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Click hereMy tuxedo was draped over the back of a chair in our bedroom, where it had been since the MIT genomics department Christmas party on the 22nd. This was now the evening of the 27th.
I picked it up, intending to add it to the pile of clothes to be taken to the dry cleaner, but then had a thought. Holding the coat at arms length I decided it could still be worn.
Our bedroom occupies the third floor of the tall, narrow brick Beacon Hill house that has been in my family for seven generations. Pressing the intercom, I said, âLisa?â
A few seconds passed before she replied. âYes.â
âWhere are you?â
âIn my office. Why?â
âLetâs go out and have a drink someplace.â
âItâs freezing outside. Far less than freezing. Lets have a drink at home.â
âIâll warm up the car for you and weâll just go to one of the hotels around Copley Square where weâll leave it with the valet. You wonât be outside more than five seconds.â
âWhat brought this on?â
âI thought I would wear my tux once more before sending it to the cleaner.â
âHow can I resist such an invitation? Give me a few minutes to finish this page and Iâll be up.â
I was tying my cummerbund when I heard footsteps on the stairs and saw in the mirror my wife enter the room.
âDonât you look distinguished,â she said. âAnd what am I supposed to wear?â
âYour new black dress would be nice and the black patent heels.â
âAnd?â Her reflection smiled mischievously.
âThatâs all.â
âThat dress is short and backless. Iâll freeze.â
âIâve already explained why you wonât freeze. And after sitting across from you and watching your beautiful bare flesh while we have a drink or two, I promise to warm you when we come home.â
âI need to take a quick shower.â
âMeet me in the garage in fifteen minutes?â
âItâs a date.â
As promised, I had the Mercedes comfortably heated when Lisa came down.
Her hair, more blond when we sailed in the summer, now darker in the winter, accentuated by her long black coat, caught the light as she climbed into the car. As did a flash of bare thigh.
Copley Square was only a few blocks and, that evening without much traffic, only a few minutes away. Some function was being held at the first hotel we approached. Too many cars were backed up, so we drove to another hotel overlooking Boston Common, which for reasons that will become apparent I will not identify.
Once inside we went to the main bar, which has a clubby atmosphere, wood paneled, dark and quiet. A few mostly older couples were scattered around the room. A tuxedoed waiter showed us to a window table overlooking the street below. In view of what happened I find myself trying to remember my first impression of him, but, as should be true of any good waiter, I canât. He was deferential and faded into the background. Later I looked at him more closely and decided he was about my age, which is 50, of average build and looks, thinning gray hair. He looked like a man who had gladly spent his life discretely serving drinks at a five star hotel.
He murmured the usual banalities about the weather and the holiday season before asking what he could bring us.
âA martini,â Lisa said. âWith two olives.â
âLaphroaig,â I said. âNeat.â
âVery good, sir,â and he gave me the nontourist smile.
As we sipped our drinks and talked comfortably and inconsequentially, my eyes moved between the headlights of the traffic outside and the darkness of the Common to my wife.
In a world obsessed with looking younger, Lisa is the only woman I have ever met who generally wants to look older. At 35 and a full professor with expertise in a field that laymen, including me can only vaguely understand, she appears at least ten years younger and is often mistaken for a student. In her professional life, she plays down her appearance, but tonight, she let herself look beautiful. Her winter pale skin made her green eyes dramatically deeper. Her breasts, larger than her fine bones would suggest, and as I knew with great pleasure, firm and perfectly formed, moved beneath the loose fabric. The dress I had given her for Christmas was cut high in the front and was not tight, except at the waist, rather it flowed with the curves of her body. I thought I could see the hard points of her nipples.
Catching the direction of my glance, she grinned. âDo you like what you see?â
âIndeed I do,â I smiled.
Beneath the table I felt her bare leg press against mine.
âShall we have another or go?,â she asked.
âLetâs have another,â I said. âIâm enjoying the view and the anticipation.â
I singled to the waiter, who was standing at the bar, talking to the bartender. On this quiet night, they were the only ones on duty. He nodded in acknowledgment and soon bought a second round.
A few minutes later, Lisa said, âExcuse me for a moment while I go to the ladies.â
I stood and pulled back her chair. âIâll enjoy the view.â
âI thought you might.â
And I did as she walked away on long legs, the line of her spine and her bare shoulders and back, the mysterious movement of her hips beneath the short dress. I was naturally proud that the eyes of all the other men in the room followed her too, including, discretely, those of the waiter and bartender.
