The Devil’s Pawn (3 page)

Liz explains this is our common living space. The individual rooms assigned to the women are large bedrooms with their own bathrooms, but the living space is shared. Mr. Pennington’s space is on the opposite end of the long corridor and is a full apartment with a living space and kitchen of its own. After showing me around the kitchen and touring the great room, she escorts me along the corridor to what will be my room. It is directly opposite Mr. Pennington’s apartment and is the last room available on the floor. That leaves eight women living on this floor. There are six rooms along one side of the corridor, mine included, and on the opposite side of the corridor is Mr. Pennington’s apartment, and then the short side corridor that houses the elevators, and then two more rooms and the great room.

As we enter my room, I see that my bags have already been brought up and placed at the foot of the bed. The room is impressive. Again, the outside wall is one expansive window from the floor to the high ceiling. There are drapes that can be closed, but I can’t imagine what would ever make me want to block out that view. The bed is a massive king-sized contemporary platform bed that sits with its head against the window wall. It has no headboard, and the platform is designed with simple straight lines. The furniture is equally simple, but beautiful. There is a dresser, a chaise lounge and a TV mounted to the wall. The bathroom sits off the side of the room and has a double sink, large soaker tub, and separate shower. The toilet is in a small, separate private room. The expansive walk-in closet is also accessed from within the bathroom.

As we return to the bedroom, Liz sits in the chaise, and I sit on the bed nearby. It’s time to review the rules and expectations, and I wonder oddly if there is anything other than fucking me, and begrudgingly at that, that Derek will do. But Liz explains her role further when she advises me that she’s the floor’s senior escort, and it is her responsibility to help me acclimate to our house. As she reviews the rules, my heart lurches with each passing statement. She speaks as if she is speaking to anyone anywhere while reviewing the ins and outs of being an escort, and I have to remind myself that speaking about sex so overtly is quite a normal thing here, and of course, it would be.

First and foremost, we’re expected to accommodate the wishes of our clients to the extent that we can safely do so. We’re expected to have sex, vaginal and oral, at any time our client might request it during our time with them. We are also expected to have anal sex, but are only required to agree to this once every two weeks, though you can agree more often if you choose because it does pay better, and as such, women often choose to engage in this act more often than they are required. Other women, who find the act distasteful and uncomfortable, appreciate the small measure of control it affords them. I have a feeling I will fall into the latter of these categories. I’m terrified enough about having sex. Anal sex is a whole other monster for me to fear.

Women are not to orgasm unless asked to by their clients. Some like for women to orgasm, others prefer they not. Clients are required to use a condom when engaged in vaginal and anal sex. They are not to come inside a woman’s mouth. House managers are exempt from the safety precautions, as their sexual health is as managed as the escorts’. We are expected to be well groomed, and it will be up to Derek whether I keep my pubic hair or lose it altogether. The other women of the house are waxed completely, and so I should expect the same. I’m to wear dresses on the gaming room floor, when I am with Derek, and whenever I leave Trimbles. Makeup is required, but we have a spa that will handle choosing the appropriate cosmetics and hairstyle for me. I sure hope they throw in lessons as well.

We are monitored closely by cameras in our bedrooms and bathrooms, and as I follow Liz’s hand as she points up to the corner of the room, I notice, for the first time, the small, black dome mounted in the corner of the room. It is able to monitor every inch of the room. The other is mounted in the corner of the bathroom and covers all visible area in that room as well. The only areas that aren’t watched by camera are the walk-in closet and the toilet room off the bathroom.

Liz goes on to explain that Mr. Pennington has access to view the footage in real time or turn over control to the security department that monitors all working time of the women from all four houses. Mr. Pennington can’t monitor all activities of his women on any given night, and he is often in the gaming room for the better portion of the night as well, so it is the primary responsibility of the security department to monitor the activities of the women and report any problems to the appropriate house manager. It sends a chill up my spine to imagine Mr. Pennington watching my every move should he choose to do so. He could be watching my interaction with Liz at this very moment, and it is an unnerving thought I find hard to shake. However, since he seems to hate me, I’m guessing he’s doing just about anything else in the world but watching me … I hope.

