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Story
Prologue: 2:13am today.
Sara felt the ropes dig into her slightly as she stood almost naked on the stage at a club she hadn’t known existed until an hour ago. She wriggled. Not because she like the feeling but because she needed to be certain that the ropes covered her pussy and nipples. She was otherwise naked. They were her only clothes. And when the curtain went up she had no idea what would happen if they saw how dripping wet she was – how hard her nipples had become. She had five minutes until the curtain went up. She thought back over the last six, crazy hours. She was no longer the girl she had been when she closed the door on her apartment at 20:00. And she had a feeling she was going to change a whole lot more in the next couple of hours too. What a ride.
Chapter 1: 19:34 yesterday
She slid the lip gloss onto her scarlet lips with a smooth motion which told a tale of experience and care. She noticed the care. That was … unusual. This was a second date – nothing special in that. She had been on many second dates. They weren’t something that raised her expectations anymore. She could bring him home for sex, sure. No one cared about that anymore on a first date, let alone a second. And he was kind of hot. She hadn’t slept with him last week after a first date. It wasn’t that she didn’t like him. It was just that sex was … well … ok. How long had it been? She didn’t know! Fuck! She had no idea how long it had been since she last had a cock inside her and … wait! She didn’t care. She didn’t miss it. She must be growing up. Maybe this is what being old is like?
But look at how she carefully made sure the gloss was just right. She had caught herself really caring how she looked. And that must mean he was … more than a second date? She felt a flutter. Where? In her heart? No. In her panties? No. It was in her pelvis. Hmmm. She didn’t remember ever having had that. Maybe she would bring him home.
She smiled to herself as she checked her phone. Message from him. She smiled. She felt the flutter. She opened the message. She swore.
Chapter 2: 20:04 yesterday.
There was a mirror in the elevator in her apartment building. She looked at herself in it. She smirked. Whatever fucking lame excuse that was to cancel, it was going to be his loss. If he’d called a couple of hours earlier she wouldn’t have bothered getting dressed up and she’s be on the sofa watching shit on Netflix by now. She would be eating ice cream in her usual three flavours: vanilla, chocolate and regret. She would masturbate to some lesbian porn, and go to sleep too late, too drunk, too fat and too empty. Fuck that. She looked amazing. Her long brown hair curled over her bare shoulders in a way you only really see in movies. Jesus it bounced as she walked like a shampoo ad. It never did that. Her skin was just the right shade of tanned. Her dress was not sleazy, but it was trying very hard to be. But a dress that classy would never pull off sleazy. It allowed her to wear that one bra that was both sexy and supportive and didnt show – even to the careful eye – that her panties had been chosen to be seen later. In fact Ifly didnt show them at all. Anyone that wondered, would come to the conclusion she wasn’t wearing any at all. They’d be wrong. But she would love the error because she’d know how it affected them. And she could tease. Oh god. She rarely looked this good. And so there was no way in gods fucking Earth she was wasting it. She was going out. She was going to flirt. She was going to show that no hoper, one date arsehole that he’d fucked up. She had nowhere to go. She had no one to go there with. But this was her town. This was her night. And you don’t eat ice cream looking this hot. It would melt.
Chapter 3: 20:36 yesterday
She had walked into town with a confidence that she wasn’t used to. She had never felt so … attractive? That was true, but there was more to this. Available? Possibly, but that had negative connotations which weren’t resonating with her. Powerful? Yes, that was it. Powerful. She was feeling an energy, rooted in her sexuality and her femininity that, for the first time in her life, she felt as a power. She thought of those executive toys – plasma balls. The energy glowing from the orb in the middle landing anywhere on the surface until you touched it. When you touched it, all the energy focused on your finger, and you almost glowed. That was her. Tonight. This town – her town – was buzzing with a sexual energy that didn’t know where to go. And, in deciding to go out, she had put her finger to the glass. All that energy was focused on her. And she was glowing.
