by Eden Myles
I turned my attention to the curious sight of an exquisite, four-poster antique bed situated on a dais in the middle of the room. It was draped in white sheets and pillows, white veils hanging from the canopy. I took a step toward it. The sheets smelled like minty new linen.
The women bantering amongst themselves stopped and turned their collective attention on me. I felt a flash of panic. I half expected them to sniff like they smelled something bad in the room with them, but their expressions were uniformly bright. “It’s the new girl!” one of them squealed, and suddenly the gaggle of society women descended upon me, moving with impossible grace in their high heels, hemming me in on all sides and touching my shoulder and arms gently with just their painted and bejeweled fingertips.
“She’s so tall!” one said.
“But pretty!”
“I love her eyes. She has innocent eyes.”
“Well, dear, you know Ian has exquisite tastes in women.”
“He likes natural women.”
“That’s what makes him our Ian!”
I felt a blush creep up my neck as they introduced themselves to me, using only their first names. I met a Jennifer and a Lyndsey and a Hannah and a Barbara and a Norma Jean. I started having trouble following all the names after that. There must have been close to fifty women in all. “I’m Evelyn,” I said when they asked, choosing to use the name that Mr. Sterling preferred. I wasn’t feeling very much like Evie Christopoulos tonight.
The girls clucked around me, asking me where I got my hair done (nowhere) and where I’d gotten my “adorable little shoes” (I didn’t know, since Mr. Sterling had bought them, but I suspected Saks Fifth Avenue). I realized some of the women looked familiar to me. I glanced up at the shadowy black and white photographs on the wall and realized that some of them were in those pictures.
The tall, lone young man appeared at my side. He was blond and well built in his slim black formalwear. He smiled down at me crookedly. “Hello there, new girl. I’m Devon.” He pronounced it Devon. He took my hand and brushed his lips across my knuckles. I was momentarily confused. I’d been told that gentlemen couldn’t touch or speak to any of the other courtesans. “So what do you think about the color pink? Overrated? Overused? Has Paris Hilton ruined it forever for the rest of us?”
I didn’t know what to say, so I just offered him a smile and tried to look informed.
“Oh no, cat’s got her tongue!” Devon declared.
“Better than Brian getting her tongue,” one of the other girls squealed.
“So true!”
The group giggled amongst themselves like an old fashioned kaffee klatch. I didn’t feel so awkward now. I was united with them in our common dislike of Brian. I turned to Devon. “Are you a gentleman?”
Devon leered. “Not lately.”
His answer set off another wave of giggles among the girls. “I don’t think Devon has ever been a gentleman!” a girl said, clutching his long arm.
“Says you, the slutmeiser!” Devon stated, looking down upon her fondly. The girl smiled, not insulted. Devon seemed the focal point of their attention once more, which relieved me greatly. He dragged her along to the wet bar where a number of sparkling waters were set up, and started refreshing everyone’s drink. I didn’t know what to do, but the girls were following Devon, so I followed them.
I smiled nervously and looked over the bar, noting that there was nothing alcoholic to choose from. It would have been nice to have a glass of wine just then to calm my jumpy nerves. I started asking about that, but Devon explained about the no alcohol rule for courtesans in the Dollhouse. He handed me a sparkling water in a Waterford crystal goblet and added, “The gents don’t want the ladies’ inhibitions impaired during gatherings, not that anyone here has inhibitions, mind. I’m looking at you, Claire.” He glanced over at the women he’d called a slutmeister, and Claire looked appropriately sheepish while some private joke passed me by and everyone laughed.
Devon filled in. “At last week’s gathering, Claire stumbled into the wrong playroom and started sucking off the wrong gentleman. Like that was an accident…”
“It was!” Claire insisted, clasping her hands together like a reprimanded schoolgirl. “It was a really dark room!”
“Uh-huh.”
She puckered her lips out at Devon. “Like you should talk, Lord of the Lewinsky…”
Devon laughed. “I may be a slut, but at least I know who I’m blowing, doll. Next thing you know, you’ll be doing Brian in a dark room.”