Liz continues talking, moving on to Mr. Pennington and what his expectations are. It is a far less procedural and far simpler experience that she relates. There are no set rules when working with your house manager. They are all different, and so she can tell me only what she knows through her own history with him. He is cold and difficult to read. No duh… But, he isn’t violent, and he has no real interest in punishing his women. He fucks hard and always from behind, shocking given his oh-so-personable attitude. He will rarely, if ever, give his women permission to come. He also follows the house procedure to a T and uses condoms whenever he has sex with one of his women, though he’s not required to. He also refrains from coming in his women’s mouths, though as a manager, again he could choose to if he wished. But according to Liz, “his cock is impressive,” and she never leaves dissatisfied, though she always “finishes” herself off with her vibrator when she returns to her room. Again with the overt language and description. I blush furiously at her casual tone, and I haven’t the slightest idea how I’m supposed to respond. I can’t help but wonder, in my overly naïve brain, what exactly an “impressive cock” looks like, but I terrifyingly acknowledge I’ll likely find out soon enough.

As Liz stands to leave me in my new home, I find out I’m exactly right about that fact. I’m to be in his room in an hour…

Chapter 3

As I sit in the large bathtub quickly shaving my legs—a suggestion of Liz’s—I desperately try to calm my nerves. I’ve never been a drinker, but I would do just about anything for a shot of something strong and numbing right about now. It is apparent from Liz’s approach to me that she has no idea I’m a virgin, and I decide to keep that bit of information to myself. It won’t be true come tomorrow, and I can see no point labeling myself incompetent right off the bat. I should at least be given the opportunity to earn that label, and I have no doubt whatsoever that I will. When I’m dried off and my hair is pulled back in a bun, I slip into a short white sundress, the only dress of any sort I have. Mere moments before I’m expected, I leave my room, crossing the hall to Derek’s. I knock and stand back, waiting with trembling hands and butterflies the size of birds winging violently through my stomach.

Many moments later, the door is opened, and the dark-eyed ruler of my universe stands in front of me. He is wearing the same sleek, well-tailored black dress pants he was wearing earlier in my interview, but now with no shirt, and what I’d taken to be a lean and strong body earlier in the day proves to be that and much more. His body is tight and he is well muscled. His waist is trim and flat. His chest is lightly haired in the same dark color as his head, and his pectoral muscles are highlighted perfectly by his hard nipples. He looks like a damn underwear model, and as my eyes rake his body, his eyes take in mine too. By the look on his face, he is far less impressed with my appearance than I am with his.

He stands aside, saying nothing, and allows me to enter. As I step through the door, I find I’m in another expansive room with a wall of windows along the back wall. The apartment is an open studio, but far larger and more impressive than any studio I’ve ever seen. His kitchen is open to the rest of the apartment and sits off to the left of the door. The dining room table sits in the space in front of the kitchen and opens to the living room. The wall of windows is split down the center with a wall that separates a TV-viewing area on one side from a bedroom on the other. Both are open to the rest of the apartment. Off of the bedroom is a door I can only assume is a bathroom. It’s an incredible space by any standard. The scent is clean and inviting, much more so than the look on Derek’s face.

He is glaring at me once again, and I quickly realize he still hates my guts. After looking at me for many long seconds while I stand fidgeting and biting furiously at my lip, he speaks. “Take your underwear off. Let’s get this over with.”

My mouth drops in an instant as terror seizes my body. I pause for many moments before I reach awkwardly up under the skirt of my dress and pull my underwear down my hips and to my ankles. I step out of them and hold them in my hand for lack of anything better to do with them.

He leaves for his bedroom but stops me when he realizes I’m following him. “Stay there. I don’t need you bleeding all over my sheets.”

I watch, stunned, as he moves to his bedside table, removes a tube of something, and palms a condom before walking back to where I’m waiting at his dining room table.

