Ceasefire

by Black, Scarlett

  I shot back, “Awfully confident that our little swimmers even know where to go, aren’t we?” I yanked the handkerchief from his hands and used it to wipe the insides of my thighs. “And yes,” I said, “I’m on the pill. Don’t worry about ruining your precious—whatever it is you’re worried about.”

  Roman stood. He straightened his tie, tugged at the lapels of his jacket. “Take your check and go, Kim. I’ll call you for the next job.”

  “Fine.”

  He reached into his desk and handed me the slim, white envelope. I snatched it, opened the flap, and peered inside. Six thousand dollars. I would’ve been daydreaming about what to buy first if I still hadn’t been so pissed at Roman.

  I shoved my “reward” for my efforts into my purse and stomped out the door, slamming it shut behind me. I managed a smile for Alice, but told her I was in a hurry, that I had to “grab the little one!” and left it at that. Which wasn’t entirely true. Michelle had offered to watch him for a couple of hours while I went on another mysterious date, as she liked to call it, and according to my watch, I still had about forty-five minutes to go.

  I needed the time to myself. I was frustrated, ashamed, and overwhelmingly disappointed for reacting the way I did in Roman’s office.

  How ridiculous was it, trying to prove to him that I was a woman by screwing his brains out? I’d never, ever done anything like it before. Not that I’d had that many opportunities—if any at all—but I never thought I was capable of making such a rash, in-the-moment decision that had absolutely no sense of reasoning behind it.

  Instead of immediately getting into my car, I walked around the building and over to the river. The same two geese that I’d seen from Roman’s window previously swam slowly along, necks occasionally lengthening to stretch or peck at something underneath the surface. Beautiful birds, really. Mates for life.

  And I would’ve been jealous of that fact, if I hadn’t read somewhere that their bond was more of an impermanent ceasefire between spirited individuals, rather than the bliss of undying love.

  Was that what was happening between Roman and myself? A temporary truce between two, strong-willed, pig-headed individuals, mutually coexisting for the benefit of the pair?

  Was that the wiser option anyway, instead of allowing ourselves to succumb to those bestial urges that were only hindering our partnership? I was attracted to him, yeah, but God, I’d made some dumb mistakes with him already. And was he any better for giving in as easily?

  If this was going to work, it would have to be hands-off from here on. Not more trysts with Roman. Strictly business only. It had to be that way. We couldn’t go on like this, snipping at each other, testing nerves, testing wills, fighting over who was really in control. If it kept up, all of those little explosive moments in time would gather together, bundling up into a larger and larger ball of anger, spite, and malice, eventually detonating in one massive bomb of emotions, flattening the walls we’d built around ourselves.

  Okay, I thought, that’s it then. No matter how much you want to give in to temptation, that was the last one. You’ve got nothing to prove to him. He wants you to try so he can knock you down. Well, no more, Roman. I hope you enjoyed it, because I’m done. I’ll be your asset, for now, but only long enough to rub it in your stupid, gorgeous face when I walk out the door.

  ***

  I felt good, confident, as I drove out of the parking lot. Problems become less of a problem when you’re able to identify what the core issue is. Acknowledgment and discovery are half the battle.

  Now that I’d learned my trouble with Roman was two-fold—unbridled desire and a maddening need to ensure my worthiness—it was easier to see what I needed to do. It didn’t matter what I tried to show him, about my “adultness,” or what I could’ve and should’ve been, had my life turned out differently. He would treat me the same, regardless. An asset. A tool. A widget that he could offer to his customers for however many dollars they were willing to pay.

  I don’t know why I didn’t see it earlier. I should’ve, back when he explained to me the kind of women that he had on staff (or controlled) at Midnight Fantasy. PhDs, lawyers, scientists—it occurred to me that they’d likely gone through the same thing that I had.

  “You’re exceptional.”

  “You’re absolutely stunning.”

  “I’ve never had anyone like you walk through that door.”

