Madam, May I

by Niobia Bryant

  She used the tip of her fingernail to follow along with each line as she read the story.

  Less than five minutes later she closed the book and gave it a little nudge to push it away from her.

  Leaving her barely touched dinner for the building’s housekeeping to clear away the next day, Desdemona refilled her glass and moved about the living area to place the lid on the glass holding each lit candle. Without oxygen, the flame soon burned out with the lid keeping the acrid smell of the burned wick from filling the air.

  She paused to let her eyes adjust to the darkness before she made her way over to the other side of the condominium, moving down the hall to her marbled bathroom. The music continued to play. Soon the robe was in a pile on the floor by her tub and her hair was twisted into a disheveled topknot before she sank beneath the warm depths, massaging the beautifully scented oil in the water against her body and then resting her head against the edge of the tub and closing her eyes.

  The book had been a challenge to herself, and she had failed. Frustration got the best of her. There were far too many of the words lost to her. Those whose meaning escaped her. She couldn’t pronounce or spell. Some of it might as well be foreign.

  Desdemona raised her leg above the water, high in the air, pointing her foot to the high ceiling. With a sigh and the music as her backdrop, she decided she had done far too much in her life to let her lack of education be her biggest shame.

  Chapter Four

  Thursday, August 16, 2018

  They have no idea just how good they have it...

  Her life was a constant juggling of anywhere from five to ten balls in the air at one time. Her brain and instincts were always in overdrive. Tell this. Keep that. Do this. Don’t do that. Every move and decision were critical. If this happens that may follow. Maintaining a “Chinese wall” between her consorts and paramours. Protecting everyone. Ensuring no one person would lead to her downfall. Covering all bases. Chess over checkers.

  Freedom over incarceration for promoting prostitution.

  Think. Think. Think.

  Constantly.

  Even something as simple as having the house cleaned took strategy. Inviting strangers into a house used as a brothel was an invitation for trouble if not handled properly. So once a week she had a cleaning company come in to keep the house immaculate. She rotated between four companies, not wanting anyone to have consistent access to the house. She made sure to have it thought of as a vacation rental and every Thursday she made sure to personally sweep the house for anything incriminating.

  I’ve seen some shit.

  Standing on the doorstep of her rental house in Riverdale, Desdemona felt tension nipping at her neck. The tightness across her shoulders was undeniable. Anxiety. It was mild and didn’t induce panic, but it was there. She closed her eyes and did the 4-7-8 breathing method talking herself through the steps in her head.

  Exhale.

  Inhale for four seconds.

  Hold breath for seven seconds.

  Exhale for eight seconds.

  “Relax, Desi. Relax,” she mouthed, wiggling her shoulders before she smoothed her palms down the skirt of the black tennis dress she wore with all-black Yeezys.

  Inside the house, she removed the Gucci leather backpack she wore and reached in the side pocket for a pair of gloves to pull on. The house was empty. Denzin had been flown to Greece by a long-time consort for their annual week-long tryst. His fluidity in the sex department made him a favorite of gals and guys.

  She was headed toward the elevator with a garbage bag in her gloved hand when she paused at the thought of lounging nude aboard a mega-yacht as the sun toasted her skin to a deeper shade of brown. Not that something of that caliber was beyond her reach. It would barely dent her savings—in the bank, in her safes, and in safety deposit boxes in several banks—to charter a superyacht for a week-long cruise in the Mediterranean.

  Should I?

  She shook her head, denying herself as she continued into the house, wishing she had enough room on her plate to trust one more person. To throw one more ball in the air to juggle by hiring a full-time maid.

  I wish.

  Desdemona took the stairs to the second level and entered the first bedroom to the right. It was decorated in neutral shades with pops of dark blue for color. None of the bedrooms had heavy comforters over the covers. The high thread-count sheets and lightweight blankets were easier to clean and keep in abundance in the linen closets. The bed was still unmade from its use just last night.