“Oh God…gag me with a spoon!” Claire cried, rolling her eyes ceilingward. “They say he’s got the clap.”
“I’ll clap when he’s expelled from the Dollhouse,” one of the other girls said, shuddering with horror.
The ice was broken and I started feeling more at ease. After the girls started breaking up and reforming into smaller cliques, Devon put his hand on my arm. I guess he didn’t want me feeling alone. “Don’t worry about them. I’ll protect you from the big, evil harpies of doom.”
“They don’t seem that bad.”
“They aren’t,” he assured me with a huge grin. “The dolls can be a little raunchy at times, but they’re sweethearts, all of them. I love them to bits.”
I liked Devon already. There was something comfortable and familiar about him, something that reminded me of my big brother, my best friend all through my awkward high school years. He put his hand on my arm and walked me around the room so we could look at the photographs together. “We’re like a family. A great, big, dysfunctional family.”
“Are you a gentleman?” I asked again, meaning it in terms of the Society.
He finally looked serious, but only for a moment. “No, I’m a courtesan like you dolls.” He sounded very comfortable about that, though he held up a finger. “Though the term is actually courtier in my case.” He drew the word out, making it sound very French and elegant.
“Do you all know each other? I mean…outside the Dollhouse?”
“We meet a couple times a week for lunch.” He smiled at that. “You’re welcomed to join us, of course. We like to catch up on gossip and talk about the gents behind their backs.” He grinned like that was a delightfully wicked thing to do. “And after your coming-out tonight, I’m sure everyone will want to get to know you.”
That last bit worried me a little. “It doesn’t bother you, being a courtier?” I drew out the word as well.
He looked surprised by my question. “Why would it bother me? Malcolm is wonderful.” He paused then and showed me a very intimate picture of himself on the wall. I blushed a little. “I don’t mean that I do everything he wants. We have our disagreements like everyone else, and he can be bullheaded at time, but we always make up in the end. And the make-up sex is amazing!”
I was suddenly so glad to have Devon to show me the ropes!
“Has our Ian told you everything about what it means to be a courtesan?” he asked suddenly.
“I think so.” But I wasn’t sure.
Devon nodded. “The important thing to keep in mind is that it’s a partnership not unlike a marriage, just less messy. No divorces or emotional manipulations, you see. Everything is upfront and on the table. You know what you want, and you know what he wants. As long as both of your needs are being met, it’s all gravy.” He grinned at his own poor sexual joke.
It sounded like an almost perfect relationship to me. I reflected on how badly things had gone with Shawn, my ex-boyfriend who dumped me for some floozy who worked in his office. Even my dad had left my mom. He’d said that he’d needed breathing space, that she was getting too clingy, though my mom had translated that to mean that my dad wanted to run around with girls half his age.
“So how is your fine stud anyway?” Devon asked. He looked interested.
“I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “I mean, I only just met him yesterday.”
Devon almost choked on his seltzer water. He looked serious again. When his face became serious, I alm
ost recognized him, like someone you might see in a magazine spread. He looked like the type of man who would be very good at selling Calvin Klein jeans or Obsession for Men. “That’s very unlike Ian.”
“What do you mean?”
He looked reluctant to spill. I gave him big, pleading doe eyes, which always worked on my male coworkers at work when the copy machine jammed and I needed them to tinker with it. Devon immediately melted. He walked me to a quiet corner to make certain none of the other courtesans was eavesdropping, then said in a conspiratorial whisper, “Ian’s a bit of a tight-ass.”
I was still sore from the way he had touched me in the car. I found that very hard to believe.
“Control freak,” Devon added. “He always has to calculate everything before he does it, analyze it to bloody death and beyond, like it would kill him to be impulsive for once. Not that all entrepreneurs aren’t control freaks, mind, but I’ve heard it said he’s gotten much worse since his wife and kid died in that plane accident. It’s like he blames himself for their deaths.”
I realized that Devon spoke with a vaguely Cockney accent when he became excited. This was the conversation I’d been dreading to have with anyone. “Was it his fault…what happened to his family?”
