The days drifted
by in a dreamy cloud of misery that was only disrupted, and enhanced,
by the snippets of news stories she heard on the streaming service,
during Alice's new favorite program “Serious Tabloid Gossip Hour,”
which, unfortunately, was often on for more than an hour a day, like
the one about some executive at Genoa Appliance not having sex
enough, a claim that was completely impossible to prove without
access to the assignment rosters of multiple brothels, when even
getting access to one was a major score for a news program. In a
false show of pity, mostly to get Elissa to stop glaring at her every
time she passed her in the hall, as well as to hopefully reduce the
incidence of “Serious Tabloid Gossip Hour,” Rachel began spending
several hours a day working with Alice. The main thing that Rachel
got out of it was that Alice's incompetence gave her a lovely feeling
of superiority. But the fact that Alice was a very slow
learner was a ridiculous understatement.
"Now, put
your hands all the way around it and just stroke gently,"
murmured Rachel in a languid voice that hovered between condescension
and boredom.
"Yes,
Essem,” gulped Alice for what seemed like the hundredth time that
morning, readjusting her trembling hands on the practice shaft. As
she did so, one of her artificially long nails scraped it. The
electric monitor beeped stridently, and Rachel sat up sharply as
Alice choked back a sob of hopelessness.
"You're
useless," shrieked Rachel, abruptly losing her temper. "No,
you little bitch, worse than useless. Not only would that action
have failed to give a man pleasure, it would have put him in a great
deal of pain."
"Yes, Essem,
I know, I know." Alice knelt on the floor, weeping. "Will
I have to spend the rest of my life scrubbing floors?"
"It's
possible," said Rachel matter-of-factly. "But you may as
well keep trying."
"Would you
help me?" Alice asked timidly. Rachel sighed but rose out of
her chair and came to sit beside her. Carefully, if not very gently,
she put her hands around Alice's and laid them on the shaft. As she
began to move them, the monitor gave out a steady hum. After a
moment or so, she let go, leaving Alice to carry on alone. Almost at
once, the rate of the humming decreased and caught periodically but
did not go away. Alice shivered and sweat poured off her, but her
motions did not alter as she closed her eyes and stuck out her
tongue, the better to concentrate. She was coming along well when
the door was thrown open and Susan dashed in, loud and hyper as
always, her lips painted deep red and her tight ponytail of pure
black flapping against her shoulders. She and Rachel had been
roommates several years back, when Rachel was nothing but a nervous
new hire and Susan had personally shouldered the responsibility for
much of Rachel's training, even serving as her mentor at her
Sacrifice.
Like any girl from a brothel worth talking about, Rachel had lost her
virginity at that special ceremony, where all the interested parties
would arrive to bid on her. It was expected that every Sacrifice
have a sponsor, a man who had no interest in the actually bidding
and, officially, no allegiance to the brothel, but, instead, served
as the impartial auctioneer. He also donated his home for the
evening for the event to take place in. Rachel's Sacrifice had been
fairly typical. She had "come out of the closet," as the
saying went, a few months before the planned day, definitely younger
then what Alice was now, and started attending parties. While guests
were not free to have sex with her until she had been formally
Sacrificed, she could be requested to take her clothes off and,
perhaps, engage in some simple kissing and touching, which she always
made sure was accompanied by an invitation to the Sacrifice. By the
appointed day, she had gotten over any of her remaining shyness and
personally raised a lot of support for the event. The brothel also
sent formal invitations to its best customers as a courtesy. The
night of the Sacrifice, the guests were treated to a quality dinner,
at the host's expense and the girl was set up on a special table to
be viewed during the bidding, accompanied and supported by her
mentor, the woman she felt closest to and who had shouldered the bulk
of her training, in Rachel's case Susan. The guests might request
that she disrobe so they could "examine the goods," or she
might be asked to demonstrate her proficiency on various pieces of
training equipment, or display some other special talent like tying
cherry stems into a knot with her tongue or licking her own toes from
a standing position while blindfolded.
"Raaaachel!"
Susan screamed, energetically waving a neon green fan of fake
feathers over her head. Her noisy entrance thankfully pulled Rachel
out of her memories but also startled Alice, breaking her
concentration and spoiling her promising attempt, but Rachel didn't
care. Alice was a pain and she would much rather talk to Susan.
