She said, “There’s something about you….”
“Let’s talk in my hotel room,” her client said, interrupting her and luckily, she thought, before she let slip some asinine deal-breaking comment about his angelic features. Romantic ideas were against the rules; she knew that. “It is overlooking the ocean and I am quite certain that you will be entertained by my proposition, Mia Mandolyn.” He downed his second martini then signed his bar tab – Jude Remington, Room 1225.
Mia had not remembered sharing her last name with him. A pang of fear shook her like a heat rash. For months, she had lived her life as two different people – good girl and bad girl, real and imagined, and the prostitute had no last name. Her alter ego was like Madonna. She needed to abort, right? It was scary to think that Jude Remington knew the real woman behind the bravado. Had Trixie at the service been seduced by his charm too somehow - tricked into breaking security protocols? Calm down, she thought as she looked at the handsome man. He seemed nice. Mia reached into her Gucci clutch to retrieve her keys, to use them as a weapon, as Trixie had instructed her if things ever went sour with a John. She could defend herself if necessary. She rose and immediately felt light-headed. After only a few sips of liquor? Mia was hardly a lightweight and yet she felt inebriated.
“Come, Mia,” he said. “Let me help you.”
Mia looked at her client again. He was incredibly attractive despite the long, out-dated sideburns, model-like but also rugged with a strong jaw-line and a friendly smile. Younger than most, maybe thirty? And familiar in a strange, soothing way. Had they ever met before in another life? It was silly to think it, but it was possible. Had he been a customer of hers at the mall last Christmas, buying last minute perfume as a gift on Men’s Night? No, there were too many faces that night and she would have remembered his. Had he gone to Marist too? Maybe that was why he knew her name! She had been the girlfriend of a star football player. Although far-fetched, this made the most sense.
He seemed extremely well educated with his grammar and elegant manner. The clothing though…the leather jacket over a black turtleneck sweater and flared leg trousers of thin wool…. The outline of an impressive hard cock rested beneath. Jude
Remington was not dressed for Miami, Florida. He was not even dressed for this decade!
“I don’t know,” she said as she digested her assessment.
“An eternity awaits, young lady. Please, this way.”
Mr. Remington steered Mia by the arm in the direction of the hotel lobby then to the elevator. She became very passive in the comfort of his grip. Alone for the first time, he kissed her. His breath had no scent, like a ghost, and his lips were a powerful vacuum clinging to hers. His tongue danced over hers offering salvation. Despite her misgivings, she wanted more. She had not felt this way since before all this. Before the whoring. Since that day when she had met Dax Meadows in a bar on campus, that innocence mixed with passion that felt like home. Breathless, Mia awaited her orders.
“The effects of the potion are working, are they not dear?” he said breaking their union.
“I have given you an elixir, which shall help in the transition.”
“From kiss to orgasm?” she volleyed.
“Indeed,” he chuckled. “But I was referring to time and space.”
“Jude,” he said as he brought his hand to her chin. “Mia, please, let us not be so formal. Although I rather like your professionalism.”
They kissed again and Mia felt that for the first time she would receive an orgasm from a client before administering one. From the kiss alone, she envisioned a torrid love affair rather than a simple Christmas fuck – it was that powerful. What the hell was the matter with her? She wanted him more than she had ever wanted Dax, and that was saying something. Dax Meadows was the reason she was here in the first place, for Christ’s sake! He and his rejection that had made her feel so empty inside, until now. What the fuck? What was in that drink? No, she would not blame alcohol on this. It was more like wishful-thinking. For weeks, she had wished for a Christmas miracle. Wished, prayed, whatever she wanted to call it, and she decided to believe in the spirit of a dream. Maybe Jude Remington was her salvation like that fate gibberish her mother’s father used to mumble. The elevator doors opened and her client nudged her towards his room.
Mia had worked this hotel before. Easy money, really, which made it hard to imagine quitting prostitution or retiring as she had so eloquently referred to it in her journal. The sex part of the evening frequently took up a nominal portion of the dates for the most part. These rooms overlooking the ocean and hotel pool were among her favorites, because she could sit out on the balcony alone and relax as her clients slept off their orgasms. Tonight the breeze from the open sliding glass door was particularly spectacular. It tickled the sheer curtains into a dance.
The familiarity made her feel safe again. She could not remember why she had been agitated before. It seemed silly. Knowing Jude Remington was all that mattered now. He placed the key card on a silver tray alongside a magnum of champagne in an ice bucket and two paper-wrapped glasses. Mia loved champagne. Maybe they would toast to the baby Jesus and continue into the New Year.
Mia tossed her keys onto the tray then sat in the chair by the desk where a laptop lay open, holding her clutch tightly in her lap.
She tried to sneak a peek at the screen as she asked, “What business brought you to Miami?”
He shut the laptop’s lid with his index finger as he spoke. “I am a collector of sorts,” he said. “I have come to collect you, finally.”
“I don’t understand.”
Mia thought that this was some sort of British foreplay, both formal and mysterious. He wanted to collect her. Was that code for something, like the equivalent to a notch in a lipstick case - London style? She had not met many foreigners bar the Latino fashion designers and her Croatian grandparents. Jude Remington was a world traveler. Perhaps he collected the international flavor of pussy?
“I would like to test the merchandise first,” he added, “as I have many times before and since.”
The word merchandise sounded so sexy, as if he was about to take ownership of her orgasm, and the rest of it was just winded flirtation. Well, two could play this sexy game, she thought.
She asked, “Have you an envelope for me?”
“Yes,” he said. “But it is rather heavy. I hope you will accept payment in gold? I have no use for other currency.”
Mia took the chunky envelope filled with the unusual coins. Weird. They looked like they had come from a treasure chest buried deep in the sea, albeit cleaner. She had seen something similar in an internet news story recently, about coins found near Jerusalem. She squeezed the thick and heavy parcel into her clutch, forcing it shut while he removed his trousers.
Jude Remington’s confidence intrigued her. She looked up to see his sizable cock throbbing as he masturbated it to a larger erection. He appeared to be interested in her reaction to this behavior like a behaviorist doing qualitative research. Mia stared at the magnificent, almost iridescent rod once he had released it from his boxers. It had an other-worldly presence, which she attributed to her own burgeoning desire. Like a kaleidoscope effect or something equally mesmerizing. It was the one, she laughed to herself.
“Mia, lie down on the bed, please,” he said. She glanced at the bed then looked down at her dress. “No, there is no need to remove your clothing. We are aiming for a quick fuck first. Then we will begin our journey.”