article and the horrible allegations Mrs. Porter had made about him beating her so badly. "I just don't want that to happen to me. I can't help but think this story was a warning directed straight at me, and if I ignore it, I could be really hurt."
"Well, one thing we pride ourselves on here at Whip is complete safety. None my of girls have ever been hurt by a client in ways they weren't okay with sexually, and I promis
e you, kid, that you won't be, either. I've known Tristan for years and this article sounds like bullshit. Let me talk to him and clear this matter up. You just show up on Friday like you're scheduled to and I promise you that you won't be placed in any danger."
It was as good a guarantee as I was going to get and I definitely didn't want to give up the thousand dollars per week for just two nights of work. I needed the money too much to be picky. Nodding my head, I agreed, "Okay. I'll be there and if you tell me he's safe, I'll sleep with him."
Feeling a lot better, but not totally relieved, I exited my room to go to the bathroom and ran smack into Suzanne, who had been leaning against my door.
"Who were talking to on the phone?" she asked.
"No one. My boss. I had some concerns about my next modeling job on Friday night."
"Yeah, I bet. Who are you sleeping with?"
"Are you listening in on my phone conversations?" I asked, dodging her question.
"No, I was just coming to your room to ask if you wanted to go to the mall with me."
I only had a hundred bucks left in my pocket, but I needed to keep her distracted if I didn't want her to figure out my secret. Besides, I'd get paid again soon. Taking her arm, I smiled and said, "Yeah, sure. Let's go."
Chapter Four: Tristan
"This is complete bullshit!" I shouted at my fucking lawyer. "Can't we sue the cunt for libel or defamation of character or something?"
"That depends," Eddie said calmly as I paced around his office like a raged lunatic. "Did you do it?"
"What do you mean, did I do it?" I was incredulous. "How can you fucking ask me that?"
"I know what a difficult woman Janice can be. This was an ugly divorce. Did you get maybe get drunk and do something you didn't mean to do?"