"Somewhere beyond right and wrong, there is a garden. Meet me there." ~ Rumi

When you are a shade over six feet tall, figuring out how to get out of a car gracefully in a pencil skirt and high heels is more of a challenge than most people realize. It's not something they covered in my training at the Agency, either, although you'd think it might have come up, since they were so incredibly thorough. It's the sort of thing that takes practice, and I haven't had much of that yet. Still, the outfit makes me feel fabulous, even though the hobble-effect makes me stumble over the kerb as I unfurl myself from the cab. I hear the driver laughing as he speeds off, and I'm glad I didn't tip him much.

I hurry to get under the hotel's marquee for shelter out of the summer drizzle. July is supposed to be one of the few warm, dry months here in London, but tonight is neither; I wish I had worn the jacket that goes with this skirt, but I thought it would look too formal. I pull my phone out of my red leather clutch and send my manager the obligatory text: Arrived Marylebone Hotel.

It's seven minutes to nine, despite the traffic delays. I swear that cabbie went by way of every street under construction he could find! I'm not calling him again. Doesn't matter, here I am, plenty of time to get to my nine o'clock meeting. A gaggle of tourists are coming out as I go in the wide glass doors of the hotel. One of the men holds the door for me, and gives me a slow, appreciative once-over as I go past with a murmur of thanks. I don't understand women who dress to kill and then complain that men stare. I like attention, I always have. If anything, I wish I could dress more daringly for work, but the Agency forbids it. Official policy is that we maintain a fairly conservative appearance.

The lobby is bright, and humming with activity. I stride purposefully toward the lifts, passing a little group of painfully well-dressed young men clustered by the door. In German, they are loudly debating which club would give them the best chance of getting laid by an English girl tonight. Jerks. I consider for a brief moment stopping and advising them to just give up and hire a nice call girl instead, but really, there are some things youth just has to find out on its own. Not that I'm so old myself, not quite past the quarter-century mark yet, but I think I've traveled more miles than most people my age.

I pull my phone out again to check the text I'd gotten this morning from my manager. I've learned the hard way that it pays to double-check the time and room number. Mr. Tate, all the usual, Sat 9pm-11pm, Marylebone Hotel #514. Fifth floor, then. I square off in front of the shiny steel lift doors, hit the Up button and wait.

I love fine hotels, but I hate lifts. You know, people can die in them. I'd take the stairs up instead, except that I don't want to arrive panting and sweaty The row of lights above the lift doors isn't moving right now; someone must be holding it up. Damn. I sigh and fidget with impatience, realizing it's mostly nerves.

Staring at the polished doors, I can see my reflection clearly. I vogue just a tiny bit and pull my"pretty face," then have a laugh at my own vanity. My sister Sara has pointed out more than once that I can't pass a reflective surface without checking myself out, and I have to admit that she's not just being bitchy. I probably do have a touch of narcissism, but I like to think that I temper it with a good sense of humor.

I glance down to make sure that my slim skirt is smooth and straight, and there are no stray threads dangling from my very-business blouse; everything in it's place. "Mr. Tate" is very particular about his attire, he probably notices details about other people's.

The lift doors finally slide open in front of me, and I'm annoyed to see there wasn't even anyone in it. Why the hell were they holding it, then? Whatever. I take a deep breath, and step across the threshold into the lift. I know that doesn't seem like such a big deal, but for me it is, every time. I get this weird tingle of fear zinging up my thighs every damn time, classic PTSD symptom. Little things that happen when you are a kid can leave a big impression.

I hit the button for the fifth floor, and check my phone again for the time. Four minutes to nine. The lift hums around me, and I consider "Mr. Tate." Not his real name, of course, since one of the Agency's cornerstones is absolute anonymity. His real name is Holmes. This will be my third meeting with him, and in the six years that he's been a client of the Agency, I'm the first person that he's scheduled three consecutive meetings with, and the only woman he's met with in several years.

Now, I'm not supposed to know any of that, because the Agency treats all client information as highly classified, burn-after-reading, top-secret stuff. Our managers are only supposed to share with us what is absolutely necessary and no more. They even try to forbid us employees to share information amongst ourselves, which is silly. Of course we share. We have our own online forum, completely secret, and we gossip to our hearts' content.

The humming stops and the doors slide open. I force myself to step like a normal person over the threshold instead of doing a gazelle leap, and park myself beside a huge, fake potted plant to wait for a minute to tick by so I won't be early. I check in my clutch for my cigarette case, and for a nanosecond consider a quick smoke. That would be stupid, obviously, since the Mighty Powers that Meddle have decided to make it impossible to have a smoking habit indoors, but the fact that I actually considered it means I can't continue to ignore how nervous I am.

