Chapter 2

I threw on a suit like any good law student pretending to be a lawyer, did my makeup all modest, and tied back my black hair. Without my old battle-worn glasses with the big frames, I wouldn’t be able to read a damn thing. I hated them; they were ancient, and the lenses didn’t even match my prescription anymore. My friends said I looked great in them, that they gave me this professional, mysterious vibe. Total bullshit! The truth was, I’d broken my current pair and didn’t have the cash to buy a new one.

I grabbed a bus, but I checked my phone to see how much an Uber would cost. He didn’t need to know, and the money I saved could go toward my weekend shopping. Inside the crowded bus, I watched the people and thought: Everyone here is heading to an honest job. Shouldn’t I be doing the same? What kind of favors is this guy expecting from me? I knew damn well it was prostitution; it couldn’t be anything else. I justified it to myself: but he’s drop-dead gorgeous, I’d do it for free. Still, I knew trading sexual favors for money was wrong for me.

I was trying to set my boundaries, and I was pretty sure about them. Under no circumstances would I have sex with him, any kind. I could go out with him to places, let him kiss my feet if he wanted, but the weird shit would stop there. I’m not a hooker, and I wouldn’t sell my dignity. That thought filled me with the energy to face the meeting with the lawyer.

Is he one of those asexual or repressed guys who pay women to pretend they’re normal functioning men? Maybe he wants to hire me to be his fake girlfriend. If that’s it, I could negotiate for more!

The idea kept gaining steam in my head.

I got off two blocks early from the building to avoid curious stares. I walked through the revolving door with the confident posture of someone who goes there every day, even though inside, every step felt forced. I wanted them to see me as prosperous, one of them among the professionals there. But that confidence crumbled when an unwelcome thought hit: How many women have walked through here to sign the same contract? When they see me, will they think: ‘There’s another one… This one’s not as hot as the others!’ My self-esteem, which wasn’t the strongest to begin with, took a hit.

At the reception desk, I gave my name. The attendant handed me an elevator access card, assuring me my arrival was expected and there was no reason to be nervous. In the elevator, surrounded by people dressed to perfection, with calm, distant faces, I felt out of place. They seemed untouchable, like they’d never had a bad day in their lives. I studied endlessly to be like them, but lately, everything pointed to that fight being pointless.

The office took up an entire floor and screamed sophistication. The contrast between the fine wood and the metal accents created a balance of classic and modern. In front of the door, a distinguished man, looking about forty, in a flawless suit that screamed high price tag, eyed me for a second before saying:

“So, you’re Miss…? Ah! Doctor Luana? How should I address you? Welcome, please come in!” He probably knew — he had me hooked with that “doctor” bit!

I followed him to his office, a huge space bigger than my whole apartment. I tried to act like that luxury was no big deal for me, but inside, curiosity was eating me up. I had to fight the urge to ask if he’d give me an internship there.

“Have a seat, please! Would you like some coffee?” he said, pointing to a chair in a massive conference room big enough for at least twenty people.

“Thanks, I’ll take water, not coffee.” The last thing I needed right then was caffeine making me even more wired than I already was.

He stepped out for a minute and came back with two big envelopes in his hands.

“Mrs. Luana, my client said there wouldn’t be any issues understanding the document. It’s a simple nondisclosure agreement. But if you have questions, feel free to ask me or consult a colleague of your choice.”

He handed me one of the envelopes as he spoke. Inside was a straightforward contract: I agreed, under penalty of fine, to keep absolute secrecy about any private info on the client. It was five pages, and I’d seen stuff like this before. No abusive clauses or bad wording. Without hesitation, I signed, kept my copy with his signature, and handed back the other.

“Having signed that, ma’am, my client just asked me to give you this second document. I don’t know its contents, since he sealed it himself. Please check the seal to make sure it hasn’t been broken and sign the receipt.”

Another contract? That piqued my curiosity. Could I read it right there?

“Would you mind if I take a look at these papers now?”

“Of course, our meeting is over. Feel free to use the space. If you need anything, call the secretary on the phone — just hit zero.” He pointed to a built-in device on the desk.

I waited until he left the room. My heart was pounding as I opened the envelope.

