Sarah's Education

by Madeline Moore

  She called again the next morning, at around ten, and got the same message. Her third try was answered by a crisp female voice.

  ‘Sarah Meadows. I got a message …’

  ‘Yes, Ms Meadows. My boss, Ms Veronica Kane, would very much like to meet with you. When would be convenient?’

  ‘There isn’t a problem, is there?’

  ‘Problem? Not that I’m aware of. When’s good for you? Any day, any time between noon and ten in the evening.’

  They settled on Thursday, at seven. The address was on Prince Rupert Drive, Suite 1911, the Imperial Building. Sarah knew where that was; close to Westfield Franklin Park Mall, her favourite place to window-shop. That was a comfort. She’d have been nervous of an address in some dingy slum area.

  She wore skinny black pants and her new cashmere sweater to give herself confidence. A uniformed security guard had her sign in and directed her to the bank of elevators. Again, Sarah was comforted. White slavers didn’t have you sign in before they shipped you off to Far Eastern brothels, she didn’t think.

  The elevator was lined with dove-grey moiré silk and pink mirrors. The Muzak was classical. The luxury was intimidating, but Sarah braced herself.

  Classique’s receptionist, she of the crisply efficient voice, had hair like scrolls of pewter, pale-grey eyes and obsidian-sharp cheekbones. She greeted Sarah by name and told her to go right on through to the waiting room and take a seat.

  There were three doors off the waiting room, each made of frosted glass that was etched with cavorting naked sylphs. Two of those doors were dark so Sarah assumed the third was to Ms Kane’s office. She could hear voices but not make out the words. One was deep, male and stern. One was contralto, with a ‘more hurt than angry’ tone in it that reminded Sarah of her mother. The third voice was high pitched and protesting.

  There was a pause, then a protesting sound from the high-pitched voice. After another pause there was the sound of a slap. Intimidated, but too curious to resist, Sarah crept up to the door where its hinges left a narrow gap between the glass and its frame.

  There was an armless chair directly in her line of sight. A distinguished-looking silver-haired man had a girl pinned across his thighs, facing away from Sarah. Her skirt was rucked up to her waist, baring her bottom. One cheek was crimson. The man’s open hand came down on the other, hard. The girl kicked and whimpered but to no avail. He slapped her again, and again, in a steady rhythm.

  Now that she was closer, Sarah could hear him say, ‘Ten minutes late is too late. Ten minutes late is too late,’ repeating it like a mantra, once for each time his hand came down.

  Poor girl. She must feel awful, both from the pain and from the humiliation. Sarah imagined herself in the same position, being punished and being helpless to resist. She’d be so ashamed to be treated like that, ashamed and …

  Mmm. There was that familiar feeling, not a tingle, not exactly, more like the ghost of a tingle, between her thighs. It was something she sometimes felt just before making out with David, a subtle harbinger of the more intense sensations she anticipated enjoying – a sure sign that she was really looking forward to being held and touched.

  The man released the girl. Sarah back-pedalled. Maybe she should make a run for it? She was getting confused, and that wasn’t good. She needed her wits about her. Sarah sat down on the bench seat. The door opened. The girl, her skirt in place now, her face red and streaked with tears, burst through.

  She threw Sarah a fiery glare and spat, ‘You!’ before exiting.

  What on earth did that mean? There was something familiar about the girl but Sarah couldn’t recall ever meeting her. Oh – yes she did! That straw-coloured hair. That snub nose. It was the girl Sarah had misdirected to the Royal Avenue Hotel.

  The man came out. He said, very calmly, ‘Ms Kane will see you now, young lady,’ and followed the girl into the reception area.

  The inner office was huge, Art Deco, black and pink, with floor-to-ceiling windows on two sides.

  Veronica Kane was a tiny but voluptuous blonde with big blue eyes, a turned-up nose and an over-wide, full-lipped mouth. Despite her tailored black suit, she looked like a sexy youngish wife, the kind who’d bake pies every Sunday and make her husband deliriously happy in bed, often. Sarah felt herself relaxing.

