Ruby

 

 

 

Jealousy. I'm used to it.

The way that girl is glaring at me, the way she grinds her teeth as she pins me down through narrowed eyes. I've seen it all before.

She doesn't even turn away like most people would when I catch her staring. She hates me, and she doesn't care if I know it.

We have never met before or exchanged a single word, but this woman across the bar already thinks she knows everything about me. She thinks she knows enough to hate me, despite the apparent similarities existing between us.

We're both overdressed for this dumpy and shady neighborhood bar, and we’re both sitting by ourselves at opposite ends of the counter, surrounded by greasy characters who make no effort to hide that they are undressing us with their eyes. Her make-up isn't quite as extreme as mine, but she still stands out in her professional business suit with her shiny heels and well-coifed hairstyle.

At first glance, we could pass as twins, but we both know we're nothing alike.

Unlike me, she doesn't radiate sex. She's missing the fake lashes, the fake tits, the fake presence that makes me irresistible to most men. And that's exactly why she hates me.

I get it, I really do.

To be honest, I didn't like myself all that much when I looked in the mirror this morning. These days, I'm nothing but a reflection of myself, a reflection of only a single side of me.

A side that I can't come to terms with.

The side of me that is Ruby Red, a high-class escort. A call girl.

I'm paid to please men, filthy rich men, filthy kinky man. Men who not only possess the darkest and most unbridled desires, but also the wealth to pay generous amounts of money to fulfill each and every one of them. Very fucking generous amounts.

I started this job out of desperation, but continued it to fulfill a deep-seated need. Not mere financial need. Actual need. Real need, like the need for air to breathe, water to drink, food to eat, all that is necessary to survive.

I don't know when it happened, but there was a point when something changed. I changed.

Something broke inside of me.

And something else came to life.

And I don't know which one of the two is the most real, because they feel equally dominant.

All I know is that I need this. I need to feel like I’m a possession, a fuck toy. I need to be used, punished; I need to feel the pain, the be rewarded, and see the voracious look on their faces when they take me, knowing they can do almost anything to me without taking my feelings into account.

That's what I signed up for, and my heart races with excitement every time I'm about to meet a new client. I could never openly admit it to anyone, but I love what I'm doing.

But I hate it just as much, because I know that it's wrong to love this. No healthy person would love this lifestyle, no normal person, no sane person.

Well, I guess I'm none of those.

I take another sip of my cheap bourbon and notice the girl across the bar doing the same. It's starting to really fucking bother me that she's still glaring at me. I wish I had the guts to just go over there and tell her off, tell her my story, tell her that she should take a careful look in the mirror before judging others.

But would she even understand what I’m trying to tell her? She's already formed her opinion of me. All she sees is a dumb blonde, with fake lashes, fake nails, fake tits, fake everything, lips painted a bright hooker red that matches my fur coat. I slip off the red fur coat. It’s neither stylish or classy, but I feel naked without it. It’s part of my identity, my signature, and it keeps me protected against the chill of those who judge me, like that cold girl sitting across fromm me.

Now the mask, it’s something different. The black fabric lying on the counter in front of me should be covering my face. It’s what the client requested because he doesn't want to see my face before he grabs me.

I'm waiting for that to happen.

I'm waiting to be kidnapped.

It has to seem as real as possible.

I knew this new client was special from the get-go, and not only because of his specific demands and the amount of money he was willing to pay. I actually heard about him before he knew about me, completely by accident. I overheard our Madame, Miss Barry confiding in another girl that she was looking for someone who was willing to completely turn herself over to a client for thirty-nine days, to be kidnapped, locked up, and stripped of any rights or a way to negate the contract once she agreed to do it.

I was intrigued. Very intrigued.

I've done a lot of objectionable stuff. I've sold myself to men who tied me up for hours, forcing spellbinding orgasm after orgasm out of me, or denying me the same as a punishment. I've served, pleased, submitted to the darkest desires - but I've always wanted more. With each new client, I hoped for something deeper, so strong and powerful that it could destroy me. I need the challenge. I want to be scared, to be at someone's mercy. I want to give myself, all of myself, to a man without knowing what will eventually happen. I want to know what it feels like to surrender completely.

And what better way to discover this than in a safe setting protected by the agency’s agreement with its clients? This setup is perfect. It seems so close to the real thing, but without the danger of it really, truly being real.

But when I asked Miss Barry to share my file with the client, she rejected me.

"He doesn’t want a redhead, he wants a blonde."

My heart sank. My bright red hair has always been my big selling point. So many men nearly go out of their mind when faced with landing a true redhead. We are rare and special, and we have a reputation for being fiery and hard to tame.

And he won't even consider me because of my hair color?

Fuck that.

I dyed my hair without thinking twice, and when I showed up at the agency, parading my new do in front of Miss Barry, she laughed, but agreed to include my file with the others.

And that was that.

He picked me. I signed a contract for him to kidnap me as the first step in the agreement to become his for thirty-nine days, no matter what. The instructions were specific and strict for the kidnapping: I must cover my face with a black mask every time I leave the house, which I’m obligated to do during the same couple-hour time frame every single day over the next week to give him time to learn my routine. The kidnapping is to appear as real as possible - for both him and me. I know he's been watching me the past few days, and he's going to grab me very soon, but I don’t know exactly when.

The window is closing. Five days, the contract said. Today is day four.

I've been a nervous wreck since the countdown began, not sure when, where, or how I will be snatched away. I've followed the rules, spending the allotted time outside every single day, but never a minute longer than agreed upon in the contract. He's not allowed to break into my home, but that didn't stop me from laying awake at night, my heart pounding senseless in my chest with fear and anticipation. I haven't slept properly in days, I can barely eat, and I’ve started drinking more to ease my nerves.

This isn’t my part of town, exactly the reason why I picked this questionable drinking hole to spend my evening. I toss back one cheap bourbon after another, until I start feeling relaxed, calmed down enough to head back outside, too numb to drive myself crazy from the fear of being grabbed. I've always been a night owl, so it's not unusual for me to be out and about late at night. I’d be far more scared if I was nabbed during the bright daylight, as crazy as that may sound.

It’s nearly midnight. The buzz of the alcohol fuzzes my senses as I slip off the bar stool to pay a quick visit to the restroom before heading out into the night. I intentionally ignore the frosty-faced girl still sitting across the bar, but I can feel her eyes on me as I head towards the short hallway leading to the restroom. If she continues with those hateful stares when I come back, I may just have to tell her off for my own self-esteem.

My legs are shaky and my head feels like it‘s spinning. Steadying myself against the counter as I wash my hands, I study my reflection in the mirror. I still look good, good enough. I will never get used to the bleached blond strands framing my painted face, but the color will fade soon enough.

"Thirty-nine days," I whisper to my reflection. The girl looking back at me in the mirror is strong, determined - and scared shitless. I don't regret my decision. Yet. And once he takes me, there will be no time for regret.

Just a few more hours. The anticipation is the worst part, the uneasy feeling about what's to come, the uncertainty of it all...

I take in a deep breath, and holding my head high, my posture straight, I stride out of the restroom.

The first thing I notice is that the judgmental woman is gone.

And so is my red fur coat.