  “Just take your check and go. I’ll call you.”

  All of those powerful, intelligent, confident women probably thought they had Roman under their thumbs as well. Either they didn’t know how easily he manipulated them, or they did and didn’t care, simply because the money was too good to pass up. In a way, I hoped for the latter, but expected the former.

  I turned right at a stoplight as the pitter-patter of a warm summer rain left its glistening drops on my windshield.

  So, Kim, what’re you going to do about it?

  If I had known what my next idea would lead to, I would’ve immediately pulled into the nearest parking lot and discarded it in a trashcan like a fast food bag.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  We all keep secrets.

  Way down deep, hidden somewhere in the darkest corners of our minds are things that we wouldn’t dare ever tell anyone, not another living soul. Maybe these are things we don’t even know about ourselves until the moment arises, like how you might actually get excited by rubbing peach pie on a senator’s chest and squeezing his nipples, but discovering that fact is something you’ll never tell anyone. Because, like, ohmygawd howembarrassing pleasedon’tjudgeme, right?

  The thing is, initially, I actually enjoyed participating in these kinky rituals a few times a week, especially after what I discovered.

  It wasn’t about uncovering some hidden desire of my own. I don’t think I could dig deep enough to get turned on by wearing a bunny costume or have an orgasm simply by having some balding old man lick my stilettos. No, for me, it was about the control, it was about being the one to give them what they wanted, when I wanted to give it to them. Delaying that gratification.

  It was about how much that gratification was worth to them.

  Usually around once a week, some exceptionally wealthy CEO would place an order for someone to take along as an actual dinner date, either for decent conversation or to put up some façade for a client he was trying to impress. Those were enjoyable. Almost fun.

  But, for every lighter, wine-filled evening like that, there were five times as many that were slathered in the darker, repressed side of humanity.

  Most of the guys (and, honestly, a couple of women) had gotten so used to getting what they wanted, sexually, for the longest time, that they could no longer become aroused by the simple things. And by simple, I mean even threesomes and orgies and milder taboo situations. One woman was boring. Two weren’t enough. Three or more, writhing, naked, oily bodies weren’t sufficient. They had to stumble way down in the depths of their subconscious to find something forbidden to get their cocks working again.

  I didn’t have to participate in any of these outrageous, multiple-female fantasies where every hole was filled with some kind of object or semi-erect penis while a politician or billionaire begged for Mommy to spank him.

  Thank God.

  It’s weird, the limits we have. Some, if not all, of Roman’s harem—these doctors and lawyers and MBAs—had no trouble walking into a hotel room with some ultra-rich hip-hop star and putting on a lesbian show while he penetrated them wherever he wanted; no orifice was off-limits. Not as long as the check was big enough. How they did it and went home at the end of the night with their heads held high was beyond me.

  I guess they could’ve said the same thing about my situation.

  This isn’t the bright idea I had—that fiasco came later—but initially I decided that if I were to be Roman’s asset, then damn it, I was going to do it on my terms, not his. But, I had to find a way to keep the checks coming—mouths don’t feed themselves—wh
ile avoiding the all-but-inevitable governor’s penis getting shoved in who-knows-what hole.

  So, a couple of days later, I went back to Roman with a suggestion. I’d take on the kinkiest jobs, the ones that didn’t involve sexual intercourse. The ones that the other women shied away from because the weirdness factor was simply too high for comfort.

  He thought it was brilliant. He hated struggling to find someone willing to do those kinds of things. Honestly, it was a win-win for the both of us.

  Roman would have someone on staff that would be specifically dedicated to the kinkier side, and he felt he could charge more because, as he’d said, I was absolutely stunning. Would his clients be able to find anyone as ravishing as me (he really laid it on thick that day) anywhere else, willing to help them fulfill their unmentionable fantasies?

  Maybe, maybe not. I didn’t know, but I wasn’t about to discourage him.