  Veronica waved Sarah to a chair. There was a sparkle in her eyes as she observed, ‘We’ve had quite the mix-up, Sarah, haven’t we?’

  ‘We sure have. I’m sorry, Ms Kane, but …’

  ‘Call me Veronica. All my young ladies do.’

  ‘But I’m not …’

  ‘Of course you aren’t. You’re a lovely girl who just happened to accidentally get caught up in a little adventure. No harm done. Your “client”, by the way, was effusive in his praise for you. You might be an amateur but you are obviously a gifted one.’

  Sarah blushed. ‘Jack said nice things about me?’

  ‘Jack? Oh yes. He was very pleased.’

  ‘How did he … you … how did you know who I am?’

  Veronica smiled warmly. ‘I could tell you that I have psychic powers but it’s much simpler. You showed your ID to the bartender. He didn’t recognise you as one of my employees, so your name stuck in his memory. The way you were dressed told us where you were studying, and voila!’ She opened a ledger and picked up a pen. ‘Now, let’s get the boring business out of the way and then we can have a nice little chat.’

  ‘Business?’

  ‘My fee. Classique charges its clients two thousand dollars a date. That’s a thousand for the agency and a thousand for the escort, plus the escort keeps any tips, gifts, or whatever. Fair, don’t you think?’

  ‘Oh yes, very fair, only –’

  ‘Good. Then I’ll take my thousand now, if you don’t mind.’

  Sarah blurted, ‘I don’t have it. I spent it.’

  A tiny crease appeared between Veronica’s eyes. ‘Spent it? All of it, including my money?’

  ‘I didn’t know it was yours, and I had some bills to pay, and …’

  Veronica closed the ledger. ‘I quite understand – a young college girl – it must have seemed like quite the windfall. I’m not the least bit cross with you, my dear. We’ll work out some easy terms, at say, ten per cent? You can pay me back a hundred a week for eleven weeks. How does that suit you?’

  ‘I … I …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Can I get in touch with Jack? I’m sure he’d straighten this out.’

  ‘“Jack” is the name he gave you? I’m sure you understand that our clients often use names that aren’t their own.’ She paused, toying with her pen while Sarah squirmed. ‘I’m sorry, Sarah, but we have a strict confidentiality rule. Both our clients’ and our staff’s personal information are sacrosanct. We don’t give them your names, nor you theirs.’ She put her pen down with a ‘click’. ‘Of course, if “Jack” came back to us, and if he asked for you, what transpired between you two while you were on your date would be your own business.’

  Sarah blurted, ‘He’ll be back for me. I know it. When he does, you can keep the whole two thousand, and then we’ll be square, right?’

  ‘And if he doesn’t? Some clients are regulars, some occasional and some one time only. It was his first engagement with Classique. He very well might call me next week or I might never hear from him again. I don’t feel I can allow you extended credit on the basis of something that might never happen.’

  Sarah’s fingers knotted in her lap. ‘But I don’t have any money!’

  ‘Oh dear.’ Veronica got up from behind her desk and went to the window. With her back to Sarah, she continued, ‘Let me explain a little bit about how we work, my dear. My agency provides escorts, nothing more. Our charges cover a client enjoying eye candy and charming company for an evening. We don’t sell sex. That, as I’m sure you know, would be illegal.’

  She seemed to be waiting for a response, but Sarah had none. Her mind was scrambling and coming up empty. Thoughts tried
to form but no matter how intently she tried to find the words, nothing came. Illegal. Why hadn’t she considered, until this very moment, the fact that she’d broken the law?

  Veronica shrugged and resumed talking. If, however, a client and one of my girls are compatible and they mutually agree to some degree of intimacy, that’s their business. When that happens, as I understand it, it often leads to gifts or tips, substantial tips.’

  ‘But the girl doesn’t have to …’

  ‘No, never. It’s always her choice, and the client’s, of course. Just out of consideration to my girls, I sometimes get an inkling of what a client expects. Then I pass the information to his date. That way there’s less embarrassment all round if he happened to want something the girl wasn’t ready to offer.’

