My private studio gleams like a penthouse dungeon—black leather benches, polished steel chains dangling from vaulted ceilings, silk kimono draped over velvet chaise. Sun filters through frosted glass, casting golden halos on my blonde cornrows. Skin tanned olive, oval face cute they say, 95D breasts pierced with golden loops glinting under the robe. End of morning session with a regular, Anna-Gaëlle assisting. Doorbell chimes. My next appointment: Dahlia, elegant Antillaise, early.
She perches in the waiting alcove, hand plunged in her handbag. Heart races—gun? I freeze, terror grips. She pulls out nothing. Relief floods. ‘Chanette?’ Her angel face softens from tigress glare. We settle in the salon, leather cool against thighs. She wants her husband Jean-Pierre banned. I don’t know him—tall, light brown hair, balding, blue eyes, mustache, paunch. Nice guy, monthly visits. Her plan: pay a year’s fees to ghost him. Absurd. I counter: realize his fantasies yourself.
The Privilege
She snaps, calls me whore. Tension crackles. Anna-Gaëlle sneaks peek—no gun, just deodorant stick. We bet gold earrings: I’ll seduce her. Apology bise on cheek, electric. No client till 5 PM. ‘Lunch?’ Champagne coupe fizzes at the discreet bistro nearby, linen crisp, escalope milanaise melting on tongue, al dente pasta. Her water turns bubbly. ‘To us.’ Eyes lock, smiles flicker. Bathroom signal: I linger, she doesn’t follow. Back, glasses on—’Women with glasses…’ She blushes.
Her turn in loo. I unbutton blouse, expose cleavage. She emerges, stares. Lips part. I lean, tongues clash, hands on her full breasts. Door creaks—intruder. Street walk charged, distance teasing. Back home, voicemail: no sub. Show her dungeon—St. Andrew’s cross, chains, cage. Curiosity sparks. ‘Attach me? Demo.’ Wrist Velcro tightens. Suddenly, both wrists snared. Panic surges.
