All protocol training was rendered useless when faced with this particular invitation. Roman had followed through on the preliminary steps: discrete contact call, restaurant booth - partitioned from the rest of the place not only by sliding doors, Japanese-wannabe sort of thing, but also by thick velvet drapes - and a five figure number that could’ve bought him a Victoria’s Secrets private gig. He was more or less in the ballpark of handling this. Yet when it came down to the very moment, he found his hands clasping and unclasping on the table like a gutted fish. He folded the organza napkin several times before seating it back under the plate, its golden rim sparkling spitefully at him.
His nerves did not surprise him: the fact that he still decided to push the pedal, however, did. Requesting an escort’s services, Christ’s sake - and not even for something as commonplace as a footjob, but for an international dinner. He knew he should have gotten a head start on it and begin to look for a girlfriend weeks ago, when he first got the white-collar RVSP. The fact that he hadn’t done it - and had not, in fact, manicured any close relationships enough to even call in a favour from a female friend, since Faye and Josefina would never have the time - only went to show he fully deserved his plight.
But when did the acceptance of punishment ever eased the flames? He squirmed in his seat, pushed it back several inches from the table. Under it, his leg was tapping the wooden support. When the door finally opened (was being left to wait part of the excitement, or the anguish? he could only assume both of those earned you money) his head arched towards it, but only in the slightest. ‘ Great to see you. Hope you agree with the place. Anywhere else was booked, leading up to this festival craze. ’ ( @gliisteniing )
A woman with hair as sleek as her pink kimono opened the partition, officially and unknowingly ushering Sabina into her next arrangement. It was always difficult to keep her amusement from showing in these first few moments, when those she had been summoned by were unsure of how to operate. They always appeared more rodent than human, which was somehow both endearing and annoying; what happened after introductions decided where the swinging pendulum would fall on that scale.
“May I call you Roman?” she asked after pleasantries. A leather bag plopped delicately into the chair beside her, and she quickly took to the pot of black tea on the table between them, pouring herself a cup. “I find it easier if we leave formalities for when they are truly important, don’t you?”
“Would you like some?” she asked, though already beginning to fill the cup before him.
