Claudine (2 page)

She brought the head of his cock to her lips and gave it a
chaste kiss. Rubbed it against her closed lips and across her cheek. She pouted her mouth and let the silky skin of her inner lip wet the tip of his penis. Opening her mouth wider, she sucked in the whole head of it, pushed her tongue wetly at him, gobbling him up, bit by bit.

Claudine let her mouth fill with saliva, and locked her throat. She took all of him in; let him thrust in and out. Her saliva pooled in his blondish pubic hair when one of his thrusts broke the seal of her lips. His eyes were slits of pleasure. “God, I’m not going to last. Take off your skirt.”

Delighted with his response, she pulled away and smiled. “Not yet.” She drew his cock up, freeing his balls, and lapped at them with her pink tongue.

He watched her ministrations for as long as he could, then let his head fall back against the chair with a groan.

She stood up and moved just out of reach and undid her skirt. It fell in gray folds to the floor. She had a narrow waist that blossomed into full hips and long legs. Her silken panty hose made her legs and pelvis gleam as if her skin had a coat of satin. Underneath the hose she wore tiny white lace panties with a long slit that revealed her shaved cunt. The earl could easily view the pink blush of her vulva.

He sighed on seeing her genitals thus exposed. “Not the innocent you made yourself out to be, Claudine. How delightful.” He rose, dropped his pants and moved toward her, his penis a stiff soldier. She gripped his shoulders. He bent his head to her breasts and sucked and nibbled at her nipples, sending rich tingles deep into her belly. He tucked his fingers into the waistband of her panty hose and slowly peeled them down, squatting
lower as he went. As she raised a delicate foot for him to pull the stockings off, he took his opportunity and buried his nose in her cleft. He parted her with his tongue and licked at her hungrily. She braced herself against the davenport desk, spread herself wide with one hand and guided him into her notch. He thrust deeply and grasped her buttocks with greedy fingers, knocking over the silver photo frames. After a few moments of vigorous pumping, he came in an electric rush.

CHAPTER
2

As she always did after a performance, Maria Lantos changed into street clothes, using the Edwardian powder room the maid directed her to. In the restroom she disposed of the female condom she wore. Many of the commercial varieties were clumsy, off-putting contraptions, but she had hers custom-made by a Munich firm and fashioned from a material as soft as her own skin. They fit her perfectly.

A
fter tidying her wig and refreshing her makeup, she stepped out of the town house door wearing a sleek black dress, her eyes hidden by a pair of large sunglasses. Her black leather, red-soled Christian Louboutin stilettos clicked on the short flight of steps, and she crossed the sidewalk to a sedan idling by the curb. She slid into the passenger seat. Beside her, Andrei Baranov checked his mirror before swinging smoothly into the road.

She gave herself a shake. “I’m still sweaty. You’d think with all his billions the guy could turn up the air-conditioning.”

“You’re finished early,” Andrei said, accelerating past a black London taxi.

She buckled up and pulled down the visor. She lifted her sunglasses, yanked off her brown wig, tossed it on the dash and shook out her own naturally blond locks.

“I tried everything but he was only good for one go. Big drinker. We spent the rest of the time talking about his book collection. It surprised him I actually knew something about literature—though, apparently, I do make a very convincing librarian. He wants me back tomorrow night. Wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

“Of course he does. What did you say?”

“Said I’d make an exception for him.”

Andrei frowned. Maria laughed wickedly and cuffed his shoulder. His disapproval had no weight with her, though he’d proven fundamental to her success. He was her guard and business manager all rolled into one. She and Andrei were close, but he was her employee, not her pimp.
She
ran the show.

She glanced at her business cards in the divider pocket. On simple black stock embossed in silver were the words:
UNIQUE EVENTS—ONE NIGHT ONLY.
Underneath that, her stage name, claudine, and below it a website address and cell phone number.

“They never take it seriously, do they?” Andrei said. “Those men are so used to everyone doing their bidding, they can’t conceive of anything different.” Concern made tiny wrinkles at the corners of his deep hazel eyes. “One of these days, Maria, it’s going to backfire on you.”

“It hasn’t yet,” she said brightly, paying his caution no heed.
“I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast. Will the Grill Room still be open?”