  Here’s why: no sex. I didn’t have to do anything I didn’t want to do. Oral, anal, vaginal, they were all off the table. Plus, if Roman was able to charge more, it meant I earned more for less physical work, less invasion, than the others.

  All I had to do was somehow wash my mind clean at the end of every night.

  Could I do it? Anything’s possible. Well, almost.

  ***

  His name was Walter Wickam III, and he was a big time oil magnate out of Houston. Somewhere in his mid-sixties, his hair was cloud-white, which really contrasted against the sun-browned tan of his wrinkled skin. We met in the lobby, and he wore a ten-gallon cowboy hat, a belt buckle the size of a dinner plate, and cowboy boots that were shined to a spotless perfection.

  I liked him after a couple of drinks in the hotel bar, because he was warm, funny, and had a gentle way about him that reminded me of some grandfatherly type you might see on an evening drama.

  Things change.

  We stood in the glamorous hotel room with a shimmering chandelier, silk sheets, and a bottle of bubbly chilling over ice. It was the kind of place where the chocolates placed on the pillows cost more than what my car was worth. The lights were still up, glaring bright, which I was partly thankful for so I could keep an eye on him, but at the same time, it revealed every crease, furrow, and saggy bag of skin on his naked body in too much detail.

  One thing the other ladies tried to teach me was…don’t judge the client. We all have our imperfections and it’s not about you, it’s about them. You’re selling a fantasy. At the end of the night, you get to walk away with your perfectly toned body and your perfectly coiffed hair. You get to walk away from these desires and maddening obsessions. They don’t. They look in the mirror and nothing has changed, it’s only an hour later. They’re still as broken as they were before you knocked on the door, but at least they’ve been satiated, for now. That’s what keeps them coming back, and that’s what keeps the money flowing.

  And since Dubya Three, as he liked to be called, was my first, I had an insanely hard time turning off the judgment button. It didn’t help that he tried to pull a bait-and-switch. The truth is, he disgusted me, and what he was asking made it worse.

  “You want me to do what?” I said, arms crossed, while my lungs tightened and the air became hard to breathe.

  “Come on, sugar,” he said, tipping the cowboy hat higher on his head. “I ain’t asking for much, and besides, I paid good money to have a night with the pretty little likes of you. That Roman, he was right. You’re something else.”

  I have to admit, I did look damn good that evening. I had my hair up again, revealing the long, slenderness of my neck and the dangling diamond earrings—the new ones I’d splurged on, because I wanted to look the part—and a sparkling silver dress that hugged every curve and accentuated them when the shadows moved just right.

  “How ‘bout it?” he said, taking a step closer, hands out, almost pleading.

  “You’re serious.”

  “Yeah, uh, yes ma’am.”

  I was so baffled I couldn’t form a proper question. “How—wh—what? I didn’t even know…why?”

  Dubya Three frowned and bared a set of white dentures that shined brighter than a spotlight. It wasn’t friendly. “He said you wouldn’t ask questions.”

  “He also said that you only wanted me to spank you with a hairbrush and light a few candles.”

  Dubya Three took another step closer. “I mean to get what I paid for. Roman said you were willing.”

  “You didn’t pay for what you want.”

  Maybe I should’ve been a little afraid. My security detail, Saunders, stood outside the room in the hallway, far enough that damage could be done before he could reach us. But, no, I wasn’t scared. I was pissed off that the cotton-top raisin in front of me was trying to break the rules and had the audacity to question why I questioned him.

  “First off,” I said, marching over, smelling the faint hint of aftershave and bourbon, “Roman doesn’t own me. He’s not here. I am.” I shoved my finger into his bony chest. “Second, when you called in, you asked for a spanking and for me to pour hot wax on your balls. That’s what you ordered, and now you try to come in here and switch it up on me, completely? How do you think this works?”

  He hung his head, rubbed his face, then took off the cowboy hat and let his hand drop to his waist. His bravado, gone. “Yeah, well, uh—”

  “Spit it out.”

  In control. My room.

