Their Courtesan: Billionaire Menage Romance

by Cynthia Dane

  So now Judith had multiple shopping bags from Sephora, Lush, Victoria’s Secret, Bath and Body Works, DeMarco’s Department Store, generic drugstores for one’s menstrual and prophylactic needs, and whatever other stores she could pick up the same old things at. The only strange request she had came from Chelsea. “I need a tote bag. I don’t care what kind you get, but it needs to be sturdy and preferably on the red end of the spectrum.” The best Judith could do was a beige bag with a hot pink bottom.

  “We’re almost there, Miss,” the driver said, slowing down as they approached the road to the Château.

  “Got it.” Judith held up her cell phone. Spotty reception out here on the highway, but she was still able to get a text from Grace.

  “Did I tell you to get black or blue ink for those pens? Because I need black. You got black, right?”

  The fuck she need pens for? Judith didn’t ask questions, but she still wondered. How could she not? Some of the idiosyncrasies around that place were too much.

  The car eventually pulled up in front of the Château. Two maids descended from the front door and went to the trunk without a word. After the driver popped it open for them, the two young ladies began unloading shopping bags, sorting out what belonged to whom because Judith was a pro at color-coding with ribbons. Chelsea was red. Grace was blue. Holly was green and Yvette was black. Anything not color-coded was left for Judith to collect on her own.

  Strange, though, that no one was rushing out to greet her. Sunday nights were busy, and the mornings often saw Saturday night’s clients groggily making their way out, but the afternoons were a dead zone. If someone went into town and came back before the evening rush, bored girls were bound to come out and see what the word was.

  So far, the only people Judith saw were staff. A Rolls-Royce was parked in the visitor parking area, and at first she thought it was Henry Warren’s, come to pick up his wife a day early. Except the coloring was all wrong. Must be another guest.

  Judith shrugged this off and headed inside, hands laden with her own bags. The Château was its usual Sunday quiet. It should have been reassuring, but Judith couldn’t help but feel that something was amiss in the perfumed air.

  Once she stepped upstairs and turned toward her room, she noticed a salon door open – and voices drifting out from within.

  Everyone was in there. “Everyone” meaning the other four girls and Monica, who was the only one sitting, her flats scattered on the floor in front of her. She was deep in discussion with the others, one hand absentmindedly rubbing her stomach while the other waved back and forth in front of Chelsea’s face.

  “I had to do it last time,” the only blonde aside from Judith said. “It’s someone else’s turn to deal with that kind of client.”

  “Make Holly do it,” Yvette grumbled. “She’s new, and the youngest. It’s not as creepy.”

  “Excuse you!” Red curls bounced with fervor as Holly whipped around and gaped in Yvette’s face. “I may be the youngest, but that doesn’t mean you get to foist difficult clients on me. I get some say in it, right?” She turned back to Monica. “Right?”

  “Of course you all get a say in it.” Sighing, Monica pushed herself up in the chair, that business demeanor sullying the salon. “Nobody has to do anything that makes them feel uncomfortable. You all know that’s the first rule of my house.”

  “It’s too uncomfortable to bear!” Yvette declared. “I absolutely refuse. Gross!”

  Holly caught sight of Judith in the doorway. “Judith’s back! We’re saved.”

  The named woman put her bags down and approached the group with trepidation. “What have I been volunteered for?”

  Before anyone else could blurt out what was going on, Monica explained, “We have a Code White client downstairs.”

  Certain situations that required absolute discretion were described in “Code Colors.” Code Black meant a demanding BDSM Dom. Code Blue meant someone with severe emotional hangups and trauma looking for sexual therapy. Code Green meant someone was sick.

  Code White screamed virgin.

