Chapter 9

In my apartment, I set the basket down on the living room table and, without wasting a second, grabbed the smaller box. The discreet packaging, wrapped in paper that felt like fine fabric, screamed class in its understated way. I unwrapped it with curiosity, a little knot twisting in my gut.

Inside, to my surprise, there was an iPhone — brand new, pristine. Next to it, a note in that elegant, precise handwriting.

“Here’s something that’s not a gift, but a tool for us to communicate. You call me only from this phone. It’s activated and ready to go. The contacts have numbers for trusted service providers you can use on my behalf. When I call, you answer before the third ring. Be available for me at all times.”

I read it twice, my brow furrowing.

“Oh, how thoughtful!” I muttered, sarcasm dripping from every word.

I unlocked the screen and headed straight for the contacts. Sure enough, there were over ten saved entries. Psychologists, nutritionists, doctors, lawyers… and a painter?

“Why the hell would I need a painter?”

The question bounced around in my head, and then it hit me like a lightning bolt. The paintings. That wall crammed with female portraits. Nude women, captured with this almost obsessive precision.

A chill ran down my spine.

I jumped online and started hunting for photos of him, trying to dig up any clues, any image that might give me answers. I spent minutes staring, comparing… but they were all oil paintings, and it had been dark — the strokes weren’t clear enough for me to say anything for sure.

But one thing stood out like a sore thumb.

He had a type.

Every one of those women — all of them — somehow looked eerily like me.

I swallowed hard.

“Weird…”

My mind flashed back to May. If he’d hired me because I resembled these women, why hadn’t she said a word about it? She’d just mentioned recommending me for the “job,” like it was some random gig.

“Did May forget to tell me something?”

There were way too many unanswered questions in this whole mess, and one of them was whether he’d paid me for that night. When I checked my account, there it was — the deposit, timestamped right around when I’d stepped foot in that house. It was a solid chunk of cash, half a minimum wage, enough to keep me afloat for a month alongside what May had given me.

On autopilot, I started crunching numbers, figuring out how many nights like that it’d take to sort out my life. Then I caught myself, weirded out by the direction of my own thoughts — and especially how naturally the word “hustle” had popped into my head.

“Fuck, I’m already sounding like a hooker…” I muttered, letting out a bitter laugh. Earlier, I’d been naked and lying in my own piss, and now here I was, doing math. “Luana, you really got no damn sense.”

The shock had worn off. I should have been mortified, terrified, repulsed. But weirdly, I felt light, almost at ease. No guilt, no panic — just this hollow feeling that was somehow comforting. Sure, there was still the fear of what I was getting into. I hated pain, and that room had laid it out plain: I’d be feeling a lot of it.

Maybe that’s what bugged me more than anything. The fact that, despite how insane it all was, I was sitting here curious. I grabbed the phone and dove into the internet for info on BDSM. And that’s when I realized the rabbit hole went way deeper than I’d imagined.

The next day, I woke up with the new phone pressed against my chest. I’d probably conked out mid-search, ‘cause my head still felt foggy. I dragged myself up with a dry mouth and this godawful taste like I’d been sucking on a dirty spoon, scratching my way to the bathroom. I sat down for my morning piss and, while I was at it, started peeling off my clothes for a shower. I’d never been one to roam around the house buck naked, but I figured I’d give it a shot today, just to see if I could get more comfortable in my own skin.

I wiped myself and headed to the mirror in the living room — my bathroom had no light, and even during the day, it was dim as hell. I checked myself out, taking in every detail. I wasn’t some bikini model, but I was average. My tits were nice — medium-sized and perky — and my thighs had some real curve to them for my frame. I turned around to eyeball my ass and spotted some marks on the sides.

“These stretch marks are a killer!”

They were barely noticeable, like faint sergeant stripes. My little butt was cute, not huge or perfectly round. If I hit the gym, it’d shape up nice. And I needed to, ‘cause that bit of belly pudge was starting to fold over in a way it damn well shouldn’t.

That’s when I noticed my grooming down there. I’d done a half-assed trim, clipping the pubes and leaving a strip up front without touching the rest. Now the lengths were all uneven, and it hit me embarrassing hard remembering I’d been naked in that situation with my pussy looking all jacked up like that.