  She opened the drawers of the nightstands flanking the bed. One was filled with condoms and lube. The other held sex toys of every nature. She locked them both before checking under the pillows and covers for any left-behind condoms. She found two. With a snarl of her upper lip she carried them to dump into the garbage bag.

  Most consorts made sure to dispose of their own condoms. Most. Not all.

  “What a session,” she mumbled, finding a Viagra pill nestled in the high fibers of the throw rug by the bed.

  At the end of her search of all three bedrooms and adjoining bathrooms, she had tossed another used condom, several empty foil wrappers, an anal plug, and a torn sheet. “And a partridge in a pear tree,” she sang dryly, mocking the oddball list as she carefully removed the gloves and dropped them into the trash as well before tying the bag.

  Ding-dong.

  “Perfect timing,” she said, hoisting the bag as she made her way out of the room and down the hall to the stairs, jogging down the steps. She dumped the garbage bag inside the automated garbage can and retrieved her book bag before finally making her way across the foyer to open the front door.

  “Buenos días, Señora Smith,” the middle-aged Latina woman said as she entered, pulling a rolling utility cart filled with her cleaning supplies behind her. Her five staff members followed behind, all dressed in polo shirts with her business logo on the pocket and black uniform pants.

  “Good morning,” Desdemona said, smiling at each one as they immediately set off to different areas of the house to begin cleaning.

  She paused in the entry and let the sun framing the doorway coat her body as she closed her eyes. The heat felt good. Almost as good as it would aboard a yacht in Greece. Or a beach in Turks and Caicos. Or lounging on the balcony of a villa on the Amalfi Coast of Italy. Or riding through the town of Versailles in France on a bike.

  Something lightly brushed against her nose, and she opened her eyes just as a colorful butterfly fluttered away. She wiped at her nose as she stepped back inside the coolness of the house. The sounds of vacuum cleaners and Dustbusters hummed in the air as she made her way to the in-law suite, Denzin’s private quarters.

  Desdemona tried to turn the knob. It was unlocked. “Good thing I checked,” she said, opening the door to turn the lock.

  She paused and looked around; her eyes landed on the built-in shelves flanking the television that were filled with books. She looked away from them with shame and stepped back out of the room to close the door and try the knob again to ensure it was locked. His space was off-limits—even to her.

  Upstairs on the penthouse floor, she unlocked the door and immediately poured herself a glass of wine to wait out the hour it would take for the team to clean nearly all of the eleven-thousand-square-foot house. She turned on the surveillance but got bored watching the crew clean.

  Swiveling in the chair, she turned her back to the television and looked out at the sweeping view of the hills as she mindlessly played with her diamond butterfly bracelet. The all-too-familiar tension around her neck and shoulders returned. “Shit,” she swore, hating to feel imbalanced and out of sorts.

  Hating that it was steadily becoming her new normal.

  Cha-ching. Cha-ching. Cha-ching.

  With another sip of her wine first, she opened her book bag and removed her prepaid iPhone. Number nine. Setting her wineglass down, she swiped the phone with her thumb to answer the call.

  “Bonjour, étranger,” she gr
eeted him in French, one of the few phrases she knew in the language.

  “We need to meet. We have a problem.”

  Desdemona stiffened at the serious tone of his voice. Normally he would respond to her playful greeting of “Hello, stranger” with a chuckle or a quip.

  Problem? What kind of problem? Jail time type of problem?

  “Problems are my specialty,” she said, thinking of the tall and bald light-skinned Haitian in his early fifties with hazel eyes. “I’m sure you remember that I have plenty of resources on this end.”

  “This matter will need both of us, Mademoiselle,” he insisted, his French accent heavy. “We shouldn’t discuss it by phone. I am sending a car for you.”

  Her curiosity was piqued, but she didn’t like to be ordered about. It was one of the reasons she had stopped servicing consorts herself. The days of even being told just how a man liked to be made to ejaculate were over. Fast strokes. Doggy style. Blow job. Rim shots.

