Madame X - Wilder Jasinda - Страница 40
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“I understand.” Three’s voice is small, unsure.
“You enjoy a little pain with sex. I suspected as much, but now we know. Perhaps in the coming weeks, as you begin working as an Escort, we will explore the limits of your enjoyment of pain.”
“But you won’t . . . hurt me, hurt me?” Three sounds breathy, eager, and a little afraid.
“No. Never. You are valuable. To me, and to Indigo Services, and ultimately, you should be valuable to the man who eventually chooses you as his Bride.”
“You think someone will choose me, Caleb?” Oh, the doubt, the fear, the vulnerability I hear cuts me to the bone.
“Three, dear Three.” I’m not the only one, judging by the tone of voice. “Yes. I do think someone will. How could they not? Your personality shines through in every situation. I realize this program is not the easiest thing to go through. Letting go of your name, your past . . . it’s never easy. But through it all, your beauty remains undeniable, and I refer to the beauty of your soul as well as the beauty of your body.”
I have never received such kind, genuine, uplifting words. Am I unworthy?
“Th-thank you, Caleb.”
“Congratulations, Apprentice Six-nine-seven-one-three, you are now an Escort.” This is said with great formality. “Have you chosen a name?”
“Rachel.” Three—Rachel, now, I suppose—sounds excited, gleeful.
“Why have you chosen this name?”
A pause. “You’ll laugh.”
I can almost—almost—imagine a subtle quirk of the lips. “I think not.”
“I used to watch Friends a lot. You know, Ross, Rachel, Joey, Chandler, Phoebe, and Monica?”
“I am familiar. I don’t watch television, but it is a common enough part of pop culture that I’ve heard of it.”
“When I was a kid, I’d watch it with my older sister. She’d do her homework and I’d sit with her and—well, and then . . . when I ended up working for Slade, I’d watch it late at night. It was . . . a way to escape, I guess. And I always just loved Rachel the most.”
“Do you miss it?”
“What? Watching Friends?”
“Yes.”
Three is quiet for a moment before answering. “Yeah, sometimes. I don’t miss none of—I don’t miss any of the rest of my past, obviously, but Friends? Yeah. They were like my friends. Their lives were better than mine. They had easy problems, so I could forget mine for a while. I miss that.”
“Perhaps something can be arranged. I do not believe in my girls being distracted by such triviality as television, as you know, but perhaps as a reward for achieving Escort certification I could arrange a viewing for you.”
“And the other girls?”
“It is a reward for you, Rachel.”
“Which means I can share it, right?”
“Very well, then. Lisa will be in to review and brief you for tomorrow. Once again, congratulations.”
Loafers tread quietly away, and I see a hint of white door as it opens, the thud-click as it closes. I wait several more long moments.
“Come on out, he’s gone.” Rachel’s hand appears in front of my face, waving me out from under the bed.
I scoot out, sore and stiff, and stand up on wobbly legs. Brush dust away, straighten my clothes. Rachel lounges on her bed, naked. Her breasts are slight, areolae pale pink around her nipples. She is shaved totally bare between her thighs, whereas I am not. I smell sex in the air, musk, seed, pheromones, sweat.
I don’t know what to say, what to do. Congratulate her? I don’t know. It’s hard to look at her. I keep hearing her moans, the sound of her being spanked, how thoroughly she enjoyed it. I can almost see her, bent over the bed, hair in her face, pale skin of her buttocks reddening with each slap. I push away the images.
“Never had an audience before,” Rachel says. “Felt a little weird at first, knowing you were listening. But then . . .” A shrug, dismissive.
“What?” I can’t help asking. “But then what?”
“But then I forgot. Well, sort of. I was sort of distantly aware that you were there, but that only made it even better.” She giggles. “God, I had no idea I’d like being spanked so much. When I was a hooker, things was straightforward. They wanted me on my back, or doggy style. Caleb . . . he’s kinda weird about positions, though. Only likes it doggy style or from behind. Bent over, standing up facing a wall, you know? Like that. Never face-to-face. Talked to the other girls about it, and he’s the same with them.”
The same is true for my own experience. I don’t offer this, though. “Hmmm. I wonder what Caleb has against face-to-face sex?”
Another shrug, which is a signature expression, I’m realizing. “Oh, probably commitment issues, you know? Guys like him, it ain’t just control, right? Or not control over us, the girl he’s fucking, but control over himself. Face-to-face, you see the other person’s eyes. You see their expression. Makes it more . . . personal, I guess. And with us, for Caleb . . . it ain’t personal.”
“It’s sex, Rachel. How is it not personal?”
An expression of utter befuddlement. “We’re just apprentices, you know? Nothin’ but girls to be trained. The clients, when they get their match, they expect the girls to be . . . perfect, basically. Educated, well-mannered, and good in bed. Everyone is always like, ‘Oh, I wanna bang me a virgin,’ but virgins ain’t any good in bed. They’re clumsy, too quick, no fun in ’em. Boys and girls both. Girls is worst, I hear, because a girl virgin, she’s got the pain to deal with. You gotta specially train them, I’d think. A gentleman is coming to Indigo Services for a trophy wife, he wants a woman who knows how to please, who knows what to do with his dick, you know? Who knows how to work it all night long. A virgin cain’t do that. Those guys who’re shopping the Bride pool, they don’t want to have to train their wife to fuck ’em like they want to be fucked. They want to be fucked by an expert. And you don’t get to be an expert at fucking except by fucking.”
“So Caleb . . . fucks you until you’re an expert.” The vulgarity both feels and sounds foreign and awkward on my tongue.
“Right.”
“Eight of you at a time?”
“Well, not all at once. Not like, menage a . . . whatever eight is in French.”
“But you’re aware he’s having sex with each one of you apprentices?”
“Well, yeah. He’s Caleb.” Like it’s something obvious, like, duh.
But I understand it. There is something hypnotic about those dark eyes, that commanding presence, utter confidence of primal male sexuality, something entrancing in total dominance.
“Does it bother you?” I ask.
“Not really. I hear it, when it’s him and Five, next door. She’s a screamer. He’s always trying to get her to shut up, but as soon as he’s got her going, she starts howling like a damn cat in heat. Annoying as hell, you ask me.” Rachel stands up, walks with an air of confidence in her nudity.
I follow her. Some carnal curiosity has me looking at her backside; her buttocks are still pink, and I see a glistening smear on the insides of her thighs, low, a trickle of seed seeping out of her.
I am equally repulsed and aroused. Not at the sight of postcoital drip, but at the memory of my own walk from bed to bathroom, the memory of delicious ache, a sense of . . . satisfaction, almost, at the feel of the wet warm stickiness on my skin.
And then, as fast as the sensations roll through me, they are replaced by disgust, and hatred.
Revulsion.
All of it aimed primarily at myself. At my blindness, my gullibility.
At my twisted thoughts. At the fact that any part of me found pleasure in what I overheard.
I hear the shower running, splashing, quickly shut off. Rachel emerges with a towel around her torso.
“You’re the problem, ain’tcha?” Her voice is sharp.
Her poor grammar and twanging accent and propensity for cursing lends a false sense that she is somehow unintelligent; she is not.
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