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Jacques had waved his hand, indicating I should stop holding the suit to my breasts. His eyes darted to the butler, who didn’t flinch. “Jeune fille naïve—do you think he cares about your tits?” He used his hand to untie the string from the back of my neck, letting the suit fall away. “Sip and tell Paul your taste. He will bring a different bottle if it’s not to your liking.”
I had done as told. “It’s very nice,” I replied, my eyes sheepishly looking up at the butler. My insides clenching, I was acutely aware that my heavy breasts were fully exposed.
“So, you like?” I nodded, my green eyes focusing on him as I’d worked to imprint a small demure smile on my lips. Jacques took the glass from my hand and took a small sip. “Armand De Brignac Rose, tres agreeable.” He nodded at Paul. “Yes, the bottle and fromage.”
Paul nodded. “Oui, Monsieur.”
As Paul had turned to leave, Jacques sat down on the lounge next to me. “Marietta, I am aware that you are new to this, but the shy girl act is getting tiring. You were not hired for your sweet innocent smile, were you?”
I steadied my breathing. I hadn’t yet adjusted to this new, sexual level of escort service. I was still unsure of how to act, still so inexperienced. The truth is, prior to Jacques, I’d only had one clumsy experience a year ago with the prince, who never touched me after we had each lost our virginity together in the most awkward encounter. I’d first escorted Jacques to two gallery openings and a movie premiere in London. When he asked me to join him on his family’s yacht in Monte Carlo, he requested a different level of service. The agency explained what that would entail, and I agreed. I found him very attractive, with a narrow yet muscular build reaching almost six feet, dark brown hair, and caramel eyes, his face usually darkened by stubble.
Jacques’s hands moved to my breasts, squeezing them together. “La fille, such grosse breasts.” I hated that he acted like my chest was a detriment, but I just smiled when he made such comments. He rested his eyes on my face as he bent his head to my tits. His mouth had its way with my erect nipples. “That excites you. Do you feel it?” His eyes darted to my crotch.
I did feel it. I’d felt the pain dance on the edges of my pink nips and how my lower belly tensed when he sucked at them, but I didn’t know how to answer, so I just looked at him, my eyes growing wider. ‘Yes... yes, Jacques,’ I had almost shouted. I did feel it, my insides churning at his touch.
He’d let go of my nipples and started gently massaging my whole breasts. “Ah, so there’s some fire in there. Best harvest that magnifique.” He continued to knead my tits in between sips of Champagne. “These will make modeling a challenge. Not fit for the runway, but certainly a body built for pleasure.” His hands moved away from my breasts as he looked up. “Merci, Paul,” he said as Paul set up a tray of cheeses and meats circled by an array of fruits. Next to it sat a silver Champagne bucket with the rosé we were enjoying.
Paul had ensured that our flutes were full and that we had plenty of sparkling water. He asked Jacques if there was anything else. Jacques nodded to him, then toward me. Paul reached in his pocket, semi-discreetly handing Jacques two packages of condoms. My cheeks flooded with heat. Humiliation, anxiousness, excitement—I wasn’t sure which—ran through my body.
Paul picked up the tray, telling Jacques to enjoy the spread. “Merci,” Jacques had said, nodding. His eyes darted to me. “Lie down on your stomach. I have something for you before we enjoy these treats.” My throat constricted as I flipped over.
“Paul, no disturbances. Marietta wishes to take a nap,” he’d instructed, tugging at the waist of my bikini bottom.
“Oui, Monsieur,” Paul said, his tone consistent, never altering.
Jacques had slid my bikini bottoms off my legs, instructing me to put my bottom in the air. “Keep your arms and head down.” I turned my head and saw that he’d lowered his swim trunks and was sliding a condom onto his penis. I could feel my pulse in my throat. I wanted to scream and run, but this was exactly what he was paying for. This was what I had agreed to in a contract. I was making a lot of money for this. Far more than I could make as a catalogue model.
“Uh!” My breath caught in my throat as I felt a jab into my vagina, but it wasn’t his penis, it was a finger, maybe two. I couldn’t tell.