  “I was a bit embarrassed, ma’am, I just thought that maybe, I mean, I couldn’t say anything to Roman because I thought I’d never find somebody to do—look, can we work something out?”

  “I doubt it. Maybe if you’d been honest up front, given me some time to wrap my mind around it, but you can’t just waltz in here and expect to get what you want just because you tell somebody to give it to you. I don’t care if that’s how things work for you outside those doors, out there in the real world, but in here, inside these walls, this is my world. I’m president, queen, CEO, and dictator.”

  Dubya Three nodded. “While that’s true, you’ll learn, young lady, that even those people can be swayed, given the proper motivation.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “I’ll give you an extra fifty grand, cash, under the table, that Roman don’t have to know about. All yours, and he won’t see a dime of it.”

  Somehow, I managed to hide how lightheaded I’d gotten. Fifty thousand dollars. To me, that was two years worth of salary, but to him, pocket change.

  In a sense it disgusted me that I was salivating over so little, especially after learning what I had missed out on with Eric, all while this rootin-tootin Texas hillbilly was offering to give me a handout like some beggar or bribe me like a crooked politician.

  Where’s the line between morality and necessity?

  But, still. Fifty grand. He probably had that much in his wallet. The things I could do with that kind of money—all in a measured way, of course, since I couldn’t arouse suspicion with Dreama, Michelle, or anyone else I knew—but holy shit, I could do this one thing and walk away. I could tell Roman that it was too much for me, that he was wrong, I wasn’t special, and I could spend my time hunting for a quality job.

  Would it be any different, though? Were there any jobs out there that I was meant for? Would I hear the same old song and dance again, that the board members were “concerned” about my qualifications, my employment history, and my personal past?

  I don’t know. I really don’t. But with Dubya Three, I saw an opportunity. Chances were, most people that talked to Roman would request one thing, and want another. They had their limits of what they were willing to admit to, while their true desires remained concealed. It would be my job to find out what they were, and then upsell them without Roman’s knowledge.

  I could walk away with so much more, just because I dared to delve into their most perverted dreams. Could I handle it? Could I be a part of their sordid psyche and then walk away clean? I had to try.

  If I were able to do the kinds of things peo
ple really wanted, and get them to pay me on the side for it, then I could easily save up enough to be fine for years to come. Dreama, my friends, they’d all wonder and worry about me, how I was able to support myself and Joey on retail salary, but of course they’d never know I could live comfortably for the next decade, or longer.

  All of this raced through my mind while I stared at the old cowboy and that sad, pleading puppy-dog look in his eyes. His bottom lip quivered and his hands shook. It was such a look of pitiful resignation that I think I might’ve given in, even if he hadn’t been offering me so much.

  “Fifty thousand,” I said. “Cash.”

  His face brightened. “It’s in my briefcase, over by the television.”

  “Show me.”

  Nude, with parts sagging and swaying, he padded over to the briefcase, scampered back with it, and revealed stacks and stacks of bills once he popped it open. “All yours.”

  I nodded and took a deep breath.

  And that’s how I ended up in a farm girl costume, giving him a golden shower, while he barked and rolled around on the floor like a coonhound basking in the sun.

  After that, it was fairly easy to turn the judgment dial down to zero.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  What followed was about three months of such debauchery that I had trouble processing it all. There was the high-profile lawyer I’d seen on television a number of times who begged to be tickled with feathers while he was strapped to a gynecologist’s table with his legs in the air; a well-known senator from New York that liked to have me to step on his testicles with a pair of red heels as he masturbated while wearing a spiked hood and a leather dog collar; a brilliant, wealthy heiress from Seattle that paid me extra to cover her in rose petals and pretend to play the violin, wearing nothing but a special pair of diamond-encrusted pumps she’d brought along for the occasion.

  I didn’t mind undressing for the female clients so much. Less of a threat, and the compliments were more genuine and flattering. I walked away with the pumps and a hundred thousand dollars.