He was excited.  

Or maybe excited wasn't quite the right word.  Anticipation.  There.  That was closer.  Excitement implied pleasure.  Anticipation implied expectation.  Even hope.  It was a strange feeling to have burning in his breast considering the nature of the company he would be keeping tonight.  Though he'd been with many women--many, many women over the years--he didn't keep company with whores.

Whore.  It seemed such a cruel, honest word.  There were a hundred other names that put a softer face on it.  Working Girl.  Hooker.  Lady of the Night.  And yet when he stripped everything away, under it all, that was what he really thought of that sort of woman.  Whore.  It was hopelessly tangled up in his mind with words like dirty and damaged and worthless.  Certainly not the kind of woman he'd take home.  Not even the kind of woman he wanted to spend an evening with, despite his interest both in sex and in the oral histories of people who'd lived hard lives.  There were some stories whose weight he never wanted to carry.  Ironically, whore was also the most appropriate word given the single condition she had put on their meeting tonight.  Total absolute honesty.

So why the anticipation?  He was actually nervous.  Even jittery, which was unusual for a jaded old cynic like him--and yet he found himself taking extra care with his appearance tonight.  He had dressed smartly; soft dark slacks and an Armani sports jacket coupled with a button-down shirt that was left open at the throat to reveal a hint of undershirt and the rustic cross he wore.  He had groomed his beard meticulously and pulled his long golden hair back in a neat queue.  The three inches of brownish roots were a bit of an annoyance, but there was nothing to be done for it now.  The hair was for his latest film which had recently finished shooting and he'd kept it in case they needed to redo any scenes.  And because it looked cool when he was rocking out with the band.

Though he would have preferred to meet over a drink at some local pub rather than a luxury suite at one of London's poshest hotels, he was under no misconception about what was expected of him and he had not entered into this agreement lightly.  The woman he was going to meet tonight was quite literally the stuff of legends--one of the elite, a true high class call girl.  One of probably a handful of women who could command such a price for her body and her time.  She consorted with heads of state, foreign dignitaries, corporate billionaires and men of that ilk.  Despite her profession, or perhaps because of it, she moved in circles far, far above his.

He couldn't quite believe he'd scored a meeting and he still wasn't sure if it was a stroke of incredible luck or some bizarre twist of fate that was going to come back later and bite him in the ass.  People like her did not meet with people like him.  Period.  End of story.  He was researching a prospective movie role; one whose script had given him chills it was so brilliant.  It was so far from the usual fare as to be on another planet.  It was the stuff of real deception, intrigue and scandal, where the major players had truly had a hand in shaping the face of global politics. 

Sex.  Secrets.  Lies.  Betrayal.  It was the sort of story that grabbed a man by the heart and just didn't let go.  It was still in the initial stages, but shaped carefully and directed properly with the right sort of artistic cinematography--it had the potential not just to be the best film he'd ever made, but maybe one of the best films of all time.  If he signed on.  If he could convince them his character had to be played a certain way.  Which was the reason for his meeting tonight.  There were still some questions he wanted answers to.  He couldn't very well lobby his position until he understood it perfectly; until he could present an unsinkable argument to the Powers That Be.  Studio heads could be such wankers.

What he wanted wasn't an intimate look at the life of a high class whore.  He could get that from any number of tell-all books that had been written over the years by women like her once they'd reached a certain age and retired from The Business.  No--what he wanted was inside information about the kinds of men that sought out the company of such women; their mindset, their motivations, their strengths and weaknesses.  He wasn't after the 'how' of it all, just the why.  It was central to his character's story and frankly, he couldn't quite wrap his mind around paying such a ridiculously high figure for something women threw at men like that for free.

That he'd even landed an interview with someone like her was almost unbelievable.  A total fluke of the X-Files variety.  Friend of a friend of a friend.  In fact, he still wondered if all this wasn't some sort of elaborate set up.  Punked: Down Under!