Devon pressed his lips together. “Not per se. He and his wife were scheduled for a holiday in the French Riviera, but Ian was called away on business here, so the wife and kiddy went on ahead in their private jet. Unfortunately, the pilot had a seizure and lost control of the plane. The whole business went down in the ocean.”
I stood there, stunned. “I don’t see how that’s his fault.”
Devon lifted his brows. “Ian has a private pilot’s license so he can fly his own jet. He probably could have saved them, had he been there.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, what was appropriate.
“Not that he’s not a fine bloke, because he is,” Devon quickly added. “There are about twenty-five women in this room alone who would kill for your position as his courtesan. Hell, I’d kill for five minutes alone with Mr. Cosmetics Kingpin. I hear he’s bloody huge and bloody repressed—a deadly combination!”
I chose not to comment on Mr. Sterling’s size. I did say in a small voice, “He’s not repressed.”
“Really?” I could almost see the naughty thoughts floating through Devon’s brain. “There’s another rumor,” he said, and I could tell that Devon was a huge fan of the rumor mill. “It says he hasn’t been with a woman since his wife died three years ago. Poor bloke hasn’t blown his load with anyone in three years. Can you imagine what kind of effect that has on a person?”
Actually, I could, but I chose to keep my big, fat, Greek mouth shut. I didn’t want to come off as too naïve among these people. I had to ask it, though. “So he hasn’t had many…courtesans?”
Devon looked surprised that I had to ask. “You’re his first, doll. Picky bastard.” He grinned at me. “I hate you.”
I realized he was joking and smiled back at him.
A few moments later, the gentlemen from the adjoining room began filtering in. The cliques began breaking up as if some silent cue had been given and the courtesans began drifting toward their gentleman. Devon rejoined Mr. Sterling’s friend, Malcolm. Malcolm put his hand on Devon’s arm and the young man leaned close, whispering something in Malcolm’s ear, possibly about wearing pink deck shoes. Malcolm frowned and gave his courtier an oh please look. It was the kind of look only longtime lovers had for each other. They made a cute couple, I decided, Devon so tall and beautiful like a model and Malcolm short and stout and ugly-cute.
The gentlemen without courtesans drifted closer together like bachelors at a wedding. The hated Brian stood among them, looking grim and out of place.
Mr. Sterling came up beside me, very close, and put his hand on my arm, his warmth soaking through my dress. He mouth brushed my ear as he told me the safe word for tonight. He told me to remember it. “Do you trust me, little dove?” he asked. People were looking at us, and the tone of his voice worried me.
“Yes.”
“Trust me.” Mr. Sterling took my hand and guided me forward, toward the antique bed full of white lace sheets and veils. When we reached the foot of the dais, he put his hand on my elbow and guided me up the three steps to the top. We stopped when we reached the foot of the bed and he turned to me and placed his hands on the sides of my face.
Down below, the other gentlemen and their courtesans, over a hundred people in all, moved closer, surrounding the dais on every side. Their shuffling feet and the sounds of high heels clicking on the parquet floor filled the room, but they were otherwise silent, their attention focused on the two of us. It made me even more nervous because I knew what was going to happen. I knew what was expected of me.
I felt like I had when I was a preteen and I’d been cast as the Scarecrow in my middle-school production of The Wizard of Oz. I’d wanted so badly to play the part, but the night of the play, I’d gotten sick all over the stage. I hoped I wouldn’t get sick now. I swallowed hard and Mr. Sterling applied the slightest pressure to the sides of my face to show me he was here, in control. He bent his head to kiss me. His tongue found his way inside my mouth, kissing and licking me at the same time. He moved one hand to cover my breast, his thumb drawing warm circles over my nipple until it hurt and I could feel an echoing ache deep inside of me.
When he finally drew back, I felt so weak I was afraid I might collapse to the top of the dais. He guided me down so I was sitting on the foot of the big bed, the fluffy down comforter so soft I felt I could sink into it. It was a relief to sit down.
He went to his knees before me, resting his heavy hands on the tops of my thighs. He looked at me directly. “Trust me,” he said again, not a request this time but a direct order. His keen eyes pinned me, looking for failure on my part, for disobedience, for reluctance.