Andrei checked the time on the dash. “Should be.” He took his eyes off the road for a moment to look at her. “You don’t want to go clubbing tonight?” He straightened his tie in the rearview mirror. He was dressed immaculately in an English-tailored navy suit. Claudine glanced at him approvingly. His suit fit perfectly, just hugging his broad shoulders, and like his other gear, always the height of fashion.

“No, not tonight. I’m not feeling up to it. Just a quiet dinner—the two of us. Sound good?”

“Fine by me.”

“Where are we tomorrow?”

Andrei took his cell phone from its holder and used his right hand to scroll through a menu while keeping his left on the wheel.

She looked at the screen when he handed her the phone. “Oh yes, Frankfurt. We have a transition day there and then next night I see my client. Who is it? Remind me.”

Andrei was forced into a crawl behind a line of backed-up vehicles. He shook his head in irritation. “Gridlock even at this time of night. It’s the one thing I hate about London.”

“You should be used to it. New York is worse.”

“I’ll never get used to it. Your client’s a businessman—Hirsch. Imports electronics. But the appointment is for his son. The father’s worried because the young man’s turning twenty and still doesn’t show much interest—in either sex. Spends all his time gaming.”

“Oh, that’s right. I’m the birthday present and I’m playing
his favorite female avatar. Commander Shepard, I think. From something called Mass Effect 3. Should be fun.

“Mass Effect 3? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She laughed. “Neither do I. And the politician in Milan is two days after that—right?”

“Yes. A party at a villa just outside the city.”

“And then Rome at the end of the week?”

“He canceled.”

“Andrei, no! Any chance of making it up this close to the appointment?”

“Sure. There’s a waiting list. But I won’t have time to do a proper background check.”

“See what you can do. You know we need it to offset the cost of the hotel and the flights.”

“It’s not the only consideration. You’ve got to think about your security.”

“That’s what I have you for.” She snuck a glance at his handsome profile. He was smiling.

M
aria walked into her London hotel room and pecked Lillian on the cheek. “Thanks for waiting up, sweetie. We stopped off at the Grill Room.” She stripped off her clothes as she headed for the bathroom, “Did you have a good night?”

“Not bad. I watched
Britain’s Got Talent
on TV. You’re back early.”

“I know! Lucky break, huh? Because I’m exhausted.”

She emerged from the shower ten minutes later, her skin damp and steaming.

Lillian had the bedsheets turned down, a second cover thrown
over to protect the sheets from the oils. Maria flopped onto the bed and turned facedown on her stomach. Lillian tucked a pillow underneath her lower legs and squirted citrus-scented oil on her hands.

“Not too long tonight, Lil. I’m not feeling great.”

“You aren’t coming down with something, are you?”

“Just tired, I expect.”

“I’m not surprised. You’ve been keeping an insane pace. You need a holiday.”

A muffled sound came from her mouth and she lifted her head. “I have time for holidays?”

“That’s
exactly
what I mean!”

Lillian was the only person who dared to boss Maria around. A petite Filipino woman who barely topped five feet three inches, she was, nevertheless, a bulldog. An affectionate bulldog. A former movie makeup artist and hair stylist, she came recommended by another courtesan, a French film star who occasionally plied the trade.

Lillian knew how to exert just the right amount of pressure to untie the knots in Maria’s muscles without causing pain. She ran her strong brown fingers down Maria’s spine, worked on her shoulders and neck and along the pale, beautiful skin that glowed with an inner radiance. It was completely unblemished except for the small scar on the inside of Maria’s right wrist. She’d had the scarification etched into her skin in the shape of a nightingale feather to hide the only blemish on her body: a discoloration caused when, as a child, her right hand had been tied to her crib railing.

“Your skin is getting really dry,” Lillian said disapprovingly, applying more oil. “You should drink more water.”

“It’s the flights. The air is parched.”

Lillian’s strong hands kneaded Maria’s plump buttocks and finished with her lower legs, the arches of her feet and her toes. Then she tapped Maria’s shoulder to turn over. After oiling and massaging her upper body, Lillian noticed several blond hairs on her pubis.

“Some hairs are growing back. You’ll have to get another laser treatment when we get home.”