Like the dress, this was new. Unfamiliar, but exciting. She felt the glow reflecting off people as she passed them. Their eyes followed her. Men and women alike couldn’t not look at her. Yesterday she would have been shy and dropped her shoulders as she walked past. Today, she stood taller, walked sexier, smiled and felt the bounce escort kartal of her hair advertise her conditioner just as the sway of her hips advertised her arousal. Yes, she was aroused. Cracklingly, electrically aroused. So aroused that one body couldn’t contain it, and it rubbed off on everyone she passed. She was a source of sexual energy tonight.
She walked past the bar she was supposed to meet him in. She gave the bar the finger as she walked past as if the building itself was complicit in her rejection. She imagined that the lights above the door flickered as she did so, but that couldn’t have happened. But she let the fantasy grow in her mind. She walked past three more. They were all familiar – they weren’t expensive, and she wasn’t rich, so she drank in them a lot. But tonight she was rich, and she wanted to inhabit somewhere more fitting.
She saw “Rencontrez” across the street. It was newish. Opened last year. Famously too expensive to go to often. Or even at all. Infamous for being a pickup joint for very expensive escorts, and for making girls who were not very expensive escorts feel like VERY cheap ones. If she went in there,one of two things would happen. Most likely she would be seen for what she was, ridiculed and bitched out in 5 minutes. If she could pull it off, she’d be approached by a rich, sweaty financier who would offer her money for sex. Either way, she wouldn’t be doing this feeling justice. This power couldn’t be bought, and couldn’t be ridiculed. So she hesitated. Until a voice in her head said, “Sara, this power cannot be bought and cannot be ridiculed”. Her voice? Maybe. Her words – yes, the very ones she had just thought. But also not hers. The validation gave her strength, and, confident of some third outcome, she went to open the bar door, which subserviently opened itself. She walked in.
It was marinated in class. Everything was perfect. The furniture looked unplanned in that way that only a great deal of planning, and expense, can achieve. There was no tacky chrome or gold. The music didn’t split your eardrums, but it managed the atmosphere in a way that allowed each booth, each pair of seats at the bar and each small group on the dance floor to exist in its own bubble, able to connect and interact as if they were in complete solitude, but still feel “out”. As soon as she walked past the lobby, eyes glanced at her and glanced away. For the first time that night, she wasn’t sure if that was dismissive. She had entered a world in which this quiet sizzle was normal. And she realised that she had no idea if it was enough. There was a dingle seat at the bar. She walked over to it and sat down. She looked for the cocktail menu, but it wasn’t there. A bartender came over to her, and she asked for one. He smiled. Was that condescension? Amusement? Bitchiness? He touched her hand and said, “The menu is all in here,” tapping his head. “You can have anything.”
“What would you recommend?” She said, hoping that her voice didn’t wobble as much as her confidence was wobbling. She felt foreign. And this first encounter with this world was make-or-break. She knew people were watching her. A new face that had to be assessed as opportunity or threat. The bartender looked her up and down.
“You’re new here. New experiences need new experiences. I’ll make you something you have never heard of, and you’ll love it. I promise. If you hate it, it’s free. If you love it, it’s free.”
He looked her up and down. And… in and out. He was looking inside her. Not just assessing what she looked like, but who she was. And he gave the impression of comparing that to some internal recipe book, matching her to her cocktail in a way that a wand maker might choose a wand for a wizard. It was two way. The person had to like the cocktail, but the cocktail had to like the person too. She felt.. spiritually undressed. Wow. She liked that.
She watched, fascinated, as he put together a cocktail that looked more like he was assembling a nuclear weapon. She tried to count the ingredients, but couldn’t. He worked like an artist, sculpting something beautiful, completely unaware of the world round him. What he built looked stunning. The glass was half-frosted and half clear. There was salt, or sugar, or both around the rim. It was so fine it could have been cocaine. The layer of ice made a noise like a Tibetan bell and the drink itself was almost colourless, almost cloudy and almost sparkling. It begged to be sipped. It had a personality. It was a bit like looking in a mirror. Sara sipped it. Holy shit. That wasn’t a drink. It was a potion. It ran down her throat and every centimetre of its journey was marked by a new interaction with her sizzling state. It fed on her energy, and multiplied it, and gave it back. It spoke to her. It reassured her that all this was real. This was her world now, and she was meant to be here. She felt the truth of “can’t be bought or ridiculed” for the first time, and bayan escort she audibly signed.
