Chapter 3
Her Gilded Cage
The only time smoking was allowed on the premises was when it was done outside or in the one designated lounge on the second floor. Clients didn’t like being told they couldn’t smoke in the girls’ rooms, but they soon learned to be mindful of health and, well, the smell.
Such a smell Monica encountered when she stepped into the Cigar Lounge to take inventory. It was reserved that night by a few businessmen looking to have a private place to discuss their wares and maybe enjoy a show or two by an available girl. Finally, something for Yvette to do. Better than watching her sit on the balcony drinking wine because she refused to hang out with any clients. She would, at least, put on a demonstration as long as nobody expected to touch or directly talk to her. She makes a fantastic domme.
Grace followed her into the Cigar Lounge to write down notes about what was missing. Ever since the trade embargo with Cuba was lifted, they didn’t hurt for those. Still, there was an air of the forbidden around them, and clients tended to dive straight for an old-fashioned Cuban above anything else. Monica made Grace order some anyway.
“Madam Graham!” One of the maids appeared in the doorway, her chest heaving and her voice ragged with thick breaths. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but there’s someone here to see you.”
Monica turned with the swiftness of a fox. “Who? The police?” It was too early in the afternoon for most clients. The only people who came searching for her in the middle of the day usually had legalities to discuss.
“No, ma’am. A gentleman. Henry Warren.”
What? She hadn’t seen nor heard from him in a few days. Not since he came as Mr. Witherspoon’s guest. I never thought I would see him again. He must have forgotten something. Something so important that he couldn’t call and ask Monica to ship it to him.
Sure enough, Mr. Warren was standing in the foyer, another maid taking his coat and checking his shoes to make sure he had no mud to track through the premises. It rained the night before, and sometimes the mud didn’t dry out completely until long after.
“Mr. Henry,” Monica called, stepping down the staircase as fast as she dared. Between her stature and the shoes, it could be an arduous task. “To what do I owe this surprising pleasure?”
He certainly looked more put together than he had the morning she last saw him. A new suit – demure beige that looked cheerful for the season, but still serious enough for a man of his station – clung to his body in such a way that Monica stopped and wondered about what he kept beneath. Now? At a time like this?
“Good afternoon. I hope I’m not interrupting your business… or is it a day off for you?”
Wednesdays were an odd day for a visit, but they weren’t closed. The girls had their weekends on Monday and Tuesday unless otherwise arranged, but Monica stayed busy with books or work every day. “We are open, if that’s what you’re asking. We’re not used to having such guests at this time. Did you forget something the other day?”
Henry stepped back, as if her words were a club smacking him in the chest. Did I offend? “No, no. Everything is fine. If I could talk with you privately?”
Monica shooed away the onlookers and escorted Henry into the front salon, the very one he slept in the other night. He turned down a glass of anything and instead perched on the edge of a chair, large hands folded in his lap. Monica took a seat on the sofa across from him and asked once more what she could do for him.
“I suppose I should get right to it,” he said. “I was wondering if you could give me a tour of your premises and perhaps introduce me to some of your girls.”
That was it? Why did he come here unannounced for something like that? Nevertheless, Monica would not pry. She didn’t want to scare off a new, rich client. “I hadn’t realized you were into this sort of thing, Mr. Henry.”
“Perhaps I have a long story or two of my own, Monica.”
Now there was a surprise. Monica retained her demeanor, but inside her brain whirled with images of Mr. Henry Warren tying up a woman and whispering filth into her ear. Monica had these thoughts about most of her clients. She had to, in order to anticipate what they might like and what she could do to ensure their satisfaction so they would keep coming back and paying more. But this was the first time since opening her doors that she felt… aroused?... by the act. These effects Henry had on her were starting to get to her in ways she couldn’t afford.
“Upfront I have to be blunt that we currently don’t have any girls available to a patron.” I really need to hire more. There were two bedrooms she could rent out to as many girls. They would have to be cleaned and stripped, and then redone to the girl’s tastes, but as their business grew so too must the house. “You can of course patron them on an even regular basis, but only if they are available. And you wouldn’t receive any of the bonuses.”
