I’d seen the real deal, so this was no longer authentic. I kept telling myself this was a space of authenticity, but it was only real for my clients, not for me.
In the hundreds of sessions with clients I’d done over the years, not a single one of them had made me feel worshipped the way Alex did. It was ultimately about their pleasure, not mine. And that was fine. Except I couldn’t do it anymore. I was viscerally repulsed by the idea of doing this with clients. And that made me so fucking angry.
How dare he have taken this from me?
I had to get through this session. I could do that much.
Greg kept touching me, fingers gently rubbing along each of my toes, and I had to dig my fingernails into my palms to keep from pulling away.
I couldn’t stand it. The more Greg touched me, the more I fought not to hyperventilate. I simply didn’t want him to touch me, physically couldn’t stand it for one more second.
“I’m so sorry, honey, but I’m really not feeling well. I’ll make sure you get a full refund and we’ll get you rescheduled, but I need to end the session.”
He looked confused. “Did I do something wrong, my lady?”
“No! You were amazing. You’re always amazing. I’m just lightheaded. Why don’t you go down to the lounge and I can send the available girls in. You can try someone new on the house.”
He stood up, but seemed unsure about leaving. I needed him to go away before I freaked the fuck out. “Greg, could you please go right down to the lounge and let whoever is at the desk know that I need Mistress Ophelia?”
He nodded and hurried out the door. Thankfully, he’d been here so many times he knew exactly how to get there.
Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Oh fuck.
I tried to take deep breaths, but they turned to gasps that threatened to turn to sobs.
Dean opened the door. “Are you okay, my lady?”
I shook my head vigorously. “Ophelia. Please get Ophelia.”
“She’s in a session. Let’s get you down to the dressing room.”
I took the hand he offered without protest and didn’t argue when he held my arm the whole way back down to the dressing room.
When we got there, I wondered what the hell he’d been thinking. At least in the parlor I could melt down in private. Now I was in crisis with an audience and still didn’t have Ophelia, who’d been my last hope to snap me out of it. Of course it was shift change and the dressing room was packed.
I don’t know exactly what happened in the minutes that followed, but at some point Victoria appeared and squatted down in front of me.
“Out.” At her command, everyone instantly dropped what they were doing and scattered from the room.
Once we were alone, she asked, “What’s the problem?” Her tone was just a fraction gentler than what she’d used with everyone else.
“I can’t do it anymore,” I blurted. “I walked away from him and now I don’t even have this and I don’t know who I am if I don’t have this and everyone is about to hate me and I’m freaking the fuck out.”
I was hyperventilating again.
Then Victoria was holding me, rocking me in her arms as she made soothing noises. I have no idea how long she held me before things started to clear and I felt calm settle over me.
“You okay?” she asked tentatively when she started to pull away.
“Yeah,” I said automatically. “I’m sorry. I made a scene, didn’t I?”
“Doesn’t matter.” A ghost of a smile was tugging at her mouth. “Fuck everyone else. You’re Lady Elena.”
“I know.” I sighed. “I’m Lady Elena and I just embarrassed myself. I’ll get it together.”
“No. You’re Lady Elena and you don’t have to get it together, nor do you have anything to prove. You’ve earned that title whether you’re a pro or not. You don’t have to do this for money to still be Lady Elena, but you seem to be confused about that. You’re still you if you don’t work here. We’ll all still respect the fuck out of Lady Elena if she never does another pay-for-play scene. Your identity doesn’t hinge on this. Breathe.”
I took a deep, shuddering breath.