I'm not the nervous type, usually. I'm a people-person, I can get along with almost anybody, and I can usually get what I want out of a situation. That may sound cold, but it's not. Everyone manipulates, right? Whether they realize it or not, they do. I'm no different, I'm just really good at it. But around this Holmes, I feel like I'm trying to walk on a carpet of ball-bearings. No movement brings the result you expect, and it always feels like you are on the verge of falling on your backside. I wonder if he's like that all the time, everywhere. He's certainly not somebody I would want to hang out with outside of a meeting, even if I were inclined to that sort of thing.

I check my phone again. One minute to nine. It's show-time, Angelica, I tell myself, and start off down the hallway looking at the brass numbers on dark wooden doors. There's 514, right where it should be. I rap softly at the door, and immediately it swings open, sending strains of quiet classical music wafting into the hallway. It's precisely nine o'clock, and I can tell from the faint quirk around the edges of his mouth that he approves.

"Angel. Come in." The tall, slender man in an immaculate navy-blue suit steps aside so I can enter, then quickly shuts the door behind us. He isn't furtive — and believe me, I know what furtive looks like — but he is oddly alert. Guilty? I glance at his left hand, and note once again that it does not, and probably never has, worn a wedding ring. He wears a plain gold band on the right ring-finger, but since the odds of his being Eastern Orthodox are slim to none, it's probably a sentimental piece.

There is no greeting, no hellos, no how are you's. I caught on to that fast, our very first meeting. My usual effervescent conversation, my attempts to draw him out and make both of us comfortable, all the soothing flirtation that puts men at ease...made him wince and subtly grind his teeth, even though he responded politely enough. So I just shut up, and he relaxed. The less I talk, the happier he seems, and he's paying a hell of a lot of money for me to make him happy for a few hours; the least I can do is be silent, if that's what he likes, even though it feels strange to not even say hello to someone who is shortly going to be pounding me into the mattress.

I lay my clutch down on a side table by the door and check things out while he busies himself with a decanter and ice bucket at the wet bar. There is the sharp smell of whisky. The room is typical for the Marylebone since the remodel; very posh and chrome-contemporary, but a little cramped. However, there is a sturdy headboard fastened to the bed, no doubt one of the reasons that we're here. Usually the Agency makes the arrangements for out-call accommodation, but it's one of this man's particulars that he should do it himself. A different hotel each time, apparently, but sturdy headboards are a must. There is a plain black gym bag resting on the floor beside the bed, and I feel a little thrill of anticipation. Or something.

He settles into a plush white armchair with a tumbler of amber in one hand, and gestures with a slow, long-fingered sweep of the other to where he wants me to stand tonight for the initial viewing. A Bach adagio is playing softly in the background, with a treble chorus of tinkling from the ice in his glass.

This looking-over is apparently how he likes to start things. The first time he spent forever just staring at me, his slender fingers clasped together under his chin, his eyes half-closed. Then he had me walk around the room, sit down and stand up again. He told me to take off my clothing; I asked, "How?" When he arched an eyebrow at that, I added, "Would you like me to take my dress off playfully, or demurely, or —?"

"Like you would if you were at your flat, alone," he said. So I did, just like that, and he calmly watched like it was television.

Tonight, though, he stays sprawled in the chair only a moment, then he jumps up, drink in one hand, the other tucked into his trouser pocket, and starts stalking a restless circle around me. I stand still as stone, staring into the middle distance as if I were modeling for a life-drawing class. I enjoy being looked at, but it's a little boring just standing there avoiding eye contact. I wonder if tonight will be the same as our last two meetings? I'm betting it will, that he's the type who will quickly evolve a rigid ritual around stressful activities, and then not deviate from it. I mentally flip through my catalog of mental disorders again. Yes, he's very definitely on the spectrum for Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder, but not obviously dysfunctional enough to qualify as full-blown OCD. I wonder if he's in treatment.

