Origin

by Chloe Adler

  “Are you okay with this, honey? We don’t have to have sex. I can make you come orally if you’d rather.”

  “Sex,” he says without a hint of emotion.

  “You’re the customer.” I heave my body down on his cock but he doesn’t buck his hips up. It reminds me of the time I screwed a paraplegic. His wife had paid for me and she sat next to us, watching. Holding his hand. I showed her how to arouse him. By the end of the session—after we’d evolved into a very hot threesome—I let those two go at it on their own and watched for moral support.

  See? My job can be very rewarding.

  I ride him hard and slow, wanting him to get what he paid for and also hoping he’ll put in a good word for me with Miss Cheryl. I’m still relatively new here, after all.

  Jerome

  When I wake up, I’m lying completely naked on a bed. There’s water running somewhere but I have no idea where I am. I shoot to my feet and look for my clothes. There’s a used condom on the nightstand. What the hell? Where am I? Whose condom is that? That is totally gross.

  I jump into my jeans and T-shirt as fast as I can and turn to run when the bathroom door opens. A gorgeous woman steps out, wet and naked. Out of habit I cover my eyes and spin around. She giggles, a tinkling sound like champagne glasses clinking together.

  “Now you’re shy?” She walks over to me and touches my back.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to walk in on you.” I have no idea what else to say.

  “Walk in on me? Oh baby, you did more than that, you came in me.”

  “What?” I turn around, then remember she’s naked and avert my eyes, which is very difficult to do. Apart from my girlfriend, this woman may be the most stunning creature I’ve ever seen.

  “Well, you did seem high but you weren’t too high to perform.” Her voice is a sultry tease and my treacherous cock responds with a twinge.

  No way. I do not cheat on my girlfriend. I plan on marrying her. I’ve never cheated on anyone before, ever. The guys must have played a trick on me. That’s it. They got me drunk and planted me in this hotel room with this gorgeous woman and she’s in on the joke too.

  “You got me.” I throw my hands up in the air. “Very funny joke. Okay, guys, where are you all hiding? In the bathroom? A closet?” I walk to the bathroom and fling open the door but the only thing I’m greeted with is a waft of steam and the smell of wildflowers. I look for a closet but there isn’t one, so I fling open the only other door and peek my head out into a long red hallway with black trim. Weird. I don’t remember any of the hotels in the area advertising a goth theme.

  I turn back to the woman, who is now wearing some sort of sexy flapper-girl getup.

  “Miss . . .”

  “Flores, Sydney Flores.”

  I jut my hand out to her. “Jerome Durand.”

  “Yes, Mr. Durand, you introduced yourself before.” She takes a step closer. I take a step back. “I’ll take the fact that you don’t remember introducing yourself as indicative of a good time. Was I able to fully please you?” She winks.

  “Please?”

  “Is that a no? Would you like to go again?” In one fluid motion, she drops her dress. It pools at her feet and I avert my gaze again.

  “Miss Flores. I hope my friends have compensated you well for this joke. You got me.” I hold my hands up in the air, palms out. “I’m going to leave now.”

  “Excuse me.” Her voice is harsher now, less sex kitten and more wet cat. “But you’re the one who paid me, not your friends, and there was no joke. We had intercourse. Your dick was in my mouth and my vag.”

  “No, no, no.” I keep my hands raised. “It most certainly was not. Unless you knocked me out and raped me. I have a girlfriend, Miss Flores, and I’m in love with her.”

  “So many of my clients have girlfriends. Most have wives. And I have no doubt they love them. Love and sex are not interconnected. Quite the contrary. Sex is a basic human need. Love is . . .” She stops, blowing air from her nostrils before mumbling, “weakness.”

  I’m not going to stand here and debate whether I had sex or not. If I had sex with this stunning woman, I would have remembered. “You’re a lovely woman and I’ve no doubt that you fetch a high price for your . . . services. But I’m in no need of them. I’m more than happy with my love. We have an amazing relationship,” I swallow, “sex included.”

  “What’s her name?”

