"I've got a request," Peeta says. "In my apartment, you will always be naked."
We're lying in the bath, the hot water feeling really good against my skin after being in the cold winter air, my head on his shoulder, my body between his legs, his thumb massaging my clit. Never have I felt more comfortable with a client.
"Okay," I say. He's not the first to make this request.
His finger slowly slips inside of me and pumps slowly in and out, and my back arches in pleasure. "Does that feel good?" Peeta asks.
"So good," I murmur.
It's a week after our first meeting, and my boss informed me that he has had three other girls since my appointment, but he has come back for me. He also paid a ridiculous amount to have me for the next full week. This is day one.
He begins to increase the speed and my body squirms with desire. "Also," He says. "You will not bath without me, okay?"
"Okay," I mumble; I can barely speak because of his hand. His finger is massaging my clit, and two more are thrusting slowly, too slowly, in and out of me. "Anything else?"
"When I'm gone, you can come and go; I don't mind. Just make sure you're back before I come back."
"Agreed," I say. I feel happy that he doesn't mind that I go; I've had clients that have made me stay for days alone in their houses. It gets lonely.
His fingers are moving faster now, and I'm breathing with fast, heavy pants.
"I have fucked a lot of women, but you are my favourite," My vision is blurry now. "You are mine." And then I orgasm, gasping, and his fingers slip out of me and my former rigid position has relaxed against his body. I feel his erection underneath me.
"That was fast," Peeta says, lacing his fingers with mine. "They have trained you well,"
"Yes, they have," I say.
"How do they train you?" Peeta asks.
"By making you fuck," I say. "A lot,"
"Describe it to me," He says.
"First, I did it with a guy," I say slowly. "And he tied me up and whipped me and fucked me a lot of times. They made me do it because that's what real clients would be like. I was on top, and then in control, and then the opposite of those, and then over and over with the same guy until I got the hang of it. I practised giving blowjobs and hand jobs and being fucked anal and everything that I needed to become an escort."
"Then what?"
"Then, it was with women," I say. "My boss, actually. I had four weeks with the first guy, but five with my boss. She was aggressive, too, but the best in the business, I have heard. She taught me how to fuck women. Then I had a five week training period where I practised threesomes. Then I was let out into the escort world. I had a few clients that got me for free, since I was new, and then I started charging normally because I was good."
"Did they teach you anything else?" He asks.
"Masturbation, too; how to pleasure myself if the customer wants me too, things like that," I tell him.
"How far are you into the business now?"
"Week seven," I say.
"Do you enjoy it?" He asks.
"There isn't much to hate," I say. "It's good money."
"And are you the least qualified?"
"Out of all of us, I guess so," I say. "Some have been in the business their entire lives."
"How do they find it?" He asks.
"I'm not sure," I say. "We don't see each other much."
"Why not?"
"A lot of Capitol men and women pay for the night," I say. "Much like you did, apart from you're not from the Capitol."
"Is there any men in your escort firm?"
"There was, the one I practised with, but he quit," I say. "Not enough business; the women like the women and the men like the women so there wasn't a job for him."
"No gays?"
"At least not openly," I say.
His fingers make swirling patterns on my thighs as I talk; I wonder if he is asking me questions to distract me as he feels my body. Not that I mind; at least he is discreet about it. I've had some clients that just grab what they can.
"Do you use escorts a lot?" I ask him.
He shrugs. "Not compared to my friends," He says. "But we're not talking about me. How many women are at your escort firm?" His hands smooth over my hips.
"Maybe three dozen," I say. "Some are new. They stay at the firm to have training for a while before they are let out into the Capitol, but like I said, some have been there since they were sixteen, like I have, but they're a lot older."
"How old is the oldest one?"
"I think she might be thirty," I say. "I'm not sure."
We lay in silence for a while, his fingers smoothing over my skin, before he says, "I've got work. I need to go."
"Okay," I say, climbing out of the tub. He pulls the plug out, grabs a towel, and towels me dry, and then towels himself dry, and then gives me a kiss. "Have a good day," I say, and he changes, and leaves.
I stand alone in his living room, naked and tingling. Never before have I felt such attachment to a customer. Is this because he is the boy with the bread, or because he treats me like I am more than just a body?
Most people do not care about my past, or my job, or my life, because they pay me for sex, and then I go; but he does. Even if it was just to distract me, it felt like he was trying to ease me, and I have never had this feeling before. It's good; new.
I ring my boss, because when you stay overnight, you're supposed to, and she asks me how Mr. Mellark is. "He's nice," I say. "Different,"
"Rich, too," She tells me. "Play it right and you could have a steady customer there."
After I hang up, I don't know what to do with myself. I have a feeling – either just for security purposes or to watch me – that there are cameras somewhere in the apartment. I try to ignore the thought.
In the kitchen, I see he has left me an envelope. When I open it, it has money in, and it is labelled: Go out and treat yourself. So I do.
I catch the train into the city, dressed in some clothing I find in a drawer, and buy the sluttiest lingerie I can find; a pink, frilly thong and a push-up see-through bra and heels and I keep them in the bag, pulling off my clothes when I get into the apartment like Peeta requested, and I consider putting the lingerie on, but he requested that I stay naked, so I do.
When he comes home, I am sat at his dining table, watching the television. He is wearing a suit and a tie and a white shirt and his hair is ruffled and he has the same crooked smile as he did when he left. "Did you go out today?" He asks.
"Yes," I say. "In the bag,"
He opens it and grins. "It would be a sad to waste such attire,"
"Indeed," I say.
"I wonder," Peeta says. "Have you ever played pool?"
The spare room turns out to be a game room with a massive pool table in the middle. I have actually played pool on many occasions; in breaks during training, my boss taught me, just for something to do. I'm good at pool; very good.
"Let's play a game," Peeta says as he hands me the cue stick. "If I win, we get to do whatever I want. If I lose, we can do whatever you want."
So we play. He goes easy on me until the end. He turns out to be very good at pool. He wins. Then he fucks me on the pool table.
As an escort, I don't think I've ever been so satisfied at work.