At our first meeting, as I watched the man methodically folding and hanging his clothes as he removed them, one layer after another, I decided he could be the OCPD poster child. The suit jacket carefully hung up on the silent valet in the corner, then his cufflinks undone and lined up in the center of the wooden tray below it. The pocket watch and chain followed the cufflinks, but not before he had snapped it open for one more look at the time. Sleeve garters — garters! who on earth wears sleeve garters these days? — slipped off and laid in the tray as well, then the waistcoat was finally unbuttoned and hung up...his tie not just loosened and slipped off, but undone, carefully smoothed and folded over the tie-bar...his shirt shaken out, hung so the sleeves were exactly equal, and all the buttons buttoned...then the shoes, laces carefully re-tied, lined up precisely under the valet...as a finale, he snapped the creases in his trousers so hard before hanging them up that I half expected the fabric to complain at the treatment.

And that's where the disrobing stopped, since he seems to prefer to leave on his briefs, undershirt and gartered socks. It's not altogether unheard of, although he's a little young to be one of that crowd; I guess his age at no more than early 40's. To each their own, as my auntie used to say, but I have to admit it feels weird to have sex with a bloke who is still in his underwear.

The underwear thing is actually a bit weirder to me than are the restraints that Holmes requires. So many clients want to do light bondage that it hardly rates as a fetish anymore, to be honest, but it does require at least a minimal bond of trust between the escort and client. I bet that was a problem for Holmes before he got a referral to the Agency—how do you keep people at arm's length and still get your needs met, unless you've got just the right kind of professional to help out?

The Agency provides the right kind of professionals, although even professionals run into snags sometimes.

When I had my first meeting with "Mr. Tate" I was expecting to be put in restraint right away, but I wasn't happy when he snapped some official-looking metal handcuffs on me. I had been told he provided his own equipment, but nobody mentioned metal cuffs. They are damned uncomfortable things, especially when you have to wear them for hours in odd positions. I very nicely let him know afterwards that metal wasn't my preference, and he seemed genuinely surprised and actually apologized. Apparently I was the first escort ever to object, go figure. At the second meeting, he brought some lovely squishy wrist-cuffs in black suede, but it was impossible to tighten them securely enough for his satisfaction.

"I dislike being touched," he said in his soft, cultured voice, and added that it was important to be sure it wouldn't happen accidentally. We were both annoyed that the squishy fetters were too big for my slender wrists, but I saved the day by suggesting that the cuffs be firmly secured above my elbows, with the tether clipped between the bands to keep my arms behind my back. It worked pretty well, and was more comfortable than the metal handcuffs.

So what's in that gym bag for tonight? Thinking about it doesn't exactly turn me off. Holmes finally stops his pacing to stand directly in front of me, and I notice that the high heels I'm wearing put me just a bit above eye-level with him. For some reason, this pleases me immensely. We're roughly the same size, although a bit differently shaped, but I could wear his lovely three-piece suit quite comfortably.

This brings on a huge urge to giggle. I really do have a strange sense of humor, and it surfaces at the oddest times. I have to work hard to suppress it tonight. Giggling at clients when it is not mutual is a Very Bad Idea, and I have the feeling that Holmes would be especially unimpressed.

He is looking into my face so intently that I'm surprised to not have laser holes bored through to the back of my skull. Despite the intensity of those blue eyes, the man's face has a remote and cold expression, as if he were very decidedly somewhere else. It's unnerving to be looked at and looked through at the same time. He seems so detached. A thought flashes through me: How silly to pay an enormous amount of money for an experience that you aren't even going to be fully present for! What a waste. He is untouched, and untouchable, and that's how he wants it...

Holmes looks away, and sets the empty tumbler down on a side table. "Undress," he says softly, but this time doesn't sit down to watch. He goes over to the bed and unzips the gym bag, taking out what looks like a tangle of leather belts. It jangles quietly.

Even though I look fabulous in it, my slim skirt and business-lady blouse yet again proves a poor choice as a working outfit; I have to peel myself out of the skirt, tugging and wriggling. My black lace bra and knickers come off more quickly. I hesitate a moment over the shoes, since some clients like the look of a naked woman in sexy shoes, but I guess if he had a preference there he would have mentioned it. I prefer to take them off; the heels and buckles get hung up in the sheets sometimes, and in any case it always feels horribly wrong to wear shoes in bed. Bare as I was born from head to toe, I wait.

Holmes walks slowly back toward me, his slim hands patiently untangling the jangling leather. I am hoping and praying that those leather straps and brass rings are not some idiotic pony-play headgear piece. With the ridiculously twee ears. Please, God, not pony-play headgear. Butt plugs with horsey tails I can do gladly, but not bits and bridles and twee ears, nor am I overly fond of riding crops.