“Bonuses? Do I even want to know?”
He knew what she meant, and yet she must deflect. Sex happens with regular clients too, Mr. Warren. Completely at the girl’s discretion, but it wasn’t some sacred act confined to her primary business relationship.
“Taking her out on dates, dominating her time, giving her gifts of a greater value than a thousand dollars… there are many bonuses, but a girl may only have one patron at a time. Plus, even if you can’t visit her for a while, you must still pay for the privilege. It’s a part of what makes up their primary incomes.” Some girls were saving up for their dreams. Others had debt they were paying off and they didn’t mind doing it this way. Others liked getting paid to whip and be whipped. Some are all three She thought of Sylvia.
“I see,” Henry said with a curious smile. “You’re intriguing me more and more.”
“I’m glad to hear it. We cater to a very discerning and particular crowd. It only seems right to intrigue them.”
“Oh? Am I a part of this crowd?”
Monica finally smiled in return. “I pegged you as a member from the moment you walked through that door the other night.”
They stood and commenced the formal tour, Monica staying four paces in front of Henry as she showed him around the common areas on the first floor. “Of course you are familiar with the salon and the dining room. We also have a Recreation Room with all the current amenities. We had quite the Super Bowl party earlier this year.”
“I’m sure.”
“Since we are of course hooked up with the fastest internet available, you may be intrigued to know that we have video game consoles with online play capabilities.” Even she couldn’t believe how many of the rich fuddy-duddies coming through the room wanted to play Halo and Call of Duty. Sometimes things got loud when the girls were involved. Of course, the girls being into violent video games made the clients happier. Monica never understood the appeal, but she understood the money in her palm.
“Essentially, we have a space for every man’s tastes. We have a beautiful garden out back for relaxing in. Our upstairs balcony is popular on clear summer nights, and occasionally has a stargazing party. One of our girls is somewhat an astronomer.” Not that Yvette would do anything with it. Ah, so that’s what she’s looking at when she sits out there with the champagne at night. Looking for her shooting star in the sky.
Henry made empty comments about every room he was shown. Even the two guest rooms downstairs, made especially for guests who had difficulties going up and down the stairs. “Every guest room has its own private bathroom of varying sizes.” Henry raised his eyebrows, but did not show much more interest than that.
Monica stopped Grace in the upstairs hallway and asked if her room could be used for the tour. The girl consented, flashing Henry a flirtatious glance. Monica didn’t know if that was a reflex from her job or if she was truly interested in the newcomer to the Château. Either way, Monica’s business mind was already going through multiple options for her new client.
The jingle of keys enticed Henry’s curiosity as Monica pulled out a ring of silver and jiggled a key into Grace’s lock. What? Does he think I don’t have access to every room in here? He would be sorely mistaken.
Grace’s room was standard. She was a simple girl with simple tastes, as reflected in the bare canopy bed and smooth, modern pieces around the room. The rugs were colored dark and patternless. The paintings on the wall were hardly whimsical, yet not somber. Her partition to the other side of the room had a forest motif, showing some young maid from a long ago time passing through the woods with a basket on her arm.
Few men cared about the decorations of a young woman’s room. These men in particular cared about what was on the other side of the partition.
Whips. Chains. Suspension devices. Sex toys. Every lube from every corner of the world. Costumes and jewelry. Cleaning supplies and first aid kits that nobody but the staff was supposed to know existed… Monica kicked one of the supply boxes behind a sofa before Henry noticed it.
“Well then,” he said, not flinching. “I figured as much. Sam was always a bit… eager to please, if you know what I mean.”
