The next day,
Rachel felt she must get out of the brothel, get away from everyone.
But Alice asked her to hang out for a while. As desperately as she
wanted to be alone, Rachel could not bring herself to hurt Alice's
tender feelings by refusing, so, she spent several hours with her.
After initiating her into the mysteries of preparing brownie mix from
Home Cook Bake Land, including the all important step of opening a
new package every time, she agreed to Alice's suggestion that they
try watching an episode of CEhOwner, a new show about a group
of women from two and three star brothels locked in a house together,
competing to be chosen as a house pet by some “on the make” CEO,
while they devoured the gooey fresh-from-the-oven brownies. Rachel
was convinced she would hate the show, filled as it was with the same
petty vapidness that she had to deal with on a daily basis but,
somehow, with Alice next to her, keeping up a running sarcastic
commentary about the contestants' foibles, it actually became
entertaining.
“Another
cat fight,” she cried in disgust when the third one in maybe
fifteen minutes had broken out. “I swear, they must have a quota
of at least one per episode, and look at what they're wearing. Don't
they know that style of micro mini with garters is three seasons out
of date?”
“Well, I don't
think those thigh-high boots were ever in season,” Rachel
snickered. “Especially in that color.”
“Ugh, look at
those drinks they're ordering from the wall slot. Wine coolers?
Hard liquor and Cola? Not a decent corpritini in the bunch.”
Equally amusing
was the commercial from Hexaport where, of course, they were
running a promotion linking them to the giant beehive exhibit in the
Corridor of Visions. Why had it taken them so long to pounce on such
an on-brand prospect? Probably because the museum was reluctant to
be associated with them, Rachel thought mockingly. “Make us your
new bestagon today,” the announcer declared with almost creepily
excessive enthusiasm, “and get a complementary stuffed bee and jar
of genuine bee honey in your transport when it arrives...only while
supplies last, which won't be for long so hurry.” After the
commercial break, the show uped the ante by featuring a completely
ludicrous three-way cat fight so that, as Alice derisively pointed
out, the participants couldn't even be sure who they were
fighting. So caught up did Rachel get in Alice's enjoyment of the
show and her own by extension that, against her better judgment, she
found she had watched three episodes instead of one without fully
realizing it.
Once she and
Alice were so sore form laughing they couldn't take any more, she had
to dress herself and gather all the things she would need if she was
not coming back for a day, including packing her overnight bag in
case someone booked her while she was out and she didn't have time to
come back to Luther's and prepare. The thought of this was so
distressing that she was unable to put much thought into the things
she should put in her bag. Probably she was missing a bunch of key
items like a seasonally appropriate cosmetics and fragrance touch-up
kit, a mini heel-soldering gun, emergency fake nails, or the latest
development in stain-removing wipes, like the ones that claimed to
be, but rarely were, universal. Selecting lingerie was particularly
upsetting so she grabbed the first set that came up in the clothing
dispenser. It could easily be horribly unflattering on her or even
just not fit, which was sure to piss her, hopefully non-existent,
client off. She managed to get out the door without being stopped,
the bag, the heels, and all of it leaving the others with nothing
obvious to object to, though one or two of the girls practicing beer
pong in the font room looked like they would have liked to detain her
and demand a through inspection of her bag's contents.
Once safely away,
Rachel immediately felt better, even if the other passengers in the
transport were grating and the radio was blasting the latest musical
torment “Treat Me the Right Way,” probably recorded by Urban's to
celebrate their dubious five-star status, a synth heavy female voice
proudly proclaiming, “you may think you're where it's at, but I
know I'm worth much more than that.” And then, right in the midst
of what had to be at least the tenth chorus, “your touch makes me
want to stay but your salary says 'no way,'”so unbearably
repetitive Rachel was amazed the entire transport hadn't started to
sing along in helpless self-torment, a particularly grisly three-star
catfight, almost like something out of CEhOwner, broke out a
few rows back, complete with screaming, hair pulling, and brandishing
of exceptionally long designer nails, so she was glad indeed when she
was able to exit the vehicle. Her destination was the library which
she now tried to visit at least once every week. It was the one
thing that could always manage to lift her spirits, at least for as
long as she was there. In addition to sneaking books out of the
normal library and hiding them in the feminine reading room, she had
also found some books that were actually shelved in the
reading room that were of interest to her as well, so she didn't need
to take the risk of going into other parts of the library as often.
One of her
absolute best finds was Bethany's diary. Another woman had left it
open on the reading desk and Rachel glanced at it as she moved it
aside to make space for her own books. It was labeled as yet another
sentimental woman's memoir about pretty things the author had seen
and done. But Rachel quickly figured out that this author had lived
several hundred years ago and so she began to eagerly devour the book
for clues about what life was like in the past. For example,
although Bethany was a prostitute, she didn't belong to a brothel.
She rented her own apartment and had to pay for all her own clothing
and lessons. From indirect comments she made, Rachel gathered that
there were brothels in Bethany's day but that they were
actually looked down upon as places for women who couldn't make
enough to support themselves alone.