A few minutes after she left I noticed that the waiter left the bar too, but did not think anything of it until Lisa returned, sat down, and grinned. âOur waiter thinks Iâm a hooker.â
I gave a surprised, âWhat?â âHe must think Iâm your escort. He was waiting for me just outside in the lobby and whispered under his breath that I should come back after âdinnerâ.â
âDinner?â
âI think that was his discrete way of saying after my time with you was up.â
I considered this for a few moments. While I am tall and trim, I am fifteen years older than Lisa, who of course looks much younger than she in fact is. My temples are touched with gray. I wear a Cartier watch and my clothes are those of the affluent real estate developer I in fact am. Although I have never had to pay for female companionship, it was not an unreasonable conclusion for the man to have drawn, particularly the way we both were dressed. That we both were wearing plain gold wedding rings may have been outweighed by Lisaâs bare legs. Who else goes without stockings around Boston with the temperature at 7°F?
âIâm flattered,â she said.
âProbably a first for the faculty at MIT,â I replied.
âOh I wouldnât be so sure of that,â she laughed.
âWell, perhaps not.â I paused before continuing, âAny other reaction?â
âSurprise, of course. Curiosity about the details. What he would say, what would happen. Even, I admit, a frisson, a tingle of excitement. It is so out of character, not a way I have ever thought of myself.â
âSo do it.â
âYou canât be serious?â
âWhy not? It might be interesting.â
âAnd how far do I go with this?â
âAs far as you want. I doubt anyone is going to rape you. You can walk away whenever you want, get a taxi at the door and be home in five minutes.â
âYou really want me to do this?â I studied her. Despite the incredulity in her voice, her face was flushed, her eyes bright, her breasts moving with rapid respiration.
âIf you want to. It might make for some interesting talk when you get home and we fuck.â
âHow would it go?â
âWeâll finish our drinks and leave together.â I knew she had not brought a purse and her dress certainly had no pockets. âIâll give you a twenty for the taxi. Put it in a shoe. I canât think of anyplace else. You wait about ten minutes and return here. Iâll drive home and wait for you with high lust and expectation. You taxi home when youâre ready. And we fuck our brains out while you tell me all about it.â
âDo you really think this is a good idea?â
âOnly if you want to. I canât imagine that anything will happen you canât handle.â h Taking a deep breath that did spectacular things to the front of her dress, she exhaled, and said, âAll right.â
Although we tried not to hurry, we more or less gulped the remainder of our drinks. We both were excited. I know my cock was throbbing hard.
Leaving two twenties on the table, which included a generous tipâthough how generous his tip would be the waiter did not yet knowâI stood.
Lisa took my arm and as the waiter opened the door for us and wished us good evening, she gave him an almost imperceptible nod.
âGod,â she said as we walked across the lobby, âMy pussy is so wet Iâm afraid it is going to run down my legs.â
âPerhaps you should use the interval to go to the ladiesâ room to cool off.â
Still under the watchful eye of the waiter who lingered near the bar door, we entered an elevator and rode to the eighth floor before we got off and took separate elevators back down. I went first. Just before the elevator arrived, Lisa came into my arms, glued her body to mine from breast to thigh and gave me a kiss of pure lust.
Breaking apart when the elevator door opened, I said, âSee you soon.â And rode down.
Finding the waiter no longer in sight, I crossed to the main entrance, to which the attendant brought the Mercedes, and drove home, where I started to pour myself another scotch, before changing my mind. After rekindling the fire in the fireplace, I turned on the television, where I tried to be interested in one of those obscure bowl games named after a restaurant chain, which I am not likely ever to patronize. I was not successful, barely being aware even of what teams were playing as the figures scampered across the screen and the crowd, some of whom apparently did care, screamed.
My eyes kept flickering to my watch. My ears were tuned to the sounds of cars passing on the dark street outside.
No specific images formed in my mind. Rather there was an inchoate but all encompassing awareness of sexuality, that something enormously erotic was occurring at that very moment. The sensation was only heightened by my not knowing exactly what. I loosened my tie and removed my jacket and cummerbund. Once or twice I stroked the hard bulge in my pants. If Lisaâs juices threatened to run down her legs, clearly mine were seeping through my pants which were now unquestionably destined for the dry cleaner. But I wanted to save it for her.