"What is it
Susan?" asked Rachel, smiling slightly in spite of herself. Her
friend was making an ass of herself, as usual, but it was amusing.
"I just got
back this morning," gasped Susan, dropping onto the bed beside
Rachel. Her tight halter top of high-quality fake snakeskin colored
to match the fan creaked audibly as she did so. "I was on a
trip to one of the outlying settlements."
"Oh, which?"
"The one in
the northern mountains. I can't be bothered with remembering names.
I was paid to teach at a brothel there."
"I pity the
girls," said Rachel rather maliciously.
"I was
nice," objected Susan with mock offense. "Though they were
ashamed that no one came close to my technical ability. It was
tiresome but they paid me well." She became serious. "And
we need the money. Gregory's
is talking about buying a plant, a real plant."
"That bad?"
asked Rachel, barely above a whisper. Susan nodded, waving her fan
distractedly in an attempt to hide the agitation she felt. Alice,
still sitting on her knees, as she had been since Susan came in,
glanced nervously from one to the other. Rachel guessed what must be
in her mind. If the brothel had to save money, one method it was
likely to use was expelling its least productive members. And to that
Rachel had no words of comfort, even had she felt inclined to offer
them. Leaving her there, Rachel and Susan went down to the kitchen,
where they unwrapped dried paddies that were ham sandwiches and
cakes, eating them along with glasses of sparkling tropi--punch,
though they had to get their own ice out of the freezer.
"And how is
my pretty little Demon?” asked Susan casually. "Tell me about
yourself. Stacy was too busy to give me the details, so why are you
back here?" Immediately, Rachel's body became stiff and rigid.
The blood drained from her face and her lower lip trembled. "Rachel,
what have I said wrong?" Her words brought all the hurt to the
surface again, as if the wounds were fresh and raw, not dried and
crusted scars. Something about Susan's concern made it all still
more hurtful. It was one of the very few times that someone actually
seemed concerned about her feelings and, as luck would have it, it
also happened to be exactly the time when they couldn't do a fucking
thing about it. Life was so unfair. She didn't want to speak, to
expose her shame to the one person who might not know it yet. What
was the point when it would change nothing? But Susan continued to
look at her expectantly and Rachel didn't know what to do. Her lips
parted several times but she was unable to form coherent words.
“Rachel, I don't understand,” said Susan gently.
“Esteban threw
me out,” cried Rachel, casting back her head with a howl of pain.
The act of revealing her suffering broke her and she threw herself
down on the table and wept until her shoulders heaved. Susan put her
arms around her consolingly and, not fully understanding what to do,
patted her shoulder clumsily. At the embrace, Rachel stiffened,
waiting with bated breath for the inevitable offer of a
“Rejection-bGone” pill or a heartache helper tablet. Of course,
taking one was what everyone at the brothel wanted her to do, but no
one wanted to face the piercing shriek or the rending claws they had
long since learned would accompany such a suggestion. Susan, because
of her closeness to Rachel, just might be able to get away with it.
"That's...so...terrible,"
she heard Susan say stiltedly. "Would you...maybe...like
to...play cards...help get your mind off things?" Rachel didn't
really think it would help, but she was so amazed that Susan wasn't
suggesting a pill, that she agreed without even realizing what was
happening. They made their way up through the angling narrow
hallways of the brothel, to the small lounge on the top floor, past
the door to the security vault, disguised to look like a normal
bedroom door, the fitness room where a group of women were following
an instructional video for a combination aerobics and pelvic floor
toning routine, the accompanying off-label club music able to be
clearly heard even through the closed door, as the overly
enthusiastic voice of the instructor declared something about the
routine “reminds me of that movie, I always forget the name,”
past the television viewing lounge where someone was watching Screw
Regi, a Holidays themed comedy movie about a cheap, stingy CEO,
several of the communal clothing dispensers, one where they had a
great deal of trouble squeezing past Beth and a girl Rachel didn't
recognize, fighting over pair of pants in the middle of the hall, and
the hot-tub room where there was a sign on the door indicating the
room was off limits and being cleaned, probably because a client had
made an appointment requesting it in the next day or so. At last,
they made it to the top floor lounge which, thankfully, was empty.