That uncertainty only wound him up more and he hated that, hated that he wasn't going into this the way he usually did; passionately centered--somewhere between confident and take no prisoners.  He wasn't at all sure what to expect.  He wasn't really sure of much, to tell the truth.  Only that he was desperate to talk to her and that the details her people had worked out with his people were incredibly specific.  Actually there were only two details.  Total confidentiality and total absolute honesty.  He was allowed to question her, but only if she got to question him back.  If he refused to answer anything the interview was over.  And it had been a long, long time since he'd been on the other end of a confidentiality agreement.  It was something of a novelty.  It was also slightly insulting.

He didn't know anything about her other than she fit the parameters he was looking for.  She slept with impossibly powerful men for money.  A lot of money.  And she liked her privacy.  He didn't even know her name.  All he'd seen was L. G. Visser on his copy of the papers he'd had to sign just to gain admittance to her inner sanctum.  He didn't recognize the surname, but then again he hadn't expected to.     

An hour later, he found himself in the private lift on the way to her suite.  He still wasn't sure the benefits outweighed the risks, but once the offer had been made he had jumped at it, too curious to look this gift horse in the mouth.  An offer like this didn't come along every day.  The closer he got the more nervous and uneasy he became.  Taking a moment to center himself, he shoved that splinter of fear down deep.  What was the point of it all if you never challenged yourself?  Never mastered that which sought to master you.

He was led into a formal sitting room by a small plump woman with sparkling eyes, dark rimmed glasses and round pink cheeks.  It threw him a little.  He had expected security.  Someone like that bloke from the transporter; a brute dressed up in a classy suit.  Even an old battleaxe would have been more expected than some sweet old woman who looked like Mary Poppins' mother.  She was Ms. Visser's assistant?  But then again, he supposed there was probably little need for security.  The kind of men who visited her weren't the sort to make a public scene, especially when consorting with a whore.

There was that word again, echoing around in his brain.

Whore.  Whorewhorewhore...  

"Have a seat, dear.  I'll let Liesbet know you're here."

Stifling the echo in his head, he sat.  Who needed security when one felt like they were talking to their mum?  

"Thank you."

Hmm...  Liesbet Visser.  It still didn't ring any bells but that was hardly surprising.  It was an unusual name.  Germanic?  Flemish?  He supposed it didn't really matter.  It probably wasn't her real name anyway.

Alone in the formal salon, he looked around feeling decidedly out of place.  It was a feminine room, soft and romantic.  Done in shades of yellow and cream, it felt like a summer morning, bright and cheerful for all its subtle opulence.  It made him smile inwardly.  What had he been expecting, red flocked wallpaper and a painting of a reclined nude hung over the divan?  The only art on the walls in this room was Georgia O'Keefe flowers that suggested the petals of a woman's vagina.  How apt.  Ms. Visser could hardly control the hotel's décor, but it amused him nonetheless.

He contemplated the oversize flower, thinking that any vagina that big would have labia as long as his arm and a clitoris the size of a grown man's head, never mind the size of anything else.  He pulled a face, unaware he was no longer alone.

"I see you're admiring the artwork."  Her amused tone implied she knew exactly what he thought of the pudendal spread of yellow and orange petals.

He turned to greet the enigmatic Ms. Visser but the shock of her appearance momentarily robbed him of his usual witty retort.  She was not at all what he had imagined.  He'd expected someone older, whose jaded lifestyle weighed on her in some obvious physical way.  Someone who oozed sex and power.  He had envisioned a woman with slinky revealing clothing and full, pouty red lips with nails--or rather claws--painted to match.  Rather like the sort of tarts he'd met from time to time in his line of work--only dressed better.  Sort of Frederick's of Hollywood meets Haute Couture. 

His mind had conjured many variations on this theme in the preceding weeks leading up to tonight and never once had he ever imagined this.... pixie.  She was petite, perhaps as tall as his chin, and svelte.  Tiny, but not emaciatedly thin.  She had a woman's curves and a dancer's legs.  She wore a simple blue wrap dress and flat brown leather sandals that made her smooth golden skin seem to glow.  Her breasts were sweet and small, and he could see the vague outline of the shape of her nipple through the fine drape of her dress.  There wasn't a red claw in sight.  Her nails were short and natural, manicured but blessedly free of garish polish.  Her hair was somewhere between brown and blonde and red.  It was long and loose and perfectly suited her delicate features.  He recognized an expensive cut when he saw it and hers was a study in subtle elegance.  Her eyes were a cool clear gray and sparkled with intelligence.  She wore no jewelry that he could see and when she moved closer, he saw the faintest dusting of freckles on her nose and shoulders.  Even her scent was unexpected, light and citrusy with just a hint of something darker and more sensual underneath.

