(Highest ranking: #253 in Chicklit - 3 October 2017) Cynthia finds lipstick on her husband's shirt and it isn't her shade. She goes out for a walk trying to process the shocking news of her husband's infidelity, and that's when she finds Stacy, a wo...
"Nope! That will not work," Stacy thought as she tossed the shirt she had just tried on onto the bed. She couldn't let her client see the scar on her shoulder, and the shirt exposed way too much of it.
Her thoughts drifted back to the day she got the scar. She could still remember it clearly. He was drunk, once again. He started shouting at her about his missing cigarette box, and when she couldn't answer him quickly enough, he grabbed her by the shoulders and rammed her into the wall. Then he reminded her of how ungrateful she was, how he had saved her from her filthy prostituting, and how she ought to be more grateful. How if it wasn't for him, she would be on her back right now. Or on her knees.
That wasn't the first time he hit her. It had started seven months before, concurrent with the drinking. At first, he would just push her aside whenever she was "in his way." Later he started punching and slapping, almost as if he confused her with the sofa or the wall or his punching bag. And he always reminded her of how terrible her life would be without him. How she would have to keep giving herself to cheating husbands on the dirty beds in the basement of the club or pleasing drunk 30-year-olds in the backyard.
He was a different man when he was drunk, not the same Phil that had confessed his love for her in the backyard of the club. Not the same Phil that came back to the club every day after the first night, and made special requests to see her only. Not the same Phil that had paid her pimp money that would take her years to earn, so he could let her go. He was nicer back then. He was her savior, her prince, her angel. She could hardly believe he was the same man that would cause her more pain that she had ever experienced in the all the clubs and brothels she had worked in.
She never figured out what made him start drinking so much all of a sudden. He had complained about bad investments a couple of times, but he never sounded like he was completely screwed. She didn't care anyway. He made her miss being on her back at the club. She had grown to hate him.
One morning, after he had popped some aspirin for his hangover and left for work, she stayed in bed a little longer, scrolling through her phone. That was when she stumbled on the website Adult Hobbies.
She was so accustomed to having other people pick who she slept with and when that the concept of the website struck her as strange. She could set up an account with her credentials and pictures, and when clients clicked on her profile trying to send in a request, she had the option to ask for a text conversation first and to reject them if they didn't meet her requirements. And she would be called an escort, a service provider. Not a slutty hooker.
She scrolled through the profiles of the other girls. They didn't look too different from her, and they didn't seem to have any "skills" that years in the business had not awarded her with as well. Could it be that she would finally have control over her life despite her profession?
Back at the club, the pimp was kinder to her than to the other girls, but she still had very little control. She would sit on the display chairs and flaunt herself until someone considered her doable and picked her for the night. Then, whoever he was, she would have to go with him and follow his every order.
She had to work every single day. Through colds, migraines, cramps, she had to show up, show herself off, and give herself. If she ever dared to complain or to question the pimp's orders, she would be put on the X-list, where she would have to go with the cheap, often violent, clients. No one ever wanted that.
The website looked enticing. The thought of finally having control, and leaving Phil seemed very attractive. So, she spent that morning creating the account, taking her best pictures, and finding the best ways to elaborate her skills.
Two days later, someone clicked the contact button on her profile. She started texting him and found out he was a 40-year-old recently divorced man looking for casual company. He would pay her twice the amount of her listed starting price and let her choose where they would meet. He would come dressed as she wanted at the exact time she stipulated.
"Tuesday at 11:30 on the second floor of the Hilton hotel dressed in shorts and a tank top." That's what she told him. "Put the money in the left pocket of your shorts," she added. Phil would be at work at that time, hopefully not coming back until late in the evening.
She went to the hotel one hour earlier, with a black handbag that had three pocket knives and a scarf hidden in it. She placed the knives strategically in the room so she would be able to grab any one of them with the stretch of a hand the minute her client got violent.
When he showed up, she didn't bother to greet him back before starting to give him orders. "Take off your shoes and lie down on your back," she said. He didn't resist. "Put your arms up," she said next. He complied. She took out the scarf and tied it around his wrists. "Don't move them," she said as she pushed his arms back above his head. His expression was a mixture of astonishment and excitement as she began to undress him.
"Don't move until I tell you to." That was her instruction when she had finished with him. She got off him, put her own clothes back on, then felt around his shorts for the money.
He flinched when he saw the knives as she was retrieving them. "I said don't move," she repeated more sternly. He laid still. She put the knives back in her back, loosened the scarf around his arms and walked to the door. "Get dressed," she ordered, "and check out before you leave." Then she walked out in her quick, long strides.
Back home, it took her a while to recover from the electrifying session. She kept thinking back to it and thinking of how she had loved every minute of it, the control, the pleasure of being on top. She sat down on the sofa for a while and just savored the memory of the entire experience. Then she picked up her phone again. There were five other men who had contacted her.
Four clients in, she already had enough money to leave Phil. And on Wednesday afternoon, she packed up her bag and left his horrid house.
Now she was in her own apartment on the other end of the city far away from his filthy hands. She was on her way to her next client who she would have complete control over. She ended up going for a long-sleeved black blouse that showed just enough cleavage. And with her bag, now filled with an improved set of tools, she walked out of her apartment, ready to dominate one more time.
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