He looks me hard in the eyes once more. “Last chance to run.” He’s expressionless, and his words are serious.

He has no idea why or how committed I am to this decision, and in a rather characteristic slip of the tongue, I match his challenge before I can stop myself. “Don’t you want my dress off for this? It is white … wouldn’t want to get blood all over it.” Holy shit. Why can’t I ever just shut up!

And with that same expressionless glare, he responds, “I’ve seen all I care to see of your body today, and that piss-poor excuse of a dress isn’t my fucking problem.” Burn. “Now turn around and bend over the table.”

I peel my eyes from his, trying to stifle the terror that must be showing there so obviously, and I do as he tells me to. I bend over the table with my elbows on the beautiful mahogany finish, resting my palms on the cool surface. Moments later, he moves behind me. Sound and touch are the only senses I can rely on at the moment without craning my neck around, which I refuse to do, and every sound and touch I hear and feel intensifies my fear.

First, I hear his zipper lower, and my breath audibly hitches in my throat. Next, I feel his pants brush softly past my calves as the light wool fabric falls to the floor. Again, my breath falters. When the cap of the tube is popped open, I literally jump. And finally, when his hands pull my dress up the back of my thighs and his knuckles brush my skin slowly and lightly, I start to tingle all over as a recognizable warmth and wetness spreads between my legs. I can’t believe my body is responding to his lightest touch, but I have to admit, were I not terrified of this man and what was to come, I could very likely enjoy the touch of his hands, and the warmth and wetness they’ve caused.

The last touch I feel before it happens are his fingers on my virgin sex, and as they perfunctorily stroke my entry, his fingers freeze unexpectedly. He stands incredibly still, and I’m suddenly confused at the stall. With each passing second, my mind registers what has happened: he’s found my unexpected wetness, and I’m suddenly humiliated. Moments later, his fingers explore me farther, stroking lightly over my opening again before thrusting inside quickly. I gasp a shocked breath at his touch. When he withdraws from me, I can perceptibly hear his own breathing just slightly louder than before. He snaps the lid of the tube quickly back into place before setting it unused on the table next to my hand, very intentionally within my line of sight. I hear the condom packet being torn open, and then he places his hand next to mine on the table, still very intentionally within my sight, and I can see the glistening wetness left on his fingers from my body.

The blunt, and what I can only assume is “impressive,” head of his penis nudges my entry and the wetness there as my heart quickens and borders on panic, and with one last very audible exhalation of his breath, he thrusts hard into me. The pain is instantaneous and swift, and I cry out loudly and inadvertently. The pain that radiates through my insides would nearly bring me to my knees were his hips and penetration not holding me firmly in place. I can barely breathe at the feel of his body within mine. His hips are square against my bottom, and he is holding perfectly still. The invasion is complete, and as I pray for the searing pain to subside quickly, he starts to pull from me. This launches another wave of pain through my womb, and I can feel the tears start to prick at my eyes.

I will myself desperately not to cry in front of him, but I’m fighting a losing battle. As his length leaves my body, the first of my tears runs down my cheeks. But he can’t see my face, and I hope against hope I can get out of this with my dignity intact. This is not a man who will let my weakness go unnoticed, and that, above all else, is what terrifies me about him. He starts to enter me again, slowly this time, and every millimeter he moves is a piercing invasion of my tight sheath, but he is relentless and pushes to his hilt slowly and surely until he is buried completely within me again.

The next thrusts come fast and hard. He moves against me over and over, and as his movements go on ceaselessly, the pain eventually dulls to a deep ache. My tears continue to escape from my eyes, more now from the shock of the experience than anything else, and as he continues plunging and retreating over and over, my head drops between my shoulders and so, too, do my tears to the table in front of me. I’m powerless to stop them or hide them from this man, and as he sees the effect of this first, most brutal experience in the small teardrops that fall to his table, he abruptly pulls himself from my body with a growl deep in his throat. He stays panting behind me, his hand still on the table by my side before raging in my ear, “Get the fuck out!”