In short, she was exactly the sort of woman he'd have brought home to meet his mother.  And that rattled him badly.  They hadn't exchanged two words and she was already tearing down his preconceived notions.  She did not appear cheap or tawdry.  Looking at her, he'd never guess what she did for a living.  Hell, he'd been told what she did and he still couldn't quite believe the woman before him was a whore.  She was adorable.  And so young!  She couldn't be too far past twenty.  He hadn't expected that either.  Surely someone who swam in such deep waters would need the poise and maturity that only came with time and experience?  There was a power about her, a gravitas, something more than confidence.  Something regal in her bearing.  It was her eyes that gave it away; an old soul in a young woman's body.

It should have put him at ease.  It didn't.  He wasn't prepared to like her.  He wasn't even prepared to find her attractive and he did already on both counts, despite himself.

He introduced himself.  She shook his hand.  Her grip was sure and she looked him in the eye like a man would have.

"It's nice to meet you, Liesbet."

"Please, call me Libby."  

He nodded, smiling.  "Libby?"  She didn't look like a Libby.

"Liesbet isn't real."  He very much doubted Libby was either.  She made a living playing a different woman with every man she met.  There was no reason to expect he would be an exception.  "It's Liberty, actually.  Liberty Fisher."  She shrugged.  "Liberty sounded exotic to my small town mother."

"I see," he said, surprised by what sounded like real honesty in her voice.  Truth from a whore?  And that was exactly what she was, he reminded himself.  Even if she didn't look like one.  Or talk like one.  Her voice was cultured and soft with a hint of something European.

"My father was Dutch, though.  Fisher.  Visser.  Get it?  Not really all that imaginative, I'm afraid."  Dutch.  So that was it.  He'd been close.  

"Better than some of the names I've had over the years."  He was still feeling nervous but his smile was genuine.  It was one of his curses.   Charming pretty girls had always been too easy for him.  "But thank you.  For the honesty," he added awkwardly.  She had knocked him for six and he was still finding his feet. 

"I can hardly expect it from you if I don't give it myself."  

Her comment, while true, unnerved him slightly.  These were only the opening salvos and she had already toppled a few of his stereotypes and put him off his game.  He wondered again if this meeting was worth the risk.  But then he thought of the script and the answers he wanted from her.  And there was no denying she was intriguing.  He hadn't come here looking for her story, but a part of him was interested in it now.

"I appreciate this..." he hesitated for only the briefest of moments as he looked for the right word for this meeting of theirs.  

"Interview?" she offered helpfully.

"Audience was actually the first word that came to mind."  

A ruffle of pleasure went through her.  "You don't need to be appreciative.  I'm a fan."  She looked all of about twelve in that moment and he was suddenly, wholly, uncomfortable--partly because of what she'd said and partly because the idea of any man paying for sex with someone who could easily appear to be a very young girl disturbed him deeply. 

He paused momentarily to absorb her words.  So that was why she'd agreed.  Bloody fucking everlasting hell.  A fan.  The flash of panic must have shown on his face before he shoved it down.  He could leave any time, he reminded himself.  Get the information he needed and make a getaway before she asked him something he refused to answer.  But to be perfectly honest, he was just glad for whatever it was that got him through her door, even if it meant artfully dodging some uncomfortable questions.

She saw the flicker in his eyes and almost felt him withdraw physically.  Her livelihood depended on her ability to read men and she knew she'd have to work quickly to smooth over her blunder.  She hadn't been expecting him to affect her so viscerally.  It had been a long time since that had happened and it threw her slightly.  Her life was full of rich powerful men, but few attracted her as much as the one standing before her now.  He was a visionary, a creative genius and a master of nuance and subtle performance.  His volatile temper and raw passion were something of legend and his primal virile charisma was palpable, even at this range.  He would be an impressive lover.  She knew it instinctively.

