by Shenda Paul
“So, you’ve gained an understanding of the concept of supply and demand? Well, luckily for you, there still seems to be a demand for your services.”
“Could you elaborate on what it is I’d be expected to do, Mr. Cordi?” I ask, failing dismally hide how sickened I feel.
“Well, the possibilities are endless, and I’m positive many of our members would find you very appealing, but I think we should ease you into your new role, don’t you?”
“Does that mean I can just dance?” I ask. His amused laughter immediately dismisses that forlorn hope.
“No, but we could reach an agreement whereby you occasionally perform, but I’d need to give that some more thought—see how that benefits me. First, I want to reintroduce you to our Senator, but you need to understand that you’ll be working for me. I’ll decide who you spend time with at this establishment, and when I decide, you’ll be expected to service other members as well.”
I cringe at his words. It makes me sound like an animal used for breeding. “Umm… couldn’t I just work for one person?”
“You will be working for one person—me. Best you understand that right from the start.”
I want to tell him to go to hell. I want to make an exception to my no swearing rule and hurl every curse word I can think of at him. I don’t; I remind myself why I’m here, instead, and nod dumbly, too choked up to speak.
“Good. You and I will do well together—if you do as you’re told. I’m not completely heartless, so here’s what I propose. It’s clear that members view you differently, so I won’t put you to work in the same way I do the other girls. The higher the perceived value, the higher the price people are prepared to pay, is true, especially in this business. I’ll pay you five thousand dollars a month. For that, I’ll expect you to have a minimum of four liaisons a month. If you want to earn more, I’ll pay you an extra eight hundred per service, but you are not to exceed a total of six in any given month.”
Any good feeling at the astronomical sum of money is dashed by what’s expected in return. “What will I have to do?” I ask, unable to hide my trepidation.
“Whatever the member wishes, Angelique,” he replies, clearly enjoying my humiliation. “That’s the arrangement, but a member has to let me know what their needs are in advance. I value my assets, don’t worry; I’ll make sure the men who request your services respect the boundaries I intend to impose. You understand that this arrangement only lasts as long as your value holds. So it’s up to you to ensure you maintain your perceived worth, Angelique, otherwise you’ll work under the same contract as the other girls,” he adds, eyeing me shrewdly.
He’s expecting a response, I’m sure, but I’m so numb inside, I’m unable to articulate a thought, let alone speak.
“That’s all, then,” he says after watching me squirm. “My secretary has some documents for you to sign. Read it carefully; I’m not a man who tolerates anyone reneging on an agreement. When you’ve signed and returned it, I’ll have your first month’s salary deposited into a nominated bank account. “As a sign of goodwill; and I’ll contact Senator Wade to let him know you’re available as soon as that’s done.”
His secretary’s already holding out the envelope as I pass through his door. I have no idea how I got home or how long it took me to get there. All I know is that it takes hours for the numbness to subside, only to be replaced by a sense of panic, which finally has me hunched over the toilet bowl. I’m violently ill, expelling what little breakfast I managed to swallow before leaving home. I don’t know just how long I remain on the bathroom floor before I manage to pull myself up to rinse my mouth and wash my face.
I wonder, as I stare at my reflection in the mirror, whether the revulsion and misery in my eyes will stay as a permanent marker of my shame. I tear myself from the offending sight to read over the dreaded contract. The first document is a clearly worded non-disclosure agreement. The second, a detailed contract, the basic points being that I’m to act as an escort to men approved by Joseph Cordi. I’m not to discuss or accept any direct payment. I am, however, allowed to accept gifts valued below five hundred dollars without first gaining his permission.
I need to be well groomed at all times, behave with decorum, and acquire a suitable wardrobe. If any of my clients wish for me to accompany them in public, they have to gain his approval beforehand, and, on such occasions, I’m not to give any indication of the actual nature of our relationship. Should I encounter any of Liaison’s members in public, I’m not to approach them or show recognition unless they do so first. If that occurs, I’m to follow their lead on explaining our acquaintance and on conducting myself.