I breathe a sigh of relief when I see that there aren't any ears, and he glances up with a sharp look at the sound. He holds up the untangled leathers, and I can see it's a very nice, well-finished dark brown harness. I silently put my arms out to the sides, and he carefully places the strapping on my naked torso. The leather is cool on my skin, but the brass buckles are downright cold, and I feel my bare nipples clench and harden in response. His blue eyes dart down to take that in, and I see the corner of his mouth twitch slightly. He might be taking notes, I'm not sure.

His hands are careful and precise as he adjusts the various slides and buckles, until the harness sits perfectly, snug but not too tight. It's a clever design, attractive yet with loads of attachment points, sturdy without looking clunky. And it fits like it was custom-made. I am really liking how I feel in it. Holmes walks around me again, as if silently admiring, then returns to the gym bag and pulls out matching leather cuffs, four of them.

He fastens the smaller two around my wrists, the larger two around my ankles. The fit is perfect, like made to measure. Once more he stands back, looking pleased, then sweeps his fingers toward the bed. Obediently, I go turn down the sheets and sit, while he dims the lights down. It starts to feel a little surreal to me, especially since he has yet to even take off his suit jacket and I am sitting here naked in High Fashion Bondage, ready to be trussed up like a Christmas goose.

He does stop to take off and hang up his jacket, then, and the trussing commences. His eyes have that remote coldness again, and his face is a blank, polite mask, but his hands are gentle — I don't know that they wouldn't be, were I to resist, but there is no need to find out. He doesn't push my limbs further than they can comfortably go, and after a few minutes of creative bending, twisting, and clipping, I am immobilized and helpless. And unexpectedly anxious. I wasn't anxious like this the previous two sessions, but I wasn't completely immobilized before, either. This is different, he is different, tonight.

I focus on my breath to quell the panic. Don't be silly, Angelica! I remind myself that I choose to be here willingly, that this client is a personal referral from other trusted clients, and they wouldn't refer him if he were a dangerous psycho — yet I can't deny the anxiety that blooms from nowhere and starts rolling around in my belly. I suddenly have to wee.

I'm pretty sure that I'm not really in any danger. Pretty sure. I'm disturbed to realize how much the thought of an element of danger is turning me on right now. I need to think about that some more, later.

He's faced me toward the wall, clipped to that sturdy headboard. I hear him somewhere behind me taking off his clothing, the clink of the cufflinks and pocket watch in the tray, the rustle as he hangs his shirt, the snap of trouser-creasing. I lay there breathing deeply, waiting, listening to a cello adagio quietly weaving around itself. Then I can feel him behind me, looking again. For what seems like forever, just looking, taking me with his eyes. Then I feel the mattress shift as he kneels closely behind me on the bed. He reaches out and lays his hands on my skin, cautious at first, then urgently, like he's hungry for the feel of it. Those long, slim-fingered hands are twitching over me, pressing, rubbing, exploring. He isn't tender or gentle, but he isn't brutal either. I've been touched in a lot of different ways by many men and no few women, but I have never felt touch like this. It's...demanding. Greedy. His hands are everywhere, all at once, and I have no power at all to deny or resist. It's almost too much.

He didn't do it like this the other times, but I wasn't so well-secured the other times. He probably feels safe. So, isn't that ironic? His feeling of safety is inversely proportional to mine...but we're both getting turned on. I can hear his breathing getting faster and more ragged, his touching is turning into grasping and relentless probing. I writhe around slightly, as much as the tethers allow, and moan very quietly. I can't help it, although I'm doing my best to stay still and quiet.

He doesn't seem to mind that I'm making a little noise; it seems to egg him on. He actually starts to brush my skin with his face, like a cat does when it greets you with a purring head-rub. My sister the veterinarian told me when a cat does that, they aren't being lovey, they are actually marking you as their territory. I don't know if Holmes is being territorial, but he certainly isn't being lovey. He's getting rougher and rougher with me, really lost in the hard physical contact. He seems to discover my hair for the first time, and presses his face into it and plays with it like he's never run his fingers through long hair before. That's a funny thought, maybe he hasn't. Who knows?

After a while, I feel him turn toward the bedside table, and hear the crackle of a condom wrapper, and I know he's getting ready to enter me from behind. I subtly tuck my hips and arch my lower back, making my arse less accessible. I don't mind taking it in the pucker, but I don't like it as a surprise, and given his history, he might forget in the heat of the moment that there is another option.

