Page 4 of Madam, May I

Desdemona turned off the intercom and removed the rubber bands around the ends of the first stack of cash and set it inside the hopper. The shuffle of the money through the bank-grade counter filled the air. “Remember it’s about her, not you, Denzin,” she said, her tone amused.

He chuckled again as he rose from the bed, his erection seeming to lead him across the spacious room and out the door. Via the cameras she watched him move with confidence out of the suite and into the entry hall through the door behind the staircase before reaching the front door.

Desdemona fed the counter another large stack and then reached in her tote for her personal iPad in a bright orange cover. After setting it on the desk, she walked over to the walk-in closet. It was empty save for the fifty bottles of her favorite 2001 Château Rieussec and a dozen wineglasses lining the shelves meant for shoes. She grabbed one of each.

“And they’re off,” she said, looking at the television screen as she uncorked the wine and poured herself a quarter glass.

The young woman—a slender beauty with waist-length blond hair—was as naked as Denzin and bent over his bed as he stroked her from behind.

Desdemona turned the intercom back on before reclaiming her seat with one foot tucked beneath her bottom. “Oh, sweet baby Jesus. It’s even worse with the volume up,” she said, tapping the stem of the glass with her fingernails.

There wasn’t a moan of pleasure—feigned or real.

The sex was perfunctory.

Denzin looked up at the camera and shrugged with a bewildered expression.

Desdemona took a deep sip of wine and then refilled her glass to the rim this time.

The monotony of it all may very well bore me to death . . .

Desdemona sighed into her glass before massaging the bridge of her nose with her fingertips.

Procuring pussy has lost its shine.

She rose from the chair, sipping her beloved wine as she walked over to the windows overlooking the pool and landscaped backyard. For a few necessary moments, she allowed herself to forget that the woman in the room with Denzin—her in-house stud—trying to become one of her highly sought-after courtesans was the driest lay she had ever seen in her life.

She garnered a minimum of two thousand dollars an hour up to $100,000 for a weekend in Europe or Asia, and her patrons were not paying that price for the privilege of having sex with a beautiful woman. They wanted more—conversation, excitement, a sounding board, humor, intellect, and above all privacy—and she made sure to provide it.

Desdemona only hired smart women and men with clear goals that prevented them wanting to work in the biz for any longer than two to three years—also ensuring no hidden ambitions to claim her spot in the business. Each courtesan was thoroughly vetted—including a psych evaluation—before she even agreed to meet with them, and their skill in the bedroom was rated by a session with Denzin before they were hired. She sent each new courtesan through etiquette training to ensure they could properly move among the wealthy, famous, and powerful—particularly those accompanying them on events. They were required to stay in shape—including daily Kegels. Drug use was completely prohibited—no weed, coke, or pills of any kind.

She turned her attention to the screen and grimaced at Denzin scrolling through his phone as he continued to thrust inside her. “Oh, sweet baby Jesus. Oh, poor thing. Just clueless. Just . . . just . . . just wrong. Sowrong,” she moaned, pretending to clutch imaginary pearls.

Regardless of who, what, and when, sex was the common denominator, and good sex was key. And what she was watching was anything but good.

Sheisbeautiful.

Desdemona could think of five of her patrons off the top of her head who went for the blond-haired, long-legged beauties. Big tits, blue eyes, and the pretense of blank brains. The Barbies of the world.

Beauty is never enough.

Her patron list was comprised of professional athletes, Hollywood celebrities, politicians, corporate bigwigs, and even some young royalty. New patrons were by referrals only and business was booming. The 2017 deluge of firings and suspensions of politicians and Hollywood’s elite for sexual misconduct had sent those fearing a future fall from grace to the services she provided. And over the years she had become just as well known and sought after for the privacy she provided as she was for the exclusivity of her courtesans.

Prior to the house in Riverdale, she had leased a penthouse apartment in midtown Manhattan for those patrons wanting to avoid renting hotels to enjoy their time with a courtesan—or courtesans. Others wanted more of a home feeling during their downtime. The setup was good. Private entrance on a one-way side street for the elevator leading straight to the penthouse. The building had the right mix of all ages and races to make her patrons blend in.

The problems?

The busy midtown location and not enough seclusion.

The house in Riverdale solved them both.

It wasn’t broke, but Desdemona fixed it before it could be. That was her job. One of many.

She walked back over to the desk. “Denzin, looks like you’ve been taking advantage of the exercise room downstairs,” she said, taking the counted stack from the machine and loading another as she took note of the amount of fifty thousand before giving them her attention again.

The woman—Jann—looked startled.

Good. An emotion.

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