  It was not unusual for rich virgins to come up to the Château to take care of their perceived problem. Some expressed surprise when they found out, for the rich should’ve been able to take care of their virginity with no problem, regardless of how repugnant or otherwise shy they were. There were clients, however, who came from repressed backgrounds looking to start a new life or get experience before their marriages. I once had a religious prince come all the way here for my tips after his betrothal was arranged. Tips of course meant thorough instruction on cunnilingus and G-spot search and rescue. In the end, His Majesty was still hopeless. I tried.

  “What’s wrong with a virgin? Charge him extra. It’ll be over in half the time anyway.” They always popped in ten seconds, unable to ever recover in a timely manner.

  “It’s not any virgin, hon,” Grace said. “It’s Lenny Gretzky.”

  “That name sounds familiar.”

  “Because his father’s Kyle Gretzky, the shipping magnate.”

  “That guy! He’s been here before.”

  “Yes. Now he’s brought his son. His freshly minted eighteen-year-old virginal son.”

  “Oh… oh.” Judith paled. “Wait, you mean some guy brought his son here to lose his virginity? That’s messed up and really old school.” Judith had heard of it happening, of course, but most boys from families rich enough to buy such services did well getting blowjobs and handjobs on their own, never mind intercourse. What was a kid of those means needing a pro for? Forget that. It’s bizarre.

  Monica nodded. “Mr. Gretzky has asked for one of you fair ladies to help his son on his road to manhood. The boy is over eighteen, so it’s legal.”

  “You said so yourself. He’s a boy.”

  “You’ll do it, right Judith?” Holly crossed her arms. “You always say you’ll take on anyone if the price is right.”

  She groaned. “Don’t forget I have rules. Rule #3 is no teenagers.” She adopted that the day she turned thirty, and she would only break it for the biggest sum in the universe. Once clients became young enough to be her own kids, she was done with them. She’d deal with an adult virgin, but eighteen was adult only in legalities. Even early 20s pushed it these days. Give me men like Seth and Miguel any day. They were both older than her, in their mid-30s. “So, no thank you. Besides, I have an appointment that I need to start getting ready for.”

  “Be that as it may,” Monica said, “I still need someone to deal with young Mr. Gretzky’s blue balls.”

  “What definition of virginity are we talking here, anyway?” Grace asked. They say I’m a ho for money. Grace was the next most adventurous woman after Judith. Even she had her ethical limits, though. “Are we playing loose with third base counting as a score? Or a full homerun?”

  That was another code. Within one day of the Château opening, they were using baseball analogies to describe how far one went with a client. First base meant light entertainment and maybe some stripping with a lap dance. Second base meant frottage. Third, and genitals were being touched, whether with mouths or hands. Homeruns meant any kind of vaginal or anal intercourse. Most of these girls would’ve done at least first base with a young client, but anything more than that and people started to get weirded out.

  “The way Mr. Gretzky described it, he didn’t come up here so his son could be teased.”

  “What about senior Gretzky?” Grace asked. “I’m betting he wants something too.”

  “Not unless his son is getting some.”

  “Someone take one for the team, and the rest of us will deal with Mr. Gretzky.”

  “Shut the fuck up, Grace.” Chelsea looked so exasperated that she almost passed out.

  “Ladies,” Monica interrupted with finality, “I will go downstairs and tell them that no one is available today if it pleases the lot of you, but keep in mind that this may happen again, and we would have to establish an age policy beyond eighteen.”

&nb
sp; “Twenty would be good,” Yvette mumbled. “Virgins are delicate enough as it is. One that’s still in high school? Fuck that. I don’t care if it’s over in ten minutes because he’s lost both his heads in record time. I’m grossed out.”

  “Just think, if it were a girl the same age, there would be no question whether it’s right or wrong.”

