The Client

Names are important.

I have several of course, we all do—part of the mystique of the job. Since it's a service industry, the customer gets the right to call us whatever they want. Their money; their time; their fantasy. I don't mind. Nobody here knows my real name anyway and I like it that way. It's nothing personal.

I go by Slim most of the time. It suits me, since I'm almost five ten without heels. I've got showgirl height, but not the rest of the physique. I've had my boobs done a bit, but anything else wouldn't sit right, and my clientele tend to favor me just as I am. After all, they pay enough for it, and I work hard enough to keep this long lanky frame of mine in top shape: lots of time at the gym, doing yoga, eating right, all to stay within the top tier of Sleek Inc's roster. It's a living, and a good one, but I'm getting out very soon, and heading to California. I've got a brother there who'll put me up while I shake the grit and glitter of Vegas off my ass and leave my clients behind.

I'll miss a few of them of course. Even though it's nothing personal, I did have my favorites. Doctor X was charming, and a good tipper once we were done for the night. Old Mr. John Doe never asked for more than dinner out and a chance to stroke my thighs under my dress while we ate. After our first night we both knew he was too old for Viagra; still, he was a kind man.

But I'll miss Mr. Grey the most I think.

I remember when we first met over the murder of Chris Bezich. I never liked the owner of the Acid Drop, a slick schemer who seemed to feel he needed his money's worth out of any hire from Sleek's, and still bitched even when he got the works. Masha told me he'd bragged about nailing any orifice he wanted, so I was glad he was into more curves than I had and never hired me. Still, to be found dead at the Tangiers, done execution style wasn't nice. I had the bad luck to be in the hotel that night, and all the questioning was pretty perfunctory. I was working, sure, but up in the penthouse, and nowhere near the Kasbah Room where Bezich got offed.

Usually I get eyed up by the cops who know what I am, and released with nothing more than a grunt. Sleek's doesn't like their employees to get arrested—very bad for the image. I'd managed to avoid it up to that point, and it looked as if I'd be off scott free that time too, but one of the detectives, a big guy with a flattop haircut told me to go wait to have my shoes checked. Apparently whoever had murdered Chris B. had stepped in his blood, and had been wearing Astrabellas at the time.

So I lit up and waited, which I detested doing, and while I was up against the wall of a little alcove, I saw this man coming towards me. He was broad-chested, and older, with a beard and a fairly nice looking face. He looked up just as I did, and for a moment he went pale, but only for a moment, and then he cocked his head and let his gaze land on my cigarette.

"That's not good for you," he told me, as if I was a kid, or just starting on the habit. I remember arching an eyebrow at him as I ground it out in the sand of the ashtray in the lobby.

"A lot of things aren't good for you," I shot back; just to see if he'd play along. He knelt down and looked up at me, and that's when I could see something in his face, right then in the dim light of the lobby alcove. A strange flicker of desire and anger, as if I'd disappointed him personally. I lifted my leg to let him take my shoe off, letting him fumble through his latex gloves to undo the tiny buckle on the ankle. I know he was tempted to peek up my skirt and didn't let himself, and that pissed me off a little.

I mean who was this guy who was too good for a little window shopping? So I let my foot slide up his forearm in one quick stroke before pulling away, but let me tell you, he got a good shot at paradise right then and there.

He winced, but I wasn't concentrating on his face. A quick look told me that other parts of him weren't so reluctant to stand up and cheer, not by a long shot. I laughed softly, just enough to let him know that I could see he was getting a serious hard on.

He ignored it, and me, and took a print of my shoe on some fancy paper. When he was done I thought he'd hand my shoe back to me, but instead, he slipped it back onto my foot, never looking up into my face while he buckled it up again. That blew me away a little, but I've had a few clients who were into the feet and shoe thing, so I let him have his fun. When he was finished, he didn't let go of my foot for a few seconds.

"I'm going to need that back—"I reminded him gently. He let go and stood up, and when those blue eyes met my brown ones, I felt some real heat coming off this guy. Something a lot more than just the normal potential client vibe. Something . . . damn near desperate. He took a breath, as if he was pulling himself together, and right behind those baby blues I could see him weighing pros and cons, struggling with some weird inner battle that had nothing to do with morals, just needs and justifications.

I wanted him for a client. Right then and there I knew whatever this guy saw in me, I could fill that need, so I carefully palmed one of Sleek's cards from my purse and pressed it into his big hand. He looked down and then up at me again. I didn't smile, but I kept his gaze.

"I think you like what you see," I told him. He didn't say a word, and I busied myself working my foot back into my shoe for a moment. When I looked up again, he blinked a little, and his voice was so soft I had to strain to hear it.

"How . . . much?"

I told him.

