by Tracy Quan
“Oh, please. It’s fine. Just use your common sense. If he starts choking, you pull them out. But he won’t.”
“Are you sure you can’t just come later? Take over when I leave?”
“No! You don’t understand! I can’t find a babysitter.”
“But I can’t do it all myself! You promised.”
“What do you mean?” She paused. “Oh. Just drink a lot of water! What’s the big deal?”
This was hardly the moment to be discussing why a golden shower’s a big deal to me and not to her. How do you explain your spic-and-span prohibitions without making it sound like you’re judging the other girl as unsavory? It’s a conversation no sensible hooker gets into. I took a deep breath and gazed at the bottled water on the dresser. People with kids seem to be a lot less squeamish about some things.
“Look, I told you upfront!” I said, moving toward the window.
I didn’t want Colin to overhear. Our lack of cohesion must be finessed. Like two parents dealing with a wayward child, Mistresses Thalia and Sabrina must present a united front.
“I’m sorry! My day’s been a disaster! I’ll work something out on the cut if you want. I have to go but—call if you have to. I’m alone this weekend.”
How can the mother of a five-year-old sans babysitter say she’s “alone”? I guess she means her husband’s out of town so the coast is clear for phone calls. I’ve never asked Trisha what he does but he travels a lot more than Matt—and she, in turn, is never inquisitive about my husband.
Standing in front of the bathroom door, I wondered if my normal instinct—a quiet knock—would be too submissive a gesture. What should I say? I had really been expecting to play second fiddle to Mistress Thalia. You can come out now sounds kind of lame! More like a sidekick than a sole proprietress.
In a cold dignified voice, I advised Colin to stay on his hands and knees.
“Yes, Mistress.”
“Is the door unlocked?”
“Yes, Mistress.”
Do they say this just to get on your nerves?
“Reach up and open it with your right hand. I will be waiting in the bedroom.”
Colin crept out of the bathroom hardly daring to look up. His eyes were trained on the carpet as he crawled toward my feet. Suddenly, I had a brainstorm.
“You will adjust my garters.”
“Yes, Mistress,” he paused, “…Sabrina. You have beautiful legs,” he added shyly.
“I know. Come here. Start with my back garter.” I turned around slightly so he could reach it. I couldn’t let on how good it felt to hear about my legs when I’m starting to angst about my weight. “Slowly. Not like that. You have to loosen it first, then pull—very softly.” I turned again. “Now the front.” I could see a bulge in Colin’s shorts. “Good. Now the right garter. Carefully.” I leapt back. “You clumsy idiot! You ripped my stocking!”
“I’m sorry, Mistress! I didn’t mean to!”
“This will be taken into account,” I told him. “Mistress Thalia will not be pleased.”
“Yes, Mistress. Will you allow me to make it up to you?”
“We’ll see.”
Stumped for a response, I decided to go the implacable route.
“Go to my bag and unzip it. Slowly.”
I ordered him to remove a few instruments. Unfortunately, Mistress Thalia wasn’t here to wield her whip, but I did have a small black leather paddle.
“Come here,” I told him. “Not like that. Stay on your knees. Put the paddle between your teeth. Hold it between your teeth and don’t drop it. Do you understand?”
He nodded, and I ordered him to crawl slowly toward the bed. Removing the paddle from his clenched teeth, I told him to rest his head against the bedspread and pull down his silk shorts.
“Slowly!”
I needed to prolong our session because, after all, I was trying to make up for Trisha’s absence. Snapping the leather cuffs around his wrists, I peeked at his erection, then walked over to the clock radio while he enjoyed a moment of suspense. I hunted around for WQXR.
“Thank you,” he said.
We both know that a genteel-sounding concerto can muffle a telltale spanking. He stays here often and needs to be careful. Was Colin’s “thank you” acknowledging my thoughtful discretion? Or was he just praying for a nice loud whack?
I was so nervous and irate—about Charmaine hijacking my apartment, about the lobby bathroom and my ripped stocking, Trisha standing me up—that I obliged him with a very harsh smack. So harsh that my wrist felt it. I had to sit down for a moment and order him to worship my feet with his mouth. After a few minutes, I rose, giving him a gentle kick.
“If you’re very good for the rest of the afternoon, I’ll recommend a golden shower as your reward,” I told him.
The toe of my shoe caressed his groin.
“I was hoping…”
I leaned over and silenced him by inserting my crumpled thong panties in his mouth.
“Mistress Thalia and I will discuss it. After I leave. And you will be punished or rewarded on our next visit. It all depends on Thalia’s verdict.”
The skin on his cock was firm and very pink. When I brushed the toe of my shoe against his erection, he flinched. Colin was closer to coming than I had realized. I withdrew my toe by tracing a line down his thigh, carefully eyeing the clock to make sure he wasn’t being rushed. Trisha, the absentee dominatrix, was very specific about his time allotment. I walked over to the chair and picked up the paddle.
