“I don’t need you fulfilling your duty with me,” he said tersely. “I have my geishas for that.”
I was exhausted by then, and almost glad I didn’t have to satisfy him too. And yet, my task felt strangely incomplete. His rejection of me was a deliberate insult.
“Get dressed,” he ordered.
I’m not sure what was more demeaning—disrobing before these men, or putting my clothes back on in front of their impassive gazes. As I slowly dressed myself, pulling the slim, yellow skirt up over my hips, then covering my breasts with the embroidered white organza, a curious feeling of shame made me almost cry. I had just performed as a w***e for the man’s houseguests, and had the audacity now to re-clothe myself in the trappings of a respectable woman? My embarrassment made me blush, though it did lit
