Page 24 of Madam, May I

Desdemona couldn’t remember her name.

She closed her eyes and tried to enjoy the feel of her skilled fingers working the muscles of her back with deep glides. In truth, it was the area below her navel that needed the massaging with a little toy that vibrated. After watching Antoine climax she’d felt like a cigarette—or fifty deep and hard strokes. Over and over and over—

Desdemona sat up on the table, her heart and clit pounding in unison, and reached around for the white sheet to cover her breasts. “That’s enough,” she said.

Her erotic thoughts plus the woman’s hands gently kneading her body made things really awkward, really quick.

“But you have more time available,” she said. Desdemona looked at her name tag with a stiff smile.Roberta. That’s right.“I’m fine, Roberta. You were wonderful. I just remembered an appointment,” she lied, accepting the robe the woman handed her.

“Yes, ma’am.”

She covered her face with her hand when she was left alone, but visions of Antoine’s ejaculation plagued her. Teased and taunted her.

The times have really changed.

Cruising through Greece. Jetting to Paris. Men content with pleasing themselves.

It was so far removed from her days streetwalking. She lightly touched the spot on her cheek where his seed had been as she remembered seeing and doing far more for much less. Twenty for a hand job. Fifty for a blow job. The roughness. The fear. The long nights waiting on corners and in dark spaces for a car to pull up. The hits and punches from men just as angry as they were horny. And then those bums who paid up front then robbed her for the same money once they were done with her.

She closed her eyes, hating that she could almost recall the moldy scent of cheap motel rooms. And back then, that half hour in those dingy damn rooms with their scratchy sheets and lumpy beds had been a respite from the street.

She had had no wealthy consorts, just johns. Tricks.

Sometimes, she honestly forgot.

Desdemona doubted any of her courtesans had the gumption to survive the shit she’d seen and done. And she made sure they didn’t have to. No violence. No pressure. No obligations. No degradation.

She tried her best to be to them what others hadn’t been to her. Kind. Empathetic. Protective.

“Shake it off,” she said, rising to her feet and closing the robe. “Look at you now, kiddo. Look at you now, Desdemona.”

Notching up her chin, she refused to wallow. Refused to dwell on the middle between streetwalking and being a madam with a roster of wealthy and powerful consorts. She had taken the hard knocks, learned the tough lessons, and made sure that any consort looking to buy pleasure between a woman’s thighs paid the high price and provided nothing but luxury surroundings to do so.

Dark corners. Park benches. Dingy motels. The back seat of cars. Anywhere and everywhere. Never again. Not for her or anyone who worked for her.

Upstairs in her condominium, Desdemona took a hot bath and was just pulling on a short, sublime ivory and silver silk kimono with wide lace sleeves from Agent Provocateur when her doorbell rang.

Still in a Parisian state of mind, she had ordered delivery from a nearby French restaurant. She grabbed cash from her wallet to tip the porter who brought all deliveries from the concierge desk to residents.

She closed her robe tighter before opening the door, smiling at the uniformed middle-aged man. “I have a food delivery for you, Ms. Smith,” he said, his tone polite as he averted his eyes.

They swapped the plastic bag of containers for the cash tip. “Thank you,” she said, closing the door with her foot as she carried the food to the dining room table.

The smell of the cuisine already filled the air before she even opened the bag. Atop the containers was a folded card. She opened it and frowned in confusion. She assumed it was a handwritten detail of everything she ordered. A nice touch, but a waste for her. The French looked like gibberish and some of the English translation beneath it was lost to her as well.

“Parlez-vous français?” she said with a comical imitation of a French accent.

She had discovered the restaurant via Yelp. Great reviews. Beautiful photos of delicious and artistic looking food. She gave it a go, but when she ordered online she just picked things at random and prayed for something edible.

She had decided on an oyster dish for an appetizer, lobster and scallops stuffed in cabbage for her entrée, and a strawberry tart for dessert.

That was life among the wealthy and famous. She faked it until she made it. Picked up and learned what she could, and the rest she just played it by ear. Now she moved about them with ease and even gave them a reason to pause when she cast them a disapproving eye. It worked, but . . .

Desdemona paused in plating her food, having long since given up eating from plastic or aluminum containers, and reached for the card.

“Hoo-hootres gra-granite ox . . . aglue?” she read aloud, hesitant and unsure.

Not a good feeling at all. Foreign or not. The root issue was her inability to read well.

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