Madam, May I Read online

  “Love it,” she said softly as she opened the top drawer of the desk and removed an iPad.

  She resumed her humming while tapping on the tablet to turn on the seventy-inch television that hung on the wall over the fireplace. The views from the twenty security cameras inside and outside the furnished house were soon displayed. Entry gate. Front door. Rear patio doors. Backyard and pool. All living spaces inside the house, including the spacious chef’s kitchen. The wine cellar, exercise room, media room, and bedroom suite in the basement. Each of the bedrooms on the second floor and finally the in-law suite on the first level with its own private side entrance.

  Desdemona smiled at the sight of the naked man lying in the middle of the king-sized bed stroking his own erection. Denzin Anderson lacked for nothing. Good looks. Quick wit. Disarming smarts. Hard physique. Long dick.

  She used the iPad to activate the intercom system in Denzin’s suite before setting it on the desk. “Punctual as ever,” she said, her voice sounding raspy and soft to her own ears.

  He locked his deep-set black eyes directly on the camera in the corner. “Disappointment is not my MO,” he said.

  “No, it is not,” she agreed with emphasis, sitting on the tapestry Parsons chair behind the desk before she removed a cash counting machine from the deep bottom drawer.

  Denzin chuckled.

  She walked over to the fireplace and hit a small latch hidden behind a carved leaf. The side panel popped open, revealing three shelves. Each was stacked with money. Her courtesans dropped her share of the cash money they collected from consorts into her office via the mail slot on the door. She hid the money in the fireplace. She removed all the bundles, carrying them in one arm back to her desk.

  “Security alert. Front gate.”

  Desdemona’s eyes shifted to the television. She recognized the face of the woman behind the wheel of the nondescript electric blue car: Jann Loomis, a beautiful twenty-something sous chef.

  “Is that her?” Denzin asked.

  “Right on time,” Desdemona replied, using the tablet to unlock and open the gate because all visitor security codes required she do so.

  “What’s her name again?” he asked.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  Desdemona turned off the intercom and removed the rubber bands around the ends of the first stack of cash and set it inside the hopper. The shuffle of the money through the bank-grade counter filled the air. “Remember it’s about her, not you, Denzin,” she said, her tone amused.

  He chuckled again as he rose from the bed, his erection seeming to lead him across the spacious room and out the door. Via the cameras she watched him move with confidence out of the suite and into the entry hall through the door behind the staircase before reaching the front door.

  Desdemona fed the counter another large stack and then reached in her tote for her personal iPad in a bright orange cover. After setting it on the desk, she walked over to the walk-in closet. It was empty save for the fifty bottles of her favorite 2001 Château Rieussec and a dozen wineglasses lining the shelves meant for shoes. She grabbed one of each.

  “And they’re off,” she said, looking at the television screen as she uncorked the wine and poured herself a quarter glass.

  The young woman—a slender beauty with waist-length blond hair—was as naked as Denzin and bent over his bed as he stroked her from behind.

  Desdemona turned the intercom back on before reclaiming her seat with one foot tucked beneath her bottom. “Oh, sweet baby Jesus. It’s even worse with the volume up,” she said, tapping the stem of the glass with her fingernails.

  There wasn’t a moan of pleasure—feigned or real.

  The sex was perfunctory.

  Denzin looked up at the camera and shrugged with a bewildered expression.

  Desdemona took a deep sip of wine and then refilled her glass to the rim this time.

  The monotony of it all may very well bore me to death . . .

  Desdemona sighed into her glass before massaging the bridge of her nose with her fingertips.

  Procuring pussy has lost its shine.

  She rose from the chair, sipping her beloved wine as she walked over to the windows overlooking the pool and landscaped backyard. For a few necessary moments, she allowed herself to forget that the woman in the room with Denzin—her in-house stud—trying to become one of her highly sought-after courtesans was the driest lay she had ever seen in her life.

  She garnered a minimum of two thousand dollars an hour up to $100,000 for a weekend in Europe or Asia, and her patrons were not paying that price for the privilege of having sex with a beautiful woman. They wanted more—conversation, excitement, a sounding board, humor, intellect, and above all privacy—and she made sure to provide it.

  Desdemona only hired smart women and men with clear goals that prevented them wanting to work in the biz for any longer than two to three years—also ensuring no hidden ambitions to claim her spot in the business. Each courtesan was thoroughly vetted—including a psych evaluation—before she even agreed to meet with them, and their skill in the bedroom was rated by a session with Denzin before they were hired. She sent each new courtesan through etiquette training to ensure they could properly move among the wealthy, famous, and powerful—particularly those accompanying them on events. They were required to stay in shape—including daily Kegels. Drug use was completely prohibited—no weed, coke, or pills of any kind.

  She turned her attention to the screen and grimaced at Denzin scrolling through his phone as he continued to thrust inside her. “Oh, sweet baby Jesus. Oh, poor thing. Just clueless. Just . . . just . . . just wrong. So wrong,” she moaned, pretending to clutch imaginary pearls.

  Regardless of who, what, and when, sex was the common denominator, and good sex was key. And what she was watching was anything but good.

  She is beautiful.