His wrists were still bound together behind his back, encased in the fuzz-lined leather. I was tempted to reach down and finish him with my hand. But no, that would knock me right off the bitch-goddess pedestal. Instead, I removed the manacles.
“You may place your hands in front.” It was a routine he’d been through before. “Two inches apart, no more and no less.”
I refastened the manacles, then picked up the paddle and used it to caress the back of each thigh. Remembering the impact to my wrist, I tapped his skin lightly. His hands were playing near his erection, getting closer. When I began to smack his buttocks, the panties fell out of his mouth. He grabbed his cock as best he could and came on the carpet.
“I’ll clean that up,” he said meekly. “If you take these off.”
I brought my phone into the bathroom. Charmaine wasn’t answering the landline or cell. But the deal we struck at noon was very clear: at five P.M., I return to the apartment, stash my work toys and clothes, change back into what I was wearing when I last saw my husband, and fly so she can prepare for her six-thirty. We’ve had a few close shaves, but Charmaine has always been prompt about answering the phone.
And this time, I really needed to get back into my apartment. The laddered stocking was a serious liability. Changing in the lobby bathroom again would be pushing my luck. If noticed, I’d be earmarked for future visits and singled out by security. But putting on your sneakers in the hotel room is just out of the question.
Fortunately, dommes are supposed to be aloof, not warm and friendly like normal hookers, so I didn’t have to overcompensate—much—for my disturbed attitude.
In the elevator, I was having mixed feelings about the session. It’s exciting to rise to the challenge of being something you’re not, but domination is a chore. I never feel convincing and it’s not really what I do. I hate having to worry about whether a slave is happy while pretending not to give a damn.
Avoiding the Park Avenue entrance—where the out-of-towners vie for taxis—I waved anxiously at a cab on Fiftieth and hopped in, still clutching my cell phone optimistically. But when it rang, it was not Charmaine.
Why, when somebody owes you a phone call, do you get called by the one person in your life whose call must be dodged? I watched my husband’s cell phone number flashing on my display screen and waited for him to go into voice mail.
“I’ve changed my mind,” I told the cab driver. “Can you take me to Starbucks on Seventy-fifth and First?”
I should be the kind of wife who can turn a trick at three P.M. and help her man decide between boxers and briefs a few hours later without raising a hint of suspicion. So why is Charmaine screwing this up for me? It’s almost five-thirty and I want to be there for him!
I left a tense message for Jasmine, another for Allie. Among the blue-jeaned, stroller-pushing couples, I felt ridiculously overdressed. I was in the right place in the wrong outfit, dying to look like a pseudo-slacker again.
Suddenly my cell phone was chiming, flashing “Private.” That’s either Jasmine calling from anywhere—she’s a fanatic about that—or Charmaine, calling from the landline. I’ve got everybody’s relationship to Caller ID completely mapped.
Or so I thought.
“Nancy!” said a female voice. “How and where are you?”
“Where—?” I couldn’t believe it. My sister-in-law never calls from a blocked number—and she had twins two weeks ago! Isn’t she better off at home? Recovering?
“Gotcha!” said Elspeth. “How’s it going?”
“Where are you?” I asked back.
“Oh, I’m leaving Karen’s baby shower.”
I froze. Her friend, Karen, lives eight blocks from here.
“I have an appointment with this amazing cake designer. Her birthday cakes are gorgeous! And so original! She designed one for the mayor’s son—listen, is it true you’re allergic to chocolate? Did Matt tell you I’m planning a surprise dinner party for Jason?”
Who knew that there was such a thing as postpartum mania. Elspeth, talking at breakneck speed, was hard to keep up with.
“Ummm. Not yet,” I mumbled nervously. “How many guests?”
How can she be planning a dinner bash for her husband when she just started nursing twins?
“Twenty max. My brother says you never eat chocolate. Well, it’s Jason’s birthday, not yours, but still! I wanted to ask. Should we go for the praline? Or the genoise? Or maybe—do you want to come with me? Meet me at her loft. I need some female input. And you need to check out these cakes!”
“I can’t! I’m in a cab—I’ll call you right back!”
A man at the next table looked up from his laptop and gave me a long thoughtful stare. I pretended not to notice and called Charmaine again. As her voice mail began to chatter, another call was coming in—Matt, causing a twinge of guilt as I imagined him pacing the floor of the Gap, confounded by too many choices. I was praying that Elspeth wouldn’t call him in the next few.
I took another swig of bottled water and fumed. Okay, Plan B: shall I duck into the bathroom here and change? What the hell. Take a cab to Allison’s and leave my tote bag with her doorman. Then meet my husband at Citicorp in my vague, woman-without-a-plan costume.
