Authors: Barbara Palmer
She’d sought other professional treatments too—an injection of chemical filler to create pouty bee-stung lips that Lillian augmented with a topical gloss before performances, porcelain veneers applied to her teeth to keep them a pure white. She’d never opted for butt implants or other bodyscaping alterations that were so widespread now; she often wondered whether she’d ever have resorted to this surgery if her natural curves hadn’t been enough. Yes, probably. A newly wealthy crop of Middle Eastern men were pushing rates into the stratosphere, and top-tier escorts like her could now command upward of forty thousand dollars per night. A modest amount compared to some profligate expenditures. She knew of one businessman who hired several women at a time at those prices and then didn’t bother to even show up to sample the wares. Her fees provided an irresistible amount of money, and if surgeries could defy gravity for a few more years, she wouldn’t begrudge any woman the option.
“Okay, we’re finished with this.” Lillian gently set her foot back down, and golden sprinkles fell on the white sheet. “Let’s dress you now. It’s going to take ages. How on earth did court ladies move? Even going for a walk in all those layers of stuff would be hard. Imagine what it felt like on a sweltering summer day. And no antiperspirant—yech.”
Claudine laughed. “At least I get to do it in air-conditioning.”
After painstakingly lacing her stays, Lillian fastened the overdress, a fabulous creation in gold silk. Claudine rented many of her “costumes” from a talented New York couturier who also designed opera gowns.
She sat at her bedroom dressing table, swimming in yards of gold silk, while Lillian pinned her shoulder-length hair tightly to her head. She dipped her finger in a dark brown coloring agent, applying it to the perimeter of Claudine’s hairline, and then fitted the wig. They’d settled on brunette; the best color to enhance the gold dress. Flat across her crown, the wig had a center part with long, heavy ringlets falling on both sides of her head. Lillian fixed delicate pearl earrings into her earlobes.
“Okay. Up,” commanded Lillian.
She stood, and the waves of silk shimmered to the floor. Lillian fiddled with the dress, tugging and arranging it to make sure it fit perfectly. She stood back. “There! You look like a princess. Let me get you a drink before we do your makeup.”
“That would be great. Can you mix up one of those energy drinks? I already feel faint from these stays. It’s like my ribs have been pushed into my throat. I can hardly breathe. When they called stays ‘tight-laced,’ they sure as hell meant it.”
Lillian disappeared for a moment, then popped back into the
room. “Here,” she said, handing her the drink. “Be careful not to spill any.”
When Claudine finished it, Lillian made her sit again, covered her dress with a hairdresser’s wrap and applied her makeup. To add more mystique, Lillian applied tiny gold particles in a mask shape around her eyes and extending out to her temples with a skin-friendly adhesive. The effect was the same as a mask but more alluring. A misting of perfume provided the last touch. Although she changed her roles constantly, Claudine always wore the same rose-based fragrance. It was enhanced with pheromones to augment sexual attraction. A Paris perfumer had designed it especially for her as a signature scent.
Lillian helped her on with kid leather boots and folded a hooded, floor-length cape around her. “Be back by twelve, Cinderella.”
Her black BMW 760Li wasn’t roomy enough to accommodate her elaborate costume, so Andrei had rented an SUV. He pulled the front passenger seat as far forward as possible to fit her wide, hooped skirt. Even with that, she maneuvered into the back with difficulty. She let her hood fall away once she was seated and parted her cloak. “What do you think, Andrei?”
He looked over his shoulder and his hazel eyes lingered on her face. “Very beautiful. Here—I brought you something.” He reached down beside him and handed her a golden rose in full bloom, fitted artfully into a hair clip.
“How nice!” she exclaimed, genuinely surprised. She didn’t think Andrei had a sentimental side. Life for him always seemed a deadly serious proposition.
She’d met him at an Atlantic City all-night sex party, a
birthday celebration for one of the Russian mafia kingpins. They’d flown porno queens in from Hollywood for the event, and Claudine was the starring attraction. She’d noticed Andrei right away: a roughly handsome man who stood apart, watchful, but not lascivious. She could tell he wasn’t a bodyguard. They were obvious. Men who looked like they’d just stepped out of Rikers, thugs with weapons visibly bulging underneath their jackets. Andrei was more sophisticated than the others, but no less powerful. As the night wore on, the party got out of hand. One of the waitresses was cornered in a back room and gang-raped. With a nod to her client, Andrei appeared behind Claudine, placed a protective hand on her elbow and smoothly ushered her to a dark sedan. At her request, he saw her home, and waited until she disappeared in the elevator before pulling away. She called the client the next day for Andrei’s contact information and when she reached Andrei, asked him to work for her. She knew basic details about him like his age—he was thirty-six—but otherwise he told her little about his life and she didn’t press him on it. She knew he had a license to carry a concealed weapon, not something easy to get in New York State. Even better, he was discreet and loyal. One of a kind.