000 000 000

He didn't call until almost a month later, after the dust had settled on Bezich's murder. I was home that morning, setting up my weekly roster when Sleek's sent me a page about a request. Those are usually good calls because it means I've been referred by someone I trust. In this case it was myself, since I recognized his voice right away.

"You're the girl from the Tangier's lobby, the one I printed?" he asked softly. I smiled into the phone. Poor guy, probably lived in Vegas all his life and had never hooked up with a hooker before. I cleared my throat.

"Call me Slim. And I'll call you Mr. Grey. What can I do for you?"

Ah the awkward pause—we both know damn well what I could do for him; what he was going to pay for me to do for, to and with him, but I loved to make them say it out loud.

"You can meet me at the Sphere, room 1818," he replied in a steady voice. I was intrigued—could I have misjudged my Mr. Grey? I drew a breath, making a noncommittal sound, but he continued, "—In half an hour, please."

Politeness—another rarity in this business.

"Of course."

I hung up and spent a little more time than usual getting dressed, trying to find just the right thing for Mr. Grey. I settled on a slacks and a silk blouse with a long matching scarf around my neck. All long lines, accentuating my better features. I made the Sphere in good time, taking the elevator up, and feeling a little nervous as I did. The first appointment with a new client was always tricky, and potentially dangerous even though Sleek's has a call in policy and a speed dial alert button on my cell phone. I've had to fight off a few kinkier customers, and once walked out on one who wanted me to spray paint him with cooking oil from head to toe . . .

I knocked on 1818, which was at the end of the hall, near the exit. He opened the door and stood there for a moment, looking at me, all eyes and pursed mouth, waiting a long slow tick of the minutes as I looked back at him. The curtains were closed, the room dark.

Finally, he stepped back.

I stepped inside, and for a moment we stood there, within touching distance, not moving closer or away. At length I drew in a breath and crossed my arms.

"Mr. Grey . . . I'm going to help you out here," I finally murmured, bringing him out of whatever trance state he'd gone into. Carefully I set my purse down on the nightstand between the beds and came back to him. He watched me carefully as I took one of his hands and pressed it to my chest. His fingers were cold.

"Since you've never done this before, it goes like this. You pay me first. Once I have the money, you tell me what you want. I'm very choosy about who I'm with, so we'll use latex, which I have with me. I will not kiss you on the mouth. But, I will be whomever you want; say whatever you want; do whatever you desire, for the next hour and a half."

He nodded, his face taut. I held out my other hand, feeling him press the dry papery bills into it.

Crisp, new hundreds. Four of them.

I nodded back.

"Very good. Let me put this away."

When I'd tucked the money into my purse and turned back to him, he was staring at me intently. Another tricky moment; to stop him from changing his mind I stepped out of my shoes and caught his hands again, letting my thumbs caress the tendons on the backs of them.

"There is a reason you chose me," I began carefully, my voice soft and slow. He nodded. I spoke up again. "And it's because I'm her, or close enough to her, to pass."

He looked up, startled and clearly angry; I always hated having to lay Truth Number One out to my clients. For Doctor X I was someone named Molly; Mr. Doe always called me Carol. No matter, every john has someone he's fantasizing about, and it's never really me on that bed getting screwed. It's a Chloe, or a Patty or a Samantha . . . as I told you, names are important. I needed to know who Mr. Grey was hungry for if this was going to happen.

"Yes," he admitted in a choked, almost angry whisper. I nodded, glad that he wasn't going to deny it. It helped that we were in semi-darkness, more in shadow than light.

"Good," I told him, and very gently reached for his big shoulders. Tense. His body was ready for me, oh yeah, but his mind still held back a little. Rubbing those shoulders, I whispered very softly to him, letting him get used to my nearness, "Then use my name, babe."

A flare of nostrils; I must have said the right term of affection. He lifted his head and blinked a little, the ache in his eyes obvious. Her name came out in a small, hopeless way; a simple one of two syllables, Biblical.

He undressed me, touching my skin with his big, cool hands, moving with deliberation. He wanted me to leave the scarf on, and that amused me a little, but the client's always right, so I did. He had good hands, I'll give him that; very gentle. Some clients feel they've got a right to maul a rental, but not Mr. Grey. I had to fight down a flare or two myself when he stroked me.

See, I can't afford to get involved with a client. Not ever. A lot of my roster are genuinely nice men, charming and considerate, but I keep in mind that they're only leasing my body for a while, not making love to the real me. It's all fantasy, and while Pretty Woman was a box office hit, it doesn't happen that way in real life. We working girls know damn well that if we start feeling things with a client, then it's time to let him go and move on, so I put my focus back on Mr. Grey, where it was supposed to be. After all, it was his four hundred I was earning.