Monica did. Sam Witherspoon liked to spank his girl but was more interested in being chained to the wall and called a sorry sack of capitalistic shit. There were many theories as to why powerful businessmen liked to be treated like a sexual slave by women. Not as many people had theories as to why those same men might like to have a sexual slave in a woman. Nature, I’m sure. Monica didn’t believe that. Every man – and woman – had their own story to tell. Their own reasons that they were the way they were. Sure, some of it may be nature… she always had a more submissive personality growing up… but there were also triggers that set off certain fetishes. And certain fears.
Their tour ended on the balcony, which had a lovely view of the manicured gardens in the back. When picking a design, Monica decided to keep the original garden intact and create a small labyrinth out of the topiaries. Some poor soul navigated them now, picking petals off a dandelion. It looked like Sylvia.
This time Henry did not say no to a drink – lemonade, but not hard. “You have quite the establishment, if I do say so myself.” Henry sat on a lounge chair but did not relax. “And I do.”
“Thank you. It took a while to put together, but I have been pleased with the outcome. It’s always nice to fulfill a service that’s so sorely needed in an area.” They lived close enough to one of the biggest financial centers in the country. Not everyone was a rich mogul, but it was big enough to attract other rich people from all around the world. Those circles were small. Once word got out about the Château after a soft opening, clients busted down the doors until Monica had to turn them away and be more stringent about reservations and appointments. So while a part of her wasn’t surprised by Henry’s interest, she did admit she didn’t think she would see him so soon. “I’m glad you found it to your liking. Now you know what I have to ask.”
Henry lowered his drink, letting it dangle between his legs. “Certainly. You want to know if I want to whip or be whipped.”
She suppressed a laugh, solely because she had no idea he would put it like that. “I would say it that way. Except I want you to know that I will not judge you for your tastes. Nobody here will. Everyone is completely at your discretion. We take privacy very seriously, and if one of our girls happens to ever break the NDAs she signs for every client – and none of them ever have, I’ll have you know – they do not get a second chance in this house.”
“I appreciate it. I may not be married, but…”
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
Monica didn’t know why she blurted it out like that. It didn’t matter one way or another if Henry Warren was attached to someone. Not Monica’s problem. That was all up to his sense of morality – and for all she knew, the girlfriend was in on it like with Grace’s patron.
“No, I don’t.” Henry sat up straight, closing his legs and holding the drink off to the side. “I have no moral qualms with what’s going on here or my possible involvement with it. I only have one question, really.”
“What is it? There isn’t a question I can’t answer.” The truth. Monica made it her mission to know everything about her own business. That was good financial sense. “Go on. Try me.”
“It’s a boring question, I’m afraid. I only want to know how a man becomes a patron.”
That’s it? Too bad Monica had some unfortunate news for him. “I told you, Mr. Henry, all of the girls currently have patrons. None of them seem interested in leaving anytime soon, so you may be waiting a while. However…”
“Yes?”
“As I also mentioned, I am thinking of hiring a couple of other girls. In which case I would send out an announcement to regular clients saying they’re open to a patronage.”
“You still haven’t answered my question, Monica. I would like to know how a man becomes a patron. Under usual circumstances, of course.”
Monica looked between him and the garden, wondering which specific spiel she should give him. By now the sunlight was descending toward the western hills, and a slight glare reflected off Henry’s glass. “First, as soon as you have confirmed that a girl is available to take on a patron, you send her an expensive gift that is in care of the Château. This way you make sure I see it and know your intentions.”
“Expensive, huh? How expensive?”
“That I can’t say. It’s up to you to decide. However much you want to invest in your relationship with this girl, I suppose.”
“So it’s like a backward dowry.”
“I suppose you could look at it that way. This is a business, Mr. Henry. At the end of the day you’re securing a service, even if human emotions do happen. You don’t want to hurt your bottom line, but you also don’t want to risk offending the girl… or me.”
“Naturally. I would imagine offending you is the best way to not get what you want.”
“To be sure.”
Henry finished his drink and placed it on a small table between the two lounge chairs. “So what happens after that? If multiple guys have their eyes on a girl, do you pick the guy with the more expensive dowry? This is getting medieval. Kind of exciting.”