Maria groaned. Her skin was sensitive and her whole pubic area had been tender and red for several days after the last treatment. It stung horribly when she urinated. She hadn’t been able to work for a week. Yet the laser produced wonders; the hairs pulled out as easily as clumps of dead grass. She had to have a treatment every six weeks; this time she’d gone for seven. “Can you wax me instead? The laser treatment hurts too much.”

Lillian tutted, pushing one side of her black bob behind her ear. She massaged Maria’s arms. “Yes, but now is time for sleep.”

Maria rolled off the cover. Lillian swept it away and tucked the bedsheets over Maria’s legs while she sat up. She got a glass and a cold bottle of Iceland Spring from the half fridge and handed them to Maria along with her sleeping pill.

“That’s too mild. Don’t I have any Benadryl?”

“It’s too strong. You shouldn’t be taking that just to sleep.”

Maria closed her eyes.

“Is there anything else you want?” Lillian asked a little more affectionately.

“No, that’s all, thanks.”

Maria opened her eyes again in time to intercept Lillian’s worried glance. Maria had been relying on sleeping pills too
much and had started taking Xanax during the day as well to keep herself on an even keel. Even that hadn’t been enough to produce a good night’s rest.

“How was it tonight?”

“Just fine, Lillian. Not to worry. He was a perfect gentleman.” Lillian harrumphed and turned off the lamps, leaving only the bathroom light on because Maria was unable to sleep in total dark. After bidding her good night, Lillian went to the adjoining room. Andrei had a separate suite across the hall.

Maria waited until the sound of her companion’s movements next door ceased—once Lillian fell asleep, not even a bomb could wake her—and then slipped out of bed. She always packed two cases: one held lube, extra condoms and sex toys, the other cosmetics, nail polish, and hair and body care essentials. She rooted through both. No Benadryl. Nor could she find anything tucked away in the bathroom cabinets. Damn. Lillian was keeping it all in her room, to dispense as she saw fit. Maria grew annoyed, although part of her knew Lillian was right. Loading her body with drugs was a bad idea.

In addition to the sleeping aids and Xanax, she took Lybrel to stop her periods. In her profession, they meant too much time away from work. She wondered if it was taking a toll on her body. She took a long look in the bathroom mirror. No one would guess she was twenty-six. But there were small signs. She ran her fingers over the tender skin underneath her eyes. A line or two. Almost imperceptible, but there. And she’d found a gray hair at her temple the other day. Just one, yet even that alarmed her. Her breasts were still full and perky—how long would that last? She didn’t have implants, and that set her apart. Most of
her clients preferred real to silicone, and a number of them actually asked before they booked her. She’d steadily built her business over five years and was now at the top of her form, in demand around the world and able to command the highest prices. She’d always known her career would be short, like a professional athlete’s. One didn’t last in this game for very long. Her feelings about that were ambivalent: some days she wanted to be a courtesan forever—loving the fame, sexuality and power—other days she never wanted to have sex again.

There were additional considerations too. Maria hadn’t had a boyfriend in months; in the past, they’d either become jealous when they found out what she did, or they wanted to watch. As for women friends, it had become too complicated to avoid the intimate confessions of friendship to hide her double life, to explain her frequent absences from New York and the comfortable lifestyle she enjoyed. Many interesting and intelligent women in her grad program at Yale had made overtures of friendship: invitations to coffee, art house films, drinks at the campus bar. She turned them all down. Who among them would understand her lifestyle? How many would befriend her if they knew the truth? She refused to justify her choices or be judged by puritanical standards. No, casual friendships were out of the question. The risk of discovery was too great and she didn’t want to lose what she’d earned through hard work. She was close to paying off her apartment, and if all went well with her thesis on early erotic literature, she was practically assured of a faculty position. Besides, she had two of the truest friends in Andrei and Lillian. They protected her, took care of her. They were her family and all she needed.

Sleep wouldn’t come easily tonight. She was tired, but keyed up. She felt aroused—inexplicably so. She hadn’t found the earl particularly hot. Still, the sexual tension lingered. She rarely climaxed with clients. It happened spontaneously sometimes, or if she used a sexual aide. But the missionary position did nothing for her. She knew how to simulate orgasm convincingly; it was all part of her performance. Few of her clients ever detected the truth, and those who did probably didn’t care. On nights like tonight, when peace eluded her, an orgasm was the quickest route to a restful sleep.