The bartender smiled. He cocked his head to one side, silently checking that his work was done. He didn’t need to. He saw it was.
“What is that called?” Sara asked.
“It has no name yet,” he replied. “It is new. It is yours. You will know its name when it decides it wants you to know it. Please tell me when it does. That is the only payment I need.”
“Thank you,” Sara mumbled, not sure if those words could ever express the true gratitude for what he had done. The words hit the air with a humility that shouldn’t be comfortable in this place. But it was. This was a kind of worship. And this was the temple to do it in. The bartender smiled and moved on to another customer. Sara felt jealous that he was gone, but the drink reassured her that he would be back.
Her eyes looked round the place. Inevitably they were drawn to the bartender’s work for the next customer and she watched him produce another cocktail so equally beautiful, but so entirely different. HE slid it across to the girl who had ordered it. She was alone too. At the bar, looking beautiful but … new. She looked at the drink as it went to her lips. What lips! What a figure. What a face.
Holy shit – it was her. That girl. She remembered the night in a nightclub in Berlin 2 years ago. She had danced with a girl, moved with her, looked into her eyes, kissed her, kissed her again, and again. She had gone to the bar, writing her number on Sara’s arm and never came back. Sara had looked at the number, and the sweat of a long night had caused it to blur. She had tried every combination that it might have been the next day, but it was never the girl. And that was in Berlin. So she had gone. For ever. She had cried about that; that wasn’t like her. Must have been too much to drink. But the girl had been the subject of several fantasies since. And she was there now. No less perfect than she had been in the fantasies.
Sara watched her take her sip of her drink. She watched the magic fill her. She watched her straighten, look in awe at the drink, then the bartender. She watched how she didn’t have to pay for the drink, and how the girl – what the fuck was her name? – became at home in this place. Sara liked that. She liked that she wasn’t the only novice here, and that she had, perhaps, a partner to share the experience with. The girl looked over, her gaze quizzically lingering, searching for the confirmation of the glimpse of recognition that was written on her eyes. It didn’t come. She looked away.
Her gaze was indeed away, but not to a vague place. She had looked very deliberately at something, and Sara’s eyes followed the gaze, for want of anything better to look at. She was taking another sip of the still-unnamed cocktail as her eyes met the man the other girl – her name was on the tip of Sara’s tongue – had been looking at. The sip hit her chakras at the same time was the beauty of this man hit her eyes. The combination was electric. He was beautiful. Sexy. Smoking lay sexy. Chiselled. Olive-skinned. Black haired. Grey eyed. Wealthy. Classy. Fit. Single. Probably. No ring at least. His suit was Italian. Hand made. It fitted him like the bartender had made it for him. Maybe he had. Sara smiled. He was looking at his drink with the awe that Sara and Francesca – that was it! Francesca – had recognised in themselves. But it wasn’t new to him. It was still awesome, but he had had this before., He was a regular here. He fitted in.
Sara took another sip and it told her to move. She walked round the bar and sidled up to the man. She said, “Hello” in a voice that wanted to sound slutty and available, but this bar wouldn’t allow that, so it came out classy. But still available. Sara heard it echo in the room and she wondered how that could be when she notice Francesca on the other side of the man. It wasn’t an echo. It was her saying “Hello” at exactly the same moment in exactly the same tone. The man, who was used to being approached, woudn’t have reacted if only one of them had spoken. But the weird stereo of the synchronicity woke him up and he looked at them, Sara first, Francesca second.
“Did you plan that?” He said, almost scoffing. Girls tried all sorts of tricks on him, and he was bored of it. He didn’t want an escort. He didn’t need one. But if this was a trick it was a new one, and he had to admire innovation.
“No,” said both girls in unison, and all three of them laughed. The ice silently broke. In that laugh it was clear that they were speaking the truth, that neither was an escort and that they didn’t know each other. Although they did – Francesca looked at Sara and said her name. Sara’s pelvis burned again.