Monica shook her head. “The price of the gift factors into it, but it’s also the gift itself and how the girl feels about it. Of course, I want to make as much money as possible, but I also want her to be happier doing her job. So if she would much rather be with a different man than I would choose, it’s not a big deal as long as he can fulfill his obligations.”
“And what obligations are those?”
“First, a monthly payment of $10,000 is to be expected. This gives you as many appointments with her as you want. However, you must keep in mind that this is not a monogamous contract. She still has to work outside of your presence.”
“I see. What if I wanted monogamous? I’m a bit of a romantic at heart.”
“We’ve never had a man interested in that, but I would wager a substantial increase to cover the financial loss.” She kept thinking of Grace. She really needed to charge her patron more. “We could discuss it, but we’re talking a lot of hypotheticals anyway. You wanted to know what happens next?”
“I always want to know what happens next in this world. It’s incredibly interesting. Tell me more, if you don’t mind.”
Monica smiled, but she wasn’t sure why.
“After your offer is accepted, well… there isn’t much more to say. We will go over the rules, the three of us, and then you sign the contract and make your first payment. After that, it’s up to you and the girl.”
“So it sounds like the most important thing is getting the gift right.”
“You could say that. You’ll really impress her if you manage to get her something she will instantly like. Shows that you know something about her. That you’re paying attention. Really, it’s not that much different from wooing a woman any other way. She wants to know that you will take care of her.”
“It doesn’t sound the same at all.” Henry said that, and yet there was a twinkle in his blue eye that said he liked the idea of the challenge. “I’ll keep this all in mind.”
They ended their conference not too much later, Monica escorting him back to the salon as someone came in to relay that a guest had reserved it some time that night. Business as usual. “You are welcome to stay here, Mr. Henry,” she said after the maid left. “Do let me know if you are interested in a girl for the evening. There is…” No, wait. Chelsea is a conflict of interest with his friend. Sylvia has an appointment with a client. Yvette won’t even consider it. Judith… she’s gone on vacation this week. That only left Grace. “I have the perfect girl for you.”
Henry unexpectedly stood up from his chair and brushed off the top of his pants. “That won’t be necessary. I appreciate the hospitality, but I’m afraid I must be going. I merely stopped by for the chat and the tour. I’m sorry if that was improper of me. Should I make a donation?”
I see. She had not anticipated that. Few men made it all the way up into the mountains for a mere tour and chat. At least they wanted to have a little taste of what they could get in the future. “It’s no trouble. I am glad you enjoyed my Château.”
“Yes.” They walked into the foyer together, where Monica opened the coat closet and pulled out Henry’s overcoat for him. It wasn’t fur or leather, but it was soft against her skin, and big enough to wrap twice around her if she wanted to snuggle without a blanket. It’s comforting. The last time she felt like that was a long, long time ago. “Thank you again for the tour. I look forward to seeing you again.”
Henry tossed his coat over his arm and extended his hand to Monica. She offered it, fingers out, but instead of shaking it, Henry brought her hand up to his lips and kissed the tops of her knuckles. He wasn’t the first man at the Château to do so, but it made something tingle within Monica nonetheless. What a dangerous man.
The sunlight behind the door blinded her, almost making her miss his shadow disappearing into a Rolls-Royce parked in the front driveway. There was no driver. Henry Warren got in the driver’s seat himself before pulling away, sticking his arm out the window to wave adieu to Monica and the Château.
“What is it?” Sylvia asked, after handing Monica a package a few days later. The girl happened to be there when the deliveryman arrived, but now there were too many questions to ask. Sure, Monica got packages all the time, but those were usually the kind wrapped in plain brown paper or nondescript cardboard boxes. This one was wrapped in black with a red ribbon tied around it. “Is it your birthday? Shit, I had no idea!”