“Ah, perfect,” he’d murmured, his fingers moving in and out of me, then exploring my lips before briefly rubbing my clit with his thumb and index finger. His voice was low and guttural. He rubbed my bottom and commented on the full roundness of it. “Definitely not built for modeling, but…” He slipped a finger deep into me and I gasped, “Yes, built for pleasure. Work it.” I didn’t know what he meant by ‘work it.’ I planned on asking Rene, one of the more experienced girls, a lot of questions when I returned to London. I could feel his penis pressing against me from behind. I trembled but wasn’t sure where it was coming from. “Spread more,” he demanded, pulling my legs apart. Then I felt it, his penis piercing me…pain…pain…I cried out, a sharp cry—more like a yelp, that surprised even me.
“Merde! Are you a virgin? Merde!” he shouted, freezing inside me.
“No, no, please—I’m not.” I sounded like I was pleading.
“You’ve done this before? Tell me, la fille, have you done this before? Tell me, say something,” he exhorted, squeezing my ass cheeks before starting to slide out of me.
“Yes, yes. I have.”
Pushing into me, he’d groaned. “So tight. Move against me,” he said, clutching my hips and pulling them toward him. I started moving to meet him, getting in sync with his thrusting. “Nice, nice,” he hissed, “let’s hear how much you like it. Come now.”
“Yes, yes, I like it. Please, I like it,” I had murmured without conviction. I was trying to adjust to the pain, the pressure, the ickiness, and, yes, the pleasure. All of it registered, but none of it made sense at that moment. I wondered if I could get used to offering this level of escort services.
He’d pumped in and out of me, demanding I make noise and meet his movements. I heard a guttural moan from behind me; his pumping lessoned, then stilled. I felt him pat my bottom as he pulled out. My body was stiff with nerves. I didn’t move, listening as he put on his swim trunks. “Put your suit on, and let’s have lunch,” he instructed, sitting next to me before handing me the bikini bottom. He extended a glass of Champagne to me and said, “La nana, sorry. I’m not good with inexperience. You’re beautiful. Men will want you. Just give it time.” There was a serious softness to his tone.
“Merci.” I silently cursed him, and myself, for letting him get to me.
Being with Jacques that first time was indelibly imprinted in my brain. I felt simultaneously embarrassed and turned on. I had wanted to explain to him that I really wasn’t a virgin. Still, the story was too convoluted, and I had been sworn to secrecy by way of an explicit NDA, prohibiting me from speaking about my relationship with the royal family. They had paid me a healthy sum to sleep with their son and act as his girlfriend for a full year. The compensation was outrageous, but the terms were very strict. We had sex only once. I was barely nineteen, and he was a scared eighteen-year-old. I would learn that night that the teenage boy had no desire to continue any physical relationship with me, or any other woman, but we both went through the motions as expected. I was released from that contract when it was obvious to the father that I would not be enough to change his son. For the next six months, I accepted only “arm-candy” escort assignments, no add-ons— the industry term for sexual services. Jacques was my first add-on since the prince. I had “crossed over” as they say in the industry, but I was still cautious of what I would agree to within a contract.
It was only because I’d pledged myself in a silly teenage way to Randall Adams that I had still been a virgin at nineteen. This semi-pledge had made me determined not to lose my virginity to some Joe Blow or John Citizen just because they were persistent. This meant I could meet the "virgin requirement” when this opportunity of a lifetime came along.
As time passed, she’d become more adept at the intricacies of the escort life: the doll-like expressions, the large doe eyes, the small, demure smile, the furtive glances, the light laughter at every semi-witty thing a client would say. That’s how she learned to deal with monied men. Men who had it all, not because of talent, character, or any mind-blowing impact they had on the world, but simply because they had money. It changed the way people viewed them, but not her. She told herself then that she was honing her acting skills to make it in Hollywood.
As she lay next to Jake now, staring into the dark room, she couldn’t help flinching with trepidation. She realized that in order to achieve her dreams, she was still beholden to men.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Rakell: I saw the dating game with you and Dwayne. You two make a great couple…Send