Rachel hadn't
even noticed when she originally picked up the book but, after her
first session of reading, and being mesmerized by it, she made a
point of memorizing the title and author, as she did will all the
books she liked, so she could find them again if, despite her best
efforts, they somehow got re-shelved while she was away. And there
it was: Bethany's Diary: the Tell-all Memoir of a Successful
Prostitute by Bethany Libertas. Even then, she had just filed
the name away in her brain and walked out of the library. It wasn't
until she was seated on the bench at the transport stop that it hit
her. Libertas was the female form of Libertus, apparently taken by
women in the past who did not belong to a brothel, just as the latter
was used now by men who did not belong to a corporation. Now, of
course, there was no such thing as a Libertas, the concept of a women
being truly free from duty to a higher entity as non-existent as the
word itself. A woman who traded the constantly scrutinized life of
the brothel for the possibly more autonomous but still highly dubious
freedom of being a house pet, would then carry the name of her
hOwner. Even if Rachel were to become a house pet to a
Libertus...and now why would she even think of such a thing?
Ignoring the fact that she had sworn off any kind of relationship
with men, Liberti were so rare that Rachel could easily count the
number she had encountered in her lifetime on one hand. But if, as
ridiculously unlikely as such an event was, if it did happen,
she would not, herself, become a Libertas, only the house pet of a
Libertus, which, in practical terms, as well as how she was
addressed, was no different from being a house pet to anyone else.
The idea that such a thing as a Libertas had ever existed, even if it
was long gone now, made Rachel dizzy with amazement and she waited
eagerly for her next opportunity to go to the library and learn more
about something so wondrous as to be almost incomprehensible.
Though, at least initially, the day to day events of Bethany's life
left a lot to be desired in that department.
I finally came
back from my lunch appointment with Marvin Lead Manager Skyway
Traffic Co. I was a little late getting home because I just had to
stop off at the shoe store on the way back. There was a pair in the
window, five-inch, peep-toe, black synthetic alligator—I had to
have them. That's one of the best things about Marvin, he always
pays me up front in cash so I have money on hand. Even with the
change over to the newfangled mega-doller underway he still manages
to pay me a living wage. Not like some of those cheap men who try to
foist devalued currency off on me. But I'm too much of a smart
cookie for them. Of course, I always end up blowing almost half of
Marvin's cash on the way home. But so what? What's the point if a
girl can't have a little fun?
Rachel ground her
teeth. True to the genre, or perhaps true to women or even humanity
in general, Bethany was stupid and vapid. She could almost hear the
inane giggles ring out through the words on the page. But, at the
same time, this didn't stop her from seeing black and crimson in her
intensity of envy. Imagine having money of your very own that you
could do whatever you wanted with, without having to give an account
to anyone. True, at this point, Rachel's money card was keyed
directly to the brothel funds and purchases were almost never
questioned. If she'd wanted those shoes, and to be honest, they did
sound pretty amazing, no one would have batted an eye. After all,
they would be good for business. Even personal purchases that the
other girls didn't really approve of, like tickets to music concerts,
like Metal Brain for example, would rarely be challenged as personal
relaxation was known to be important to morale and performance as
long as it didn't take away too much from work time.
Admittedly, an
unproved recruit like Alice might have trouble justifying some of the
extreme purchases—not that she could make them at the moment, as
virgins were not issued money cards—but someone with Rachel's
earning record would have to do something extravagant indeed to
provoke serious opposition. Even so, knowing the other girls could
look at her spending history any time they chose and question it if
they wished was just another constant reminder to Rachel that her
life was not her own and she could barely even begin to imagine what
it must have been like for Bethany to live without this pressure.
And to pay in cash? Then you didn't even have to give your name.
Your purchase was your own and would be almost impossible to trace.
Of course, cash didn't exist anymore. Its use had been discontinued
long ago for that very reason. She only knew about it from a
reference in one of Susan’s older sensuality novels. Just the
fantasy of such freedom provokes an almost dizzy feeling in her.
At one time, technology had
allowed business men to dispense with money cards and just key in a
code instead. But too many women had gotten the idea of persuading
their clients to reveal these codes to them. So, it was back to
money cards and, just to be on the safe side, if any man had been
stupid enough to sacrifice his own money card to give to a brothel
girl, women's money cards were all made in fluorescents and animal
prints, while men's were all solid black with some companies offering
a colored stripe for the adventurous types. This had always made
Rachel sulky as, beyond the issue of it marking her and her earning
power as lesser, she simply would have preferred a black card for
aesthetic reasons. At least hers was electric blue and not pink.
On my way home
that stupid ad came on again, the one for those new
breast-augmentation injections with the really annoying jingle “Check
your cup. Do you measure up?” Rachel
took some small comfort in the fact that ubiquitous irritating ads
were one thing that did not seem to have been better back in
Bethany's day. But, before I could really get into a bad
mood, I got a call from Madeline,
the bestie. She wants to go out tonight and I don't have any
appointments yet so I shut down my bookings for the rest of the day
and called her right back to say I still had some left-over cash to
blow so she should get ready to party. I probably shouldn't mention
what happened last time Madeline
and I went out to party. We were at this bar and some guy, totally
not in our league at all, tried to proposition us and…
Rachel slammed
the book closed. She couldn't take it anymore. Not only did Bethany
have her own money, some of it in cash, and her own home that she
didn't have to share with anyone, but she also had her own cell phone
that she could use to freely call anyone whenever she wished or even
turn off, as well as her own booking schedule, which she could also
turn off when she didn't want to be bothered. It was really too
much. Clenching her fists, Rachel thought of how much she would like
to kill Bethany. Realizing she couldn't because Bethany was already
dead just made her more upset. The Demon inside her wanted to grab
the book and rip it in half but, for once, she restrained herself.
Even if it was written by a silly, shallow author, it was still a
valuable window into the past and needed to be preserved. She wasn't
even going to give up reading it, the knowledge was too valuable.
©Amanda RR Hamlin 2025