Light flooded in from the large window, taking up almost all of the
outer wall and allowing them to look out over the city, the white
freshly sand-blasted facade of Tracy's department store, the sleek
black glass of the Lagrange Astral Engeneering offices, farther away
the green shimmer of the Hanging Gardens, and two of the pillars for
the Orbital Ring just visible in the distance.
They made their
way to the table in the middle of the room, sinking into the
familiarly sagging cushions of the plaz-wicker chairs where they had
spent many hours in the past perfecting Rachel's conversation and
body language skills. The sequence of interlocking squares that
Rachel had scratched into the woodide of the table during a
particularly boring lesson could still be faintly felt, despite the
layers of varnish that had been added in the intervening years.
“What shall we play?” asked Rachel as Susan fished the cards out
of her purse and slid them into the middle of the table.
“Governess. I
picked up one of the special theme decks for it on my trip.”
Rachel picked up the cards and leafed idly through them, unable to
resist cracking a smile over the humorous depictions of the CEO,
chief brand officer, chief administrative officer, chief rivalry
officer, and many more, along with brothel girls, one through five
star. “No wagers though,” said Susan, as she scooped the cards
back up to shuffle them. “This is just for fun.” Rachel nodded
feeling secretly glad. Card
games were a favorite among the very limited selection of ways to
pass the time in the brothel. To generate some little excitement,
most of the games involved betting, usually using make-up but, in
super high stakes games, pieces of jewelry or shoes might change
hands. Rachel picked up the cards Susan had dealt her to find
herself holding among other things a meritrix, lounging back on a
couch, looking very glamorous, holding up a champaign flute, and a
gaggle of potential employees, clambering around on a piece of
appropriately-sized exercise equipment. She already had a pair of
sports captains, wearing shorts and a headband and prominently
holding a can of Alpine Mizzel as well as two sports mascots, the
mascot in question almost certainly belonging to uSparkle, as it
seemed to be some kind of living vacuum cleaner, complete with googly
eyes and an intake port full of teeth. She hoped she would never
have to decide whether it or Pittsanto's mascot was creepier.
“Are
all these card just ads?” she asked in frustration as Susan
unconcernedly put down a pair of four-stars and a pair of chief
security officers.
Susan
looked confused. “Not all
of them,” she said mildly. “I guess I never really thought about
it before.”
“I
guess we should just be glad they didn't try to make the brothel
girls look like us,” said Rachel sourly, pulling a card from
Susan's hand and forming a pair of mid-level managers.
“We
would never allow ourselves to be depicted as such unflattering
caricatures,” Susan sniffed. “Both the company that makes the
cards and the retailers who sell them would be blacklisted by all the
upper level brothels.”
“Really?
I'd think Calvin's would be glad to have us look bad,” said Rachel
sourly.
“They
aren't as stupid as all that,” Susan retorted. “If they didn't
show their disapproval, they'd be setting a precedent that doing that
kind of thing is okay, which would make it much harder to stop if it
happened to them. Not to mention no one would help them at that
point.”
“So
you would help Calvin's?” asked Rachel disgustedly, reaching out to
pull one of Susan's cards and finding herself face to face with the
dreaded governess in her dull brown dress, hair up in a bun, a
disdainful, disapproving look on her face.
“I
would express my negative opinion of improper behavior towards
five-star whores,” said Susan crisply, showing the amusement at
Rachel's pick that careful training had enabled her to keep off her
face when Rachel was reaching out to touch the card. “I would
oppose it even if Calvin's was somehow insane enough to want
the deal for the fast money.” Rachel pulled another card and
glared at its depiction of a woman from a two-star brothel almost
buried under a pile of cheap Vannoza brand cosmetics. She fumed to
herself. It seemed there was nothing she could do, nowhere she could
look that wasn't someone trying to sell something. At sports games
the team jerseys and even the creepy mascots were always displaying
the colors and logo of the company they were a part of. Businesses
sponsored outings for the governesses and their wards but, in return,
they had to wear the company branding while they were out on the
trip. Rachel remembered back during the short time she had been a
potential employee living with a governess before she had been picked
up by Luther's and had been taken on a trip to play mini-golf
sponsored by the champaign line Barbe
à Papa à Boire
but was forced to wear a tank top in the same disgustingly saccharine
pink as their flagship beverage.