  Desdemona could think of five of her patrons off the top of her head who went for the blond-haired, long-legged beauties. Big tits, blue eyes, and the pretense of blank brains. The Barbies of the world.

  Beauty is never enough.

  Her patron list was comprised of professional athletes, Hollywood celebrities, politicians, corporate bigwigs, and even some young royalty. New patrons were by referrals only and business was booming. The 2017 deluge of firings and suspensions of politicians and Hollywood’s elite for sexual misconduct had sent those fearing a future fall from grace to the services she provided. And over the years she had become just as well known and sought after for the privacy she provided as she was for the exclusivity of her courtesans.

  Prior to the house in Riverdale, she had leased a penthouse apartment in midtown Manhattan for those patrons wanting to avoid renting hotels to enjoy their time with a courtesan—or courtesans. Others wanted more of a home feeling during their downtime. The setup was good. Private entrance on a one-way side street for the elevator leading straight to the penthouse. The building had the right mix of all ages and races to make her patrons blend in.

  The problems?

  The busy midtown location and not enough seclusion.

  The house in Riverdale solved them both.

  It wasn’t broke, but Desdemona fixed it before it could be. That was her job. One of many.

  She walked back over to the desk. “Denzin, looks like you’ve been taking advantage of the exercise room downstairs,” she said, taking the counted stack from the machine and loading another as she took note of the amount of fifty thousand before giving them her attention again.

  The woman—Jann—looked startled.

  Good. An emotion.

  “I like to keep my abs right, boss,” Denzin said, giving her a playful wink as he continued to stroke inside Jann with the passion of scratching an itch.

  “It shows,” Desdemona said, taking another sip of wine and letting it stroke her tongue before she gently swallowed. Still holding the glass, she sat back in the chair and took a deep breath that she released slowly and methodically.
r />   “Jann, I guess you’re wondering why the man having sex with you and I are chatting when he’s about nine—maybe ten—inches in,” she said, leaning forward to set the glass on the desk.

  “Ten!” Denzin balked. “Try eleven.”

  “I concede,” she said, her voice amused.

  The woman looked about the room again.

  Denzin patted her right butt cheek and pointed up to the small camera in the corner when she looked back at him over her shoulder.

  And as Desdemona looked into her dull eyes she honestly didn’t know which of them was more uninterested. That was slightly shocking. Denzin was well-endowed and skillful. Over the last few years, she’d seen him push many a woman over the edge of passion with ease.

  Hell, usually it was like watching really good porn. Bury your vibrating rabbit between your thighs until you cum kind of good porn.

  At a heated memory of climaxing with rough cries as she watched Denzin and a lover do the same, Desdemona cleared her throat. “Leave us alone, Denzin,” she said, her voice firm.

  He stepped back, freeing his hard inches from inside Jann before grabbing a pair of basketball shorts to pull on over his erection.

  Viagra? she wondered with an arched brow and then a double shoulder shrug because she couldn’t blame him if he needed a little blue boost occasionally. He was her dick on demand handling female consorts and testing new courtesans—sometimes without much notice.

  “Get dressed, love,” she said, turning her back to the screen to give Jann the same privacy she hadn’t bothered to consider just a few moments ago.

  She sipped the wine and smiled into her glass as a butterfly with an intricate black-and-white pattern fluttered its wings and landed on the window, pausing for just a moment before again taking flight. For a second, she was jealous of its ability to just fly away on a whim.

  The smile she allowed herself was slight as she turned back to the screen. “This isn’t for you, Jann,” she began, setting the glass on the desk and stroking the fragile leaves of a daffodil bloom. “My patrons trust me to deliver an experience, and while I think you are one of the most beautiful women ever. . . you are not cut out for this.”

  Jann’s disappointment was clear even as she nodded in understanding and slid the strap of her crossbody over her head. For a moment Desdemona wondered if she should’ve gone downstairs and met with her face-to-face, but she decided it wasn’t necessary.

  “Selling your body means different things for different people. For some it’s liberation—believe it or not—and for others it’s disgusting and belittling. Then there is plenty in between. Guess what? Every feeling about it matters. There is no law that all women have to think, feel, be, or do the same thing,” Desdemona said, her face pensive. “But what I just saw was a woman who couldn’t hide the shame she felt.”

  The woman’s expression revealed the truth of that observation.

  “So, if I can give you some advice, love,” Desdemona offered, picking up the counted stack and loading another onto the machine. Soon the rapid shuffling of bills filled the air. “If your situation is desperate enough to do something that disgusts you, then your final recourse may be using your beauty to marry very well or hustle twice as hard.”

  Long after Jann was gone, Denzin had reclaimed his bedroom and Desdemona had turned off both the video and intercom. She lay back on the bed with her eyes closed enjoying the feel of the sun’s rays warming her face through the window. Spreading her arms and legs, she gave in to a moment of folly, flapping her arms and legs as if she could fly away like the butterfly on the window earlier.

  In an instant she envisioned water quickly rising to swallow her, sinking beneath its depths and feeling drowned. With a gasp, she sat up in bed and released a short breath as she ran her hands through her curls before tightly gripping the soft strands into her fists.

