Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
Linnea
Less than twenty-four hours later, I’m sitting in a surprisingly opulent suite of offices waiting for an interview and wondering, not for the first time, if I’ve lost my mind.
"Ms. Reed." The receptionist calls my name, and I stand on shaky legs. My heart pounds as I follow her down a hallway lined with abstract art that seems to writhe and undulate, hinting at carnal acts. We stop at a heavy wooden door, and she knocks once before ushering me inside.
The office is dimly lit, all dark wood and leather. Behind an imposing desk sits a man who exudes power and danger. His eyes, sharp and assessing, rake over me as I walk to the chair he indicates and perch nervously on the edge of the seat.
"Linnea Reed," he says, my name rolling off his tongue like silk. "Welcome. I'm Mr. Smith. Tell me, why are you here if you’re not trying to get your own kinky fantasies fulfilled? I'll be honest, most of our clientele are looking for a mutual arrangement."
I swallow around the lump in my throat and fight the impulse to flee. He must see it because he holds up a hand. “No judgment here, but I do need to understand your motivation, otherwise I wouldn't be doing my job properly.”
"I ah…” He gives me a look that makes me decide I should definitely go with the truth. “I need money. A lot of it, fast."
He leans back, steepling his fingers. His expression is neutral, but I still get a sense of disapproval. "Mmm. That's not the reason most of our patrons join up."
With the feeling he’s going to deny me, and with nothing left to lose - well, except my life, or my mother’s, and undoubtedly a whole lot of nastiness prior to that happening, I rush on and the entire sorry story comes tumbling out.
"And you're willing to do whatever it takes?" he asks, after what seems like an age.
The question hangs in the air between us, loaded with implications. I think of my mother, of Reggie's threats, of the mountain of debt crushing us.
I blow out a breath, ruffling my bangs. “Look, I’ll be frank, Mr. Smith.
If the mob catch up with me, I don’t doubt they’ll do everything your clients will and worse.
At least this way, I’ve consented, and I’ll get paid.
If it’s a choice between the two…” I gulp down the reality.
“Well, there is no choice, so yes," I whisper, sealing my fate.
He holds my gaze for a long time. Long enough for me to squirm in my seat. What’s with him? I agreed already, and I’m going into this with my eyes wide open, so why doesn’t he just sign me up? What more can he possibly want?
Finally, he purses his lips and huffs a little. “Okay then. You make a strong argument on something I normally might have declined. And as it happens, I had a fantasy proposal come through this morning that might work for you. Take a look at it and decide if it’s right for you.”
I release the breath I didn’t realize I was holding and nod my head, trying not to appear too excited. But this is what I need. Something immediate.
He slides a document across the desk and makes to stand.
“There’s a limits list attached. It’s generic, but exhaustive.
It covers all the activities our clients might require, but it’s not specific to this contract.
We don’t require a proposal to list every kink or activity they want to perform, because those things are fluid and depend on circumstances and desires at any given moment, so it’s more of a general outline.
Read both of them through carefully,” he instructs.
“Very carefully. I’ll be back in ten minutes. ”
He leaves the room, and I suck in a deep draught of air in an attempt to quell the tremor in my fingers as I reach for the document. I have no idea what to expect, but I guess I’m about to find out.
Picking up the paper, I begin to read, my eyes widening as I scan the contents, and my heart racing faster with each line.
The ‘fantasy’ described is far more detailed and intense than anything I could have imagined.
It involves bondage, impact play, and acts that make my cheeks burn just from thinking about them.
I swallow around the lump in my throat, trying to calm my nerves.
Can I really go through with this? The money offered is indeed substantial - more money than I ever dreamed seeing in my lifetime in a single payment.
Enough to cover our debt and have some left over to get to our feet again.
It’s everything I could have dreamed of and more… but the things they want me to do!
"Jeez! I’ll definitely earn every penny," I mutter to nobody but myself.
And most of this stuff is completely foreign to me outside the realms of the spicy books I sometimes read.
