Warnings: This title contains graphic language, sex and prostitution.
Word Count: 98,277
Cleo's words echoed in my mind: "Even your own mother wouldn't recognize you when you're all dolled up. Trust me."
She wasn't kidding, I thought, staring at my reflection that Wednesday evening. I barely even recognize myself!
Cleo had shown me how to apply my new makeup, which resulted in a dramatic, startling transformation. My cheekbones were brought out and made sharper, making my face seem more narrow as it tapered to my chin. Almost cat-like, in a way, I thought. Very sexy, yet playful at the same time.
The new base gave my skin a soft golden glow that blended with my light tan. The costly mascara and eye liner brought out the hazel in my eyes, making them vivid. With my hair in a professional bun, secured by a golden clip, I did, indeed, look totally different. I still looked like a teenager, just a really, reallyelegant teenager.
I giggled. Well, hello Miss Rockefeller....
I felt excited about my first official date, despite my anxiety. All I knew about the man was his name. I wondered what Mr. Thomas Dunson was expecting from me.
I smoothed down the silky blue dress I wore. It hugged my body and delved really low in the front, showing off practically half my breasts, and was essentially backless. The hem of the skirt stopped about three inches above the knee. I wore some of my new jewelry, including a couple bracelets, the pendant Ian had given me (the sapphire matched the dress perfectly), a gold ankle chain, and of course, under my dress, my new gold waist chain. Four-inch heels completed my outfit. No underwear. "Escorts only wear undergarments if specifically requested," Cleo had told me.
My arousal was growing. The dress was so sheer I felt practically naked. Anyone giving me even a casual glance would be able to tell I wasn't wearing panties. I smiled naughtily at the thought.
Alyssa Green, sex kitten, I thought. Only, I'm not Alyssa right now.
"Yvette," I said carefully, watching my lips move in the mirror. Cleo had told me that it was necessary to use a different name, just in case I met someone I knew. She assured me that with a different name and a different way of moving and talking, I would be able to deflect any suspicion of my real identity.
"Yvette," I said again, and grinned. I had always thought the name was perfect for a porn star. Or an escort. Suitably sultry, and a little mysterious.
I smoked a cigarette as I waited, practicing my posing. Cleo had taught me how to sit in a way that was both elegantly charming and sensually teasing. Everything about the way I acted when on a date was to "exude sex," as she put it. Not to be obvious that I was being paid for sex, I nevertheless had to convey the idea to others that I was a sexually skilled and confident woman. The kind of woman men desired.
When the knock sounded, I was startled, my heartbeat suddenly increasing in tempo. I got up, looked through the peep-hole, and saw a man in a chauffeur's hat.
Showtime, I thought. I grabbed the long, simple coat I had hung on the wall and slipped it on. It covered me from neck to calf. Cleo had told me that I should always wear the coat to and from the car when leaving or coming home, to reduce suspicion about my activities, as well as to hide the elegance of my appearance.
I opened the door, making sure I had my little purse and keys. The man on my doorstep was in his early thirties, I figured, and had a very professional air about him.
"Miss Yvette?" he asked.
I smiled. I really liked the way my new name sounded. "Yes."
He gave me a curt nod. "Your car awaits, Miss."
I took a breath. Here we go. "Lead the way."