"Come, sit...let me take your coat."  She directed him to an overstuffed couch, aware of the truculence in his stiff movements as he sat on the edge of the cushion, clearly ill at ease.  He'd been tightly wound when she arrived and now he was all but springing up off the small couch.  She sat down, not too close exactly but certainly within his personal space.  It made him even more restless--which was what she was after.  Something to distract him a little so she could put his fear to rest.  Men could be so easy.

"I'm a fan of your work," she clarified.  "I don't know much about you."  It was only a small lie.  He eased slightly.  "Mostly I'm just glad the word you were searching for was 'audience' and not 'date'," she teased.

Her macabre humor shook him out of his mood.  Date?  As in Johns and tricks and dates?  He had never--nor would he ever--be any whore's date.  He wasn't above spending a casual night of pleasure in a stranger's arms, but to pay for the privilege?  Sex meant more to him than that, even with a stranger.

The casual reference to her work--without shame or embarrassment--surprised him.  "Jesus!  How can you be so easy about it?"  If she wasn't going to shy away from it then neither was he.

"Because it is easy."

"Bullshit."  

"It's true.  I give them what they want."

"Sex."

"An illusion," she corrected.  "And they give me what I want."

"Money."  Full stop.  Crude but undeniable. 

"Security," she countered.  "Freedom to do what I want."

That made him laugh.

"What?"

"Liberty buying freedom."  His head lolled to the side as he watched her watch him.  "I thought that worked the other way round?"

His sharp droll wit pleased her.  She appreciated intelligent men.  Far too few of them could play the sort of mental chess she found challenging. 

She slipped away to a small glass table topped with a number of exquisite glass decanters and a pair of glasses.  "Would you like something?  Cognac?  Sherry?  Water?"  She threw that last one in there casually but knew he wouldn't bite.  A belt or two of something strong was just what he needed to take the edge off.  Alcohol made both sex and honesty between strangers easier.     

He accepted a glass of cognac and sat back, eyeing her as she again entered his personal space and settled herself back into the couch, slipping off her sandals to tuck her feet under her casually.  She wasn't overt, but she was too close for comfort even though she was in repose. 

She raised her glass to his.  "To honesty."

Their glasses touched and they drank, he more deeply than she.  They made small talk at first, falling into an easy patter.  It was refreshing for Libby.  A man who actually listened.  It was no doubt in part what made him so fine an actor, but it also made him good company, even if she had the feeling he wasn't above listening so intently because he had a habit of hanging people with their own words if he felt the situation warranted it.  What a challenge!  It was an unexpected pleasure and she couldn't wait to pit herself against him to see who came out on top. 

Despite that, she didn't press him and though he wanted his answers, he didn't yet steer the conversation in that direction.  He wanted to take her measure first.  After he did, he almost wished he hadn't.  She was bright, inquisitive and provocative.  At times he almost forgot why he had come.  But even inside those pleasurable hours they talked, there was that awareness inside of him that she took money for the pleasure of her time. 

Libby smiled inwardly.  He was very clever but she recognized the signs.  He wasn't so much testing her as comparing her to other women he had known, even if it was only within the confines of his own head.  He would probably be even more surprised to learn the truth.  Not only did she make half again what he did annually, she was also better educated--though she'd long since stopped needing to drop that particular name.  She didn't want to spook him and a Psychology degree from Harvard had a tendency to do that to all but the most stalwart of men. 

A comfortable lapse in the conversation gave her just the opening she needed.  Now it was her turn to test him, to see if he was as prepared to be as honest with her as she was with him.  Everything of consequence tonight depended upon it.

"You don't like what I do very much, do you?"

He blinked, but answered smoothly.  "No.  It disgusts me."  Dead honest.  Isn't that was she wanted?  He tested it out, also ready to take things to the next level.

"Does it?"  She hadn't expected such a blunt visceral answer.  "Which part?  That I sleep with more than one man or that they pay me for it?"

"Both.  Either."

"That's a bit hypocritical of you considering what you do for a living."

"And why is that?"

"We both sell ourselves."  She wasn't expecting that to make him smile.

"Well, on the rare occasion, I do feel fucked."  His grin widened.  "But most of the time I do the fucking."

"I'm serious!"

"So am I."