“There’s a waxer in the contacts… what if I call and book a session?”

I snatched the phone and dialed.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning, everything okay?” the voice on the other end shot back right away. “I wanted to know if you have an opening for a wax? I’d like a landing strip. What’s the price?”

“Hi, Ms. Luana! All good? Can I swing by your place today at two?”

My stomach twisted into knots.

“Uh… yeah… sure…” How the hell did she know my name? How did she know my address?

“You have my address?”

“Yes, ma’am. Two it is?”

I swallowed hard.

“Okay… come on over.”

I hung up and just stared at the phone. Did all these people in the contacts know about me? How? Since when? This was creepy as fuck.

But hey, this must be how rich folks rolled, I figured. He probably had a whole crew handling his services, maybe even taking care of the girls in those paintings. The thought creeped me out, but what really got under my skin were the doctors and psychologists on the list. What the hell were they there for? I didn’t even want to go there.

Still, I was set on it. Next time I saw him — if I had the guts — I’d ask who those women were.

It was still early morning, so I decided to tackle the housework in the nude. I cracked up to myself at how bizarre it felt. Every stronger breeze hitting spots I wasn’t used to sent shivers rippling across my skin. Wind on my pussy while sweeping the floor? That was a whole new vibe. I saved the morning shower for after cleaning, at least that way I wouldn’t need another one.

By noon, I ordered a salad over the phone. Now that I had some cash, I could treat myself. All I had at home was pasta, and no tomato sauce. And carbs were just gonna feed that belly! A little before two, I threw some clothes back on. I wasn’t about to greet the waxer naked.

And damn, she was right on time — impressive.

She came in lugging a portable table and a big bag, like she’d done this home visit routine a million times.

“Hi, Mrs. Luana, everything good? Can I use your stove to heat the wax?”

“Sure, right this way.”

I pointed to the stove, making a mental note to pay the gas bill. Better safe than sorry if they cut it off.

She was friendly, the kind of person you could chat with easy. As she set up her stuff, we got to talking about beauty tips, swapping stories and advice.

“You been doing this gig for him long?”

“Yeah, going on three years now.”

“And you wax all his girlfriends?”

She paused for a beat before answering, her face going all cautious.

“Mrs. Luana, I just do the jobs I’m assigned, but I don’t know about people’s personal lives. We don’t talk about that stuff.”

The way she said it made it clear that topic was off-limits. If I wanted her to spill, I’d have to earn her trust first.

But one thing was for damn sure: she waxed the other women, she just couldn’t talk about it. And honestly, you don’t need the full scoop to get the picture. Waxers, hairdressers, and makeup artists hear all kinds of shit.

“You got an NDA too?”

“Yes, Mrs. Luana.”

So that was that. Everyone around him was locked down under some forced silence. What else was he hiding?

“Want a disposable panty?”

“Nah, no need — I’m home, I can go without.”

I stripped off my bottoms and lay down on the table. She started on the front, her movements precise and methodical. I watched her, and that’s when it hit me how off this was: I hadn’t specified the style. On the phone, I’d just said “landing strip,” but usually, they ask how deep or what exactly you want before diving in.

I waited for her to ask, but nothing. I decided to keep quiet and see how far she’d take it.

She waxed one side, then the other, and when she finished the front, she had me flip for the back. It was quick, almost painless.

“All done, Mrs. Luana!”

“I’m curious about something… you didn’t ask how I wanted it. How’d you know?”

She gave a small smile, tidying her materials as she replied.

“Didn’t you say landing strip on the phone?”

The explanation was straightforward, no frills. Simple — too simple. Something in how she said it didn’t sit right with me. Was it just my paranoia, or did she really know more than she was letting on?

Before I could come up with a follow-up, she added:

“Want me to take off more? You sure?”

That “you sure?” hung in my mind like a dare.

For a second, I thought about pressing her, seeing how she’d react. But I decided not to feed into the suspicion — not yet, anyway.

“Nah, just curious. Looks perfect.”

“Aw, great! Don’t worry about the payment — it’ll be squared up with him, okay?”

I swallowed hard. Of course it would.

This was just one more thing about me he already had a grip on, without even needing to say a word. He was the one calling the shots on how his women got waxed.