I understand the need for these mandates, in fact, I’m grateful for the public behavior clauses. They protect my reputation as much as the members’ because I don’t want anyone outside of the club to know just how low I’ve sunk.
I have to get regular injections for birth control and undergo tests for STD’s within two days of signing the contract and quarterly after that. The name of the doctor I have to consult is listed. The results, the contract states, unless tests prove positive for disease, will remain confidential between the doctor and me. I allow myself a moment to be thankful for small mercies. I wouldn’t have been at all surprised if Joseph had insisted on seeing the results. As humiliating as the thought of discussing my personal health with a stranger, doctor or not, is, it’s the next clause that has me running to the bathroom again. It details the types of services I’ll be expected to deliver.
That night, I brush my teeth and crawl into bed fully clothed, hoping for sleep to block out my shame, at least for a short while. I toss and turn for hours before falling into a fitful sleep. The next day, my daily phone call with Mom reminds me of my priorities, and before I can overthink things, I sign both contracts and seal the enclosed envelope. I hide one under my mattress and put the other in my bag to mail on my way to work. Then, before leaving home, I make the necessary appointment with the doctor. Four days later, I receive a notice from my bank, saying five thousand dollars has been deposited into my account. It’s the biggest balance it’s ever held.
On Friday morning, just over a week later, I receive a message from Carmen Bonacci, Joseph’s secretary, asking me to be at the club the next evening at seven-thirty. My voice quivers as I agree, and later that day, I arrange to visit a hairdresser and a salon for the requisite waxing.
I shed silent tears while undergoing the torturous process, not because of the pain. As a ballerina, I’m used to being waxed; it makes it easier with what we have to wear. I cry because of what it symbolizes this time—the loss of the girl I once was, the tainted woman I’m about to become. I cry for my lost dreams of dancing glory and finding perfect love. Then, as I’d done since first stepping foot into Liaison, I comfort myself with the thought of Mom’s welfare, that I’m doing the only thing I can to take care of her while, hopefully, also securing a better future for myself. I resolve that, as soon as I’m able, I’ll go back to school and retrain for a career that would allow me to leave all of this behind. On Monday, I tell myself, I’ll call Mrs. Jones and ask her to arrange for a custom-made wheelchair.
By Saturday evening, I’ve managed to draw a mantle of stoicism around myself. Earlier in the day, for some reason, something Dad said to me came to mind, and I strengthened myself with his words. ‘We come from a people who endured unbelievable suffering—poverty, famine, subjugation—we can survive anything,’ he’d said when I cried about how unfair his sickness was. With those words still ringing in my head, I enter the doors of Liaison.
Mick greets me with a smile I choose to ignore. I don’t want to hear any trite comment, and I absolutely refuse to invite another bout of self-pity.
“You’re gorgeous,” he leers insolently. How could I have thought him different from Joseph Cordi? He manages this place, doesn’t he?
“You’re expected upstairs, let me show you the way,” he says when I don’t respond, and, for the first time, I
discover just what lies behind the mirrored panels I noticed in the grand room. We’ve entered a plush, dimly lit room. There’s a deep, comfortable leather sofa strategically placed in front of the expansive glass panel, which, I can now tell, overlooks the stage. There’s a timber and brass bar trolley laden with bottles and glasses sits one side of the room, and behind it, lies another doorway.
My gaze shifts to the corner, where a man unfurls his frame from one of two armchairs that flank a small table. Justin Wade dismisses Mick with a cursory glance before turning to me.
“Angelique, it’s wonderful to see you again,” he greets me with a warm smile and walks over to kiss my cheek before clasping both of my hands. I feel my face flush deep with embarrassment and keep my eyes trained on our clasped hands.
“Come, sit down,” he says, leading me to the sofa. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“Club soda and a twist of lime, if that’s possible, please,” I say, my voice tight with nerves.