He refilled their glasses even though he knew he shouldn't if he wanted to keep his head.  Temperance and moderation had never been among his virtues.  

"I think what we do is a lot alike," she ventured without hesitation.

"How so?"  This ought to be good.  She might be a whore, but she was educated and sharp.  Instead of being insulted, he was actually looking forward to hearing her state her case.

"A party approaches us, wanting something specific from us.  A defined relationship both in terms of expectation and duration--in exchange for compensation.  I usually choose money.  How about you?"

He'd been hoping her argument fell flat and when it didn't, he became defensive.  "I don't sell my body.  That's the difference."  

"Don't you?"  Her eyes held the gleam of triumph.  Was he kidding?  Women flocked to his films in droves to see his body splashed across the screen larger than life, sometimes paying again and again for the privilege.  That he might dismiss, but he couldn't deny those things over which he had total control.  "You have pretend relationships.  You kiss and touch other women, let them kiss and touch you."

"It's not the same thing.  It doesn't mean anything."

"And you think it means something when I do it?"  That set him back.  "We both pretend to be something that we're not for another's pleasure.  Sometimes that includes the physical.  You kiss a woman.  I kiss a man.  All in a days' work."  He snorted at that.

"I don't have sex with them," he insisted.

That made her laugh.  "None of them?  Ever?"  She had him trapped and she knew it.  Moreover, he knew it--but she was gracious enough not to press the issue.  "I am not saying it's the same thing, only that there is a very fine line between what you do and what I do."

"Is that what you tell yourself to make it palatable?"

"You think I don't like my work?"

"Surely not.  You are smart and attractive.  Why limit yourself?  Why give away pieces of yourself when you could have so much more?  Something real."

"I do like my work."  He barely kept his mouth from hanging open.  "I like sex.  I like sex with exiting powerful men.  I like the power I have--not over them but the power I have when I am with them."  It was amazing what pillow talk could accomplish.  Sometimes all it took was a few whispered words to influence a vote or a political ideology.  "I am very particular about the company I keep, you know.  I don't just open my legs to anyone with a Gold Card and a hardon."  He pulled a face at her crude imagery even as he felt the first stirrings in his own sex.  "I rarely see more than two or three men at any given time.  And as for giving pieces of myself away... from where I am sitting, you give away far more than I ever have."

"In what way?"

"Anonymity.  Freedom.  You've given up priceless things.  Things I would never dream of selling at any price.  But at the end of the day, sometimes we both have to do things we don't want to do."

"I don't."  He was on the edge of aggressive.

"No?  So you want to do all that press?  Answer the same questions over and over?  Give away little pieces of yourself by telling personal stories on national TV?  I would never do that."

"All that is on my terms.  I decide how much."

"So do I," she said softly.     

He tried a different line, half irritated and half impressed she'd argued her side so well.  "So what do your parents think of what you do?"

"They don't know.  They think I counsel people for a living."  Before he could ask, she added, "I have a degree in that."  She didn't mention from where and thankfully he didn't ask.  And she was a counselor of sorts, albeit an unconventional one.

"So you're comfortable lying to them?"

"You never lie to your parents?  You tell them whose bed you're in every night?"

That almost made him blush.  She had some very good answers and that was beginning to irritate him.  She'd obviously thought a lot about this before tonight.  He was enjoying the mental chess, but he didn't like losing an argument, especially one with as much on the line as was the case tonight.

"Of course they don't bloody know.  But I don't hide what I do.  Not from them.  Not from anyone."  Fair play to him.  He had a point there.  He felt the shift and pressed his advantage.  "And what about the future?  You can't honestly tell me you have no regrets?"

"You have me there.  Not for myself... but if I ever decide to have children..."  And despite what he thought, the likelihood of that was good.  She wanted to be a mother someday.

"You ever worry what they might think if they found out?"

"Some."

"But not enough to stop?"

She shook her head.  "Any children of mine will have a mother who loves them with her whole heart and soul, a beautiful stable home and the best education available.  They could do worse."

They could do better too, but he didn't say it.  There was honest--and then there was brutally honest--and he wasn't about to jeopardize his shot at the answers he wanted from her just to belabor a point he'd already won.

"So what about a boyfriend?  He approve of all this?"

