45Ava Germaine was bent over doggy-style before her clients.
Sun-kissed hair fell in ringlets down her shoulders. Her wrists and ankles were tied in furry black handcuffs. She was a slim, swaying reed, wavering above a mucky swamp.
A pale pink, the color of an eyelid, decorated the room. It had a king-sized bed and a chest full of s*x toys. It could’ve been a six-year-old’s bedroom if only the chest were full of baby dolls instead of s*x toys. If only there had been a mobile dangling stars above the bed instead of a s*x harness ornamented with chains.
The clients, a husband and wife dressed in Hervé Leger and Buratti, admired Ava’s submissive body as if she were a piece by Rothko. Ava was young enough to be their daughter. Perhaps that was the point.
Was that the reality of the mother