“Andrei—thank you. I love it.” She fastened the rose just above her ringlets. “I’m guessing Lillian suggested this—didn’t she?”
He glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “You don’t think I can admire a lovely woman—even if she is a browbeating boss?”
“Browbeating? I’ll dock your pay for that.”
He smiled and started the car.
The Aqua Club was located in a former hotel—a Greek Revival sandstone building near the Village renovated into offices
and galleries. A luxury spa was housed on the first floor, a bar on the second floor and private party rooms above. The bar was noted for its fine tapas, superb jazz and upstairs rooms for swingers and others interested in discreet sex-oriented entertainment.
She pulled the hood and cape around her once more. Andrei waved as she climbed out. “I’ll park and wait for you downstairs,” he said. She presented her card to the club doorman, who called up to her client and escorted her past the spa entrance to the elevator. On the third floor, she stepped into a small lobby where her host, Claude Ferrer, waited for her. He was of medium height, slim, with gray hair, and Andrei’s research disclosed that Ferrer was in his late fifties and unmarried. He was dressed in black trousers and a tailcoat, open to reveal a rich brocade waistcoat and white silk ascot pierced with a diamond stickpin. He doffed his hat fully enjoying the fantasy. “Good evening, my lady,” he intoned dramatically. “You are a vision.”
He raised her hand to his lips and murmured against her skin, “I thank you for your efforts. The dinner arrangements are impeccable. And I have no doubt that you’ve taken as much care with the entertainment.”
“Thank you, sir, for your delightful invitation.” She gave him her most winning smile, dipping slightly in a mock curtsey. She parted her cape to reveal the tops of her round breasts, dusted with gold.
He took the folds of the cape from her hands and pressed them closed against her bosom. His fingertips ran lightly over her throat. “Please leave your cape on. My guests are looking forward to the reveal.” He playfully tweaked her chin.
She didn’t care for the gesture, which she found condescending and over-familiar, but she took pains to hide her displeasure.
Ferrer turned to press a button on the walnut paneling behind him. The doors swung open to reveal an intimate Victorian dining room. Wine-colored velvet drapes covered the windows and old oil portraits in gilt frames gleamed in the candlelight. Maroon divans trimmed in black flanked the walls, on which flickering sconces were mounted. Two ornate candelabras upon the table cast an ambient glow over crystal stemware. Vintage Victorian china laden with fresh oysters on the half shell, partridge beautifully garnished, lobster with lettuce wedges in an egg and oil dressing, broiled lamb kidneys and assorted side dishes promised a sumptuous dinner. Claudine admired the presentation, gratified the arrangements had turned out so well.
“Ladies and gentlemen, may I present Claudine.”
Ferrer’s guests, two men and three women seated around the table, turned to regard her. The men’s features lit up in admiration. The women, a blonde and two redheads, regarded her with cool but not unkind appraisal. She guessed they were escorts. While not yet a legend, she had earned an impressive reputation; the men were fascinated and the women had a professional interest.
Ferrer stood behind her, and with long tapered fingers, pulled the hood from her hair and the cloak from her shoulders with a flourish. An off-the-shoulder swath of lace and ruffles beaded with pearls exposed her shoulders and deep cleavage. The bodice dipped to a marked V at her tiny waist and billowed out to a very wide skirt sweeping to the floor in tiers of embroidered, lace-edged ruffles.
The women scrutinized every inch of her gown, imagining what it must have cost. The blonde, wearing a red velvet gown with a bodice trimmed in transparent voile so that the rouged nipples of her breasts showed through, smiled at her wantonly. The other two, dressed identically in green satin with copper-colored wigs, looked at each other and whispered behind their hands. Their gowns were attractive but came from a standard costume house.
Ferrer made introductions. The two men—Clayton, middle-aged, and Haines, in his thirties, both well-groomed—kissed her hand. “I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, gentlemen.” When it was their turn, the matching redheads pecked her cheeks demurely. The blonde, more brazen than her counterparts, brushed her breasts against Claudine’s and kissed the corner of her mouth in full view of the men.