“It’s not my birthday.” Monica stood at the bottom of the grand staircase with the package in hand. Nothing big about it. Even in her small palms and between her thinner fingers it was small enough to hide somewhere. Cubed. Heavy. Whatever was in it easily weighed more than a couple of pounds. “And I don’t know what it could be. You sure it was addressed to me?”
“Yes, the deliveryman said it was for Monica Graham. I heard him say it twice.”
“Hm.” Monica started up the stairs. “If it’s anything interesting, I’ll let you know.”
Sylvia’s mood deflated, but with a rousing “Sure!” she disappeared into the dining room to get her lunch. It was Monday, the Château’s weekend, and after a busy Saturday some of the girls were still hungover. Even Monica, as she walked to her quarters with the package, still had yet to catch up on her sleep from helping to entertain a dozen men who wanted more food, more drinks, and more shows.
Her quarters were a total of three rooms: the master bedroom, an adjacent office, and a nice bathroom that had a jetted tub and a sink big enough to wash a dog in. Not that Monica had a dog. I would like a Pomeranian one day. She didn’t have time to dedicate to a pup right now.
She placed the box on her desk and sat in her leather office chair. Why not tear into it now? Monica turned the box over, but didn’t see anything but a strand of red ribbon held tightly in place. Her fingers touched the outline, but no hidden tags fell out to tell her who sent it. Why didn’t Sylvia find out what company the man was from? Monica sat it upside right again and pulled the ribbon apart.
The lid came off easily enough. Inside was a copious amount of white tissue hiding something large and silver.
Large, silver, and encrusted with tiny, sparkling diamonds.
“What the…” She stood up, peering into the box as her fingers felt the smooth surface of metal. Then links. A chain. She uncoiled it, letting it snake in front of her as one foot, two feet, three feet pulled out of the box and revealed the collar on the other end.
The collar was encrusted with diamonds. Several small, sparkling, but expensive diamonds twinkling in and out of the light flashing through Monica’s office window. What is this? She knew what it was, but her mind refused to believe that anybody had sent her a chain and collar. Monica hadn’t owned one since… since… Jackson. The one he gave her was gold.
Just because this was silver, however, didn’t mean it wasn’t insanely expensive! How many diamonds were in it? What grade were they? What cut? Was this pure silver or a coating? Monica dumped the collar and chain on her desk, the thud echoing between wood and leather. Who is giving this to me? She emptied the box, tearing apart the tissue in search of a card, a piece of paper, anything to discover what the hell had happened. Was this a prank? If it was, it was an expensive one! No, no, not a prank…
A horror hit her heart.
Jackson. It had to be from Jackson.
He was the type of sick snake to send her something like this, to remind her that he existed and once controlled her… once chained and locked her up in his mansion to be used as a plaything for weekends at a time. Once he tied me to our bed and didn’t come back for a whole day. Monica had starved and nearly messed herself, which was exactly what he wanted. She liked a little humiliation, but that was the beginning of the end between her and him.
It didn’t matter how expensive this “gift” was. Jackson had billions to burn and wasn’t above wasting his money. Monica grabbed the collar and had half a mind to throw it through the window, to rid herself of the jerk who made her life hell and nearly destroyed her spirit.
She held the collar up in her hand. Sunlight reflected off the inside of the silver, illuminating something engraved on the inside.
Monica held the collar in front of her face and squinted. She could barely make out the tiny words.
“I want to be your patron.”
How long did she stare at those words? How long did she hold off the swelling sense of relief, desire, and that budding monstrosity called love?
How long did Monica pretend that she didn’t know who really sent this? Even when she slowly turned the collar in her hand, she still did not believe she would see the name that popped up on the other side?
“Henry Warren.”
Monica collapsed into her chair. The business side of her brain wanted to grab a pen and paper, write a letter telling Henry that she appreciated the offer, but she was not up for patronage.
The other side of her brain? The one that couldn’t think clearly because it was lost in a haze of imagining what a man like that could do to her in the bedroom?
It didn’t want to write anything at all. It wanted to cry in relief.