“So,
what else happened on your trip?” she asked, shaking herself out of
her angry musings. “Did you get to do anything fun or did they
chain you to the lessons plans?”
“No,
nothing like that.” Susan rolled her eyes. “I only had to teach
during the day and was able to go out with clients in the evening, so
I got to make some extra money and see the sights of the city, if you
can call them that, including their 'best' restaurant Giardino di
Ulivi. They did have a nice in-house tiramisu which, they claimed,
was made from individual components they assembled themselves. I'm
dubious, but it was still pretty good. The guy who took me there was
nice enough too, the Chief Branch Operating Officer at the
Tauranburgh satillite corporation that processes the scrap metal the
scavengers turn up, but he was dull as shit. He was desperate to
appear cultured but the most interesting thing he could talk about
was the bits of heirloom plastic the had also salvaged while trawling
for scrap metal. Apparently he got to go to some special prestigious
event where they were auctioned off. Now, it's not like I don't
understand the value of heirloom plastic as well as the next
person—unless that person is Stacy, of course—but I really don't
need to hear about it in that much detail. Also, he was desperate to
show off his new tablet...I'm sorry, his trapah.”
“What?”
Rachel made a face. “Isn't a trapah just a tablet that with a
fancy cover that opens like a notebook, with a pocket on the opposite
side for storing pens and stuff and a flap you can fold over and snap
to hold the whole thing closed?”
“Well
sure.” Susan rolled her eyes. “But he had a snit fit when I
called it a tablet and strenuously corrected me, then went on for at
least another ten minutes about how the cover on this particular
trapah
was made made of special top grade 'Orbital Ring' quality chemical
leather, the kind that supposedly gets better with time, a claim I
find at least as dubious as the one about the restaurant assembling
its own tiramisu.” Rachel gave a malicious snort as Susan pulled
another card from her hand then
set down a pair of “mentor and new hire” cards depicting the
older woman whipping up browines for the younger while smiling
indulgently at her. “Remind you of us at all?” asked Susan with
a laugh.
“Absolutely
not,” said Rachel with a scowl. “Well, except for the brownies.”
“Yea, just
looking at them is making me hungry.”
“Actually,
brownies sound pretty tasty,” Rachel agreed. “Maybe we should
see if there are any boxes of Home Cook Bake Land Deluxe Brownie mix
in the kitchen.”
“Let's finish
this hand first,” said Susan, glancing around with narrowed eyes.
“Don't want anyone messing with the cards while we're out of the
room.” A few minutes later, once the last pair had been made and
Rachel was left holding the governess, Susan tucked the cards back
into her purse and they headed down the stairs to the kitchen again.
Now that Susan was there to soak up any potential social interaction,
Rachel felt much more at ease and able to take her time riffling the
kitchen. Almost without thinking, she scrambled up onto the counter
so she could easily dig into the very back of the cabinets, just like
she always had growing up, the fluidity of her motion only slightly
flawed by the fact that it had been some years since she had last
attempted it. Susan smiled indulgently, just like she always had,
didn't sniff or make some snide comment about this being behavior
unsuited to a grown woman, and obligingly dodged the various boxes
and bags Rachel threw over her shoulder, narrowly avoiding being hit
in the arm by a carton of instant burgers, “just add water and wait
three minutes,” then tripping over a box of Happy Side Up scrambled
eggs, when trying, not fully successfully, to move back out of the
way of a flying package of Five-Mess Mouse mousse powder, impossible
to make properly as, even though it was a pre-made package, it still
needed to be whipped up in the mixer, using the defective third
speed.
“Nothing,”
cried Rachel in frustration when she had emptied even the topmost
shelves.
“How long have
you been back?” asked Susan in mock outrage. “I thought it would
take them longer than this to realize they had to start rationing the
Home Cook Bake Land again.”
“Are you saying
this is my fault?”
“Of course I
am.” Susan crossed her arms and did a humorous impression of
looking angry. “Don't you remember how we stopped ever having more
than one Home Cook Bake Land box at a time because they go
stale quickly once opened so you would always open a new one even if
the previous one was still mostly full or even purposely open them
all if you were angry.” Her voice quivered at the end. She had
been struggling all along to get through it with a straight face but
when Rachel started snickering as well at the memory, Susan was no
longer able to hold it in. Soon, Rachel was laughing so hard that
she began to stagger precariously on the narrow counter top, almost
pitching backwards at one point, and flailing her arms to regain her
balance. Susan gasped and rushed over to her. “You get down from
there right now.”
