I can’t blame her, I’ve been subconsciously scooting toward the door since we got here. “Bag a cat? Why would you want to put a cat in a bag? Don’t they hate that?”
“It’s just a saying, Ivy! Now stop moving or I’ll jab this mascara wand into your eye. Let’s go through the rest of your limits page, I’ll help you finish.”
We’re in the dressing room on the infamous third level and I’d only gotten a glimpse of the spectacular main room with soaring ceilings and elaborate stained-glass skylights before she dragged me in here. This dressing room has elegant floral-patterned furniture, antique dressing tables, and a huge walk-in closet filled with hundreds of dresses and matching pairs of shoes, all designer, all gorgeous. Whoever keeps this room stocked has wonderful taste.
Oddly, her irritability is soothing my panic. If the most urgent thing Gabby can see right now is my lackluster eyelids, then maybe getting auctioned off like an old painting isn’t the worst thing in the world.
Of course, the old painting would not then be expected to take its frame off and curl into bed and let a stranger stick his dick into it.
Pulling out the folder, I flipped to the limits list. “Um… Breast bondage.”
“Say yes,” Gabby urged, “that can be fun, especially with clamps on your nipples.”
“Oh, my god,” I moan, “please. I’m this close to panicking and leaving an Ivy-shaped hole in the door as I run screaming down the street.”
“Check yes!”
“Fine,” I make the mark and go to the next item. “Gags. Oh, there’s a lot here, ball, bit, phallic, ring…inflatable?”
“I’d check yes except for on the bit gag, those can chip a tooth if you’re really into the scene,” she says.
I’m trying to shove down the panic rising like a tsunami inside me and this list isn’t helping. “Leashes?”
“You should probably clarify if that’s part of pet play,” she says knowledgeably, “pet play can get messy if they expect you to eat out of a bowl or use a litter box- hey! Hey, hey, hey. Sit down!”
Her grip is like iron and my ass hits the pretty little stool again.
“Let’s make this easier,” she sighs, “go through all of them now and write ‘fuck, no!’ on the ones you’re never going to warm up to. Then let’s work on some maybes. There have to be a fewmaybes. It shows that you’re open-minded. And stop sweating, you’re messing up your foundation.”
With a shaky hand, I manage to get through the rest, though a couple - like abrasion (scraping, sanding) and needle play - make me wonder if faking my death might be a better idea. I could sell my organs on the black market, one by one.
Signora Mancelli picked out two dresses for me, one is a spectacular black corset top with yards and yards of black silk billowing into a skirt. The other is vintage Dior, a dark purple off-shoulder lace gown with a long, sweeping back skirt. Gabby holds up one against me and then the other, eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
“The black makes you look more sophisticated, but the purple really brings out the violet in your eyes. Let’s go with that.” She hooks the hanger over my head to use me as a mannequin while she finds matching shoes.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure,” she’s digging through the lingerie boxes, “what’s up?”
“Could you… could you forget, you know, afterward? You don’t keep thinking about it?” I ask.
She stands up with some flossy-looking bits of lavender lace and silk and throws them on the pile. “Girl, why are you doing this?” Her smile is kind as I look away. “You’re sending money to someone. At first, I thought it was going up your nose but you’re too uptight for that. Nobody works at a Mafia sex club unless they need serious money.”
“Wait. What? A mafia-”
“The point is,” she interrupts, “is I do the same thing. Mypapà stronzo,my asshole dad left my mom after cleaning outtheir retirement accounts. I still have four brothers and sisters at home.” She fixes my hair, giving me a shrewd look. “You’re not living in that shitty apartment with us because you enjoy sleeping on the couch. You don’t have to tell me who it’s for, but when you’re standing on that stage tonight, you think of them.”
I always thought Gabby - beautiful, fearless Gabby - was just living it up until she was ready to settle down with some rich, hot guy. I even envied her carefree existence. It’s a good reminder that everyone’s life is as complicated as mine. Maybe not as life and death, but we all have reasons for our desperation.
If the first floor of Club Vice is the bowels of hell, the third level is heaven. We pass through one huge room that’s built to look like an old English manor library, all wood paneling, and a roaring fireplace. I look longingly at the endless shelves of books before I’m dragged through another room that looks like a wine cellar, with cobblestone floors and a massive bar with hundreds of gleaming wine glasses.
“How do they uh, use the wine?” I mumble to Gabby.
She shoots me an amused look. “That really is just for wine tasting.”
The largest space on the third floor is a common area with multiple seating arrangements; suede couches, comfortable chairs, and enormous low tables that make sense when I see women laid out on one or two of them, getting the business from both ends. There’s beautiful, profane artwork from some of the finest Italian painters hanging on the walls and a raised area in the center where Signora Mancelli is speaking to an older man in a tux.
“Remember, no pictures or video. The members know the rules but there’s always someone who tries. The girls will come from the holding room on the left side and exit to the right.”