That made her laugh.  "I haven't met anyone worth quitting for, if that's what you're asking.   But I do have a boyfriend.  He thinks it's exciting.  A turn on."

"More fool he."

"He's... young."  

"He's a fucking idiot."

"Of course a man like you would think so."

"Have I just been insulted?"

"Consider it a compliment."  She refilled their glasses this time.  "Speaking of significant others, do you have a girlfriend?"

It was the first truly personal question she'd asked.  It was a small one, but all great things start small and build.  The smartest thing would be to leave now before things got out of hand, but what sort of man would he be if he turned tail and ran now?

He was reluctant to answer her.  That was where he'd drawn the line in his head.  He understood the price and was willing to talk to her about himself, within reason--but not in depth about any of the people he loved.   

"Yes," he managed, uneasy with her question and aware that it was probably only the first of many.  "An on-again off-again kind of thing."  They were tentatively entering 'on again' and he intended to keep it that way this time.  Permanently.  He was unsure how much of the truth to tell.  He definitely wanted Libby to know his affections were engaged elsewhere... and at the same time, he wanted to leave himself enough wiggle room to maneuver with charm and flirtation if need be.  If he appeared too closed to her, she may well decide to end the interview before he got what he really wanted.

"She know you're here?"

"Yes."  It wasn't exactly a lie.  Not in so many words.  She knew he was taking a meeting regarding research for a prospective role.  He hadn't yet decided how much to tell her.  He supposed that depended on how the evening ended, confidentiality agreement be dammed. 

Libby smiled knowingly.  "Don't worry.  I'm not going to ask you about her."  Frankly, she didn't much want to know.

He was suddenly struck by the desire to share some small glimmer of what made her so special to him.  "No, it's fine.  She's.... an artist.  A musician.  Talented.  Creative.  Intelligent."  He broke into a wide grin.  "And she's got a bloody mouth on her when we're alone...never lets me get too far up my own arse."

She mulled that one over, filing away the little bits of him she'd gleaned from that simple revelation.  "So she keeps you in line, then?"

His brows drew together.  "No.  Not really, no."

It was Libby's turn to smile.  "That's good."  He would be bored if she could.

"Is it?"  He wasn't looking for approval.  He liked how things worked just fine, but he was interested in her opinion.  

Libby nodded.  "You're definitely the sort of man who needs a chase."  He said nothing.  He wasn't sure he cared for that assessment of his character.  Probably because it was truer than he would have liked. "So how long has it been on-again off-again?"

His patience with this line of questioning was wearing thin, not in the least of which because his answer only served to further prove her point.  "Going on a decade now, more or less."  Libby knew better than to let him see the smirk of triumph she swallowed down.  "Now can we please change the fucking record?"

"Sure."  The cognac was making it hard to focus.  He appeared to be handling his liquor well but she rarely drank to excess with her dates, preferring to be in control at all times.  It was telling that she'd let herself go tonight and she wondered if he was feeling the same warm floating sensation she was.  It would be so easy to just lay back and say whatever she liked, consequences be damned.  The truth was on her tongue and the veil that kept it locked away was thinning with each additional sip.   Surely his tongue was as loose?  "Why don't you tell me what brought you here to me tonight." 

He told her.  He wanted to know about the powerful men who sought her company and their reasons for doing so.

"Yes, I see....  I can't tell you specifics, of course."  Her reputation would be in shreds if anyone had so much as a sniff that she'd even spoken to him.  They came to her because she was one of the best at what she did.  And because they trusted her to keep their secrets.  Once that trust was gone, she would be out of the Big Leagues forever, and though she liked sex, she had no desire to be some pennyante hooker working the streets.  She much preferred her current situation.

He wanted to rake his hands through his hair in frustration but it was pulled back, so he settled for taking a deep drink instead, which all things considered was probably not the best choice.  It was becoming more and more difficult to measure his words.  "I don't fucking care about their specifics.  I could care less if they want to wear nappies or have you tie them up and spank them or have you call them Daddy."  He shuddered in distaste.

If he thought to shock her, he was mistaken.  There was no aspect of sex she was uncomfortable discussing.  "Is that what you think I do?"  It wasn't accusatory, merely a question.