  No more. Control was always hers. Whenever. Whatever.

  “No,” she asserted. “And are you in America? Hell, are you in New York?”

  “Yes. The car can be there in ten minutes.”

  Desdemona released a short laugh that was mocking. “Where?” she asked.

  His pause was noticeable, before his all-too-familiar chuckle followed. “Okay, tell me where you are and I’ll send the car there.”

  “I’m handling some business,” she said, turning to eye the surveillance screens on the television. “But I can meet you in two hours.”

  “Okay. You picked the time so I’ll send the car.”

  She tapped her fingernails across the top of the desk.

  “This can’t be a pissing contest; only one of us has a dick, Mademoiselle,” he mused.

  “I will be more than happy to personally deliver two beautiful dresses to you,” Desdemona said.

  Time is money.

  Again, he chuckled. “Fine. You win. Two hours—”

  “Outside my showroom,” she interrupted him smoothly before ending the call and claiming the win.

  * * *

  “We’re here, Mademoiselle,” the driver said.

  Desdemona handed the garment bags to the driver before accepting his hand as she exited the back of the black Cadillac Escalade with her tote. She adjusted the large black shades and scarf she wore around her head and covering the bottom half of her face.

  She had changed into a black one-shoulder dress with an asymmetrical hem that exposed one lush brown thigh.

  “Have a good day, Mademoiselle,” the driver said, closing the door of the SUV and laying the garment bags over the arm she offered.

  “Thank you,” she said, moving the short distance across the tarmac of the private airfield to the black jet.

  Her steps were briefly cushioned by the black welcome mat before she carefully climbed the steps in her six-inch heels to board the luxurious plane.

  “Welcome aboard, Mademoiselle.”

  She smiled at Antoine Pierre rising from his seat to hand her a flute of champagne as she neared him. She draped the garment bags over one of the leather seats and placed her tote on the seat. “Where’s your crew?” she asked, taking the flute and enjoying a sip.

  “Privacy is key with you,” he said, unbuttoning his suit jacket and claiming a seat. “They’re not onboard.”

  She nodded as she moved to the seat across from where he now sat.

  “Are you Muslim now?” he asked, his tone bemused as he eyed her scarf.

  “This is not a hijab and you know that,” she said, removing it and her shades with her free hand to set both on her lap before leaning back against the seat and crossing her legs. Slowly.

  His eyes dropped to take in the innocent move, clinging to the sight of her exposed thighs. He swore under his breath and smiled. “Entre tes cuisses je trouve le paradis,” he said, his voice deep.

  “Translation, please?” Desdemona asked as she uncrossed and then crossed her legs again, knowing she was teasing him. . . and herself. Five years of celibacy and being in the presence of the first john who ever made her climax was titillating. Not that it was emotional and sensual. Or that he was the most voracious lover. He just was the first man to ever care if the sex was as good for her as it was for him.

  He also was the last john she serviced.

  Antoine set his drink in the holder in the wood-grain panel running alongside his seat beneath the windows of the plane. “Between your thighs I find paradise,” he said. “Nommez votre prix.”

  That one she knew well. She shook her head, denying his request of naming her price.

  Antoine was wealthy and once politically powerful in Haiti, now running his multimillion-dollar tech business out of Paris. Although single, he had been attached to a beautiful Swedish model for the last five years. Desdemona was well aware their relationship had ended a few months ago. The foreign press followed his activities with precision.

  “What’s the problem we need to fix?” she asked, taking another sip of very good champagne. “Have I finally been discovered?”

  He shook his bald head. “No.”

  Inwardly she felt relief. She was well aware that it may not be her own criminal activity that brought the law upon her, but that of one of her consorts who didn’t cover their trail well or traded her in to save themselves.

  “I’m in need of your services,” he admitted, moving to sit on the edge of the seat with his knees spread as he pressed his elbows down upon them and locked his fingers in the air between them.