  I shake my head. To say her name here would be to defile it. “It was nice to make your acquaintance. This was a great show. The dirty condom a nice touch even.” I wave toward the bedside table and Sydney turns toward it.

  She crosses over quickly, snatching up the sheath and expertly knotting the top. She holds it out to me. “Take it to a lab if you don’t believe it’s yours. Get it tested.”

  “Gross.”

  She shrugs, pulls a tissue from a box and wraps it around the dirty thing, then shoves it toward me again. “Your call.”

  I take the wadded-up tissue with the condom nestled inside just to shut her up. There’s no way I’d get this tested. I know I didn’t have sex with this woman. It’s just more of the show. This entire thing must have been orchestrated by Zach, my best friend and a lover of practical jokes. I turn to leave.

  “Jerome.” My name pours off her tongue like a fine wine.

  I make it to the door, pause and turn back.

  “If you were happy with my services, you can leave a tip with Miss Cheryl downstairs. I’m sure you’re familiar with the method.”

  I roll my eyes and leave. Zach must have paid a lot to fake me out. Consummate actress or real prostitute, her performance is flawless.

  3

  Sydney

  I remain standing next to the bed for several moments after he leaves. Did I miss something? Was that guy faking it the entire time or what? I shake my head, clearing it. No time to try and figure it out.

  Each room is equipped with an old-fashioned black rotary phone, the vertical type with a separate handset that hooks onto a U-shaped stand. Except they’re modern reproductions, of course, and on the back is a light. When it’s flashing red, that means another john is waiting to be serviced. Mine glows a muted white, almost unnoticeable in the dim lighting. If it were flashing red, I’d pick up the handset, which leads directly into Miss Cheryl’s office, and find out where the next john was waiting.

  Smoothing out my dress, I stop to reapply fresh lipstick in front of the full-length gilded mirror and coil my damp hair over one shoulder. Looking good, Syd.

  I make my way down the carpeted staircase, running my hand down the mahogany banister for effect. If there are any johns entering the vectum, they will see my entrance, but I keep my gaze unfocused because most men don’t like a bold whore. Part of the reason a lot of men come to me is to regain control in their lives. There is a small contingent that wants the opposite, but those are a definite minority. I can easily play whatever role they like.

  The front door opens and closes with a thump. Twitters alight throughout the foyer but I dare not look up. Instead, I focus on gliding. Most of the women and men who work here are here as vampire food. Only a few like to earn extra money by going upstairs, which already sets me apart, so I don’t have to try too hard.

  I look down as if I’m focusing on my four-inch heels, which graze, expertly, over the carpeted stairs. When I reach the bottom I pause for effect and scan the room for a free space to sit.

  “Oh he’s here,” a punked-out boy-man says. “I hope he picks me to drain tonight.”

  “Like you’d be so lucky. You know his type and it’s not you,” a small girl with a pixie cut says.

  “Well it’s not you either,” he retorts.

  “It has been.”

  The girl narrows her eyes at the guy and angles her hips toward the front door. I don’t really care who the guy is that they’re gaga over. If anything, it makes me less interested. I’m not here to fight over anyone plus it sounds like whoever it is, it’s a vampir
e looking for a bite.

  “Oh my God,” comes a breathy voice to my right. “He’s walking this way. Does my lipstick look okay?”

  Disgusted, I remain at the foot of the staircase, yawn and study my nails, taking great care not to look up. I don’t have to feign disinterest because the reality is, I do not care.

  I smell him before I see him. Spice with hints of orange, pipe tobacco? Still, I keep my eyes on my nails.

  His deep rumbling laugh tickles my ears and the other guys and girls laugh around him.

  “Hey, Niall,” one of them calls. “Pick me tonight, please.”

  Desperate, ick.

  “I like a man who knows what he wants and isn’t afraid to ask for it,” Niall responds, close enough to me that his breath caresses my cheek.

  And still, I refuse to look up.

  “But tonight I’m in the mood for something new. Something I’ve never tasted before. Something with hair as black as a moonless night.”