I didn’t want to disappoint him. “Yes, sir,” I said. My voice was soft and echoey in the big, silent room. I refused to look at all the people watching us with such avid interest, their heated gazes traveling all over us.
“I want you, Evelyn,” Mr. Sterling told me, his voice a low growl as his fingers worked on the wrap of my dress, opening it. The coolness of the room touched me, hardening my nipples into stiff little peaks. “I want to be inside of you, to fill you to overflowing. I want to make you my courtesan tonight.” He paused, waiting. I knew what he was waiting for. I knew he needed my permission.
My ears burned when I realized just how exposed I was. Only Mr. Sterling kneeling in front of me blocked me from the view of the others and saved what was left of my pride. I started worrying about my hives again. I worried about throwing up. “Yes, sir,” I said. Because even though I did not want to do this in front of all these strangers, I also realized I was wet again, so wet and hurting for him that I could barely sit still.
He smiled in that knowing way he had. He leaned forward, the top of his head fitting just under my chin, and took one of my nipples in his mouth, hard, working it between his lips and teeth. I arched my back at the powerful sensation, crying out in surprise and delight. I used to think I had ugly breasts, much too small with huge, dark nipples, but Mr. Sterling found them delicious. He sucked each of them deep into his mouth, pinching them ever so slightly with his teeth so I grunted and started rocking my hips against the bedclothes.
Heat pooled in my belly, and then lower down. I gripped the bedclothes around me in great bunches. If he continued, I would come, whether I wanted to or not. But he stopped, the coolness of his spit on my engorged nipples making me shiver all the more. He stared at me, his eyes glittering dangerously behind his glasses. “Up on the bed, Evelyn,” he said, and I scurried to climb dutifully up onto the big soft bed. “Head down and ass in the air. Present yourself to me.” His voice was a low, rumbling growl, like an animal that had learned to speak.
Oh God, I thought, my heart knocking wildly. I’m not ready for this! But I knew it was unwise to disobey hi
s direct order. I was terrified he wouldn’t touch me, wouldn’t fill me the way I needed him to. My cunt was wet and pulsing with my need. I was ready for him, so ready. I rested on my hands and knees, then lowered my head so I could lay my cheek to the softness of the down comforter. That put my ass on full display, but at least the little black dress still covered me, affording me some dignity.
He came up behind me and slid his big hands over my ass, pushing my skirt all the way up to my waist. I almost cried out, biting the comforter to keep from making a scene. I was now completely exposed in a way I had never been before. I feared I had reached the limit of what I could endure. He must have sensed my panic because he gripped my hips hard in his big rough hands. That kept me from shifting away or even moving very much as his hand moved between my spread legs, brushed over my slit, then found the folds of my sex and parted them, testing my wetness. His fingers moved deep inside me and I rocked back and forth, groaning from the delicious pressure. I turned my head and realized that, with my head down and my rump up, my cunt was in almost perfect alignment with his cock.
He must have decided I wasn’t ready yet. He lowered his head and started licking at my folds, his clever tongue wetting me thoroughly, each upward stroke rocking my hips and sending a trill up my spine. He dug his tongue in a little ways, making me buck against him involuntarily. I didn’t even think of the people watching us now. All I could think of was him, my need for him, and the loving attention he was showing my cunny, how he was taking the time to prepare me like this, to make our union as painless and unforgettable as possible. I wasn’t used to this level of attention from anyone.
Finally, he stopped torturing me to mount me from behind. His breathing came rough in my hair. He was so big a man he was able to bridge my entire body. His lips brushed the back of my neck even as his engorged cock brushed against my opening, and I realized that now there was no part of him not touching me. The feel of his head bumping me sent me into a frenzy. I pushed myself backward, trying to impale myself on him, but he growled a warning like my aggression displeased him. He reached underneath me, his hands closing over my dangling tits, and crushed them almost painfully in his enormous grip. I cried out in response and lowered my head in an instinctively submissive gesture. He anchored himself more soundly against my bottom, grunting with approval.