  “There is no right or wrong in this situation,” Judith interjected. “He’s eighteen. It’s legal. For fuck’s sake, one of your lots’ brains isn’t even fully developed yet.” She shot that comment to Holly. “We are professionals, and this is a part of our job. Is it archaic? Yes, but so is a lot of other paternalistic shit we deal with every day. It’s our job. That said,” she could see the reddening cheeks and furrowed brows all around her, “there may be no right or wrong, but there are comfort levels and our own hard boundaries. We all have the right to turn down a client if we think it pertinent, for whatever reason. I understand, but watch the language. There will be no judgment if someone decides to take on this kind of client. Because regardless of his circumstances and who is paying for his fun, he is still a client who deserves professionalism on our parts. As long as that young man consents to his father’s plan, he has the privilege to ask for our services. We also have the right to say no.”

  “No,” Chelsea said. “Hell no.”

  “That young man is young enough to be my brother Tommy. I don’t think so.”

  “I may be the youngest one here, but that’s pushing it for me. I was done with high school boys when I graduated.”

  The only one not jumping in to say no again was Grace, who studied the carpet with a pensive look. “I’ll do it,” she finally said, steady. She turned to Monica. “Double my rates for him. $7,000 instead of $3500. I want to keep the difference for myself. That way you still get your cut since it’s just another client, and I get fairly compensated for how frustrating this is.”

  “Done.” Monica braced herself against the arms of the lounge chair and heaved herself up. “Go get ready. In twenty minutes, you will find the young Mr. Gretzky in guest room #2. Give him whatever he wants, if it pleases you.”

  “I will.”

  “As for the rest of you,” that was not directed to Judith, who was already picking her bags up again to go get ready for Seth, “I want all three of you down in the Receiving Room to make sure the first Mr. Gretzky is comfortable.”

  “What about Judith?” Yvette asked.

  “She has an appointment soon. None of you do.”

  Grumbling, the others filed out of the room, leaving Monica alone with Judith.

  “Nice speech,” the madam said, slowly heading toward the door. “I have to admit, I didn’t see this situation coming anytime soon. We are all thinking the same thing.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve done more ethically ambiguous things in this business, and that was when I was younger.” Judith slung some bags over her shoulder. “I’d be too much for that kid, anyway.”

  “Probably. Grace knows how to be more demure and go slow. You would probably scare him out of the room.”

  “I can be demure too, you know.”

  “Do you want to be?”

  They were at the door. “Only for the right man.”

  “Speaking of the right man, both Dr. Christens and Mr. Bolivar have upped their bids.” Monica grinned. “They’re quickly approaching $50,000 for your monthly fee.”

  “Excellent.” That kind of money would go a long way, even if she only kept a percentage and had an expensive image to maintain. “Who was the last to bid?”

  “Mr. Bolivar, with 45k.”

  “Then I’ll make sure that Seth has a good time today.”

  “Do that.” Monica turned toward the grand staircase. “See you later.”

  Judith was almost to her room when a familiar face popped out of her own and tore across the hall to intercept her.

  “Hey!” Holly shoved herself into Judith’s doorway, one arm stretching across the frame and blocking the poor woman’s entrance. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

  Sighing, Judith dropped her bags and turned to the boisterous troublemaker who was more issue than annoyance. “What is it? Have a problem with what I said back here?” Holly would be the kind to raise a stink.

  “Oh, no. I wanted to say that I heard about your good fortune with your patron hunt.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You know, I’m about to be open for my first patronage soon.” Holly’s fake smile was so obnoxious to behold this close. “You can’t have two patrons. So, you know…”

  “Let me guess: whichever one loses, I should send your way?”

  “I don’t mind either one! I could be a model… and I’ve met Mr. Bolivar… you two seem to have a lot of fun.”

  The idea of Holly being with either Seth or Miguel made Judith’s cheeks burn in… what? Certainly not jealousy. She never got jealous over clients spreading their seed around like the Château was a flower garden. While many clients were dedicated to their favorite girl they clicked with, there were as many who wanted to sample them all over and over again. Some men liked dedication, and some liked a healthy variety. Neither Miguel nor Seth is like that. Thus far they were both dedicated to Judith and only Judith. Miguel never looked at another woman, and Seth was… well, Seth.

