Madame X (Madame X #1) (18 page)

“Who the hell
are
you, Madame X?”

“Someone much like you, I fear, only much less self-aware, I’m realizing.” I glance at the door. “Can you leave? If you wanted to?”

Three makes a face. “Course I can. I mean, I wouldn’t, but I
could
. Door ain’t locked, elevator works. Once a week I get to go on a practice date with Caleb up to Rhapsody. I get a new dress, new shoes, get to put on makeup. If I do well, he might take me outside, out there, for the monthly final.”

I have to formulate my question carefully. “Three, could you—could you explain for me how the program works?”

A shrug. “Sure. Easy. I was homeless. Workin’ the street, right? Got no way to feed myself, so I ended up selling the only thing of any value I had, get it? Myself. Then I met Caleb. He hired me for a whole day. Guess he saw something, I don’t know. Potential? Told me he had a program that would give me skills, and eventually a life off the streets. Kind of a training program followed by a matchmaking program, all in one. Right now, I’m in the training program.”

“What kind of training?”

Another lazy, indolent shrug. I itch to correct her comportment, but it isn’t my job to do so. “Everything. There’s a tutor, Mr. Powers. He does the usual school kind of stuff. Helps us get a GED, if we
need one, or furthers our education if we have a diploma already. Or he can do guided studies in specific areas. You’re interested in science or some shit, he can help you find resources and whatever. Anyway, Mr. Powers is always on me to speak proper, too, but I grew up talkin’ like this, everyone I knew talked like this, and some habits are hard to break, you know? And then there’s Miss Lisa. She’s head of the program. Keeps track of our progress, tells us what we need to do to improve, to get up to the next level. She’s the head boss, lead supervisor basically. And then . . . there’s Caleb.”

“And what does he do?” I ask. I’m not sure I want to know the answer, though.

Three doesn’t answer me, won’t look at me. Her pale cheeks redden. “I shouldn’t be prudish about this, considerin’ where he found me. What I was doing.” Another pause. For courage, I think. “He teaches us how to please. How to act attractive. How to seduce. How to look, how to dress, how to—how to fuck.”

“And he teaches you all of this personally, does he?”

Widening of the eyes. “Oh yes. Of course. He delivers the final exam. Makes sure we’re ready for each stage. An Escort has fewer requirements than a Companion, and a Bride has the most of all.”

“Requirements?” My voice sounds faint.

Three shrugs. “It’s complicated. Learnin’ those differences is part of the training, so it ain’t like I can just sum it up in one or two sentences, you know?” A glance away, out the window. “I shouldn’t be telling you this stuff anyway. Ain’t supposed to be talking about it to anyone not in the program. We signed an agreement. But you’re the big secret on floor thirteen, so I’m guessing you probably got secrets of your own. You ain’t gonna rat me out to Caleb, are you?”

I shake my head. “No, Three. I won’t. I promise.”

I have a million, million questions, but I don’t even know where
to start. But Three suddenly bolts upright, away from the window, glances at the plain wall clock.

“Shit! You gotta get out of here. I’ve got an assessment, like right now!”

“An assessment?”

“Yeah, with Caleb.”

“Caleb is coming
here
, now?”

We both hear a voice. One we both recognize. But rather than the usual calm, there is anger, hot and loud. “No, Douglas, it’s
not
going to be fucking
fine
. If she didn’t leave the building, then she’s hiding out somewhere. Fucking
find
her, or there will be hell to pay.” Right outside the door.

Three hisses in my ear. “Under the bed.
Go!
Don’t even breathe, okay? He won’t stay too long. ’Specially not in this mood.”

I hustle toward the bedroom, slide under the bed, make myself as small as possible. Arms under my chest, cheek to the dusty hardwood. Barely breathing.

I hear the door open. Hear that deep, gravelly voice. “Three. Good morning.”

“Caleb.” Three sounds . . . breathy. “I’m fine. How are you?”

“Not well. There’s been . . . a problem. It’s got me distracted, I’m afraid.” Footsteps on the hardwood, and I see shiny expensive tan leather shoes, khaki slacks. “Perhaps we should reschedule your assessment for tomorrow. I’m not sure I can focus at the moment.”

“But . . . Miss Lisa told me I’ve finally got my first Escort gig tomorrow, but only if I pass this assessment.” Three sounds genuinely disappointed. “Unless you think there’s a chance I might fail . . .”