“Fine,
but don't expect me to call you Essem, like I'm some ignorant
trainee,” Rachel said as she swung her her feet down over the side
of the counter
and slid back onto the floor, heading back towards the stairs without
bothering to clean up the mess she had made and Susan was so
flustered about Rachel almost falling that she did not seem to have
noticed either but, when they
had returned to the lounge, she produced a box of “just like your
mentor used to make” choco drops, vastly inferior to Home Cook Bake
Land but, possibly, better than nothing. Rachel was not normally
very fond of choco drops but now she felt so warmed by Susan making
the effort to get them for her that she was glad to eat them, just
for the delight of sharing.
“Sorry again
about your horrible trip,” said Rachel as they shuffled and dealt
out the cards for another round, a small pile of crumbs now in the
middle of the table and more sticking to their fingers.
Susan rolled her
eyes. “At least I had a great new sensuality novel to keep me
occupied any time I wasn't actually corralled into that snore
inducing training. I couldn't put it down.” She fished a
digi-book out of her purse and pushed it across the table. The title
was in bright gold, elaborately scrolled letters so it took a moment
for Rachel to puzzle out the words “Med Evil Madness.”
“That does look
interesting,” she said eagerly and saw Susan instantly perk up—or
become even perkier than she was before—clearly more than ready to
jump on the chance to talk about her latest obsession. “But who
would want to write about evil medicals...other than me, that is?”
Susan made a
face. “Where would you get an idea like that? It's not about evil
medicals. It's about knights.”
Now it was
Rachel's turn to scowl. “Knights?” she asked skeptically.
“It is
sponsored by Kingdom of the Mind.”
“Well, never
mind then. That's exactly the opposite of being about evil
medicals.”
“But it's
really great. All the historical detail is fascinating.” Rachel
wasn't convinced that Susan was actually interested in the historical
detail as opposed to just saying that because she thought that might
interest Rachel, but she was clearly so downcast at losing the
opportunity to gab freely about her obsession that Rachel relented.
After all, better to have to hear about Sir Clemtal than to try to
avoid taking one.
“What about
these historical details?” she asked as she dealt out their next
hand of cards.
“Well, Med Evil
is actually the place where they live. Historically, it was
somewhere to the northwest of us a very long way away.”
“So like
Punthaige? I hate that word.”
“No, way too
close. Like really, really far away and everyone lives in these
weird round stone skyscrapers that are organized in clusters and
connected by walkways because it's apparently safer that way, and
they have these really giant elaborate meals that always involve pies
and tons of pork made to look like a whole animal with an apple in
its mouth. The main character has been chosen to be a house pet for
the KEO in a distant land and...”
“What's a KEO?”
“It stands for
King Executive Officer. It's really just a CEO, what they used to be
called a long time ago. You know how Cs and Ks can sound similar.
And he has all his other execs, which they call a council of nobles
and the knights, which are the sports teams and compete against each
other wearing their company colors in these very odd game where they
ride on top of these things that are essentially like bumper cars
with legs while carrying these really long poles with the aim being
to run into each other and knock each other down. Apparently it's
how they settled disputes back before arbitration. I think it's
supposed to be some kind of early form of corporate duel,” she
finished brightly. Rachel made a face as a number of these details
sounded a little too close to some of Esteban's video games. “It
never really explains the rules, probably because no one knows what
they are now. And the unprofitables are called pay-sants, because,
you know, you don't have to pay them.”
Their discussion
of Med-Evil Madness was abruptly interrupted, which Rachel
wasn't entirely sorry about, by the sound of Susan's pager going off.
All women were expected to carry pagers whenever they went out so
that they could be informed if they had been booked after they had
left. Businessmen carried cell phones but brothels didn't want women
engaging in two-way conversation. Someone was bound to think up the
idea of offering services on the side and asking for extra goods or
favors, or even leaking secretes to other brothels for a reward.