I stripped him down, talking softly to him, just little sounds of encouragement while he kept caressing me. I hadn't had a customer so touch hungry in a long time. Finally, when we were both naked in the bed and he had me in his arms, I let him bury his face in the crook of my neck, although his beard tickled like hell. I let him touch me, didn't hurry him even though the clock was ticking.

It was hard not to feel for this guy; and to stop it, I started wondering why he was stuck hiring me instead of nailing the woman I was pretending to be. He had no wedding ring, so it wasn't a matter of cheating on a wife, and I could see that Mr. Grey didn't have any trouble getting it up big time—not by the hot nudges of his prick on my leg.

All I could guess was either that she had turned him down and broken his heart, or maybe she was gone for good. Either way, he was about as desperate as a guy can get, and that depressed me a little. That meant it would be over quick, he'd hate himself for it, and I'd either never see him again, or that he'd only call me when he got worked up to this level of recklessness, which might be a good long time.

And I already knew I wanted to see Mr. Grey again.

I reached for the latex, got him suited up pretty quickly in the dark. I'm good at it, can even do it one-handed, which is a hell of a people skill let me tell you. He was dazed, sweating a little, so I took him in my arms and just sort of guided him to where he so urgently needed to be; by that first slow, intense, push I knew I had him.

Ooooooh yeah, nice to see that for all his nervousness he knew what the hell to do in bed. Big and strong, his hands slid up around my wrists and he murmured something in my ear. I said it out loud.

"Pin me down."

He moaned then, thrusting harder, deeper into me as I wrapped my legs around him. Jesus, it was sheer murder not to kiss him; I turned my face, letting my hair fall over it. Let him keep his fantasy, let him take me with all that bleak strength and desire surging up through his hungry body. I locked my ankles up around his ribcage, urging him on, making sure our rhythm was good and hot, that he lost himself in the wet, intense make-believe that I was the woman he wanted so badly.

He came, trying not to make a sound, but he did of course, a groan so low and sad it made me bite my lips. Normally I try to get the condom off the client within the first few minutes after Ground Zero, but Mr. Grey here needed to be held, so--I held him. Stroked those damp grey curls and murmured soft little wordless sounds as he rested his scratchy cheek on my chest.

"Shhhhhh, you're fine. I've got you . . ." it came out like I was soothing a baby, but I couldn't help it. Despite his size and power he was lonely. He gave in and let me hold him a while longer, then pulled away and off of me, his expression even bleaker than it had been before we'd started.

I knew the question that was coming. It always comes with the new ones, the guys who've never hired a girl before.

"H-how can you—"

I reach up and laid a hand over on his mouth, shaking my head softly, stopping him right there. Slowly, I turned to face him and drew in a breath.

Time for Truth Number Two.

"It's my living."

"But—"

"Hey, you print shoes and catch bad guys while I comfort clients when they need more than the touch of their own hands and insubstantial fantasies, Mr. Grey."

We stared at each other for a moment, and I refused to drop my eyes or pretend I was in any way morally inferior to him.

I charge what I'm worth.

Finally he gave a little nod and slipped an arm around me. I stayed gentle, not imposing, just encouraging him to give in to his need to touch and eventually his hormones got the better of him once more.

Such a lonely man.

Doggy style of course, a position perfect for hiding my face and letting him take the girl of his dreams. He was a bit rougher, but I understood, and kept my cries for his ears only, feeling his hands tighten on my hips as he rode me hard into his own sensual oblivion. He collapsed over my back and I felt drops along my spine that could have been sweat, but weren't.

I can always tell.

We showered together, which was almost more intimate than the sex, but I find it's a good way to bond a client to you. Scrub him up and give him all the pampering he's been missing down the line. Eighty percent of a top hooker's job isn't about sex, it's about personal care, and since I liked Mr. Grey it was almost fun. He didn't know what to do or even where to look as I soaped his big body. I kept things light, and cleaned him up, even going so far as to straighten the collar of his shirt and run a hand through his still-damp hair.

"There. All neat and tidy, Mr. Grey—"I teased him gently. Once we were dressed again, the old awkwardness came back, and I cleared my throat to get his attention. Carefully, I took one of his big hands in mine, the one that had held my shoe on that first meeting.

"I'll go first, since you paid for the room. Thank you for a nice time, Mr. Grey. You have my card when you need me again."

I turned to go. It's easier if I just slip out after my speech, so my clients don't feel obligated to make small talk, but he didn't let go of my hand, and I looked up at him, catching a look of bleak tenderness in his blue eyes; a man damning his own soul even as I watched.

"When?" he questioned, his voice soft, but the word hard and sharp, "—Not if?"

I nodded.

It would be a when. We both knew that.

He let go of my fingers then and I left him standing there in the shadowy darkness of 1818 without looking back.

000 000 000