"I expect you've done it all at one time or another."  Though he had a hard time seeing her as some kind of whip-wielding dominatrix.  She seemed too refined for that.  A refined whore?  He suddenly had the urge to giggle.  Or maybe it was just the cognac?  It was an excellent vintage and he'd lost count of how many glasses they'd shared during the course of the evening.

"I could say the same of you."  He didn't seem like the prudish type.

That made him laugh.  "Sweetheart, I have never called anyone Daddy."

"You know what I mean!"  She swatted him.  It wasn't the first time she'd touched him--but it was the first time her hand had lingered an extra moment to feel the warmth of his skin radiating through the fine weave of his shirt.  Her womb fluttered.

"Look," he said, suddenly serious.  "I don't give a stuff about the gory details.  I simply want to understand the why of it all.  I just can't wrap my head round it."  That wasn't entirely true.  He could understand a simple transaction.  He'd been to strip clubs.  He'd paid to see naked women writhe for his entertainment.  Paying to fuck one of them wasn't much of a leap.  What he couldn't grasp was what made men spend hundreds of thousands of dollars for it.  It might be crude, but a hole was a hole.  All cats are black in the dark.  Surely even secrecy and discretion didn't cost that much?  What was he missing?

"Of course you can't.  A man like you?"

"What does that mean?"  His patience was limited and he was getting tired of going round and round with her.

"You--you are all about the chase, the pursuit.  Once payment is tendered, the outcome of the chase is secured, rendering any further pursuit pointless.  Why chase something that is already yours?"

"That may be true, but it still doesn't answer my question." 

"It's not so hard, really.  I don't give them what they say they want.  I give them what they need--and it's not always just about the sex."

"So you don't do what they want?"  He was having a hard time making that one compute.  Pay a bloody fortune and don't get what you want?  What kind of world did those people live in?  Even if they were as rich as Croesus, for as much as she charged, their bank balance would feel it.  

"Well, even the tame among you like a little bit of a chase."

"So they catch you in the end, is that it?"

"That's a small part of it, yes."  

"Do they get what they want then?"

Ah.  It always came down to that with men, didn't it?  "Sexually?"  She asked only to draw it out.  She already knew the answer.

He nodded.

"Of course," she said delicately.  "It is my profession, after all."  

Her soft admission sent an unexpected rush of heat to his groin.  He'd never been to bed with someone who'd do anything he wanted.  

Anything.  

There had always been some convention or other he'd had to follow.  

No!  I don't like that.  What--here?  Too risky!  You want me to do WHAT?  What do you mean, toys?  Play that game--you mental?  Not that hole, you dirty bugger!  Role play?  I couldn't.  Too embarrassing....  Just fuck me proper... 

He willed away the beginnings of an erection and was only half successful thanks to the alcohol.  She noticed.  

"So that's it then?  You play hard to get and then once they catch you, you give it up any bloody way they want?"  Surely there was more to it than that? 

"Not exactly."

He slapped his glass down with a clatter.  "Christ.  Just get to the answer already!  I am not here to play twenty fucking questions."

"I'm trying."  His display of temper didn't startle her.  She was an expert at dealing with men in all their moods.  All the sight of his impassioned speech did to her was inflame her further.  Channeled into sex, that intense fiery passion would be incendiary.

"I told you--I am very selective about who I see.  I see very few men at any one time and our affairs often last months.  That affords us the time to develop a certain... relationship." 

He snorted.

"I am not a doormat or a dog at someone's beck and call."  He sat up.  She was finally giving him a glimmer of something he could work with here.  "If they wanted someone to show up and strip in silence before getting on her back and spreading her legs without compunction, there are women who do that sort of thing.  I am not one of them."  For a moment, that graphic image was burned on his brain.  He shook it away.

"So what makes you..."  He could have said 'different'.  They were sitting very close now.  Seeing her chest rise and fall and smelling her light scent, he chose to say something else instead.  "...special?"

"Oh, it isn't me."  Her eyes were sad, just for a moment.  "Men like that are looking for something not someone... I'm just the one who gives it to them."

"So we're back to that indefinable something, are we?"      

"I suppose so."  Her voice was apologetic.  And he was still half hard.  "Maybe if I show you..."