  He’s standing over me. I may as well earn my first wad. Pun intended. I look up, languidly, letting my eyes trail his body. The shoes are sporty but an ugly black and gold with Alpinestars written across the black strap holding them closed. My eyes work up his skintight leather pants, stopping at his belt buckle. A skull? How trite. With white gems for eyes, obviously rhinestones. All along the leather of the belt on both sides of the skull are nails. Actual nails, with the pointy ends sticking straight out like spikes. I close my eyes, not wanting to continue the ride.

  “What’s your name?” His breath is cool; a vampire who hasn’t drunk this week.

  “Sydney.” I keep my eyes shut, willing myself not to look up.

  “Is this your first night?”

  I offer my practiced tinkling laughter. “No sir, I’ve been here for a few months.”

  “You must be awfully popular if I haven’t seen you before now.”

  “Perhaps.” I sweep my hair over my other shoulder and the cool air chills the wetness left from the damp strands.

  He waits without speaking and I can’t ignore him any longer. I lift my eyes upward, past the belt and tight-fitting black leather jacket to—a redhead? Thick, auburn locks fall past his shoulders, framing a jaw so square it could be used as a hopscotch court.

  Eyes a deep forest green with a ring of dark gray and a burst of amber hug the pupil. Eyes that appear, on first glance, almost merry, but a darkness floats in their depths, far beneath the surface and he makes no effort to hide it.

  I offer him my I don’t give a shit about you smile. If he’s perceptive, he’ll read it correctly. One side of his lips crook upward and his eyes fall to half-mast.

  “Sydney?” He holds out his hand and I take it.

  A lightning strike of sexual attraction startles me, but I don’t react. It happens sometimes. No big deal. Doesn’t mean a thing.

  He leans into my ear. “I’d like to drink from you too while we fuck.” His hot breath sends chills down my spine but his words rouse anger. What the hell, Syd? You’re a pro. I do not react to men this way.

  “Fucking is on the table, drinking is not.” I swish my long, dark hair onto my back in a practiced move.

  He nods, then leads me up the stairs, walking just a pace in front of me and never letting go of my hand. An unexpected warmth bleeds through the chill of his skin and I find myself lured to follow him, almost like he’s a snake charmer and I’m the snake.

  He takes me into room D—Miss Cheryl has such an imagination—before letting go of my hand and sitting down on the bed. He pats the area next to him. I sit and his hands move up my back, rubbing in a circular motion.

  “So, Sydney, tell me, what’s your real name?”

  I laugh, a sharp bark. “Sydney is my real name.”

  He teases the skin above the collar of my dress. I bite down on the side of my cheek to keep from moaning. Having my back fondled is almost better than an orgasm. Almost. Not that I’d remember what having an orgasm with someone else is like anyway.

  “All right, Sydney, that begs two more questions.”

  I lean my head down so he can scratch the back of my neck and he does.

  “Why don’t you use a fake name like all the other girls?”

  “Why should I?” I murmur. “I’m proud of what I do and I’ve got nothing to hide. From anyone.”

  He chuckles, a rich, warm sound. “I sincerely doubt that but I’ll move on. Why did your mother name you Sydney? Or was it your father’s idea?”

  I stiffen at the mention of my father and then will myself to relax, hoping he doesn’t notice. His fingers trip down my bare arms.

  While I gestated in the womb, my mother decided I was going to be a boy. We grew up poor and all she had to watch on television were a few old VHS tapes that an American had donated. “She fell in love with Sidney Poitier.”

  His hands stop and he leans in to kiss the side of my neck. His breath is warm and fragrant, smelling of tobacco and danger. “That, I was not expecting.”

  I moan and arch my back, starting my show. “What were you expecting?” I purr, waiting for him to tell me his fantasies.

  “Not a reason like that, but I like it. I also thought you’d know who I am. I mean, I understand you haven’t worked here for long, but . . .”

  “Who are you? Some famous American actor?”

  He nibbles my earlobe. “If you don’t know, I’d love to be no one tonight. Just a warm body pressing up against yours.”

