Apricot.
part ii: acquisition and the teeth on the metal
As Island thinks, I twiddle my thumbs.
“Your hair is rather light, now that it is dry. Red, but... light. Like a fruit. Like an apricot.” She scrutinizes and smiles. “Yes, Apricot. Quick, aren't I?”
She doesn't wait for me to agree or disagree. “You'll be properly sponsored, Apricot. I'm assigning you to an apartment on Macbeth. There are three novices there, and two experts. They'll guide you the thick of it, Sugar. Their clothes will fit for now. I'll get you on healthcare and birth control. Got a birth certificate?”
I shook my head.
“I've got some spares here... Let's see...” She rifles through a pile of papers. “Abby Costello. You don't look like an Abby, dear. You're certainly not twenty-one... Not a Jordan... Not a Sven...” Her eyebrows continue to furrow, and then she relaxes them. “Well, what do you know, here's a Sienna. You look like a Sienna. A Sienna Montgomery, in fact. 5'8 – tall enough that nobody will ask questions. You're about 120, aren't you?” She sizes me up for the umpteenth time today. “I don't know what you went by before you came here, Peach, but forget it. Your name is Sienna Montgomery. You were born in Tallahassee, Florida. You're twenty-six years old. Your alter-ego is a prostitute named Apricot – but don't mention that part when people ask.” She winks.
“So... What's my rate?”
“All newbies start out at four hundred for the whole night. Fees for certain favours get trickier. You'll get the hang of it. After we get your name out, and after you do your job right, your rates will go up.”
“So how does it all work?” I ask quietly. “Do I just walk around and –”
“No, no, Peach! An agent never makes her whores walk around. I'm supposed to keep you safe, Apricot. All clients are screened through the agency first. They call or visit, and I show them what we have to offer.”
“That's a relief.”
She adopts a formal tone. “Apricot, welcome to the business district. You'll find that clean, impeccably dressed men are just as dirty as the ones you live around. They cheat and lie, deny what they can – sexual preference, financial stability... whether they're with you because they hate their wives, or because they can't satisfy a woman they're not paying for.” She smiles, baneful, eyebrows furrowed. “Your job does not require asking about any of that. You ask one question, and one question only: 'Do you like that?'.”
I nod.
“You'll have to say a little more, Peach. Watch me,” she says, and slithers onto her desk. Her black pumps shine under the desk lamp as she hovers above me. Island's hands knot in my hair and she approaches my face with hers. With a hard kiss, she bites my bottom lip. Her hands slip and plunge down; she is on top of me, knees on each side. She smirks and chortles as she finds my metal. “Do you like that?”
“Yes.”
“Louder.” Her teeth sink down to meet her hands. “Do you like that?”
“Yes.”
As she descends, I grow louder; and I do like it.
“Your hair is rather light, now that it is dry. Red, but... light. Like a fruit. Like an apricot.” She scrutinizes and smiles. “Yes, Apricot. Quick, aren't I?”
She doesn't wait for me to agree or disagree. “You'll be properly sponsored, Apricot. I'm assigning you to an apartment on Macbeth. There are three novices there, and two experts. They'll guide you the thick of it, Sugar. Their clothes will fit for now. I'll get you on healthcare and birth control. Got a birth certificate?”
I shook my head.
“I've got some spares here... Let's see...” She rifles through a pile of papers. “Abby Costello. You don't look like an Abby, dear. You're certainly not twenty-one... Not a Jordan... Not a Sven...” Her eyebrows continue to furrow, and then she relaxes them. “Well, what do you know, here's a Sienna. You look like a Sienna. A Sienna Montgomery, in fact. 5'8 – tall enough that nobody will ask questions. You're about 120, aren't you?” She sizes me up for the umpteenth time today. “I don't know what you went by before you came here, Peach, but forget it. Your name is Sienna Montgomery. You were born in Tallahassee, Florida. You're twenty-six years old. Your alter-ego is a prostitute named Apricot – but don't mention that part when people ask.” She winks.
“So... What's my rate?”
“All newbies start out at four hundred for the whole night. Fees for certain favours get trickier. You'll get the hang of it. After we get your name out, and after you do your job right, your rates will go up.”
“So how does it all work?” I ask quietly. “Do I just walk around and –”
“No, no, Peach! An agent never makes her whores walk around. I'm supposed to keep you safe, Apricot. All clients are screened through the agency first. They call or visit, and I show them what we have to offer.”
“That's a relief.”
She adopts a formal tone. “Apricot, welcome to the business district. You'll find that clean, impeccably dressed men are just as dirty as the ones you live around. They cheat and lie, deny what they can – sexual preference, financial stability... whether they're with you because they hate their wives, or because they can't satisfy a woman they're not paying for.” She smiles, baneful, eyebrows furrowed. “Your job does not require asking about any of that. You ask one question, and one question only: 'Do you like that?'.”
I nod.
“You'll have to say a little more, Peach. Watch me,” she says, and slithers onto her desk. Her black pumps shine under the desk lamp as she hovers above me. Island's hands knot in my hair and she approaches my face with hers. With a hard kiss, she bites my bottom lip. Her hands slip and plunge down; she is on top of me, knees on each side. She smirks and chortles as she finds my metal. “Do you like that?”
“Yes.”
“Louder.” Her teeth sink down to meet her hands. “Do you like that?”
“Yes.”
As she descends, I grow louder; and I do like it.
♠ ♠ ♠
*while it may not seem as such, this is a more heterosexual story.