She sat in the blue velvet chair of the swanky apartment complex lobby, comparing every man who came through the door against the picture she had committed to memory. It was important that she saw him before he saw her.
She always chose legs or cleavage – never both. After all, she didn't want to broadcast her particular occupation. Today, she chose legs. Her high-neck dress was just short enough to showcase her shapely legs and just long enough to hide the fact she wasn't wearing panties.
He was now five minutes late which was a sign of selfishness in her mind. She inhaled a few deep breaths, trying to clear her mind again. Pre-conceived notions about her clients interfered with her reading.
Here he comes...
Head was up. Shoulders were back. He wanted to appear taller, bigger, and in control. This was her client. She watched as he looked around the room. When his eyes finally landed on hers, she stood and walked towards him.
When she reached him, she smiled and simply said, "Follow me, Mr. Thompson," turned on her heels, and walked away.
Not bothering to look behind her, she walked around the corner to the elevator and pushed the button. He soon appeared by her side and they both stepped inside after the doors opened, neither speaking to the other.
No one noticed the dark-haired man in the casual, khaki pants and white polo, who had been watching her every move. He had perfected the art of moving about unnoticed. After the elevator doors closed, he stepped closer to note their floor of departure – the thirteenth floor.
"I've found her," he said in a low voice.
They arrived at her floor and stepped off the elevator. She led him to the only door on the floor and motioned him inside. Gary Thompson was accustomed to nice things, so the opulence of her penthouse apartment impressed him. Fixtures and fabrics were rich – very high-end choices. Her life's humble beginning was void of color, shaping her sharply contrasting decorating choices later in life. Two large-scale replicas of masterpiece paintings brightened her entry room. Frederic Leighton's Flaming June and Félix Vallotton's The Bath. Summer Evening.
She noticed his interest in the paintings. "You like?"
"Yes, very erotic ... yet calming."
"That's why I chose them."
For someone like her, surrounding herself with calming influences like the paintings was essential to her sanity. With her red-painted fingernail, she slowly traced a naked body in The Bath. Summer Evening before turning away and starting down a long hallway off to the side. He fell in line behind her, lead by her entrancing ass spectacularly emphasized by the silk fabric of her dress.
"You ready, Mr. Thompson?" she purred, pausing outside the closed door.
"Of course."
She knew, on the contrary, he wasn't ready for what she had in store for him. None of them ever were. She always exceeded their wildest fantasies – which is why she was one of the last surviving prostitutes in New York City. In the times of the Internet, men and women could easily find willing sex partners without having to pay for them. She, however, had a secret talent, which earned her a most impressive high-paying clientele.
She turned the brass knob, and stepped aside, allowing him to brush past her. Once inside, his eyes shot to the circular, plush bed in the center of the room. From there, his eyes couldn't decide where to focus. An assortment of floggers, crops, and paddles hung on one wall. On the other were ropes, wrist and ankle cuffs, and a spreader.
Mr. Thompson wandered freely around the room touching a few of the toys before pausing in front of the floggers. A rush of excitement flooded her. I know where to start, she thought.
They continued walking around the room until they reached the strap-on dildos. He abruptly stopped and goosebumps ravaged her body. His legs were together with hands now in front of his genitals. She caught his inadvertent submissive move and selected one from the wall.
"What do you think of this, Mr. Thompson?"
"I have no need for that."
Hmmm. You're lying. Your body gives you away, Mr. Thompson.
"You've no doubt heard of my special skill, yes?"
He shifted his weight and nodded.
"So will you agree to let me set the tone of our time together?
He paused before answering. "Yes."
It wasn't that easy, though...
She stepped forward, brushing her breasts against him. His hand shot out, grasping the back of her head, twisting his fingers around her locks as his lips mashed against hers. Her hand reached back and twisted his hand in a painful manner until he released her.
"What the-?" he snarled before pulling her roughly back against his body.
She once again broke free with a well-placed horse pinch.
"Fuck!" he yelled, rubbing his tender flesh.
"Shh..." she whispered, then grabbed a fistful of his hair, yanking his head down to hers.
"We can do this for the next hour, Mr. Thompson ... or you can let me do what you paid me to do."
She took his silence as submission...
He winced as the flogger bit his flesh ... then begged for more. No doubt he'd be standing in the boardroom tomorrow.
She restrained him in handcuffs before pushing him down on the bed, his ass propped up by pillows. His cries distracted her, so she ball-gagged him. There, that's better.
Once he succumbed to his authentic desires, wave after wave of satisfaction and arousal blanketed her. This was her favorite part of being an empath.
The gag muffled his responses as the strap-on stretched his virgin asshole, then he spurted copious amounts of cum. She came too, without him touching her, having absorbed his sexual release.
As she uncuffed him and removed his gag, she kissed away any lingering feelings of shame she still felt from him. "Accept your sexuality," she whispered. "It doesn't diminish your prowess in business," she added while cleaning him up with a warm towel. He moaned as she situated a soothing, warm cloth between his cheeks and against his sore asshole.
It turned out the leader in the boardroom was a submissive in the bedroom. He had struggled with accepting his true self, but couldn't deny the pleasure – the previously unattainable sexual pleasure – he now had experienced with her.
After escorting him to the elevator, she returned to her apartment to unwind before her next client arrived. Feeling others' emotions drained her. It likened to an invisible weight on her small shoulders. Because of that, she tended to be a loner and avoided crowds at all costs. Others' emotions could be felt once they were within close proximity to her. Sometimes, through touch, she could see pictures of what they were thinking.
Her first memory was living in an orphanage in New York state. No one could tell her of her origins except the note accompanying her said her name was Arie Michaels; she had been abandoned on the stoop one day. Never adopted, the orphanage became her home. It was a colorless, shades of grey existence. Sterile sleeping quarters. The only bright spot was a small garden outside the building. It was only there, sitting alone, she found peace.
