1. Don't leave the apartment. Not in case of fire, not to mail a letter, not to run an errand. The door stays shut, and I stay inside.
2. Don't get attached to clients. I take off my clothes, I stand in front of the camera, and I perform. What they want, I give. Their secrets, I keep. Everything I tell them, is a lie.
3. Don't kill anyone. I've obeyed that rule for over three years.
My life, inside this apartment was simple, and it worked. Then, I started breaking rules.
Enter a world of lies, thrills, fears, and all desires, in this original thriller from A. R. Torre.
Warning: This book contains explicit sexual references, and should not be read by anyone under the age of 18.
I kneel on the bed and trail my fingers over my skin. Light, teasing caresses designed to heighten my senses and stimulate my body. I exhale slow, trembling breaths as my hands travel near sensitive areas, the dip in my neckline, the lace over my breasts. I keep my eyes down, subservient to him, and wait for the command. One always comes.
“Take off your top. Slowly.” The voice was foreign, English words dipped in culture and dialect. I comply, lifting my eyes and biting my bottom lip gently, my tongue quickly darting out, and hear his gasp in response. I run my hands down my neck, grazing the top of my collarbone and dipping under the silk of my negligee. I slide down one strap, then two, the silk bunching over my breasts, the fabric clinging to my nipples. Then I rise to my knees, crossing my arms, sliding the fabric higher, letting it reveal inch by slow inch of skin until it unveils the curve of breasts, dip of throat, and the pout of pink lips.
“Good.” He groaned. “Very good. I like you, Jessica.”
Jessica. Not my real name. He thought he knew me. They all thought they knew me. After all, they’ve seen my Facebook page, seen the Photoshopped photos that construct my manufactured life. They believe what they see, because they want to believe. Like I want to believe.
I turn to the wall and stand, dragging my expensive thong down over my toned hips, bending over and exposing my most private area to his hungry eyes. The embroidered lace slides the rest of the way down my legs and drops around my ankles, snagging on the Italian stilettos that encase perfectly pedicured feet. I am naked now, and slide down to lay on my side in front of him, propped up on one elbow, his eyes hungrily feasting on my body. The lights, bright and hot, illuminate my bare skin, causing it to glow. He speaks, the arousal present in his voice, in the slight thickening of his accent.
“Touch yourself. Just your fingers. I want to see you come.”
He wants my fingers, a seductive performance of gasps, moans, and slick foreplay. Eventually, fingers won’t be enough. The next visit he’ll want more, something bigger, deeper - my moans to be louder, my orgasm stronger. There will be no secrets anymore, no boundaries, no requests he won’t be comfortable giving. At this moment, I am his, to do with as he pleased. And right now, he wants fingers.
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