The document was short. The first page was just legal formalities, but I summed up the main content like this: the contract was protected by the NDA I’d just signed and had no legal value on its own. I’d get paid daily as I completed the assigned tasks, but there wasn’t a single line describing what those tasks were. It set one amount, like a daily rate, and said I could renegotiate before doing the tasks presented, and if I didn’t want to do one, I could just walk away and end the deal with no penalties.

I read it once, twice. It felt incomplete. How could there be no detailed description? The lawyer had told the truth: the security seal was intact, and he could claim ignorance if I pushed. My mind raced, trying to piece it together, but I couldn’t. My first instinct was to grab the phone and call for clarification, but I didn’t want to seem like an idiot. Better to take the docs home and review them calmly. The language was straightforward, no legalese, like it was meant to be read quick.

On the way back, I took a bus. Staring out the window, I remembered I’d forgotten to ask the lawyer to reimburse the Uber I didn’t take. But thinking it over, if I did, it’d make it obvious I was desperate for cash — and that wasn’t the image I wanted to project.

Lost in thought, my mind wandered to the client. He wasn’t old, maybe thirty at most. His body was perfectly sculpted, white teeth flashing in a killer smile on a flawless face. Square jaw, stubble on purpose…

Without realizing, my thighs squeezed together. Something throbbed inside my tight pants.

Oh God… am I getting wet here, on the bus?

His image flooded my mind. The bulge in the swimsuit from the photos. My urge to touch that chiseled chest. His voice, whispering low in my ear:

I love you. Today, you’re mine.

A naughty smile slipped across my lips. The bus was almost empty. My folded suit and bag covered my lap, hiding my little plan. My hand slid down under that makeshift barrier, and a light touch confirmed it: I was insanely sensitive.

The shock of contact made me hold my breath. I had to press hard for any relief. The whole ride, I kept touching myself, discreetly, under the scattered glances of people just getting on and off.

When I finally reached my stop, I felt slippery as I walked.

Oh God… did I really just try to get off on a bus?

As soon as I got in the building, I ran into the electric company guys about to cut my power again.

“Hey, man, if I show you the receipt, you won’t cut it, right?”

“Good afternoon, ma’am. Yes, just show me and I’ll cancel the cutoff!”

I pulled out my phone and paid the bill right there in the lobby. My neighbors walked by, trying not to react to the scene. Maybe out of respect. For me, it was so routine it didn’t even embarrass me anymore.

“There you go, man! It’s paid. Sorry for the hassle.”

“No problem, miss. Have a good one!”

He headed out the door, and I went up to my apartment.

I stripped off my work clothes and sat on the toilet, phone in hand. My panties were soaked, physical proof of how much this situation was getting to me.

On the screen, his last message. What should I reply?

I ended up just sending “Hi”.

My heart raced. I needed to figure out what kind of things this guy expected from me. I wanted to be prepared. I knew I was stepping into some wild rich people’s kink. But so what? I had a plan that was shifting: take it for a bit, sort out my life, then bail.

Minutes later, he replied:

“I heard you met with the lawyer and signed the papers. I’d like to know if you accepted my proposal.”

It’d been less than two hours since I left the office, and he was already in the loop. I responded:

“Yes, all good. But I’d like to understand the second document. You set an initial daily rate for me to do tasks, but you don’t describe what the tasks are. What kind of things do you want me to do?”

That was the question that would change everything.

The wait for a reply felt endless. My nerves built with every minute. After ten minutes, the message finally came:

“Whatever I want. It’s simple. I ask for something, you do it. If you don’t want to, you can leave. I think that’s pretty clear. When you’re ready to obey me, send a message and we’ll set up our first meeting. I’m not explaining any more. Awaiting your contact.”

Obey?

What the hell did he mean by that?

I knew it involved sex, but to what extent? What kind of crazy shit was he planning?

I’d always seen myself as pretty limited in that department. I don’t know if it came from my relationships or from me. My friends always shared their spicy stories, leaving me shocked and sometimes curious. To be honest, the wildest I’d done was making out on a fire escape and a blowjob in a car. Sure, I’d been invited to more intense stuff, but I never had the guts. Fear and guilt were always my buddies.

My mind wandered, imagining the possibilities. A mix of desire and apprehension took over, and before I knew it, I was exploring my fantasies with just my own hand for company.