  She turned to smile at Sarah. Want to give it a try? You look younger than your years, so you’d be very popular. You could make a thousand plus tips every week, or more often, when we’re busy. Would fifty-odd thousand a year help put you through college?’

  ‘I don’t know – I mean, it would, of course, but I don’t know about the work.’

  ‘You seemed to show a natural inclination for it, judging from the reports I received after your visit to the Royal Avenue Hotel.’

  ‘That was … I wasn’t … I didn’t know …’

  ‘Why don’t you try it, just the once? You could pay off your debt to me, and see how you feel after that.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have to …?’

  ‘Not unless you wanted to.’ Veronica marched to her desk and pushed the button on an intercom. Into it, she asked, ‘Mr V., Debra. When’s the appointment?’

  Debra answered, ‘Next Friday, Veronica.’

  Veronica turned to Sarah. ‘You’re in luck. I have a client who not only wouldn’t so much as touch you, sexually, but who specifically requires that you don’t do any touching. You’d be doing me a favour. He’s a regular, only twice a year, but every year. He likes us to provide a different girl every time, which isn’t always easy. It’s a simple gig, I promise. All you have to do is be there for a few hours.’

  ‘Do I have to be naked or something?’

  ‘No, silly, not naked. That school uniform of yours would do nicely. What do you say? You could be debt free and you might even make a hundred or so for doing virtually nothing.’

  ‘It sounds too good to be true.’

  ‘Working for me can be just that. Are you free next Friday?’

  ‘Is that the day after tomorrow or –’

  ‘No.’ A smile played on Veronica’s lips. ‘The day after tomorrow is this Friday. A week from this Friday is next Friday.’

  ‘I get confused. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. It’s rather appealing, actually.’

  ‘Just the once?’

  ‘That’d be up to you.’

  ‘And if Jack comes back?’

  ‘If he comes back looking for you, I’ll contact you immediately. You wouldn’t be the first of my girls to land a man that way.’

  Sarah stood up, shoulders back, and looked Veronica straight in the eyes. ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘Then I’ll explain the details of my client’s requirements, so there’s no misunderstanding. At eight o’clock, a week from Friday, that’s nine days from today, you’ll go to …’

  4

  ON THE WEEKEND, David, as pitiful as a whipped puppy, begged Sarah for a date. She suggested he stay home and nurse his cold, but agreed to see a movie with him early in the week. He thanked her for her concern and didn’t suggest, as he would’ve not long before, that she come to his place and nurse him back to health. She spent the time studying. She’d decided to do a paper on ‘Love’, for her epistemology course, starting with Plato’s definitions of eros, philia and agape and moving to more contemporary considerations of the possibility, or impossibility, of a knowledge of love.

  The closest Sarah had come to the kind of thing described by the sages was her night with Jack, though maybe she was confusing lust with love. Sarah didn’t think so, but her academic mind insisted she explore the possibility, and so she would, for a credit.

  David took her to the movies on an off-night when the theatre was almost empty. They sat in the back row. She knew what that meant, and so, obligingly, she buttered her hand from the tub of popcorn and jerked him off.

  When they parked under the Crimson King maple, he had to content himself with a few tepid kisses.

  Well, what did he expect, for free?

  Sarah went in and up to her room, grateful for her lonely bed. Tonight, as she did every night, she relived her time with Jack in detail until lust overtook her and her fingers played at being his fingers and brought her release. Whenever she remembered something she’d forgotten before, she felt a frisson greater than anything she’d ever felt with David. Anyone would think, to see her writhing on her bed mumbling, ‘Jack, come back,’ that she was half-crazy. But no one ever did see her, so she was safe.

  Someday she’d share a bed with the man of her dreams. Until then, she’d sleep alone, not bitter, but young, female and free.

  Sarah ‘mmm-d’ her lips. She’d purchased make-up with some of her money, just as her mother had suggested, though not with the intention her mother had had in mind, but Ms Veronica had told her to keep her make-up ‘invisible’, just clear lipgloss, a delicate brush of blush and the faintest trace of eyeliner. She had been told to look younger rather than older and to wear her page’s uniform.