As I got up, drawing more stares from the laptop user, my phone chimed. When I saw Charmaine’s long-awaited phone number, I wanted to scream with gratitude.
“I thought he would never come,” she whispered. “Can you get here soon? He’s dressing.”
The apartment was dim when I let myself in, the door to the bathroom wide open. Charmaine was standing in front of the sink in a pair of lace bicycle-shorts. Her wavy hair was piled high, held in place with a plastic clip. I know the look well: she was wiping her shoulder carefully with a damp cloth, dabbing her neck and cleavage.
“He came on my chest but he took for freaking ever. And he kept losing his hard-on.” She frowned at herself in the mirror, grabbed another washcloth, and patted her hair. “I guess I should be grateful! He could be one of those young guys who fucks for an hour and stays hard the whole time…I know things have been crazy but I had to see some extra people before my trip to Florida.” She paused, knowing full well that I won’t mind having the place to myself while she’s gone. “I picked up two boxes of Trojan Extra Large. They’re in my closet.”
As the cab sped down York Avenue, I closed my eyes and waited for Matt to answer his cell phone.
“So I have it narrowed down,” he said. “Message in a bottle? Dalmatians? Or sliced fruit?”
Matt was still at the Gap.
“What…kind of fruit?” I inquired, trying not to express too much emotion.
“Huh. They look like oranges but they’re bright turquoise.”
“Are you sure they’re not supposed to be limes? Don’t do anything until I get there!”
“I knew I could count on you,” he said cheerfully.
Acknowledgments
I’d like to thank David Talbot, Carol Lloyd, and Chris Colin of Salon.com, where Nancy’s diary first appeared; my agents, John Brockman, Katinka Matson, and Peter Benedek; and my editor at Crown, Doug Pepper, for his guidance and constant support.
My special thanks to Mike Godwin for being an excellent editor and so much more—my first reader and dear friend whose vision and input made this book, and the Nancy Chan series in Salon, possible.
Bonnie Thompson, Charles Peck, Linda Jacobs (nee Nostradamus), and Dana Friedman (Dragonfly Technologies) rescued me from real and imaginary perils with practical solutions.
Steven Richardson-Ross, Hugh Loebner, Emma Hurley, Cynthia Connors, Joe Lavezzo, Jo Weldon, Melissa Hope, Steph Wilcock, Ellis Henican, Jerry Labush, Julian aka Boytoy, Ralph Martin, Synn Stern, Ben Burch, Ian Williams, Cheryl Overs, Dana Tierney, Giovanna, Andrew Sorfleet, Stan Bernstein, Jim Geffert, Vic St. Blaise, Sam Silver, Toisan Craigg, Will Crutch-field, Patricia Flynn, Mari Aldin, Paul Shields, Wendy-Joy Robertson, Adrian, David Andrew, Bruce Lambert, Desmond Mervyn, and Frances: thank you for your feedback, advice, and support.
For the special talents of Susan Schwartzman, Alex Lencicki, Stephen Lee, Jason Gordon, Juleyka Lantigua, Karen Minster, and Mary Schuck, I am immensely grateful.
About the Author
Tracy Quan lives in New York City and at www.tracyquan.net. Diary of a Manhattan Call Girl is the first book in her Call Girl series. It is being developed into a TV series by Darren Star, creator of HBO’s Sex and the City. Her writing has appeared in The New York Times, The Guardian, Financial Times, Cosmopolitan and South China Morning Post.
Praise
‘Chock-full of bad-girl secrets…tantalizing’
Cosmopolitan
‘Bridget Jones with attitude’
Guardian
‘A page-turner’
New York Daily News
‘Nothing’s quite as refreshing as a novel that rings true, and few recent novels have rung truer than Diary of a Manhattan Call Girl. Long on humor and intriguing, utterly believable scenarios, this book is rated R – for real’
New York Post
‘Hilarious’
New York Times
‘Wise, observant and – best of all – fun’
Los Angeles Times
Copyright
Mischief
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
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This eBook edition 2012
First published by Three Rivers Press, New York, 2001
Copyright © Tracy Quan 2001
Tracy Quan asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Grateful acknowledgement is made to the following for p
ermission to reprint
their copyrighted material appearing on pages 170 and 188-89:
Noonday Press: From ‘High Windows’ from Philip Larkin: Collected Poems by Philip Larkin. Copyright © 1998 by the Estate of Philip Larkin. Used by permission of Farrar, Straus & Giroux, Inc., and Faber and Faber (UK).
MCA Universal Music Publishing Group: From ‘The Folks Who Live on the Hill’. Words by Oscar Hammerstein II, music by Jerome Kern. Copyright © 1937 T.B. Harms & Company Incorporated, USA. Universal Music Publishing Limited.
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EPub Edition © FEBRUARY 2012 ISBN: 9780007479641
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