Chapter 3 #2
“Your first time with a client? You’re looking at twenty to thirty grand. However, it’s your first time with anyone in this game, so you’re looking at a lot more. I’d say maybe fifty grand.”
I’ve just taken a sip of water and promptly spit it over him.
“What the fuck ?” he squeaks, jumping off the sofa and patting his jeans.
“I’m so sorry. I wasn’t expecting you to say that much money.”
He looks up from where he’s fussing over his clothes. His eyes are very blue. “You won’t make that much again, not after your first time at the club. But with your face and body, you’ll make close to that.”
“You’re joking.”
“I’m really not. I don’t joke about this,” he says very seriously. “You can expect to pull in extremely good money.” He hesitates. “Are you really thinking about doing it?”
Am I? I consider my empty bank account and the credit cards that, if I don’t pay, will affect my credit score until I’m dead and probably beyond that. Fifty grand would clear the cards and allow me to pay some of the tuition fees for my master’s.
I get up and walk to the window. Down below, the paths are busy with people.
The river glints in the sunshine, and in the distance, the roofs and towers of London crowd the skyline.
All those people out there, and yet at this moment, I’m alone with my problems. No one can help me. I have to do this myself.
I think of the money and what I’ll have to do to get it.
Would it be so bad? Prostitution is probably not considered a great career move by most people, but where else could I get that kind of money so quickly?
I need to stay at university. It’s my dream that I’ve put so many years of hard work into.
With everything that’s happened in the past two days, my dream feels like the only thing I have left.
Sex isn’t something I shy away from. I shag strangers for free on most weekends, and choosing someone in a private, exclusive club, where members are fully vetted, might be safer than what goes on in the clubs my friends from uni frequent.
And if someone is paying to get off, would it be that much different?
Just like that, I realise I’ve already made my decision.
“I think I’ll do it,” I say, turning towards Julian.
He considers me for a moment and then gestures. “Come along.”
“Where?”
“My room. I want to show you something.”
“Well, that’s never been said before.”
“I would advise that if you do this, you bury your sense of humour somewhere deep and dark and hope it never sees the light.”
I snort and follow him, looking around curiously when we enter the room. It’s big and airy, with windows that look down on the river.
I gesture at the huge sleigh bed. “So that’s where the magic happens.”
“The magic of commercial transactions, yes.”
“Oh, be still my heart.”
I start to laugh, and his mouth twitches. Then he pulls me toward a huge mirror that takes up most of one wall. I notice that it’s angled for a direct view of the bed.
“Look,” he commands.
Obeying, I stare into the mirror. My hair is messy, my expression pinched with the worry I can’t put away for even a second, and my lips drawn thin. “Admittedly, I’ve looked better.”
“Hush,” he orders. He stands behind me and holds my shoulders.
“Shall I tell you what those men will see?” I nod slowly.
“They will see blond, wavy hair that makes you look like a surfer. For some godforsaken reason, businessmen really go for the laidback surfer look. Some days I’ve been convinced that rather than waxing my genitals and brushing up on current affairs, I should just turn up with a surfboard, call everyone dude, and wax lyrical about A-Frames.
” I laugh, and his eyes twinkle. “The men will notice you have a beautiful face with high, sharp cheekbones, pouty lips, and a pretty nose. Smile,” he orders, and I hasten to obey.
He grimaces. “Well, usually you have a very pretty smile, but not even a gargoyle would have been proud of that. Do it again and put your back into it this time.”
I snort and attempt another smile, and this time he nods approvingly.
“It pulls out a little dimple to the right of your mouth, which gives you a naughty look, and that’s very appealing to men.
Stand up straight.” I do as I’m told, and he walks around me.
“Hmm,” he says, thoughtfully tapping his finger on his teeth.
“You’re tall but not too tall. That’s good. ”
“This is like being a cow at market.”
“Let’s just hope they want your milk, Daisy. You have broad shoulders, but you’re slim, which will appeal to men who’ll want to look after you. You look athletic but not appallingly hearty. Do you have all your own teeth?”
“Who else’s am I meant to have? Rachel Reeves?”
He ignores me. “Any dental implants?”
“No. Are they actually going to check?” I demand as he pushes his face near mine.
He steps back, still frowning in thought. “With a little attention, your appearance will be acceptable.”
“What sort of attention?” I ask warily.
“Maybe a bit of self-tan, although you seem to have naturally golden skin. Then a trim to your hair so you look a little less like a Hobbit, eyebrow shaping, a manicure, a pedicure, and waxing.”
“All that this year?”
