SIR

I Think That Depends On The Person

“Absolutely not!” I gasp, turning back to Nico, leaning over the bar and grabbing his walkie-talkie from his waistband. “Sel!” I hiss into the device.

“What? Is he really ugly?” Comes her voice through the crackly speaker.

“It’s f*****g David!” I spit back.

“Stop it! You’re joking?” The walkie-talkie clicks, telling me she’s let go of the button, and I can imagine her swinging round in her chair, clicking through the camera screens on her computer to try and spot him.

“Holy shit.”

“I'm not doing this.” I say into the device as I quickly look back over my shoulder at him.

Yep, it's definitely him. He's watching Violet, who's dancing on the pole at the moment, sipping a glass of whiskey, completely unaware that his secretary is 20 feet away from him.

“Look I really need to get payroll done, and I meant it when I said that you have to do something tonight. You just need to do the introduction stuff, it’s not like I’ll set you up with him.” Sel says to me, and I close my eyes, my head thumping onto the bar as Nico just watches with his arms folded over his chest.

“He won’t recognise you.” Nico says. “And if he does, I’ll come and grab you before he can say anything.”

I look at Nico, knowing that he will do exactly as he says. He’s done it multiple times for me, grabbing me when situations have gotten a bit hairy. I really can’t help thinking that this is a very, very bad idea though. The introductions aren’t exactly…hands off.

“I’ll give you a night off from Casey.” Sel says through the walkie-talkie. “Hell, I’ll give you a night off altogether. Come on babes.” She urges. “I don’t trust anyone else to do intros, you know that.”

“You f*****g owe me.” I hiss back to her, throwing the device onto the bar top. Nico picks it up and holds it to his mouth.

“You’ll have eyes on her?” He asks Sel.

“f**k yeah. I'll be damned if I miss a second of what happens next.” She laughs in response. I give Nico a look, a pointed look, but he just reclips the walkie to his waistband then shrugs.

“You know she means it in a nice way.” He says, his mouth trying desperately to stop the smile that's threatening to creep over his lips. “Probably.” He sniggers once, then stops himself. I glare at him, then I spin on my heel, and walk away from him.

Breathing as I walk, I think about all the things I have to do. I also think about all the things I should do, but can probably get away with not doing, because I don’t want to be doing them with my boss.

Conversation? Fine. Seeing the rooms? Also fine.

Getting his desires out of him? That may be toeing the line. Trying out some ‘green light’ toys? Nope. Definitely not.

I try to take another breath as I get closer to the back of his chair, but I find that this one feels particularly difficult. I roll my shoulders, trying to ease the nerves, and self-consciously touch my mask and my wig, making sure that they're still in place.

Here we go, I think. Just another customer. Just any old, run-of-the-mill customer.

I place myself to his side, my weight transferring to my right leg, putting my hands on my hips, and clear my throat, the soft volume of the music making me audible to him. He turns, and, just like usual, his eyes freeze on my outfit.

Wearing these corsets always makes me feel more confident. And who wouldn’t, with the way that people look at me in them? The corset itself is a deep purple, with black lace detailing over the cups and snaking down my stomach, to match my mask. The way I tighten them gives me a perfect hourglass shape, with the swell of my breasts threatening to spill out of the top. It has a small skirt that fans out at the bottom, which I always pair with matching purple and black hipster style panties, suspender straps connected to skin-coloured stockings with a simple black lace band, and a practically sheer, satin black robe. It's the perfect mixture of showing off the goods without showing very much at all.

The responses are the same every time. Guys drool over the lingerie, particularly the boob area, and only look up when I speak.

I wait to see what he'll do.

His eyes flick down to my heels, and travel back up, quicker than I'm used to. He barely pauses at my chest, his eyes instead finding mine in mere seconds. I swallow, trying to make it as subtle as possible, trying to not give away that his blue eyes are making me warm. He stands, leaving his glass on the table beside his chair, buttoning his suit jacket up and steps forward so that he's in front of me. Then he holds his hand out.

I look down at it, wanting to laugh. No one has ever offered to shake my hand before.

“Reid. David Reid.” He says, his familiar, smooth voice running over my entire body. I flick my eyes back up to his, seeing them not wavering an inch, and I step forward, sliding my hand into his and squeezing it gently.

“Nice to meet you, David.” I reply coolly, dropping my voice a note or two in the hope that he won’t recognise it. Not that I ever call him David anyway. He brings my hand to his mouth, kissing my knuckles gently, respectfully. His eyes look between mine as I drop his hand. “I hear you’re interested in becoming a member of The Red Room?” I query, and he nods once. “Then please, follow me.” I say confidently, already walking towards a side booth, knowing he'll follow me. They always follow me.

I settle into the booth, sitting dead in the middle of the sofas, resting my hands on either side of me, leaning back slightly as I watch him with careful eyes as he analyses the seats. He decides to take the seat opposite me, and I smirk.

As he unbuttons his suit jacket to sit comfortably, I find myself watching the movement, my tongue darting out across my bottom lip to cover up the feeling of them being suddenly dry.

He leans back, and I can see the infamous arrogance he usually exudes is starting to come through from the way he rests his elbow on the arm of the chair, his hand coming to his mouth, his finger gliding over his lip as he stares at me. I hold his gaze, even when Nico stops by to put my drink down, and one down for him, even when I thank him and he walks off. I pick up my glass, a gin martini, and take a sip, keeping him in my sights over the rim of the glass.

I put the glass down.

“Who recommended you?” I ask, finally breaking the tense silence.

“Does that matter?” He counters.

“Yes.” I admit. “Some clients have been blacklisted. We have to make sure that any of their associates are also not permitted.” He breathes a couple of times before answering.

“Kieran Voss.” He states, and I feel my stomach lurch uncomfortably. I didn’t know that Kieran was a member. Maybe he's assigned to one of the other girls. Kieran works in the IT department at the office.

Now I can never look at him the same way.

Just like I won’t be able to look at Mr. Reid the same way anymore.

“And what is it that you think we do here?” I ask, trying to divert my brain from images of Kieran in one of these rooms.

“Aren’t you supposed to be telling me that? Selling it to me or something?” He says, smirking, while also narrowing his eyes at me. Like he's suspicious of the business model.

I smile a tiny bit to hide my scoff.

“We find that a lot of people who come here, they come with preconceived notions of what they're expecting. I can tell you in two seconds whether we can meet those expectations. So, Mr. Reid,” I say, allowing my breath to come through my words a little, leaning forward on the sofa, and slowly crossing one leg over the other, before clasping my hands around my knees. “Please share.”

The position I get myself in makes the ‘girls’ squish together, and is usually a very subtle tactic to make the client get into the right…mood.

I smirk when I see his eyes flick down for a split second. He shifts a little in his chair, and takes a sip of his whiskey. Then he leans forward to place it on the table, and rests his elbows on his knees, his hands clasping together in front of him.

Seems that both of us are engaging in positional play.

“I've heard that people can come here, explore their desires, and leave their day to day behind.” He says simply.

“And what are your desires?” I ask automatically. It's the question I have to ask everyone, so it comes naturally from the conversation. Only after I say it, do I realise that I just asked my boss what he wants, sexually.

I feel warm.

“I think that depends on the person.” He replies with a tilt of his head.