Ann

 

 

 

I'm still shaking when I'm finally called into Miss Barry’s office for my interview.

What was that all about? Who was that man? And why did he say that to me?

You have no idea how much money you could make with this.

Is he trying to entice me to become an escort because he’s interested in buying me?

That’s ridiculous, I think to myself, but the thought gives me an odd flush of heated embarrassment, anger and... something else. Something I can't quite put my finger on. It's a strange feeling, not as uncomfortable as the other two emotions, but not entirely pleasant either.

I'm nervous when Miss Barry shakes my hand and gestures for me to sit down, but it's not because of her. She looks like just the kind of person I would expect to see here. She's tall, probably about fifteen years older than me, and dressed to the nines. Her outfit and make-up have a burlesque touch to them. She's rather pale-complexioned, her lips dipped in a crimson shade of red that stands out against her light skin, as does the deep black mascara around her eyes and the equally dark hair. Her black blouse stretches around a pair of tits that are too big for her frame to be real. I'm sure she worked on the other end of the operation before switching to this administrative position.

"Can I offer you something to drink?" she asks, as I sit in a chair opposite her desk. "Water? Tea? Bourbon?"

I look at her, trying to figure out whether she was joking about that last suggestion. However, Miss Barry regards me with an expectant expression, cocking her head to the side awaiting my response.

"It's two in the afternoon," I say, bewildered.

She huffs and waves me off.

"Right," she says, rolling her eyes at me. "So, water then?"

I nod. "Water would be great, thank you."

Miss Barry walks over to a little bar table in the corner of her office where she pours a glass of water for me before pouring a tumbler of bourbon for herself.

"I'm sure you don't mind," she says, lifting her glass to her lips after placing the water in front of me.

I shake my head, feeling oddly belittled by the way she’s choosing to act around me. Miss Barry sits down sedately in her leather chair behind the desk. She casts me another one of those looks, as if I was a little child, someone she has trouble taking seriously. She sips at her drink and raises her eyebrows at me. "So?"

I recollect myself and hurry to gather my notes and take out my tiny recorder.

"Is it okay if I record this?" I ask, holding up the device.

Miss Barry nods. "Sure, dear."

I'm not sure how I feel about the way she addresses me, but I let it go. It's probably safe to assume that she's not used to talking to women who are not part of this world, women who are not cute little “honeys, bunnies and darling dolls” who live to serve the needs of kinky men. Men with very particular tastes, the kind of clients this agency caters to.

I know this is no ordinary escort agency. I’ve already uncovered enough details during my research to understand that the clients who frequent this place are not only insanely rich, but also come with twisted tastes. If they were just looking for a girl to accompany them to some kind of high class event, or to have a fancy dinner with them and then join them in their lavish hotel rooms, they wouldn't contact this agency.

The clients who turn to Violent Delights always seek something more, something special, something that has a much higher price tag than similar services offered from an ordinary escort service. And I'm curious to see how much Miss Barry is willing to reveal about these specialized and customized services, not to mention the outlandish prices the clients are willing to pay for them.

Miss Barry watches me calmly as I open my notes and set up the recorder. I can't help but notice that she's studying me similar to the way that man was earlier. Examining, considering, wondering - as if she's deliberating the possibility of convincing me to join her ranks.

I shake off the unpleasant thought and try to concentrate on the questions I have prepared for today. I begin the interview by confirming some of the information I've already gathered. This is standard procedure, and just like most people being interviewed, Miss Barry is cautious and reticent at first, but starts opening up after a few minutes, adding extra comments and anecdotes not directly related to the question being asked. As she becomes more talkative, my questions become more daring and are less directed at the business as a whole and the story behind Violent Delights, instead focusing on the areas that really interest me.

The clients and the girls they seek.

"Is there anything you can tell me about the way you acquire the girls working for you?" I ask. "How do you find them?"

Miss Barry looks at me with an amused expression and laughs.

"Oh, honey," she exclaims. "We don't find the girls. They find us!"

I cast her a quizzical look. "So they're just desperate and-"

"No, no, not at all," Miss Barry interrupts me. "It's nothing like that. If you're desperate for some quick and easy money, you don't come here. We have a comprehensive application process that's not open to just anyone, and we certainly don't hire every girl who applies."

She pauses to take another sip of her bourbon, and to make me wait for an expanded version of her explanation. I know this move is deliberate, and she's enjoying my bewildered gaze.

"These girls are more than just high-class hookers, dear," she continues. "They need to bring more than beauty and the will to please to the table."

"Like what?"

When our eyes meet, I notice that hers are laced with fierce intensity as she prepares her next response.

"Brains," she says. "And stability - emotional and psychological. Each girl has to pass a variety of tests before we even consider hiring them."

"And then? What happens after they're hired?"

"Depending on the conditions they've set for themselves, we'll add them to our different catalogs and then offer them to potential clients. Not every client is a good match for every girl. The selection process can be quite... tiring."

She exhales loudly with that last sentence, rolling her eyes as if she's remembering something - or someone - highly unpleasant.

"And what does that process look like?" I inquire. "You mentioned there are tests? What kind of tests?"

Instead of giving me a reply, Miss Barry regards me with a contemplative look, scanning me from head to toe, the same as that guy Mr. King did. My hand instinctively wanders up to the collar of my blouse, pulling the fabric closer together as if this would help to shield me from her curious eyes.

"Would you like try it?" she asks.

"Try what?"

"The application process," she says. "If you have some extra time, we can complete some of the tests."

She pauses then, a little smirk appearing on her face before she continues speaking.

"Isn't that the best kind of research?" she asks. "Hands-on?"

I blush and inhale audibly. There's something about the way she looks at me that's extremely unsettling, but I can't put my finger on it. In fact, I don't even know if the feeling she evokes is even negative. It's just ... disconcerting.

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-three," I reply instantly. "I’m turning twenty-four in about six months."

"Good," she states. "I assume you're not a virgin?"

I let out an indignant huff. "Not that that's any of your business, but no, I am not."

"Pity," she says, using the exact same word that guy used before. "You could make a fortune here, especially if you were untouched."

I chuckle. "I've heard that before..."

Her eyes flare at my words.

"I heard those exact words from a guy earlier, outside of your office," I explain. "One of your clients, I assume. I think his name was... Mr. King?"

She raises her eyebrows, and then shifts to place her elbows on the desk between us as she leans forward. "He talked to you?"

I shrug. "Briefly. He thought I was one of your girls. Which - to be quite frank - I thought was a little insulting."

"I see," she remarks. "Did he appear disappointed when you told him that you're not?"

Her question baffles me. Why does it matter? "Maybe, a little."

"Interesting."

She takes another sip from her bourbon, and I reach for my water, emptying half of it in one gulp. This interview has taken a weird turn, an interesting turn, I've got to admit.

"Who is he?" I inquire.

Miss Barry smiles at me. "You know I can't tell you any personal details about our clients."

"So he is a client?"

She nods, biting her tongue for revealing too much to me already.

"Let's assume I was interested in going through your application process," I say, holding up my hands in mock defense, as if to debate her hopes. "For research purposes, that is."

Miss Barry casts me a condescending smile. "Of course."

"What would that look like?"

She cocks her head to the side, the smile on her face softening. "If you have some time, we could go through some of it right now."

Our eyes meet again, locking onto each other longer than the time before, almost resembling a silent staring contest. She's challenging me, I can tell. Miss Barry sees me as someone who's all talk, displaying a toughness that is nothing more than a facade. She doesn't think I'd go through with this. She expects me to chicken out.

She's not the first one to make that mistake.

I smile at her, mirroring the way she looked at me before. "Okay, let's do it."