Yes, this was still possible but it became much more difficult
without cell phones. Even the land line in the main office of the
brothel was strictly controlled. For all these reasons, Rachel
despised the pager, seeing it as yet another symbol of how Luther's
owned and controlled her and she especially resented being always on
an invisible leash. Businessmen could turn off their cell phones to
grab some moments of privacy. Even if company policy expressly
forbid it they could always not answer and claim they had gotten bad
reception. Rachel knew this because she had seen a number of clients
over the years use this tactic when she was with them. That or say
they had run into someone and been doing potentially important
networking and had turned the phone off to avoid interrupting it.
But that was
certainly not allowed for the girls in brothels, since socializing
without an official booking was robbing the brothel. Besides, the
pagers made for brothels usually didn't even have on/off switches.
Rachel had spent a lot of time searching for one on hers with no
luck. At least all the women at Luther's were issued top of the line
pagers from prestigious companies like Silkone Highway so she didn't
have to deal with the endless stream of ads that were constantly
being funneled into cheaper models of pagers. Her hatred of the
pager was only reinforced when Susan declared the sound had been the
reminder alarm for her lunch date so she needed to get going to avoid
being late. Although she hadn't wanted to spend any more time on
discussions of crappy historically questionable sensuality novels
sponsored by one of the absolute worst companies, Rachel had
still been enjoying hanging out with Susan in general, especially
after she had been so nice and understanding to Rachel.
Later,
in her room as she thought back on the events, she was overcome yet
again, her gratitude towards Susan, made all the stronger by her
memory of how angry she had been the first time she had been
offered a pill to help control her feelings.
Rachel had been in business for almost two years when she had met
Esteban and she was still the toast of Her-Babylon, though now the
demand for her had quieted sufficiently that she could afford to take
a night or two off each week. And, in that time, she had never
really been attracted to anyone. She had thought some of the men who
had partnered her had been comely or ugly, good or bad in bed, but it
hadn’t mattered because all of them had been rich. It was her
responsibility to be pretty and talented. For that matter, she had
not been attracted to Esteban at first either. That had come later.
Then, when Esteban started patronizing Rachel, she had felt angry and
resentful towards Grace. She couldn’t really understand why but
the thought of him having enjoyment with another woman upset her very
much and Susan had given her a capsule of “Sir Clemtal: Jealousy’s
worst nightmare,” saying it would make everything better. Rachel
had thought about it for a while, then decided against it and flushed
the pill down the toilet when Susan wasn’t watching. Now,
remembering this incident, she made a mental note to order or prepare
all her food herself. Though Susan might be safe, she certainly
didn't trust the other girls. Even if the very idea of socializing
with those bitches didn’t kill her appetite, she knew she couldn’t
put it past them to try to put medicals in her food: mood-lifters,
production enhancers, heartache helper tablets.
She shuddered remembering how she had been given production enhancers
during the first week or two after her Sacrifice, when she was so
busy she was beginning to succumb to exhaustion. The pills had made
her completely immune to boredom, weariness, or hunger. and while,
doubtless, this made her perform better, looking back on it, Rachel
felt ill thinking about how, under the influence of the pill, she
would have done anything to enhance her on-the-job performance, even
if doing so was certain to result in injury or death. Actually,
there was usually a news story every few months about a businessman
who took too many production enhancers and then went crazy or died
from extreme food and sleep deprivation. Sometimes, though more
rarely, their bladders rupturing from suppressing the need to pee.
Admittedly, Rachel had never heard of this kind of thing happening to
prostitutes, but it was still a scary concept.
Besides, possible danger aside, her feelings were her own, even
painful feelings, and she resented anyone trying to take them away
from her. They were practically the only thing that belonged to her.
All her possessions were bought with money doled out to her by the
brothel. Of course, she had had her own money card ever since her
Sacrifice and, due to her--past--meteoric earning record, the
spending limit on the card was either non-existent or so
incomprehensibly high it might as well be. But none of that mattered
because Luther's could impose a lower limit or even deactivate the
card at any moment with no warning. Despite the fact that much of
the money in the account it was linked to had been earned by her own
labor, it belonged to Luther’s
and not to her. Even who she associated with and how she spent her
time were strictly controlled. To go out looking less than lovely or
to socialize for free constituted robbing the brothel. After the
incident with the pill, Rachel had decided defiantly, that attempting
to tamper with her emotions constituted robbing her, since she
had nothing else that was wholly self-produced and undeniably her
own.
Pain and anger made her feel alive and she had a right to feel alive.