  Cha-ching. Cha-ching. Cha-ching.

  Her gaze went to her tote. It was the ringtone of the prepaid iPhone that she used strictly for her consorts. Each of her regulars was given a burner phone and assigned a number to keep proof of their communications to a minimum. She released her hair and rose from the bed to cross the room to retrieve the phone from her bag. Number one. “Congratulations on the win last night, Mr. NBA,” she said, turning to lean against the edge of the desk.

  The deep voice on the line chuckled. “Time to relax and get ready for game six, Mademoiselle,” he said.

  None of her consorts knew her real name or identity. She preferred it that way. Yet another attempted security measure. All called her by her preferred moniker of Mademoiselle.

  “The usual?” she asked, looking across the room and out the window at the clear and pristine pool in the distance.

  She knew him well. He had been one of her consorts for the past five years. Wins required a courtesan to pamper and adore him. Softly and sensually. Loss required one to berate him. Rough and harsh.

  Desdemona knew both her consorts and her courtesans well. Rarely had she not been able to make a perfect fit of the courtesan’s particular skill or personality to the consort’s wants and desires. Wealthy men appreciated that talent.

  “I wondered if such a big win was huge enough to bring out the big guns?” he asked.

  Desdemona chuckled, but the humor did not fill her eyes. “Big guns mean big money,” she teased, keeping it light.

  “If we win the championship I might splurge to bring you out of retirement, Angel,” he said, reverting to a name she hadn’t used in years.

  Once a whore, always a whore.

  “Angel is dead, and Mademoiselle killed her. There’s no reviving her, love,” she said.

  “I still have my memories.”

  “If I only I could get residual checks for them,” she joked.

  They shared a laugh.

  After the details were set and the call ended, Desdemona knew she should reach out to the courtesan she already had in mind for her consort, but instead she made her way out of the penthouse and down to the first level via the elevator. She felt almost melancholy as she turned the corner to cross the far end of the foyer, the hall, and then the living room to step out onto the brick terrace.

  She was thankful for the seclusion of the close-knit trees and shrubs around the perimeter of the large yard as she grabbed her bright yellow dress in her fists and pulled it over her head. Nude, she went racing across the hot blades of grass to dive into the pool. The water was warm from the summer heat as it enveloped her body. She welcomed it as she swam to the other end, wishing that when she emerged her past could be as easily cleaned as her body by the chlorinated water.

  Chapter Two

  Monday, June 18, 2018

  Pussy has made me rich, and I plan to stay that way, because I will never ever rely on another person to sustain . . .

  Desdemona stroked the trio of diamond line bracelets lying across her wrist. One was of tiny butterflies and the other was simple bands with exquisite diamonds. Did she need the trinkets? No, she had plenty. It was just nice to know that she could afford them if she chose.

  There was a time when a pack of Ramen noodles was a struggle to buy.

  “Will you be adding these to your collection, Ms. Smith?”

  Desdemona. Say it. Say Desdemona. Ms. Dean. Say it.

  How could he? He didn’t know it.

  Desdemona looked at the salesman, a tall, effeminate man with Nordic good looks and impeccable style. He had garnered many a commission from her. “No, not today, Clayton,” she said, extending her wrist so that he could remove the jewelry. Her eyes clung to the butterflies.

  He saw that and lingered before placing it back in the jewelry case.

  Diamonds are this girl’s best friend.

  She reached in her tote and withdrew a billfold to count out a hundred one-hundred-dollar bills.

  “The butterflies?” he asked.

  She nodded before stacking the cash and tapping the edges atop the glass jewelry case before handing the bills
to him.

  “Of course,” he said as he rung up her purchase.

  “I’ll wear it out,” she said, running her hand through her hair, now worn straight and parted down the middle.

  Clayton set a small shopping bag holding the bracelet’s bright red case and her receipt onto the top of the display case before clasping the piece around her wrist. “You look fabulous as ever,” he said, turning the piece so that the clasp was not shown and it was close to her diamond Patek Philippe watch. His eyes took in the sheer fitted black tee she wore with nothing but a black strapless bra underneath it, paired with a form-fitting black satin skirt and red-bottom heels. “I love how I have never seen you in anything but dresses.”

  He’s right. I only wear dresses. Winter, spring, summer, and fall. I wonder if he would still love it if he knew that I learned early in my “career” that dresses and skirts meant easy access and easy cleanup. Very uncomplicated clothing for a whore. And in time the dresses became more of a habit that stuck.

  Desdemona gave him a soft smile before holding her arm up into the sunlight streaming through the glass doors of the private jewelry salon. The diamonds gleamed. The butterflies seemed to twinkle.

  “Beautiful choice,” he said.

  “Yes, and thank you, Clayton,” she said, picking up the shopping bag and her tote before leaving the midtown Manhattan jeweler.

  The summer heat seemed to radiate from the concrete sidewalks, and the air was filled with the sounds of the congested New York traffic and the fast-paced bustle of pedestrians as she walked the half block to the large and modern eighteen-story building on the corner. She opened one of the glass doors leading into the lobby with its polished tile floors and beautiful design, walking across to one of the four elevators.