Chapter 4: 21:30 yesterday
The three of them sat at the bar in one of the bubbles that made this place special. The rest of the bar was there, but they didn’t notice. And the bar didn’t notice them. Some of the escorts escort maltepe did, because the new girls were making progress where they had failed. The bitching had already started. But it didn’t make it through the protection of the bubble, and none of the three of them noticed. The conversation was easy. Slightly flirtatious maybe, but not overtly so. Subconsciously, all three of them had worked out the possible endgames here – three people go home alone, one person goes home and a couple (3 possible combinations) go home together, or they go home as a threesome – but none of them could clearly see how they were to get from here to there. It was too complicated. And the cocktails were working. They all just enjoyed the moment. The moments. There were a lot of them. They talked, and flirted and skirted the issue that they all knew needed resolution. Time didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, really. It was free and it was fun. And the energies between them sparkled effortlessly.
Then, after a particularly distracting laugh, there was a moment of silence. It was filled with contentment and there was a beautiful shared expectation, but no tension. Sara had started imagining her preferred option when the man said, quietly enough that they could barely hear him, but loudly enough that the music and noise of the bar may as well have stopped altogether, “I don’t do threesomes”. Sara and Francesca looked at each other. Francesca was as disappointed as Sara was. Her preferred outcome had been the same, obviously. Fuck. How does one handle this?
Francesca spoke first. “That’s … ” she looked at Sara to judge her reaction. “That’s a shame,” she risked.
Sara’s face relaxed. “It is a great shame,” she said. Her relief that Francesca still wanted her was palpable, but the just a position of relief with frustration that she had to somehow choose, or be chosen. Oh god. How? How could this go forwards?
“You can both walk away now,” he said. “You should, really. You will have a fabulous evening together, and probably much more.”
“But….?” said Sara.
“But there might be an even more interesting way to spend the evening.”
The girls both waited. There was only three possible outcomes here surely? A choice had to be made, and then that was it. One evening ruined. One in ecstasy. Nevertheless, he wasn’t kidding. He had a fourth option. It had to be better than the other three, given that the best one was already off the table.
Francesca broke the suspense. “What are you imagining?” She said.
“I propose a competition,” said the man calmly.
What the fuck? A competition? The arrogance of the suggestion! That they should compete to see which of them is “good enough” for him? OK so this rich guy must have a sense of entitlement, but Sara had never understood what that actually meant before. Fucking hell. How dare he? Who the fuck was he to treat her and Francesca like that? Like prizes to be won?
And as her brain ranted internally, she heard her own voice saying, “What are the rules?” Her brain and her body had different plans. And her body was winning.
Chapter 5: 21:55 yesterday.
“It’s easy,” he said. “I will find out which of you wanted me more. The one that wants me more, gets me. If it turns out you want each other more than me, you walk away together.
“I will set you a series of tasks. Each time a task is set, you decide to play or pass. Play means you do the task. Pass means you walk away. If you both pass, you walk away hand in hand for a night of passion that pornographers could only dream of. If one of you plays and succeeds, but the other doesn’t, the competition is decided. If you both pay and succeed, we have another round. Simple?”
The girls let this sink in. It was brilliantly designed. They had to submit to his game or lose him. But losing wasn’t losing if they both lost together. It felt arrogant. It felt he was taking control off them, and in a way he was. But they were also entirely in control. It wasn’t anywhere near as demeaning as it sounded. They could submit to his will – Sara felt a spasm in her vagina as she thought the word “submit” – but he wasn’t demanding it. Yet he was. Oh fuck. Sara realised she was wet. And he hadn’t even touched her. Not physically, anyway.
The girls looked at each other and knew that they were going to say yes. They didn’t even need to nod. Again in unison they said, “What’s the first task?”
All three laughed at the repeated synchronicity of thought.
“You are both so beautifully dressed that since the moment you walked in, I have been trying to work out if you are wearing panties. And, to our credit, I still have no idea. For either of you. An I pride myself on being able to tell. So this cannot continue. We cannot begin until I know.”
“So…. “, said Sara, ridiculously pleased that the reflection int he elevator hadn’t been lying to her.
“So I need you to tell me and then prove it. I am going to count to three. When I hit three, you will either show me that you’re note wearing panties, or, if you are, take them off and put them on the bar.”
Sara gasped. Francesca gasped. “Here?” They both said.
“Yes. Here,” he replied and, without giving them chance to think, “1 – 2 – 3.”