  “I suggest you keep entertaining the clients you get now and build up a relationship with them. They will be your main pool for drawing out a patron.” Since the day Holly debuted in the Château, men had lined up to get at least a look at her. She was new, fresh, and ready to be plucked from the garden. Just because Judith didn’t personally care for her didn’t mean she wasn’t good for the overall business. “Let me worry about my own patron debacle.”

  She stole into her room and shut the door in Holly’s face.

  The nerve! One thing if it had been Chelsea or Grace, the two others Judith got along with the best, but Holly had been butting against Judith since the moment she arrived. To think I helped hire her. Monica had done the preliminary screening, but it was Judith who helped her narrow down the final candidates. Holly offered variety and a different kind of personality. What neither Monica nor Judith anticipated was how mercenary she could be. Fuck, she’s like me at that age. Except Holly was working one of the cushiest jobs this career offered. When Judith was that age? She was working as an escort for a company that fronted as a dating agency and was busted by the cops no fewer than three times. Judith was the only one to not be arrested since she was in Italy with a client when everything crumbled. Returned to America with no job. Luckily, that Italian client had paid her expenses for the two months it took her to get back on her feet.

  She never wanted to return to that sort of uncertainty.

  Before getting ready for Seth’s appointment, Judith took out her cell phone and checked her three separate bank accounts. One was for personal expenses and whatever credit payments she had to make. Another was money for her parents’ debt. The last one was Judith’s personal savings account, at a hefty $250,000.

  She hadn’t touched that money since starting the account five years ago. Whatever wasn’t necessary for her mother or personal expenses went into that savings account. Judith had no plans to retire soon, but if this job went belly-up or something happened to her health, she wanted to make sure she was financially prepared. There was also the prospect of either buying Monica out one day or opening up her own shop – probably on the other side of the country so as to not directly compete with a woman she admired and respected – but both options required millions of dollars.

  Technically, she was already rich by many standards, but that money was untouchable as far as Judith was concerned. Product of growing up lower class, she supposed. She was still dependent on her job and what she could do for and at the Château… like keep men such as Seth so happy they threw thousands of dollars at her pussy.

  A maid knocked on her door. “Dr. Christens has called and left a message for you,” she said the moment Judith a
nswered. “He’s asked that you dress in matching lingerie and robe and to meet him in the hedge maze. He said something about wanting to capture the sunset light, so you two need to start the moment he gets here.”

  Judith went to her lingerie closet and thumbed through her wares. (Or was it wears?) She considered these pieces to be part of her uniform. Lace and silk meant to entice and arouse. Most of them weren’t practical, and she definitely didn’t sleep in them if she could help it. Yet whenever she went into town, she always stopped by her favorite lingerie boutique to buy at least one new piece – her regular clients appreciated new and exciting, even with their favorite mistress.

  So happened she had a new bra and panty set in a little black bag. Made of the softest cotton and covered in fine lace, the lingerie was such a pale lavender that it was almost white. The bra was a pushup and the panties a thong, of course. Wouldn’t do her much good to show anything less than both ass cheeks. After Judith wiggled into her new purchase and cut off the tags, she picked out a sheer ivory robe and a pair of off-white pumps to wear outside.

  She wrapped a thicker robe around her to ward off any chills as she took a bag with her outside. The air was crisp, but warm, and birds twittered in the trees as they settled in for the evening. Not quite sunset yet, but it would come soon enough. The lighting was already gorgeous in the center of the hedge maze, where Judith waited for her client and potential patron. She played on her phone with one hand and combed out her long strands with the other while she waited.

  “That is almost perfect,” she heard Seth’s voice say about fifteen minutes later. “Bored, yet wistful. With the light reflecting off your hair, you look like a Victoria’s Secret supermodel waiting for her turn down the catwalk. Outside, I suppose.”