“I think there’s very little risk of that, Three. Your progress has been remarkable.”

“You don’t think I could . . . help you with your mood?” Three’s
voice goes low, sultry, rife with suggestion. “I know I can’t fix nothin’—”

“Three.” It’s a warning.

“Sorry, Caleb. I meant, fix
anything
.” I see feminine bare feet framed between larger shod ones. Three lifts up on her toes. A silence that speaks of something happening I can’t see. A kiss perhaps. Sounds, too quiet to interpret. “I could distract you from your . . . distractions, you know?”

I clench my teeth and breathe shallowly, slowly. They are moving closer, Three walking forward toward the bed, the Italian leather dress shoes walking backward.

It seems Three shall be assessed.

The bed above me dips under weight. Springs squeak. The shoes are inches from my face. Three’s feet shuffle, and then one knee touches the floor, the other. A belt buckle jingles, zipper sounds. The khaki slacks droop around ankles, and I get a glimpse of familiar hairy calves. Wet sounds. A male groan. Quiet, faint gagging.

“Very good, Three.” This, delivered through clenched teeth. “Mmmm. More tongue, more movement of your whole head. Don’t just suck. Alternate using your hands, your lips, and your tongue. Yes, like that.” A growl, as Three obviously demonstrates a particular . . . technique, I suppose.

My gut twists. Feelings I don’t dare examine rage within me.

Sucking, gagging, male grunts and groans, sighs. It goes on for longer than I would think possible. The sounds taper off for a moment or two, and then resume, silence, a female gag accompanied by a male groan.

“Are you ready, Three?” Low, thickly voiced, teeth clenched, breathless. “I’m going to come. I’ll let you decide where you want me to come.”

Gagging. Gulping. A long, guttural male groan. Sigh. Three’s
weight shifts backward as she sits on her heels, one hand planted on the floor. There’s come on her hand, white smears across her knuckles. Apparently she didn’t elect to swallow it all.

A moment of silence.

“Very,
very
good, Three.” An extended sigh, and the weight on the bed shifts backward. “Next time, I would like you to take it all on your face. I don’t personally find pleasure in that, but others do, and you need to be prepared for how it will feel.”

“Yes, Caleb.” Why does she sound so eager?

“Now . . . I want you to tell me the truth, all right? Penalty free for this answer, regardless of what you say. Our last session together, did you fake your orgasm?”

A hesitation. And then Three’s voice, pitched low, embarrassed. “Yes—no. Well, sort of. I mean . . . I exaggerated it, some. I
did
come, but not as—as hard as I might have made it seem.”

“Why?”

“Because I—I wanted you to think . . . I don’t know. I don’t know.”

“The truth, Three.
Now.
”

“I
wanted
to come. But it’s just . . . I can’t, very often.” Her voice is tiny. So delicate. Mortified. “I’ve tried. On my own, and with you, and before I became an apprentice. My whole life, it’s just . . . it’s hard for me to come. And when I do, it’s just not very—hard, I guess. I still enjoy things, when you do them to me, I mean. I enjoy them a lot. But I just can’t come every time, or not as . . . as intensely as I feel like you expect me to.”

“First, a warning. Do not fake it, or exaggerate. Never again, no matter what, do you understand?”

“Yes, Caleb.”

“Now stand up and put your hands on the bed.”

“But you said penalty free!” A panicked protest.

“I’m not punishing you for your answer, Three, I’m punishing you for faking. I told you at the very start not to ever lie, fake, or pretend. Not about anything. I require absolute truth in all situations.” A softening of the voice. “And this punishment won’t be going on your program record. This is between us. So you understand that I’m serious.”

“But . . . Caleb, I—I understand. Okay? I won’t fake again, I swear!”

“Three. Stand up,
now
. Put your hands on the bed,
now
.” Slow, deliberate, precise, calm.

Three stands up, twists in place; I can see her knees shaking. The Italian leather shoes slide forward, and I see the pants rise, hear the buckle of the belt. The bed dips very slightly, and Three’s feet are spread shoulder width apart. I watch as the hem of Three’s shift rises up out of view.

Smack!
Hand on flesh.

Smack!
Again.

Three cries out. There is pain in that cry, very real pain. But there is also . . . arousal.