I didnât really expect her for at least a half an hour. After that I grew increasingly anxious, both with lust and, as the minutes passed, with concern. What if I was wrong and she had walked into something she could not handle?
It was with great relief that I finally heard tires crunch through the crust of frozen snow in front of the house. By the time I reached the door, Lisa was ringing the bell. She flew past me.
âAre you all right?â I said to her retreating back.
Stopping in front of the fireplace, she turned. Her face was split by a huge grin. I noticed that her lipstick, which had remained intact through our last kiss, was now almost gone. Strangely sexy. âSplendid. Perfect. Wonderful. I have found my second career, my true calling. Science be damned. In short, sir, I got the job.â
âWhat job? Tell me all about it.â
âLet me get warm and I will.â
âDo you want a drink?â
âYes. No. Iâve had enough. Two with you. And two more with Yves.â
âThe waiter?â
âYes. Well, most of two. I didnât get to finish the second.â
She Is a little drunk, I thought. But even higher because of something else.
I turned off the television and sat down on a sofa, where she soon joined me.
âThink of me?â she asked when she had settled, kicking off her shoes and folding her legs beneath her.
âOf course.â
âWorry?â
âAfter a while.â
âIâm glad. What did you think?â
âNothing specific. I could picture the two of you talking in a room somewhere in the hotel, fully dressed. And, of course, I could picture you naked. But anything more was too vague. So what happened?â
She leaned forward and kissed me, full, open mouth, tongue. âDo I look any different?â
âNo. Other than preternaturally excited.â
âNo. Not to myself either.â She sounded almost disappointed. âSomehow it seems such things should show. But they donât.â
âWhat things?â
âLet me go from the beginning.
âAfter you left, I waited a few minutes then caught an elevator down to the second floor, where I used the ladies room across from the restaurant. A couple of dowager types came in and looked at me strangely: too much skin for Boston in winter. It was rather exciting to see myself through their eyes. But then I was so aroused everything was exciting.
When I returned to the bar, the waiter was not there. But the bartender recognized me and as I stood hesitating, beckoned me over. âDid you come back to see Yves?â he asked quite politely.
âThe waiter who was here before,â I was irritated at myself for almost stammering.
âThat is Yves. He went to make a phone call. Heâll be back soon. Can I fix you a drink while you wait,â he asked, directing me to a stool at the bar.
âNo. Will he be long?â
The bartender looked over my shoulder and said, âHere he is now.â
I turned and saw the waiter just coming through the door. He gave a pleased smile and came directly over, said to the bartender, âIâll be gone for a while.â The bartender nodded, and the waiter, Yves, but I thought of him then just as the waiter, took my elbow and brought me to my feet, gently but firmly. He let go as we entered the lobby and made an abrupt turn to a bank of service elevators I did not know existed.
We were the only ones on the elevator. He pushed the button for the thirty-third floor, which is, as I now know, the highest except for the penthouse.
As we rode up he said, âI did not expect you back so soon. Or for that matter at all.â
I shrugged my shoulders, which caused his eyes to drop momentarily to my breasts before returning to my face. âWe were through. The drinks were the end ofâŠmy friendâs time.â
He stood a respectful distance from me as we rode the rest of the way in silence.
When the doors opened, he again took my elbow. It was an odd grip, almost like a boy scout helping an old lady across the street. He seemed more comfortable on this floor, less concerned about being seen. Using a keycard, he opened the door to 3333. It opened onto the living room of a suite. He stepped aside for me to enter. I must admit I felt something clench in my belly when the door closed behind me.â
She leaned forward and gave my hand a squeeze.
âThe room was large and nicely furnished.
âTake a seat,â he called over his shoulder as he went directly to a bar and began mixing a pitcher of martinis.
âTwo olives,â he said as he handed me my glass.
Although I had deliberately sat on a sofa where there was room for him if he wanted, he moved to an armchair across from me. He raised his glass, âTo a successful collaboration.â
I repeated the words and we both drank.
âAre you a student?â he asked unexpectedly.
Why not? I thought and replied, âYes.â
âWhere?â
âDoes it matter?â
âNo. Not really. I just want to get a feel for you. Is it too much to ask what year?â
âIâm a grad student. Biology.