Show him?

Show him!

He was well oiled enough that he didn't immediately recoil, which was disturbing enough by itself without the extra heat flooding his crotch.  Their eyes met.  He was breathing hard.  Her lips were open.  Though they had been aware of each other sexually all evening, they hadn't thrown sparks off each other until that moment.

He blinked, shaking off the spell.  "You want me to fuck you?" He was deliberately crude, a sad attempt at rebuilding his crumbling defenses.

Her heart was pounding.  A delicate operation, this.  He was on the verge of walking out.  She could not let that happen.  Too much was riding on it.  "No.  You couldn't afford me," she informed him with a cool smile.

That knocked him back and he grinned in spite of himself.  Surely she meant that figuratively and not literally.  And she was right.  He wasn't about to do anything that would jeopardize his newly rekindled relationship.  It was a very fine line, coming here tonight.... but he hadn't crossed it. 

Yet. 

"If you're not offering sex, then what?"  He wanted it spelled out.  

"Just the indefinable part."  She noticed he hadn't actually refused to have sex, merely talked his way neatly around it.  Intriguing.    

He couldn't believe he was seriously considering it.  But so far, it hadn't crossed any of the boundaries he'd set for himself tonight.  No private details about his loved ones.  No touching beyond the social niceties.  Definitely no sex--in any of its forms, oral or otherwise.  Talking about sex was acceptable.  Having it was not.  So as far as he was concerned, her offer still left him plenty of wiggle room as long as he avoided any hidden pitfalls, but that was always the trick, wasn't it?

She wondered if he had any idea he was just like every other man who came to her in all ways but one.  They all wanted something from her.  What he desired was different than most, but he was still using her to get what he wanted without any thought to her feelings on the matter.  The difference was for the others she was their fantasy while he was her fantasy.  It was a small distinction, but an important one.

It remained to be seen how that would measure up against reality.  She was painfully jaded.  In her experience, at the end of the day, men were just an extension of their genitals and she wondered if he too would want sex like all the rest.  Part of her wanted to prove he was no more than that.  For if he was, then--perversely--she had finally found a man worth having sex with.  Though to be honest, her private musings had made a lot more sense before they'd drained the second decanter. 

"The indefinable part?  And what's that going to cost me?"  

"We already agreed on a price."

He considered that a moment.  "Honesty."  It wasn't a question.

What was she after?  Now he wanted the answer to that as much as he wanted the answers he'd originally come for.  He tested the waters.  The alcohol buzzing in his brain made it easy.   

"You going to ask me how many women I've had?"  Too bad for her if she was.  He didn't know.  Counting had ceased to be important years ago.  

She shook her head.

"Favorite position?"  He watched her closely.  "Still no.  Allrighty then.  Most curtain calls in a single night?"  He waited.  "No again, I see."  Tapping his lips thoughtfully he appraised her, poised so delicately on the couch.  Not at all reclined back in repose like she'd been earlier.  Interesting.  "You going to ask how big my dick is?" 

"I might!" she teased back, aware he was just throwing out any old thing now.  He didn't fear any of those questions--and frankly, their answers didn't interest her.  They meant nothing to her--and any fool could see he was packing a sizeable bulge.  No, she was after something much more tantalizing.  What did her ultimate fantasy man fantasize about?  Many women knew his body, of that she was certain, but few knew what he thought about when the lights went out.  That was what she wanted.  A taste of what he kept all to himself. 

"So what exactly are you proposing?"

"Meet with me.  Open your mind.  Put yourself in the shoes of one of those men you are so curious about.  Experience it yourself instead of listening to me tell you about it.  See if that doesn't satisfy your curiosity and give you the answers you seek."       

"Just like that?"  He was a little put off by her forwardness.  Unfortunately he was also shamelessly intrigued by her proposal.  Dare he?

"Just like that.  Easy."

He made an impulsive decision and nodded.  A burning heaviness settled into his gut.  It felt like when you climb aboard a roller coaster--that click as it engages and starts dragging you up the wicked incline--half anticipation, half fear that you should never have climbed aboard to begin with.  He may well be sorry he agreed to this... but that was the kicker.  You never really knew until you took the leap.