He ignores me. “You will look okay in clothes.”
“What do you mean? I’m already wearing clothes. Don’t I look good now?” I say indignantly.
He gives me a pitying look. “It’s probably best not to mention the monstrously awful athletic wear you seem to favour. I’ll get my tailor to come round. You’ll need a suit.”
“Will I?”
“Did you really think you’d go to the type of event I just talked about and wear your Levi’s and those old Adidas trainers?”
Panic stirs. “But I can’t afford anything new.”
He waves a careless hand. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll use my card, and Mister X will pick up the bill.”
“You can’t do that ,” I say, scandalised.
“Of course I can.”
“What if he finds out?”
“The tailor is my contact. I’ve used him for years. He’ll keep his mouth shut, and Mister X will think I’ve just bought another suit. Besides, I’ll need a new one too, if I’m attending the event.”
“How long have you been doing this?”
He studies me for a long moment and then winks. “That’s my business. Okay, strip.”
“Sorry?”
“I hope you’re better at taking orders than this.” He pauses thoughtfully. “Maybe we’d better say you’re a little touched in the attic. Some men like that.”
“Why have I got to strip?”
“I need to see if there are any potential problems.”
I blanch. “I can assure you that there aren’t ,” I squeak.
“Do hurry up. I haven’t got all day.”
“Is this your bedside manner in operation?” I shake my head and strip off my clothes, my skin pebbling in the air conditioning.
I cup my hands over my groin, and he rolls his eyes. “Oh, for god’s sake. It’s like stripping a nun.”
“Have you done a lot of that?”
“Release the cock.” I sigh and let my hands fall away as he nods in approval. “Lovely. I’d guess it’s seven inches when erect, yes?”
“Correct.”
“I’m very rarely wrong.”
“Or modest.”
He ignores me, still staring at my cock. “It’s a very nice-looking penis.”
“Is it?”
“Oh yes. Your skin is beautiful, and everything looks very neat.” I wasn’t aware a penis could look messy, but I keep my opinion to myself as he continues talking.
“Most of the men will like that you’re circumcised.
Apart from the Bandhill twins. They prefer their men’s cocks to resemble a turkey’s neck at Christmas. ”
“What a truly beautiful image. I’ll pass the majority’s thanks for my circumcision to the doctor I had when I was a baby.”
“Stand up straight.”
I obey, and he walks around me again, his mouth pursed.
“What?” I ask worriedly.
“You’re very beautiful,” he says, and there’s something simple and almost pure about the admiration in his voice. Then he blinks and it vanishes, leaving behind pure calculation. “Long legs, narrow hips. No hair on your chest either, thank goodness.”
“What’s wrong with body hair?”
“Most men at the club don’t like it. Apart from a few who like their men to have body hair that you could plait, but you’re not for them. You’ll probably have to get a crotch wax as well as your arse.”
“Oh shit. I hate that.”
“I’m sure you’ll get over it. Pain is just the pursuit of a goal, after all.”
“Have you ever thought of writing a book of your inspirational sayings?”
“Nice arse.”
“Thank you very much.”
“No, really. It’s lovely and full. Do you do squats?”
“If I have to.”
He looks up at me from his alarmingly close appraisal of my bottom. “A toned gym body is a must, but not so much that you look like Popeye.”
“Oh, how I long for my very own Olive Oyl.”
He grins, showing a dimple of his own, and his whole face warms. “So, are we doing this?”
“Can I get dressed if I say yes?”
“Of course.” He waits, leaning on the windowsill as I hastily drag my clothes on.
“You’ll have to practise getting dressed and undressed,” he remarks.
I pull my T-shirt down. “I don’t need any practice. I’ve been doing it for years.”
“Well, your movements are as graceful as a carthorse.” I blink, and he shakes his head. “Bloody hell. Preparing you for Friday will take a mammoth amount of work.”
“Why are you doing this?” I ask suddenly.
“What do you mean?”
“Why are you helping me? I don’t believe I’m the shambling gorilla you seem to be implying, but it’s still work for you.”
He considers me, and he looks almost shy for a moment. “Maybe I’m a bit lonely and I’d like a friend too,” he says. His cheeks flush but his expression resumes its usual haughtiness. “Or maybe helping feral-looking boys is my calling in life. Let’s go, Wes. We’ve got a lot to do.”
I follow him out of the room. My conscience is screaming incoherently, probably trying to tell me not to do this. This sort of decision could have a massive impact on my life. Then I think of my bank account and the money Julian quoted. My conscience won’t be paying my debts, will it?