“I’m sure we can manage that.” He moves to the bar and starts pouring drinks. I glance at him furtively from beneath my lashes. He’s an attractive man, a state senator, and by all accounts—well, according to Amy anyway—extremely wealthy. Why does he frequent a place like this and more importantly, why would he need to pay for the services of an escort?
A frightening thought strikes me then… what if he likes to hurt women? How could I have been so stupid? My legs tremble, and I wring my hands in my lap, trying desperately to think of a way out of my predicament.
He returns, and my hand visibly shakes when reaching for my drink. He sits at the opposite end of the sofa, his body angled toward me. The ice in his glass clinks as he raises it to his lips. He watches me over the rim, then, slowly and deliberately, I feel, sweeps his tongue across his bottom lip. I avert my eyes and take a sip of my drink. The liquid struggles down my constricted throat.
“What can I do to make you feel more comfortable?” he asks.
“Why do you do this?” I blurt out without thinking.
“Why do I what exactly? Come here or pay for your services?” He doesn’t sound in the least angry.
“I have a position to uphold,” he continues when I don’t respond. “To get what I want out of life, I’m expected to do certain things, live up so my legacy, so to speak. In time, I’ll need to marry. Unfortunately, the women who are deemed suitable, generally don’t interest me, but to get what I want out of life, I’m prepared to make certain sacrifices,” he says unapologetically. “This suits me. I get to spend time with a beautiful woman, and I don’t have to question whether she’s suitable because my family and the public will never know. I don’t have to make a commitment, and I’m not expected to behave in a certain way.”
I’m surprised by his honesty. I expected him to either lie to flatter me, or, what I’d dreaded more, tell me he had tastes that only women he paid would provide. I’m grateful for his candor, but I’m reminded, yet again, that I’m nothing but a commodity. I suppose there’s no need for niceties when you pay for someone’s services. I decide to take a leaf out of his book and disregard what I’d usually view as common courtesy.
“How many women have you paid for sex?” I ask, censure in my voice.
“You surprise me with your forthrightness, Angelique. Somehow, I don’t think it’s in your nature to be this blunt. Are you angry at me for being so direct?”
“I’m not angry, but I would like to know,” I reply, moderating my voice.
“I’ve had casual relationships for most of my adult life,” he says. “You, however, are only the second female whose services I’ve paid for. I’d never contemplated doing something like this until Joseph introduced me to the club. Now, tell me. Have you done this before?”
“No!” I reply indignantly. “I haven’t…I…” I stop myself; all he needs to know is that I’d never been paid for sex.
“Go on, what were you going to say?” I shake my head and turn to watch the performance onstage. I regret it instantly; watching the provocative gyrating only reminds me of why I’m here.
“You’re a beautiful dancer, Angelique. Where did you learn?” he asks after moments of awkward silence.
“I trained classically as you know.”
“Where did you train?”
“If you don’t mind, I’d rather not say.”
“Fine, Angelique, what should we discuss?”
“Tell me about your political life,” I ask, certain he’ll refuse, but he doesn’t. He recounts anecdote after anecdote, sometimes adding snippets of amusing gossip about well-known figures. Despite everything, I find myself relaxing, even enjoying his company. He’s charming, witty, and entertaining. I’m still smiling at his last account when, suddenly, he leans in and cups my neck to draw my face to his. He stops when we’re mere inches apart, watching me carefully as he brings his lips to mine.
I stiffen. I haven’t kissed anyone or been kissed this passionately in a long time—and certainly not as roughly as this. My most recent kisses with Andrew had been almost platonic, and while Luke’s had, many times, been deeply passionate, this is very different. This kiss holds no undertones of respect or affection. This man has no feelings for me, other than sexual; and I don’t feel anything for him.
Undeterred by my unresponsiveness, he changes his approach. He softens his mouth and sucks on my lower lip, then deepens the kiss, this time, more gently, moving his hands to grasp my face. He groans as he plunges his tongue into my mouth once more. I allow it, remembering the contract I signed. ‘This is what you’re expected to do, what you’re being paid for,’ I remind myself bitterly.