“Charmed, I’m sure,” whispered the blonde.
Once they were seated, a waiter dressed as a footman emerged from the shadows to pour wine into Ferrer’s goblet. He tasted the vintage and nodded to the waiter, who filled the guests’ glasses.
“It is a wonderful occasion that brings us together, gentlemen. The celebration of a business deal that will make us all very wealthy. The contracts are signed, the press releases prepared. All that’s left for us to do is seal the deal. These beautiful women”—he raised his glass to the redheads, the blonde and lastly to Claudine—“are for your delectation. You’ve earned them, and I have no doubt that they will make sure we never forget this night.”
Ferrer clinked glasses with Claudine, while Haines toasted the blonde. Clayton sipped from the goblet of the redhead on
his right, then from the redhead’s on his left. They giggled again when Clayton’s hands moved beneath the table to stroke their thighs. A package deal, she thought. Two for the price of one?
The waiter served the oysters to start. Claudine nibbled at her food, still feeling half-suffocated by the stays. Across from her, the blonde sucked her oyster from its shell while staring intently into Claudine’s eyes. It was a brazen signal, and one Ferrer immediately noticed approvingly. He motioned for Haines to fully expose the breasts of the blonde. Clayton pulled down the voile, and the blonde’s rouged nipples hardened at once. She let the juice from the oyster trace a glistening trail between her jutting breasts, all the while keeping her eyes latched onto Claudine’s. She let the empty shell clatter to her plate and plucked another from the dish, sucking it noisily.
Ferrer’s hand rested on Claudine’s thigh. He began to stroke it through the delicate fabric. Taking his cue, her hand stole to his groin and fondled his penis, fully hard in his trousers.
He pushed her hand away delicately and cleared his throat. “Tell me, Clayton, how are you finding the entertainment so far?”
Clayton fondled the breasts of the redheads on either side of him. He had his tongue in the ear of the redhead on his right. “No complaints here.” He laughed loudly, bending his head to suckle her nipple.
Puzzled by Ferrer’s behavior, Claudine wondered if he was displeased. He signaled for more wine and watched delightedly as Haines took the bottle from the footman, poured it directly into the open mouth of the blonde. She offered her crimson lips to him in thanks, kissing him passionately on the mouth.
The wine flowed liberally and soon Clayton had a redhead in his lap. A scattering of freckles dusted the tops of her breasts.
Her friend leaned over, captured her breast, ran her tongue around the pale areola, drawing it delicately into her mouth. Clayton took her other breast between his lips. The redhead on his lap giggled and held both her breasts aloft so the other guests could see their mouths working hungrily at her.
Ferrer gazed appreciatively at the sight, then signaled for the plates to be cleared. After the waiter left, he rose. “Gentlemen and ladies, I’ll keep you waiting no longer. Before dessert is served, I’m pleased to offer a very special treat. My sugarplum fairy.” He took up his wineglass and inclined his head toward Claudine. “To a lady of unsurpassed sweetness.” The guests raised their glasses and toasted her.
“Why, thank you,” she said with a hint of coquettishness. She felt a tingle rush through her body. The performance was about to begin in earnest.
With an enigmatic smile, she got up and walked over to a small dais. It was only a step high and when she slipped off her kid boots, her skirts billowed over it, hiding it from view. Ferrer circled her. “The Victorians, ladies and gentlemen, liked their women demure, obedient and modest. So do I.”
Haines laughed out loud, and then looked around embarrassed when no one joined in. Ferrer continued, “But from time to time, a man needs more than the pleasures a virtuous wife can provide. Beneath her lovely accoutrements, Claudine is a wanton woman. Do you believe me?”
Haines wasn’t risking another misstep, so Clayton spoke up. “Ferrer, I think we must see for ourselves.”
“Quite right, Clayton, quite right!”
Ferrer positioned himself behind Claudine and slowly untied the laces of her gown. The bodice fell open and the gown slipped
in a crumpled golden heap to the floor. She stood in her underclothing, the hoops of her crinoline like a delicate cage. Ferrer helped her step out of the stiff garment, and began to undo her stays. She considered playfully resisting him, but the serious look upon his face gave her pause. The petticoat came next. He tugged it down to her feet and left her standing in her short muslin shift. Squatting at her feet, he reached up, pushed down a garter and rolled down the silk stocking. He repeated the process on the other leg, then, like a magician producing a rabbit, swept her shift over her head with a flourish.