  “Whatever you want, big boy.” Dropping my voice to husky as though I’m turned on, I say, “Did Miss Cheryl go over my rules?”

  He shakes his head, the sweep of his red hair, dancing in the low light. “I’m not one for rules, sweetheart.”

  My head snaps up and I swivel to face him. “Well, I am, and if you want a piece of this,” I caress my breasts, squeezing them and licking my lips, “you’ll have to abide.”

  “Oh, I want a piece of you all right.” He sits back on the bed, leaning against the elaborately carved wooden headboard and slowly unbuttons his black shirt. He’s taken the leather coat off and left it somewhere, but that ridiculous belt is still on. “Tell me your rules, little one, I’m all ears.”

  Little one? Condescending much? Though his tone was anything but. Maybe the other girls like that nickname. Not me. “Okay, well, that nickname’s gotta go. It wasn’t one of my rules but it is now.”

  He laughs. “I like you.”

  I wag my finger in front of my face. “Rule number two, don’t like me. That includes not falling in love with me or deluding yourself into thinking you have. I’m not here to be liked or owned in any way. I’m here to be fucked. To show you a good time. To make you scream when you come.”

  From the deep set of his jaw as he clenches, the sides pulsing, he’s unmoved. “We’ll see about that. Rule number three?”

  “No kissing.”

  “I figured. Four?”

  I take a deep breath and hold it, close my eyes and let it out. “Do not try and make me come.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “No orgasms for me.”

  He cocks his head. “Meaning you take care of yourself?”

  “Yes, exactly.”

  “No problems there, as long as you tell me what I can do or how to move so you get off.”

  “No, no, no. I do not come with clients. I make you come but I do not have orgasms unless . . .” I shrug. “. . . I’m alone.”

  “That’s a new one. I don’t know if you’ll be able to stop yourself with me. I’m quite the consummate lover.”

  “I’m sure you are, Romeo. Just don’t focus on trying to give me an orgasm.” I hold my hands up and out to the sides. “Okay?”

  “You got it. Anything else?”

  “Less talking.”

  4

  Niall

  This woman obviously has no idea who I am, and for the first time in a couple of years I revel in the anonymity. The ability to be just another guy fucking just another girl. I don’t have to be fa
mous and she doesn’t have to be a whore. Just for tonight.

  I work my belt, careful not to snag it on anything and careful to lay it out on the nightstand. I don’t need her trying to pry out the diamond eyes. It wouldn’t be the first time. One of the many hazards of being rich and one of the many reasons I have no interest in a girlfriend or a wife. Ever. They’re all out for one thing. Money.

  But not in the upfront way a whore is. You pay a whore for goods and services. I chuckle. Correction: you rent the goods and pay for the services. It’s clean, it’s simple, it’s honest, and there are zero strings attached. They don’t pout when you don’t call the next day. They don’t make a scene when you refuse to purchase yet another bauble they insist they can’t live without. I’m no one’s bitch. I’ve worked hard to get where I am, to get what I have. And I’m not losing that in a media circus of a divorce.

  I don’t usually ponder the background of my whores but Sydney, somehow, is different. Why did she hesitate before telling me her mother named her after an old American actor? And then the defiance, as though she dared me to say something rude about it. No matter, that’s the other beauty of purchasing sex: I don’t have to pretend to be interested in their backstories. And I refuse to admit to myself that there is something about this particular woman that makes me want to know a little more about hers.

  No, I’m renting that creamy, olive complexion with eyes so green they glow, almost iridescent, like a cat’s. Green like my own, but there’s such a vast difference. Mine are dark and broody. I should know, I’ve perfected that look over the years. Hers are bright, almost magical.

  “Stand up and turn around.” I want to see how her dress hugs her curves before I rip it off. Her confidence is intoxicating. I’ve been with more whores than I can count but this girl. This woman. She’s not like the others. She puts on a good front, but there’s some deep, deep pain hidden inside. I see something just like it every day in the mirror.