Well, not an official right, but something deeper that she had
sensed without ever having been told of it. So, it made sense that
she would feel drawn to someone so strongly that it made her suffer.
What made no sense at all was why that person had to be someone who
seemed, on the surface to have so little to recommend him. There was
nothing particularly remarkable about Esteban. He had longish,
messy, brown hair, large white teeth, and was a bit on the heavy
side. Women needed to look nice as part of their jobs, so they all
spent a lot of time caring for their skin and hair and even took
medicals if what they born with wasn't good enough. Men, who could
buy anything with money, had no need to do this, so there were a lot
of quite ordinary looking men, even some downright ugly ones. To
unbiased eyes, Esteban would probably fall on the low end of normal.
Grace had often complained that he wasn't to her taste, which, of
course, made Rachel resent her all the more. He wasn't terribly
clever and was prone to irritating behavior, like completely ignoring
his dinner companion whenever something happened to distract him.
So, what was it
that drove her so completely mad for him? Apparently, nothing more
than the senseless need to have what was forbidden. She had heard
all about this sort of foolishness in Susan's sensuality novels and
it had never made any sense before: Women who ruined themselves to
sleep with a particular man even though there were hundreds of others
they could have easily. Of course they often ended badly in the
novels or at least suffered a lot before things worked out in an
attempt to avoid any complaints that they were setting a bad example.
But no one, at least no women, pretended the appeal of the novels
came from anything other than their many and detailed sex scenes and
brothels usually tolerated their members reading them in the hope
that they could pick up some useful tips in the process. After
falling for Esteban, Rachel understood perfectly the aching craving,
the sheer desire, that had never made sense to her before. It wasn't
that she hadn't enjoyed sex prior to that. It gave an ego boost and,
sometimes, it felt extremely good as well but, in the past, she had
never cared too much who she did it with as long as he was decent at
it. Suddenly, for the first time, the skill and the personal gain
involved simply didn't matter anymore. She wanted this sex just to
satisfy her curiosity. What did Esteban do in bed? How did he act
when he was overcome with desire? What were his preferences? How
did he like it? Nothing seemed to matter besides answering these
questions… answering them firsthand that is. She could have always
asked Grace for answers, but she didn't want to do that. She had
told Susan about the situation and asked for advice. Considering
that this was something that was consuming Rachel's entire life,
Susan had acted disgustingly casual about it, even after the Sir
Clemtal had apparently failed because Rachel hadn't actually taken
it.
“This is
something that happens to girls from time to time,” she said. “It
goes away eventually, so, if it hurts, just hang in there. Enjoy
what you can of it. I know it makes working with him much more
pleasant. But don't take this too seriously and let your feelings
run away with you so you do something stupid like being unpleasant to
Grace. If things get too bad, I can hook you up with some stronger
medicals.” Rachel had screamed in rage and given Susan the finger
before storming out. Her feelings had seemed so overwhelming and
all-encompassing that she felt more alive than she ever had before,
not counting, of course, at the Metal Brain concert she had gone to
when she was barely more than a gawky virgin. Even though the
feelings hurt, she didn't want them to stop because they felt so
powerful and having that kind of power inside of her had made Rachel
think she was powerful too. She had thought she was one of a
special, magical few to have this experience. But, according to
Susan, it happened to everyone and was temporary and not a big deal.
She could feel herself being ruthlessly squeezed into the
straight-jacket of normalcy the rest of the world had prepared for
her. Rachel had vowed that day that she would show the world her
sexual feelings weren't temporary and easily dismissed like everyone
else's. And, as her first step in keeping that vow, she had ordered
a desert smothered in caramel syrup, even though she hated the stuff,
which she had carefully scraped off, then smeared inside Grace's best
pair of “hire me” shoes. This was only the first of many
brilliant tricks to make Grace's life difficult that Rachel had
discovered over the next few weeks. Now, she turned over on the bed,
shaking her head to clear the memories from her mind. At least so
far, she had kept her vow. No one at Luther's
now would say that Rachel's involvement with Esteban wasn't a big
deal. She just needed to keep up the good work and she would stay
powerful. With bitter maliciousness, she walked over to her wall
unit and used the system's emergency override code to turn all the
decor in the brothel a nasty puke green.
©Amanda Hamlin 2025
