The question hangs in the air between us, loaded with implications. I think of my mother, of Reggie's threats, of the mountain of debt crushing us.
I blow out a breath, ruffling my bangs. “Look, I’ll be frank, Mr. Smith. If the mob catch up with me, I don’t doubt they’ll do everything your clients will and worse. At least this way, I’ve consented, and I’ll get paid. If it’s a choice between the two…” I gulp down the reality. “Well, there is no choice, so yes," I whisper, sealing my fate.
He holds my gaze for a long time. Long enough for me to squirm in my seat. What’s with him? I agreed already, and I’m going into this with my eyes wide open, so why doesn’t he just sign me up? What more can he possibly want?
Finally, he purses his lips and huffs a little. “Okay then. You make a strong argument on something I normally might have declined. And as it happens, I had a fantasy proposal come through this morning that might work for you. Take a look at it and decide if it’s right for you.”
I release the breath I didn’t realize I was holding and nod my head, trying not to appear too excited. But this is what I need. Something immediate.
He slides a document across the desk and makes to stand. “There’s a limits list attached. It’s generic, but exhaustive. It covers all the activities our clientsmightrequire, but it’s not specific to this contract. We don’t require a proposal to list every kink or activity they want to perform, because those things are fluid and depend on circumstances and desires at any given moment, so it’s more of a general outline. Read both of them through carefully,” he instructs. “Very carefully. I’ll be back in ten minutes.”
He leaves the room, and I suck in a deep draught of air in an attempt to quell the tremor in my fingers as I reach for the document. I have no idea what to expect, but I guess I’m about to find out.
Picking up the paper, I begin to read, my eyes widening as I scan the contents, and my heart racing faster with each line. The ‘fantasy’ described is far more detailed and intense than anything I could have imagined. It involves bondage, impact play, and acts that make my cheeks burn just from thinking about them.
I swallow around the lump in my throat, trying to calm my nerves. Can I really go through with this? The money offered is indeed substantial - more money than I ever dreamed seeing in my lifetime in a single payment. Enough to cover our debt and have some left over to get to our feet again. It’s everything I could have dreamed of and more… but the things they want me to do!
"Jeez! I’ll definitely earn every penny," I mutter to nobody but myself.
And most of this stuff is completely foreign to me outside the realms of the spicy books I sometimes read.
I close my eyes, taking a deep breath, thinking of my mom and the threats hanging over our heads. This may be degrading, even painful, but it's still better than what the mob would do to us. At least here, I have some control. Some choice.
I tell myself that over and over in the hope I’ll start to believe it. Accept it.
But the truth is, I’m terrified.
Just not as terrified as I am of Reggie and his threats.
When Mr. Smith returns, I've made up my mind - mostly. Though I still have questions.
“Ah… so is everything in this proposal set in stone?” I ask, not sure where to look, because frankly, this is embarrassing. The idea that this man will know what I'll be doing with the proposer of this fantasy, that he’ll have first-hand knowledge of how I’ve debased myself, is mortifying.
He’s quiet for a moment, so I risk a peek at him. He has one eyebrow raised, and that expression of reluctance is back on his face, like he’s not certain I’m cut out for this, regardless of my assertions.
“That’s what your limits list is for.” He references the second document he gave me, which I hadn’t fully understood. “Anything you absolutely won’t do will be recorded as a hard limit, which means it won’t happen. You’ll also have a safe word; a word you can use to stop whatever is happening, no questions asked. Our clients are vetted thoroughly and will respect both.”
The relief I feel is immense, but it’s short-lived.
"I thought of you for this proposal precisely because of your lack of training, since I know it’s what the client wants. But I’ll be honest, I have plenty of people on my books who will happily fulfill his requirements.”
It hadn’t even occurred to me that I’d be up against other girls, some with infinitely more experience. Though why not, I don’t know.
My stomach drops. This is my one shot, and I'm competing against practiced women who know what they’re doing. How can I possibly measure up?
"I... I see," I stammer, trying to keep the panic from my voice. "What can I do to improve my chances?"
Mr. Smith leans back, studying me with those piercing eyes.
“It shouldn’t come down to 'improving your chances'. That's generally not how any of this works. But, the fact is, the more flexible you are, the more likely it is you’ll be chosen, so if you’re serious, don’t minimize your opportunities by excluding anything unless you really can’t bear it.”
The logic of his words hits me, and I look at the list again, mentally unticking all the things I’d been considering checking off as limits.
Anal. Whipping. Caning. Asphyxiation. Mummification. Bloodletting. SCAT. Piercing. Fire play. Drowning. Electrical play. Consensual non-consent. Age Play. Public Sex. Role Play. Toys. Sharing. Knife play. Shibari.
Okay, I’ll admit it. Maybe I need some more insight into some of this stuff, because this reads more like torture than kink, and in the light of stuff like bloodletting, suddenly anal doesn’t seem so bad.
“Is there a way I can limit some of these kinks without writing them off altogether?” I ask, and Mr. Smith is surprisingly forthcoming given his previous reticence.