  Desdemona eyed him over the rim of her glass, noticing his erection pressed against the seam of his tailored pants. She cleared her throat. “Things have changed since we last spoke, Antoine,” she said.

  “I know.”

  She looked pensive, curious about the discussions being had about her. A lot of the consorts were friendly with each other, particularly since new consorts were by referral only.

  “There are more than a few men unhappy with your decision,” Antoine admitted, clasping his hands as if forcing himself not to reach across the short divide to touch her.

  Desdemona took another sip.

  “Knowing that you haven’t been with any of them anymore makes me want you even more, Mademoiselle,” he admitted. “Nommez votre prix.”

  “There is no price. Not anymore,” she said. “I can set you up with one of my consorts, perhaps someone more to your taste.”

  Their eyes met.

  His ex was foreign, tall, slender, and naturally blond. Everything Desdemona was not.

  “In fact, I have a set of twins that would be perfect. Lyla and Lola would be twice the fun for you,” she said.

  He did reach to press a warm hand to her knee. “It would take both of them and more to match you,” he said with such determination. The Johansen twins were concierge level courtesans ready to fly around the country at a whim to service her elite consorts. The blond, blue-eyed twin beauties of Swedish background were aspiring actors, frequently out of work, but loved acting and improving their craft. They had just arrived back from an excursion to Vegas with a high-roller gambler, but Paris would give them renewed energy.

  “True,” Desdemona admitted, allowing his hand to remain. “But I have taught all my courtesans very well. I’ve even shown them videos of me doing what I do, how I do it, and why you all used to pay me very well.”

  “Nommez votre prix.”

  “No.”

  Antoine sat back in his chair in frustration, wiping his hand across his mouth.

  “Trust me, the twins are what you need,” she said, reaching into her bag for her phone. He was a man used to having his way. What her consorts failed to acknowledge was that they all were.

  “Fly with me to Paris,” he said. “I can just lie inside you all weekend and all will be right with the world.”

  Paris.

  She was tempted. It would be so easy to say yes and get away from the normalcy of her routine. Something different. Spontaneou
s.

  “I am the center of protection for my consorts and courtesans,” she explained. “I need to be here in case something happens. That’s my job.”

  “Nommez votre prix,” he repeated. “Anything.”

  She set her flute inside the cupholder and rose, coming over to stand beside where he sat. She reached for his chin and tilted his head back. “The next man I lie with will be because I choose to, not because he pays me,” she said to him softly, stroking his chin with her thumb.

  Calmly he reached around her body and pressed his face against her belly. “Then choose to,” he requested.

  The fleshy bud of her core throbbed to life as she looked down the length of the aircraft and her eyes landed on the king-size bed just beyond the open door. It would be so easy to lead him there and ride them both to a climax. So damn easy.

  She shook her head, denying them both. “We have done business in the past, and to offer my body to you for free now would be bad business. Right?” she asked. “Right.”

  He said nothing.

  Desdemona moved out of his grasp. “I brought three dresses for you to choose from,” she said, walking over to the first seat, where she had laid the garment bags, to pick them up.

  “I don’t need dresses,” he said.

  She eyed him as she unzipped the bag, “I didn’t need to come here today,” she volleyed back. “I could have just as well denied you over the phone as I did on this plane, Antoine.”

  “I’ve never married, but I didn’t want to cheat,” he said as he reached for his flute. “So I left you alone.”

  Desdemona removed the three dresses.

  “And now that I am free again, you have left me alone,” he finished, before taking a very deep sip.

  “Not just you,” she reminded him, coming over with the gowns held by hangers in her hands. “All of you.”

  Over the rim of his flute, he eyed the elaborate garments she held before him before reaching inside his suit jacket to withdraw a thin billfold, from which he removed a black American Express card and set it on the table beside him. “I’ll buy all three if you model the middle one for me,” he said.