I close my eyes, taking a deep breath, thinking of my mom and the threats hanging over our heads. This may be degrading, even painful, but it's still better than what the mob would do to us. At least here, I have some control. Some choice.
I tell myself that over and over in the hope I’ll start to believe it. Accept it.
But the truth is, I’m terrified.
Just not as terrified as I am of Reggie and his threats.
When Mr. Smith returns, I've made up my mind - mostly. Though I still have questions.
“Ah… so is everything in this proposal set in stone?” I ask, not sure where to look, because frankly, this is embarrassing. The idea that this man will know what I'll be doing with the proposer of this fantasy, that he’ll have first-hand knowledge of how I’ve debased myself, is mortifying.
He’s quiet for a moment, so I risk a peek at him. He has one eyebrow raised, and that expression of reluctance is back on his face, like he’s not certain I’m cut out for this, regardless of my assertions.
“That’s what your limits list is for.” He references the second document he gave me, which I hadn’t fully understood.
“Anything you absolutely won’t do will be recorded as a hard limit, which means it won’t happen.
You’ll also have a safe word; a word you can use to stop whatever is happening, no questions asked.
Our clients are vetted thoroughly and will respect both. ”
The relief I feel is immense, but it’s short-lived.
"I thought of you for this proposal precisely because of your lack of training, since I know it’s what the client wants. But I’ll be honest, I have plenty of people on my books who will happily fulfill his requirements.”
It hadn’t even occurred to me that I’d be up against other girls, some with infinitely more experience. Though why not, I don’t know.
My stomach drops. This is my one shot, and I'm competing against practiced women who know what they’re doing. How can I possibly measure up?
"I... I see," I stammer, trying to keep the panic from my voice. "What can I do to improve my chances?"
Mr. Smith leans back, studying me with those piercing eyes.
“It shouldn’t come down to 'improving your chances'. That's generally not how any of this works. But, the fact is, the more flexible you are, the more likely it is you’ll be chosen, so if you’re serious, don’t minimize your opportunities by excluding anything unless you really can’t bear it.”
The logic of his words hits me, and I look at the list again, mentally unticking all the things I’d been considering checking off as limits.
Anal. Whipping. Caning. Asphyxiation. Mummification. Bloodletting. SCAT. Piercing. Fire play. Drowning. Electrical play. Consensual non-consent. Age Play. Public Sex. Role Play. Toys. Sharing. Knife play. Shibari.
Okay, I’ll admit it. Maybe I need some more insight into some of this stuff, because this reads more like torture than kink, and in the light of stuff like bloodletting, suddenly anal doesn’t seem so bad.
“Is there a way I can limit some of these kinks without writing them off altogether?” I ask, and Mr. Smith is surprisingly forthcoming given his previous reticence.
Giving me a gleaming white smile, he elaborates. “Certainly. We can have a clause saying no acts should break the skin or cause permanent damage.”
I jump at it, nodding my head fervently. “Yes, definitely that.”
I eye the list again. “Also, I want to add that I’m not up for anything that causes me to pass out.”
He hums his agreement and makes notes on a tablet.
“Okay… Drowning, bloodletting, SCAT, piercing, and knife play all need to go on my hard limit list,” I tell him with an internal sigh. It still seems like a lot, but believe me, I’ve trimmed my limits considerably.
I’m still on the fence about anal, but I think I can cope with whipping, caning, fire, and electrical play as long as it won’t break the skin or cause permanent scarring. The same with asphyxiation.
Mummification… sounds weird, but I can deal with that. And Shibari actually sounds kind of cool.
I look him in the eye, steeling myself. "The rest, I'll do in accordance with the limits we just discussed," I say, my voice steadier than I feel inside. "Where do I sign?"
He studies me again for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he nods, seemingly satisfied with what he sees… or maybe what I’ve said.
"Okay, then..."
Perhaps asking intelligent questions was the key to unlocking his flinty persona.
