Page 63 of Their Courtesan
Chapter 16
JUDITH
Judith looked over the list once more, making sure she could successfully check everything off – minus Chelsea’s favorite line of Sephora mascara, which had been sold out.Get it online, girl.
The car lurched around another sharp curve. Judith leaned against the window, struggling to see her own handwriting in the glaring sunlight of the late afternoon.
When Seth called the day before to reschedule their modeling appointment for the evening instead of the usual afternoon timing, Judith found herself with a lot of time to kill. The night before, she volunteered to borrow a car and go into town to pick up some much needed supplies – and to get the fuck out of Dodge for the first time in a month. The other girls who didn’t get out much were envious. Not just for her sudden freedom, but because they all had dreams of going shopping for this and that. Hence Judith was not surprised when they each came up at different intervals to hand her a list of makeup and other things along with wads of cash.
So now Judith had multiple shopping bags from Sephora, Lush, Victoria’s Secret, Bath and Body Works, DeMarco’s Department Store, generic drugstores for one’s menstrual and prophylactic needs, and whatever other stores she could pick up the same old things at. The only strange request she had came from Chelsea.“I need a tote bag. I don’t care what kind you get, but it needs to be sturdy and preferably on the red end of the spectrum.”The best Judith could do was a beige bag with a hot pink bottom.
“We’re almost there, Miss,” the driver said, slowing down as they approached the road to the Château.
“Got it.” Judith held up her cell phone. Spotty reception out here on the highway, but she was still able to get a text from Grace.
“Did I tell you to get black or blue ink for those pens? Because I need black. You got black, right?”
The fuck she need pens for? Judith didn’t ask questions, but she still wondered. How could she not? Some of the idiosyncrasies around that place were too much.
The car eventually pulled up in front of the Château. Two maids descended from the front door and went to the trunk without a word. After the driver popped it open for them, the two young ladies began unloading shopping bags, sorting out what belonged to whom because Judith was a pro at color-coding with ribbons. Chelsea was red. Grace was blue. Holly was green and Yvette was black. Anything not color-coded was left for Judith to collect on her own.
Strange, though, that no one was rushing out to greet her. Sunday nights were busy, and the mornings often saw Saturday night’s clients groggily making their way out, but the afternoons were a dead zone. If someone went into town and came back before the evening rush, bored girls were bound to come out and see what the word was.
So far, the only people Judith saw were staff. A Rolls-Royce was parked in the visitor parking area, and at first she thought it was Henry Warren’s, come to pick up his wife a day early. Except the coloring was all wrong. Must be another guest.
Judith shrugged this off and headed inside, hands laden with her own bags. The Château was its usual Sunday quiet. It should have been reassuring, but Judith couldn’t help but feel that something was amiss in the perfumed air.
Once she stepped upstairs and turned toward her room, she noticed a salon door open – and voices drifting out from within.
Everyone was in there. “Everyone” meaning the other four girls and Monica, who was the only one sitting, her flats scattered on the floor in front of her. She was deep in discussion with the others, one hand absentmindedly rubbing her stomach while the other waved back and forth in front of Chelsea’s face.
“I had to do it last time,” the only blonde aside from Judith said. “It’s someone else’s turn to deal with that kind of client.”
“Make Holly do it,” Yvette grumbled. “She’s new, and the youngest. It’s not as creepy.”
“Excuse you!” Red curls bounced with fervor as Holly whipped around and gaped in Yvette’s face. “I may be the youngest, but that doesn’t mean you get to foist difficult clients on me. I get some say in it, right?” She turned back to Monica. “Right?”
“Of course you all get a say in it.” Sighing, Monica pushed herself up in the chair, that business demeanor sullying the salon. “Nobody has to do anything that makes them feel uncomfortable. You all know that’s the first rule of my house.”
“It’s too uncomfortable to bear!” Yvette declared. “I absolutely refuse. Gross!”
Holly caught sight of Judith in the doorway. “Judith’s back! We’re saved.”
The named woman put her bags down and approached the group with trepidation. “What have I been volunteered for?”
Before anyone else could blurt out what was going on, Monica explained, “We have a Code White client downstairs.”
Certain situations that required absolute discretion were described in “Code Colors.” Code Black meant a demanding BDSM Dom. Code Blue meant someone with severe emotional hangups and trauma looking for sexual therapy. Code Green meant someone was sick.
Code White screamedvirgin.
It was not unusual for rich virgins to come up to the Château to take care of their perceived problem. Some expressed surprise when they found out, for the rich should’ve been able to take care of their virginity with no problem, regardless of how repugnant or otherwise shy they were. There were clients, however, who came from repressed backgrounds looking to start a new life or get experience before their marriages.I once had a religious prince come all the way here for my tips after his betrothal was arranged.Tips of course meant thorough instruction on cunnilingus and G-spot search and rescue. In the end, His Majesty was still hopeless.I tried.
“What’s wrong with a virgin? Charge him extra. It’ll be over in half the time anyway.” They always popped in ten seconds, unable to ever recover in a timely manner.
“It’s not any virgin, hon,” Grace said. “It’s Lenny Gretzky.”
“That name sounds familiar.”
