Page 4 of Enthrall
“That’s where we take our clients,” she said huskily.
My spine tingled with anticipation. I discreetly took in her attire. Those thigh high boots and her fitted leather corset that creaked seductively when she moved; the way her pale cleavage rose above the delicate lace edging. The spicy scent of incense wafted through the air and music flowed out of hidden speakers; a deep, foreign chanting that was so soothing, so enticing, it made my stomach quiver. It was all so forbidden.
Slowly, she curled a strand of my long hair around her fingertip. “Are you a natural blonde?”
“Yes.”
“Beautiful,” she said. “You look like you’ve stepped right out of a William-Adolphe Bouguereau.”
“Um…”
“A painter.” She smiled softly. “He knew how to portray the soul of a woman. He’d have perfectly captured your delicate frame, those deep blue eyes and your rosebud lips.” She leaned in closer. “Only the old masters could have painted your innocence.”
An awkwardness followed.
After stepping into the lift, I held my breath until the doors closed. Mistress Lotte oozed a sensuality I’d only ever read about. Those last few minutes left my head spinning, as if I awoke from a dream I took in the lift. It looked expensive with its full length mirrors, plush carpet, and state-of-the-art buttons. I glanced around for a camera but couldn’t see one.
My Mini-Cooper was parked between a silver BMW and black Jaguar. I moaned when I saw oil trailing from beneath my car, staining the concrete. I hoped my Mini would at least start and I’d not bring unwanted attention by having to rev the engine to get it going.
Lingering for a few minutes in the fresh air, I took in all that grandness. This Pacific Palisades club even intimidated from the outside with its chic brickwork design, an ornate facade rising up as a majestic statement of privilege. Had I really believed a girl like me could ever get to work in such an elegant place like Enthrall?
What the hell had I been thinking?
A NEW DEGREE OF HUMILIATION had found me.
Apparently I’d discovered original ways to embarrass myself. I sat at my studio apartment kitchen counter, replaying the hellish interview over and over.
I buried my face in my hands.
That dream of a one bedroom apartment would have to wait. When I’d first moved into this studio it had felt like a palace with more space then I’d ever had to myself. Though now I’d outgrown it, and all this secondhand furniture made me feel like a failure. That old couch in the corner with its strategically positioned pillows to hide the stains left by its previous owner. That rickety old fridge that woke me up each night as it shuddered away, trying to spit out cubes of ice from its freezer long broken.
This glass of Sauvignon Blancdid nothing to soothe my disappointment. My anger at myself for blowing such a great opportunity wouldn’t let up. The idea I’d not prepared properly and had allowed the chance to earn some real money to slip through my fingers brought waves of regret.
Had I really handed over a pair of underwear during an interview? Placed those lacey Victoria’s Secret before Mistress Scarlet as a hint I wasn’t wearing any? What were they meant to do with them anyway?
Tara had let me down in the worst kind of way and I tried to wrap my head around why she’d want to sabotage me. She’d dated Bailey, my best friend, for over a year now and I’d always liked her, very often going out with them on the weekends and never feeling like a third wheel. Not once had Tara shown any sign of jealousy, even though Bailey and I had a long history of friendship, having grown up together in Charlotte. Tara and Bailey’s relationship had been a little strained lately but that had nothing to do with me. Tara had been threatening to fly off to Australia to join her brother who lived there. I’d hated seeing how much stress this caused Bailey, even though all she wanted was for Tara to be happy.
Bailey’s positive reaction to me applying for this new job had been surprising considering how old fashioned she was, but she’d seen every bit of bad luck that had come my way. She knew firsthand how shitty life had been for me.
Was Tara’s jealousy rearing its ugly head for the first time? I’d gone into that interview unprepared, looking overly innocent, all blonde curls and caught in the headlight eyes.
Tara knew how much I needed this money, how important it was for me to get my life back on track and ease up on drowning. My step-mother, Lorraine, had more medical bills piling up and I’d promised to take care of them. Lift some of that stress she was under. Still, Lorraine was in remission now due to all that chemo and that was an answered prayer. Having taken me in after my dad died, Lorraine had saved me from life on the streets, and now it was my turn to save her.
I sighed deeply, realizing I’d been so close to pulling it off.
That last look Mistress Lotte had given me still haunted, and coming from a dominatrix only made it worse. Those glares of disapproval from the other two women achieved their desired effect, leaving me feeling insignificant. More disturbing still, my banal answers failed to let them see my upbeat personality, my joie de vive attitude, and my ability to approach everything with an open heart and mind. I’d looked like a scared schoolgirl. I’d blown the whole thing.
Reverently, I picked up the small rectangle plastic sleeve containing the mint condition 1952 Mickey Mantle baseball card. I’d just retrieved it from that metal box I kept hidden in the cupboard. I got it out for moments like this. A lifeline to my past and I found it comforting to look at. It reminded me of my father. I’d managed to salvage it from a footlocker he had left after he died. His widow, Lorraine, had sold off everything else at a Rose Bowl swap meet. We needed the money. She’d not seen me rummage through his stuff and take it out. I felt guilty as hell as it would fetch around ten thousand dollars, maybe even more, which was a small fortune to me. I’d gotten the card valued once when hunger had pushed me to it, but when it came to letting it go I’d not been able to part with it. This Mickey Mantle card was my only reminder of him.
If I couldn’t get this job I was going to have to sell it.
The wine tasted bitter. Having gone for the cheapest bottle, I now suffered the consequences of drinking the overly fermented white; an acerbic twang lingered. Still, its promise of numbing this ache in my chest kept me sipping away.
To think I’d spent hours mulling over whether I felt ready to work in a fetish club. I’d self-explored with surprising results and come to terms with the idea of a place like Enthrall. I’d reassured myself I’d merely be working as their secretary. Not that it mattered now.
There lingered a curiosity for what went on in those dungeons. A fascination with Mistress Lotte who, according to Tara, was one of L.A.’s most renowned dominatrixes. Her BDSM world of black leather and whips lay a million miles away from my own.
I braved another sip and smacked my lips together to soften the sharp tang attacking my tongue.
