They sky grew dark, and freckled with stars, through the polished gloss of the window. It would have been a tranquil sight to Ivy, curled up on the windowseat, if it weren’t for the snores cleaving the air. A great sigh pressed itself from her lungs, and she glanced down at the phone by her bare toes. It wasn’t the company phone allotted to her for business, but her personal phone. It had lit up twice already with texts from her brother, the oldest. Caleb.
The screen then popped up with a photo of the two of them, with ‘answer’ and ‘decline’ displayed at the bottom. Ivy’s hands found her stomach, pressing into the soft skin, hard, as though to contain the writhing there. Every time she got a call from home, she felt sick. They always said how proud they were of her, and accepted without reason that she couldn’t talk to them about her clients or work. Client confidentiality and all that. She was protecting children, after all, and helping them.
Would Caleb still love her if he knew that her real clients were rich yuppies fucking her for fistfuls of cash? Ivy didn’t see it that way; she liked her clients. But philanthropically speaking, there was a world of difference between rehousing abused children, and whoring.
Eventually her phone went dark again, and she pushed herself to her feet. The carpet was thick and sumptuous, absorbing the pad of her footsteps as she went to the kitchen. Ivy always called overnight bookings ‘sleepovers’, but she rarely slept during them. Partly, it was in case the client woke and wanted for something. Partly, it was because Ivy slept poorly at the best of times, and certainly couldn’t manage it with another in the bed.
She didn’t turn the lights on, opting instead to root quietly through things in the dark. She liked to know these things about people, the little things like what sort of food they kept in their cupboards and whether they liked scented laundry detergents or not. Something to do with power, she supposed, because she never let anyone know the real her, so it felt significant to hold their truths in her hands.
Or at least, she’d had an introductory psych class in high school that led her to believe that. It was an inexert opinion, but she’d never speak to a professional.
Munching absently on a powdered pink marc de chamagne truffle that she’d found a box of, white and fluffy in the dim moonlight, she found a cupboard devoted entirely to alcohol. It was all the sort of drinks she thought of as ‘grown up’, expensive vodkas in frosted white glass bottles and golden decanters of whisky that, when she removed the top, smelt like a campfire. If Ivy had the cash to fill her liquor cabinet like that, there would be a great deal more mango vodka and peach schnapps. No accounting for taste, she supposed.
Leading a life of tentatively threaded lies necessitated some sobriety, but one drink never hurt. Taking a mug (”World’s Best Dad”, she noted mutely, wondering if she had earlier fucked someone’s husband. He had no wedding ring but that meant nothing), she poured a few fingers of the least offensive bottle she could find. Krupnik. It smelled sweet, and left sticky kisses of honey across her lips.
Wandering back to the bedroom, she wondered if this client was a deep sleeper, and if she could get away with watching TV in the living room. Lolling against the doorway, clad in crisp white shirt he had worn earlier for their student-teacher roleplay, she regarded him. He’d been kind to her, and told her to make herself comfortable. Much to Ivy’s consternation, he seemed to sense the eyes bearing heavily down on him, and stirred.
“What’re you drinking?” He murmured from beneath the covers, peeping sleepily out from within.
“Tea,” Ivy said, moving forward to sit at the foot of the bed. “Sorry if I woke you, honey, I was trying to be quiet.
“Not at all,” He rolled over, sitting up and exposing his bare chest. He looked oddly vulnerable like that. Eyes, heavy beneath the want of dreams. “Always a pleasure to wake up to the sight of a beautiful woman. Come back to bed,”
Ivy found herself tugged gently towards him, hastily pushing her mug onto the bedside table. Ugh. She hated cuddling with clients. If she fell asleep like that her hair would frizz up unless she wrapped a silk headscarf around it, and not many people found that as alluring as her bouncy curls. Of course she wouldn’t say so out loud, and instead wrapped herself around him, head on the man’s shoulder, one leg draped across his.
“You’re too sweet for this job, Ivy,” he said, voice husky and bowed with sleep. Duh, stop hiring me then, she thought. “What made you start?”
Ivy was quiet for a few moments, mulling it over. “Daddy always told me never to do anything I’m good at for free. If I’m having fun and doing good at it, then why not?”
The man hummed, and Ivy felt his cock stiffening by her thigh. “What a blessing. Beautiful young woman, obsessed with sex. You deserve better than silver tier,”
“Wanna know a secret then?” she asked, walking her fingers down his chest. “I did something bad, and Lady Nora’s punishing me for it. She says I would have been gold ages ago, but there was this client I was crushing on… about your age, really sexy. I can’t tell you who it is, I wouldn’t want to spoil his reputation. And I couldn’t keep my hands off him, y’know? And one day we got found, me on my knees in Green Envy with his cock down my throat. I should’ve been fired, only I’ve got too many clients that would walk if I left. So she just doomed me to life on the silver tier.”
Not true, of course. Actually, Ivy had never had a conversation with Nora about any potential promotions. She suspected that she wasn’t moving up any time soon, as Lady knew that she wasn’t what could be called ‘trustworthy’. She’d have to prove herself a lot longer yet if she wanted to get promoted.
Still, the answer seemed to please her client; his fingers slid across her thighs, teasing at the sensitive skin there. Ivy closed her eyes, letting out a quiet breath.
