For a couple of years, I spent escorting women, ages twenty-five to fifty. All of them have one thing in common: married and closeted.
Women in the industry with connections and power, clinging to the exaltation it momentarily serves. Bland and extravagant, where money and ambitions run high as a blood bank of every conglomerate.
Stuck to traditions of patriarchy and approval: such a pitiful scene. Every one of them is like a flower in the vast meadow forced to fit itself in a botanical garden for a show. Different clusters for different characteristics, but with the same set of goals: a tool to carry the surnames and bloodlines for the next generation.
But the woman of Goodchild is unique. A woman with a refined manner and great intellect that dominates anyone around her, that one would think that she's one of the blooming buds in the congested garden.
"I will be your escort for tonight madame," I bowed my head, my personal choice of action.
Rule number one, since every night is always a one night stand, never looked at them in the eyes. Superstitions and whatnot have saved me from getting too attached, as eyes are the window of the soul.
She returned the bow and followed me as her bodyguards trailed feet away from us. Walking silently, struck my nerves, commonly, my clients will talk about their business: only the surface, and their stressors in life, shaking off the tension to have a comfortable sexual interaction. But the Goodchild never uttered even one word, this lack of communication pushing me to the edge.
"Do not let anyone disturb us, even if it is my father or the company," the only words I heard as she ordered to her walking henchman in a flat and undeniably dominating voice and entered the room.
The heaviness of the air almost suffocated me mentally,
"I have personally chosen you," Uttering her every word in a very smoky manner,
"What is your name?" She asked, demanding an answer and saying no would be a mistake.
"I am not allowed to give my name, madame, it is one of the rules of the mother," I answered honestly, not meaning to offend my employer.
"But, am I allowed to ask any other questions?"
"Yes, madame."
"How many hands have touched you?" a pressing question that matched the feel of intensity of her gaze.
"I uh-," choking on my own words as the question caught me off guard, "This is not on the guideline and the rules of the mother, so this would be alright, I guess?" I thought, considering my answers carefully, or else it would backfire the integrity of the mother and the rest of her girls.
Still felt her staring at me intensely, I wish I could just climb inside a coffin, it is as if she is undressing me on her mind.
"Too many to count," I answered briefly.
"What are their preferences?" another question that caught me off guard.
"Vanilla,"
"I don't do vanilla, darling. I will give you a hint." as she walked slowly and sensually towards me. Guiding me to the edge of the bed, coaxing me to sit.
Sitting face to face, but I still bowed my head, true to my own creed, she produced a piece of fabric she kept before entering the room and tied it behind my head, blanketing my eyes, smoothly: careful, not to touch each other's skin.
Lack of visual stimulation heightened my senses as she started caressing my face, leaving feathery kisses and light licks on my neck and collar bones.
