Page 34 of Blue Velvet

I shake my head, ignoring the fact that she tries to flinch away from me when I reach for her to gently stroke along the side of her face, moving away a strand of blond hair.

“No, this is my house, my stuff,” I say. “And you’re right, I could afford to buy you. I’ve actually contracted with the agency before.”

She inhales audibly, suggesting that this revelation gets to her.

“Which is why I’m familiar with the agency you work for,” I add.

“How do you know-”

“Because I found your business card, toy,” I cut her off. “Violent Delights. I’ve actually been one of their clients.”

“But not this time.”

“Not this time,” I confirm.

“Why not?” Her lower lip is quivering, and her question is laced with desperation. “Why the hell did you not buy me or someone like me?”

“Because I grew tired of acting,” I tell her. “I’m tired of fancy whores pretending to be someone they’re not, pretending to like something they don’t like for the sake of the client, pretending to be scared or helpless, when in reality they know they’re perfectly safe because of a contract. I’ve grown to hate this fakeness, people who show anxiety when they have nothing to fear.”

She looks at me with a contemplative expression on her face. It actually looks like she understands me, like she can relate to what I’m sharing with her.

“You wanted the real thing,” she concludes in a hoarse whisper. “But all you got was another whore who thought she was hired to do this.”

I’m startled when she begins laughing. It’s not a happy laugh. It’s the creepy kind of laugh from someone who’s about to lose their mind, the kind you hear coming from the evil villain’s throat in a movie, just before he blows up an entire city. The kind of mad laughter of a lunatic.

I stare at her with narrowed eyes and can’t help but worry for a moment, but she recovers soon enough. She’s shaking her head as if trying to cast the urge to laugh away.

“I can’t believe this is fucking happening,” she breathes without looking at me. “This cannot be fucking real.”

I huff. “You’re telling me, toy.”

“Stop calling me that,” she demands.

“I can call you whatever the fuck I want,” I remind her, grabbing a fistful of her hair and pulling her head back so she’s forced to look at me. “Do you understand?”

She glares at me through glassy eyes.

“You must’ve been so disappointed,” she says in a voice so low that I can barely hear her. “Here you are, out to get yourself a pretty little victim to fuck, something real, someone who’s actually afraid of you, someone who does what... succumbs to your dominant charm eventually? And all you get is the same old thing, a whore, ready to bend way too easily at your will.”

I let go of her hair, feeling oddly defeated by her words. Everything she says is true, but it makes me feel terrible to hear her say it.

“You know, I’m not doing this job because I have no other choice,” she goes on. “I’m doing it because I fucking enjoy it. You say what we provide is merely an act, but it’s not, not with me.”

Our eyes meet. Her lips are pressing into a thin line, trembling as she pushes them together, unable to prevent another set of tears from streaming down her cheeks.

“I admit, I started doing this job out of necessity, but if I wanted to, I could’ve stopped a long time ago,” she adds. “But I didn’t. Ineedthis. I enjoy it, and what I’m giving my clients is way more than just an act. I crave the things they do to me just as much as they crave doing it. There’s barely anything fake about me.”

She stops, smiling to herself. “Except for my tits, I give you that. They’re as fake as they come.”

I can’t help but join her little chuckle. Her eyes flicker when she sees me laughing with her, silently telling me to stop.

“You don’t believe me?”

I clear my throat, throwing her an earnest look. “I have no reason to doubt your words, toy.”

She sighs.

“This could’ve been nice, you know,” she laments. “If you had just paid for me, if you had indeed been my client. I think I would’ve enjoyed that.”

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