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33
Annie
The seamstress was back. I'd seen her heading into the closet with a book. Apparently she was simply going to hang out in there, waiting for me to be finished with everything else.
The dinner party was scheduled for eight. The day outside was overcast and chill with rain falling occasionally. The idea of trying to run across the endless miles of empty desert in the dark in such weather was daunting, but for some reason, it had been on my mind for most of the day.
I didn't think that boded well.
The first person in was the masseuse. Most of the time, anyone Cole brought in to work with me on anything at all was a woman. Maybe it was jealousy. Maybe he just didn't want to contend with other males.
This masseuse was a man and I was uncomfortable already.
He was polite, tall and imposing, with a beautiful body under his tight t-shirt and loose scrubs pants. He met me at five at the massage table. Cole hadn't shared with me the schedule. That didn’t matter because there was nowhere else for me to be today. I knew the dinner was in the evening and he'd told me many of the things that would happen. This was a formality. He could do whatever he wanted.
"I'm John," he said and I supposed he could be. It was a common name. Common enough to be suspicious.
"Hello." No point in giving him my name. He already knew it. "I'll just go slip on a robe." I turned away, already wondering that I hadn't seen a number of sheets, one on the table, one that he'd hold up for me to take off my robe behind.
"Not necessary. Please take your clothes off."
I turned back and looked at him. Big, imposing, kind of good looking, like a younger version of Jake Tapper. "Excuse me?" I had no idea why I was surprised, but I was. He was a version of the help. He wasn't supposed to be involved in –
He leaned down into my face. "Take your clothes off."
When I didn't move, frozen in place, he said, "Strip."
I wasted time looking around as if after all this time someone was finally going to come and save me from some indignity or another. In the beginning I had assumed that eventually the painful shyness and humiliation from being forced to be naked in front of people, both familiar and strangers, would pass.
I was wrong. Every encounter was fresh and painful.
John grabbed my upper arm. "St. Martin doesn't want you marked for tonight. So you won't be punished right now. But everyone you're dealing with is keeping a running tally and rest assured, you will be taken in hand when the evening is over." His eyes softened in a moment of the most absurdly fake compassion I had ever seen. At least I knew that even Cole couldn't always hire the very best. "Why not make it easy on yourself? You know it's going to happen eventually." He looked at me frankly. "Strip."
I did. By the time I looked up at hm, hating myself but needing to make certain I had to lose the underpants, my knees were shaking and he had to help me onto the table. I lay face down and he began working my shoulders and neck, arms and back, the usual soothing massage not quite doing it this time. Eventually he dropped lower, massaging my calves, which always felt good with all the running and I thought maybe I could relax, maybe this part of it was nothing more than an unorthodox way of doing massage.
Then he spread my legs and began to massage my inner thighs, hard, pinching without bruising, just hard enough to make me squirm. He went on to run his hands over my ass, separating my cheeks and digging his fingers in to get handfuls of me.
My face burning, I thought of all the things I would do when I was free again and armed again and could find – a masseuse named John. In a town the size of Las Vegas.
Maybe not.
I was waiting for him to tell me to turn over but he didn't. He finished the too close, too familiar massage and laid my robe back across my body then disappeared before I managed to sit up.
Fuck.
Because instantly he was followed by a woman who was, she said, named Mary. They could at least be inventive with their fake names. Mary took my hand and helped me down from the table, leading me over to the tub.
"Just get in and relax for a few minutes," she said and I met her eyes.
"You're kidding, right?"
She had the decency to color, at least, but from what I could tell, the people Cole hired were either sadists themselves or paid enough they didn't care what they did.
I sank down into the water, relieved at the warmth and floating. Mary bustled around the enormous bathroom, collecting things, and I watched her, half worried, half too relaxed to worry.
Until she came back with a wheeled cart and a tray on it covered with a towel. In a torture porn movie, that tray would be covered with wicked implements. In a straight up porn flick it would be sex toys.
I had no idea what to expect here but the cop in me was on full alert.