He slides a sleek tablet across the desk. "We'll need to do some paperwork and go over a few more details. But first, I want to make sure you understand what you're getting into. This isn't just about the physical acts - it's about the psychological aspects too. Are you prepared for that?"
I nod, even though my stomach wants to revolt. "I do understand. I'm ready."
As ready as I’ll ever be.
Mr. Smith's eyes bore into me "Very well. Let's begin with a basic health screening and some photos. Follow me."
My heart races as I trail behind him down a dimly lit hallway. We enter a sterile room that looks like a fancy doctor's office, where a woman in a lab coat greets us with a professional smile. "Good morning."
I raise my hand in a rather pathetic half wave. "Hi."
"This is Dr. Reeves," Mr. Smith explains. "She'll conduct your physical and take the necessary photos."
I squash the urge to rub my hands over my face. "Photos?"
"Full body, various angles. Nothing explicit at this stage," he assures me. "It's for our client database."
As Dr. Reeves begins her examination, reality crashes over me. This is really happening. I'm really doing this.
"You're doing great," she tells me in a voice meant to soothe.
But as she pokes and prods, taking measurements and samples, I can't help but feel like a piece of meat being inspected.
It's dehumanizing, but I remind myself why I'm here.
For Mom. For our safety. For a chance at a life free from fear.
Dr. Reeves finishes her exam and passes me a thin robe. "Here you go. Put this on for the photos," she instructs, her tone becoming more clinical and detached now the intimate stuff is over.
"Thank you," I mumble, slipping behind a partition, my hands shaking as I undress. The robe is almost see-through, leaving little to the imagination. I take a deep breath to steel myself for what's to come, then lift my chin before stepping out.
Dr. Reeves is nowhere in sight, but Mr. Smith is waiting with a camera. "Follow me," he directs, taking me to another room where there's a permanent backdrop set up for photos.
"Stand here and follow my directions," he says. His eyes flick over me, no doubt assessing my best features.
"Turn around, nice and slow," he directs. I comply, feeling exposed and vulnerable as the shutter clicks.
"Now stand tall. No need to smile."
Just as well, because that might be beyond me just now.
"Good," he says after taking waaay too many pictures. "You can get dressed now and we'll process your application. There’s just one final thing I need to add to your profile.”
I can’t for the life of me think of anything that’s been overlooked, but I look at him in askance.
“You need a pseudonym. All our transactions are done with the protection of the individuals involved in mind, even while they’re together.
You are not required to provide your real personal details, and that’s for your anonymity once any contract you enter into is finished.
Although you may do so if you wish. The decision is yours. ”
“Umm...” Talk about being put on the spot.
Wracking my brain, my thoughts latch onto the mythology module I was doing before I quit college, and inspiration strikes. “Juno,” I tell him.
Mr. Smith quirks an eyebrow and types it into his tablet. “Very well, Juno."
As I change back into my clothes, my mind races. What have I gotten myself into? But then I think of everything I stand to lose and know this is my path now, for better or worse.
I emerge from the room shaken, but resolute.
"How soon will I hear about... opportunities?" I ask Mr. Smith as he walks me to the exit, since I know the proposal he showed me is by no means guaranteed.
"Could be days, could be hours, but you’d be surprised how many of my candidates are limited by their inability to cook or clean, so the proposal I showed you could be an excellent match,” he replies cryptically.
The proposal he showed me was for a maid.
It was set to run for three weeks, and due to the nature of the fantasy, cooking and cleaning were necessities to avoid other people coming into the property.
It actually gives a little lift to know there’s at least a couple of things I can do better than the experienced women who regularly participate in these fantasies.
Even if it is just the more mundane stuff.
"Either way, you need to be ready to proceed at twenty-four hours’ notice.”
With that, he turns and strides away, leaving me alone in the dim foyer. I make my way out of the building on unsteady legs, blinking in the bright sunlight. The world looks different now, sharper somehow. Or maybe it's just me that's changed.
Agreeing to something like this will do that to a girl.