âInteresting choice,â he smiled.
I smiled back. âI suppose so. I hadnât thought of it that way.â
âHow long have you been working?â
âOn my degree?â
âNo.â
âNot..not long. How did you know? I mean about me? It was the bare legs, wasnât it?â
âYes. And he looked like a man who could afford high-priced company. Do you like it or just the money?â
âSometimes both. Sometimes just the money.â
âGood answer. Any problems?â
âProblems?â
âHave you been arrested? Do you have a record?â
âNo.â
âAnywhere. Not just Boston.â
âNo.â
âWhere do you get your clients?â
âAn escort service.â
âWhich one?â
âIâd rather not say.â âIâm not really trying to pry. Itâs just that there are places in this town we donât want to poach and toes we donât want to step on.â
âThere wonât be a problem. I havenât been with them long.â
He stared at me, seemingly weighing issues, then came to a decision. âI assume that if you had, I would have seen you before. That clientele does not have an extensive domain.
âSo hereâs the pitch: come and work for us. This is what we offer: a fifty/fifty split and absolutely no worries. You can work as much as you want or as little. The rates are a thousand an hour, five thousand a night. We provide the rooms, all of which are on this floor. If you have any problem, security is a buzz away. But our cliental is either already known to us or referred by someone we know and does not cause problems. All you have to do is be beautifulâwhich you certainly areâand pleasingâwhich I am sure you can be.â
I took a sip of my drink and looked at him over my glass. Finally he said, âWell?â
I was enjoying playing the role and so, just for fun, I slowly put down my glass and did a Sharon Stone number on him. You remember the movie. I slowly uncrossed and recrossed my legs. It was comical the way his eyes so predictably looked up my skirt and wondered if they really saw what they thought they saw.
âI want two/thirds,â I finally said.
Reluctantly his eyes came back to my face. âBut,â he protested, âWe have all the expenses, the overhead: the police have to be paid, some other people, the hotelâthe rooms have to be shown to the head office as booked. A lot of things.â
Pushing himself wearily up from his chair, as though resigned to perpetual disappointment at the worldâs ingratitude, he trudged across the room to the pitcher of martinis and returned to top off my glass and then his own.
âYou really have no idea,â he said when he was again seated. Then when I only took another sip of my drinkâand I must admit that I was feeling the alcoholâthis was now about two over my usual limitâhe sighed, âAll right. Sixty-forty. But that is the best I can offer. And only to you. Donât let any of the other girls know or the deal is off.â
How, I wondered, will I meet the âother girlsâ? âA deal,â I smiled and raised my glass.
Yves raised his.
After almost draining the glass, he said, âOne more thing.â
I could feel muscles in my body tighten in anticipation. âI thought there might be.â
âActually two things. No,â he slurred the words, âThree.â
âThree?â
âTwo. Three. What difference does it make? First, your name. What name do you work under?â
Until then I donât think I had realized that we had avoided that social nicety. It brought back into focus that we werenât there having a pleasant little conversation. He was a pimp and I was a whore, albeit both of us of the highest class. My mind went blank. âLiz.â I blurted out. âElizabeth.â
âIâm Yves, Elizabeth. Thatss good. Very good. Reserved. Theyâll like that. Youâve probably already discovered that they like fucking girls who they imagine are students at Harvard or MIT. If they couldnât get in themselves, theyâre getting even. If they could, still most of them couldnât get the beauties. And if they could, they like to renew the memories or get off thinking of their current friendsâ nubile daughters. Or even their own. Youâre going to make a lot of money for us. And yourself, of course,â he hurriedly added.
âNow how do you want to work?â
âWhat do you mean.?â
âHow often. How many nights a week? Which ones? What about days? A lot of men are free at lunch or in the afternoons before they have to go home to their families in Newton or Wellesley or catch a plane back to New York or Washington or somewhere. A few of the classiest girls can sit at the bar. You could if you want. What about dinners in public? Some donât want to be seen. All that.â
I had to say something, so I said, âTwo nights a week. During the week. No afternoons. And I am one of the ones who donât want to be seen in public.â
âAll right. You live here year round?â
âYes.â
âI thought so or youâd be home now. When can you start?â
âAfter the first of the year. Tuesday and Wednesday nights.â I just said whatever popped into my mind. After all it was play-acting. Then in a sentence, it changed.