Smack!

Smack!

The sounds of spanking increase, punctuated by Three’s cries of pain and increasing sexual arousal. My gut is churning. Some part of me is . . . not as horrified by this as I should be. Three is
enjoying
this. Doing this
voluntarily
. Three could leave at will. As the spanking continues, cries of pain gradually become entirely erotic cries of need. Bare feet shuffle on the floor, knees dip, bent body pushing back into the blows, into the touch.

I wonder if there is only the spanking, or if something else is happening. Fingers as well, perhaps, moving inside her privates? From the way Three is moaning and whimpering, I assume so.

I can see how this might be intensely arousing. I feel dirty for eavesdropping on this, and dirtier still for feeling curious, and
jealous. But some part of me is finding a dark voyeuristic pleasure in it. I am sick,
this
is sick.

But I cannot get away from it.

I hear Three orgasm. The wail of release is shrill, and loud, and to my ear, genuine.

The white shift is tossed aside, to the floor. Pants drape around ankles. Three cries out. The bed shifts, dips, and is rocked sideways by a forceful thrust. Three is bent over the bed, male feet lined up behind. The sounds of sex are loud, and fast. Three whimpers with each fleshy slap of skin against skin, and then as the tempo increases, the whimpers become cries, and then grunts, and I can tell from the movement of Three’s bare feet when accepting the thrusts turns to active participation, pushing back into them.

Male grunt of release, slapping of body on body slows and stops, and Three is breathless, moaning, emitting high-pitched whimpers.

I’m damp between my thighs, aroused, and sick with guilt and shame and confusion.

A moment of silence, then, neither person moving or speaking. And then I see trousers slide up, hear a belt buckle, fabric rustling. I can picture strong hands tucking a pristine white shirt into the slacks, tugging it to blouse just so, stuffing fingers into hip pockets so they don’t bulge or fold. A familiar ritual of re-dressing, adjusting; Three will still be naked, of course. Artfully posed, probably, to look sated, glutted, content, drowsy.

I know the pose all too well, having assumed it myself a million times.

“Was that exaggerated, Three?” Arrogant, and assured.

“N-no. No, Caleb.” A gasp. “It was real. I came
so
hard, Caleb.”

“What do you think made the difference?”

“You . . . spanking me. I—I liked that. It hurt, but I liked it.” Three sounds embarrassed. “I liked it a
lot
.”

“Don’t be upset, Three. You shouldn’t feel shame. Know your body, know your sexuality. In time, you will learn to control your sexual encounters. Even when you’re being fucked like I just fucked you, from behind, where you have no physical control over what might be happening to you, you will still be able to exert influence over how enjoyable it is for your partner. You will be able to control how fast you both get off, how intensely. I can tell the difference when you fake it, Three. Some men may not be able to, but I can. When you genuinely enjoy and participate rather than just being a passive receptacle, you become a much more exquisitely erotic creature. When you were a whore, it didn’t matter. Your johns paid you to let them fuck you, and they didn’t give one single shit how you felt about it. But you are not a whore anymore, Three. You will not be paid for sex, implicitly or explicitly. Indigo Services does not provide sex workers; we provide companionship, partnership, and romance. If you have sex with a client, it will be your choice, a mutual decision between you and the client,
after
your service contract has expired. Keep this in mind, for tomorrow. The basic Indigo Services contract expressly forbids any kind of sexual act during the time frame of the services provided. If you choose to engage in sex with the client after the contract expires, that is
your
choice, and you should never feel pressured by the client. If you do experience pressure of any kind, report it to Lisa immediately and that client will be blacklisted. You should not
ever
be pressured into sex by a client. And you should
always
enjoy sex. Do you understand?”

“I understand.” Three’s voice is small, unsure.

“You enjoy a little pain with sex. I suspected as much, but now we know. Perhaps in the coming weeks, as you begin working as an Escort, we will explore the limits of your enjoyment of pain.”

“But you won’t . . .
hurt
me, hurt me?” Three sounds breathy, eager, and a little afraid.

“No. Never. You are valuable. To me, and to Indigo Services, and ultimately, you should be valuable to the man who eventually chooses you as his Bride.”

“You think someone will choose me, Caleb?” Oh, the doubt, the fear, the vulnerability I hear cuts me to the bone.