  Well, here she was, outside the hotel-room door, ready for her debut as a genuine, deliberate, not accidental escort. To be honest, as a call girl – even if she had been promised there would be no physical contact. That didn’t mean that her ‘date’ wasn’t to be a sexual one. From what Ms Veronica had told her, it was certainly going to be that, in a weird way.

  She asked herself how she felt about doing what she and Classique were to be paid two thousand dollars for, and decided that she was both excited and nervous, like a virgin bride. In a way, she was a virgin, where this sort of sex was concerned. She’d never even watched porn, apart from what her sister sneered at as ‘soft core’.

  She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and rapped on the door. Seconds later, it was opened by a big sandy-haired man, in his mid-forties, she guessed, who looked like he’d been something of a jock in college, a line-backer, maybe, and who was just beginning to soften. He was in a bathrobe and barefoot.

  Sarah said, ‘I’m from …’

  He put a finger to his lips and backed away, beckoning her to follow him. It was a nice suite, not up to the one Jack had had at the Royal Avenue, but spacious, with a king-sized bed dominating the area plus ample room for an armchair and some side tables and a credenza with a TV. The man pointed to the armchair. Sarah sat.

  Next to the chair was a small table with a bucket of ice, glasses and half a dozen assorted cans of pop. There was also a platter of tiny sandwiches, a bowl with mixed nuts and another with some nibbly-salty things. What really caught her attention, though, was the very lifelike pink plastic replica of a large gnarly cock that lay atop a box of tissues. Her sister owned one of those, though Sarah wasn’t supposed to know that. As she remembered it, when you twisted its base, it vibrated. She’d never had the chance nor the inclination to actually try it.

  Her every need had been anticipated and catered to, though the vibrator was a bit presumptuous. Still, the customer is always right, right?

  The man seemed to forget she was there. He thumbed a remote. The TV came on. Sarah was at the wrong angle to see the screen properly but the sound of rhythmic grunting, squealing and squelching told her that it had to be porn. The man dropped his robe and threw himself onto the bed, absolutely naked. He had a thick, solid body and an erect cock to match. Just as if he’d been alone, he watched the screen and stroked himself, almost idly.

  Sarah watched him. That was what she was there for, Veronica had explained, just to watch. In any case, in her whole life, Sarah had only seen three
real cocks: David’s, the one that belonged to the boy she’d dated before him and Jack’s. She was curious about them and the differences between them. That was only natural, wasn’t it? This one was as long as Jack’s but quite a bit thicker. Looking at it, she couldn’t help but wonder what it’d feel like – in her hand, in her mouth, or pushing up inside her.

  The bathroom door opened. A woman, stark naked but heavily made-up, entered. She looked to be a couple of years younger than the man, tall, slender, very fit, almost no body fat, like she worked out at a gym and counted carbs. She was a freckled redhead, with her hair cut in a feathery boyish style. Her breasts were a bit smaller than Sarah’s and certainly not as pert, but still attractive, with prominent maroon nipples. Her waist was slender, with hints of taut abdominal muscles moving just below her skin. There was a ring through her navel, with a diamanté pendant. She had narrow hips with deep hollows, lean muscular flanks and long, almost thin, legs. Her shaved mound was quite plump, divided by a double crease that framed the ridge of a prominent clitoral shaft.

  It felt strange, appraising a nude woman as a requirement for an assignment. In her high school gym’s showers, girls made sure not to look as if they were sizing each other up, though they did, of course, surreptitiously.

  The woman sat on the edge of the bed, beyond the man, who was still stroking himself. ‘Playing with yourself, James?’ she asked. ‘The pretty little schoolgirl is watching you, you know.’

  ‘She wants to learn how grown-ups do it, Daphne.’

  ‘And so she shall. We’ll show her. We’ll give her a show she won’t ever forget, right?’

  Well, they’d acknowledged her presence at last. So, she wasn’t supposed to be invisible. It seemed that her role was to be that of a silent but appreciative audience. Sarah played her part by leaning forwards, elbows on knees, chin in her hands, and staring openly.