He doesn't forget. The actual main event doesn't last very long, but I suppose it lasts just exactly as long as he wants it to, since he's in total control. Thank goodness Holmes isn't one of those gents who needs the delusion that he is satisfying his escort as well. It is always so much more work to have to fake an orgasm, and then you have to heap on the praise after. I know ladies who profess to come with their clients all the time, but I think they're lying. Getting aroused is one thing, and I am pretty easily warmed up, but actually coming is something else again. I always save it for later, for myself.

It's a good thing I know not to expect any after-care, or, God forbid, cuddles, because once the deed is done Holmes is dressed and at the door like shot from a cannon. I'm grateful that he at least remembers to unbuckle the cuff from my right hand, so I can move around and un-truss myself. He pauses with one hand on the door-handle, and, without looking at me, gestures with the umbrella in his other hand at the black gym bag on the floor. "Take the gear with you, and bring it to our next meeting." Then, snap, he's gone.

I feel wiped out, physically exhausted, which is funny, considering I didn't actually do much of anything. It must be his intensity. I've never been with someone that intense, but then I haven't been in the business all that long. I strip off the harness and cuffs and stretch my poor cramped shoulders and back, debating whether or not to take a shower before I leave. I sniff, and realize that I smell like him, all over. It's soap and expensive men's cologne and not at all nasty, but kind of overpowering. Shower for sure.

Like the room, the bath is a little cramped, but terribly posh. Nice fluffy towelling robes, too. Wandering around drying my hair, I look over at the table where I left my clutch. Beside it are the room keycards, with a few bills underneath. Large bills. That...is one helluva tip. And the key-cards are a clear invitation to enjoy the hotel's amenities on his tab, a free pass to use the spa, get my hair and nails done, get a massage...

In the end, I decide I don't want any of those things, I just want to go curl up in the nice, cozy flat I share with Sara. I dress, text my manager: Mischief Managed! so she knows I'm safe, and go in search of a cigarette, and a cab to take me home.

Later, sitting with my feet up on the sofa, our cat Pablo curled in my lap, and a mug of hot milky tea in my hand, I listen to the reverberations of Sara's snoring carrying through the closed door of her bedroom. I'm glad that she's not awake and demanding gory details. My big sister says she wants to know everything because she worries about me, but I think her job at the animal hospital is boring her to death. Sometimes I make up things to tell her that will make her feel more boring. I'm just nice that way.

The black gym bag sits by the door where I dumped it when I came in, and I have an urge to rummage through and see if there is anything in it that can tell me anything at all about Holmes. I'm intensely curious about him, which is really interesting. I can feel myself going into stalker mode. The craving to find out everything I can about this man is visceral, but my head is also telling me that there are some important things I don't understand. Why has Holmes changed his sexual habits? If I've read him right, he is the sort of person who finds routine to be calming and supportive; he's not going to change his habits in such a big way just for a giggle. So, why is he suddenly interested in meeting with the same escort again and again, and why me? I am pretty fabulous, but I certainly don't think a bisexual man with a clear preference for men would look at my photo in the Agency's online gallery and suddenly decide, This woman is IT.

And it's not like I can just ask him. I've never met someone so averse to talking, about anything. True, sometimes a client just wants sex with no talk, but it's usually the other way 'round. Especially at the level of middle-aged angst that prevails amongst the clients that can afford to frequent the Agency, the men more often than not want attention, compassion, admiration, understanding, and intelligent companionship. They want to get off, too, of course, but the other things are just as important. And as a result, they don't shut up. They talk and talk and talk, and you are being paid to listen and to act like you care. I studied to be a therapist before I decided I liked escorting better, and there doesn't seem to be a whole lot of difference. Except in the pay scale, of course. Escorts make far more money for a lot less work, and the tips are tax-free.

But Holmes doesn't seem to want anything except to get off...or does he? That hard contact thing. I sip my tea, and remember how he almost seemed to be trying to crawl inside my skin. There was more going on there than just the quest for an orgasm.

"Take the gear with you, and bring it to our next meeting." That means he's going to ask for me again. Do I want to continue meeting with him? I can't ignore my deep feeling there's something not completely right about the man. He's unsettling to me, in a way I can't put my finger on.

Possibly a psychopath? In any case, do I want to continue meeting with somebody who triggers my own anxieties? I could decline further meetings with him.

I realize I don't want to decline Holmes. What I want most of all is to satisfy my curiosity about who and what he is in real life, which is the taboo of taboos for anyone that works for the Agency. I am going to have to tread carefully here.

Glancing again at the black gym bag, I also have to admit that some part of me is looking forward to the next meeting. I finish my tea, dump Pablo off my lap, and take that part of me off to bed for some attention.