Soon, I’m caught in a mental versus physical struggle. How can my body react in this way when my mind is desperately willing it not to succumb? I lose the mental battle as Justin relentlessly assaults my senses. He draws back and stares at me. I return his gaze, confused, wide-eyed, and out of breath. “You’re so damned beautiful, I want you,” he says, and I find myself tensing once more.
“I’m not a patient man,” he tells me, the merest hint of apology in his tone. He rests his back against the armrest and then pulls me until I’m practically straddling him, my dress embarrassingly pushed up around my thighs. He draws me in for another, punishing kiss before moving his heated lips down my neck. He drags the neckline of my dress down and licks and kisses my collarbone and back up my neck. My body, traitor, responds to his touch, and he slips his hands down to my thighs and pulls my skirt up around my waist, leaving me shamefully exposed. I try to cover myself, but he grasps my hands and places them behind his neck before firmly grasping my hips as he arches up into me.
Warmth spreads through my entire being, and without conscious thought, I find myself matching his rhythm. Justin pushes me back gently and rises to his feet. He unbuttons his shirt while toeing off first one then the other shoe before he untucks his shirt from his trousers and removes his belt. He, thankfully, goes no further before reaching behind me to unzip my dress.
“Wait,” I exclaim nervously. “Someone may come in…”
“This is my private room, Angelique. No one will dare to enter unless invited. Please don’t stop me,” he tells rather than asks.
Why do I keep thinking I can change things? This is going to happen, what does postponing the inevitable do? At least I don’t completely loathe him. He smiles when he detects no further protest, turns me around to face the performance onstage, and moves my hair over one shoulder, before slowly peeling off my dress. He allows it to pool at my feet.
I step out of it, standing only in my high heels and stay-up stockings, black, lacy panties and matching bra. “So damned beautiful,” he whispers, running his hand down my spine and over my behind. He cups my cheeks, releases, and does it again, and then, with another groan grinds his erection into me. He lays kisses along my shoulder and neck before sucking my earlobe into his mouth. He rotates his hips, one arm wrapped around my waist to hold me close.
He releases my ear, expelli
ng hot breath before leading me back to the sofa, where he gently, but firmly, pushes me down. I avert my eyes as he removes his clothing before lowering his body over mine. He kisses the mounds of my breasts, first one then the other, lowering my bra to take a nipple into his mouth. Again, without meaning to, I respond. He chuckles quietly and releases my breast with a light sounding pop before moving onto the other. He unclasps my bra before he pulls it from my body to drop on the floor.
He lightly bites then sucks at my flesh until I let out an involuntary moan. He moves down my body, and reaching the top of my panties, grasps the sides. I try to pull my legs together, but he nudges my thighs apart with his elbows and leans in to blow hot air across my mound, eliciting another moan from me. He watches my face while peeling my underwear off. “Bare for me…” He smiles seductively. Embarrassed, I lower my eyes in embarrassment. “I don’t usually do this,” he says, placing his mouth on me. I yelp in surprise, snapping my legs together, but he determinedly forces them apart.
“Oh …” I gasp, trying in vain to move, but he’s relentless. He licks and sucks until I feel like I’m devoured by heat, until I forget I’m being paid.
My senses overtake my mind, and I’m still quivering when Justin moves up my body. He wipes his mouth with the back of a hand, before balancing himself between my open thighs to runs his erection slowly between my lips.
I gasp and let out a surprised cry of pain as, in one, swift move, he thrusts into me. A lone tear rolls down my cheek. He raises his head and stares into my eyes before he starts to move. Pain finally abates, but my brain continues its battle to bring my body to heel, telling it that it’s not supposed to enjoy this. Justin moves relentlessly and expertly, watching my inner turmoil with a satisfied smile.
My mind concedes defeat when he lifts one of my legs over his shoulder and hits a spot I didn’t even know existed. He’s grunting now, and the occasional profanity leaves his mouth. “So fucking good….” he mutters and then, throws back his head and lets out a loud, strangled groan.