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One rose was crooked. Monique stood in front of the long dining table, the late afternoon sunlight blinding the others while she remained determined to figure out how to make that blasted rose not so crooked.
“It’s hardly noticeable,” said Sybil, one of the ladies who worked for her. That evening, she wore a black cocktail dress accented with pearls, her makeup bright on the lips and smoky around the eyes. Sybil fancied herself a 21st-century flapper. Not that she ever got the terminology down… but she could quoteThe Great Gatsbyuntil her patron rolled over and fell asleep in bed. “Nobody is going to care if a single rose is crooked.”
“I’ll care.” Monique twisted the stem, the dewy red petals shifting into their new place. When she dropped her hand, however, one of the thorns nicked her fingertip.
“Oh, dear.” Sybil shuffled to an antique coffee table at the edge of the dining room. One of the drawers opened. Sybil pulled outa first aid kit and fetched the smallest Band-Aid she could find. “Do you need alcohol?”
Yes. Not the kind Sybil was thinking of, however. What Monique needed was a glass of wine or maybe some brandy to settle her nerves. “No, thank you. The bandage is fine.”
She let her employee put the bandage on before dismissing her to the kitchen, where Sybil was to discover the status of their dinner.One hour.This was the night Monique hated the most in her business. The night every patron and their guests came for a banquet of both the stomach and the loins.
Monique knew what she signed up for when she opened her house of sadomasochistic pleasure, especially when she catered to some of the most elite in the country, let alone the world. The money was there. The desire was there. What was also there was a lot of planning, plenty of stress, and God knew a lot of tiny things that frayed Monique’s nerves. Like a damned rose too crooked for a bouquet.
None of the patrons would notice, sure. Just like they wouldn’t notice that one window had a smudge on it, or that the napkins weren’t neatly folded, or that one place setting had the forks on the wrong side. They wouldn’t notice because those mistakes were no longer there. From the moment they walked through the doors of Monique’s Manoir, they were treated like royalty. Presidents. Gods. Everything was just right. Even the five women Monique employed as entertainers were about as perfect as women got. Oh, they had their physical and emotional flaws like anyone else, but they were trained to give and receive pain of the highest order, depending on what the customer wanted. Every employee had customers she saw once or on a semi-regular basis. They also had patrons. Rich, powerful individuals who paid for specific privileges that the average person coming through the doors couldn’t dream of.
All five patrons were coming tonight. Once a month, the Manoir hosted a banquet for all five women and their patrons. Usually, only two or three came. Tonight was the first time since the Manoir opened its doors that all five decided to grace it with their presence at the same time.
For Monique, that meant more work ensuring everything was prepared. The cooks had to be perfect on the pain of firing. The maids had their outfits inspected multiple times. Monique even went so far as to hold their nails up to her eyes to make sure they weren’t too sharp or dirty. The patrons weren’t allowed to touch them, but they had to look impeccable. These were people who were used to the world kowtowing to them, and Monique would not let them receive anything less.
It was business, but it was also personal. Monique was a sub. A Mistressless sub, but a sub, nonetheless. After spending the past ten years of her life living the existence of a full-time submissive, she knew nothing else. So when her last relationship ended, opening such a house of ill repute was all that mattered.
The Manoir was not a brothel. Everything was legal, although legalities were stretched. Police often arrived to inspect the goings-on. Monique was ready for them, too.
“Chef says dinner is going as scheduled,” Sybil said, waltzing in as if she were Monique’s #2.She likes to think she is. The ladies were all equal in her eyes, although petty squabbles over who would retire the richest happened. “Anything else I can do?”
“Prepare for your patron.” Sybil couldn’t seriously think she was dressed for success that night. Her patron, Mr. Carlisle, was too used to Sybil’s aesthetic. He probably didn’t know it, but he would soon grow tired if Sybil didn’t mix it up once in a while.It’s my job to know that for him.People liked it when others anticipated their needs and wants before they even had an inkling. Mind reader, they called her. No, Monique was observant, and many individuals were the same.
The hour passed quickly. In the end, Monique was almost the one to embarrass them all when she wasn’t immediately there to meet Mr. Carlisle in the foyer. She was busy touching up the last of her makeup in the Ready Room at the top of the stairs. The Manoir was so large that it was ridiculous to expect any of the employees to run between their rooms and the front of the building. The Ready Room was where they kept backup supplies and could clean up if necessary. When Mr. Carlisle was announced, Monique nearly stabbed herself in the eye with her mascara.
She hurried to smooth out her dress, fluff her hair, and make sure she was steady in her shoes. When she reached the top of the grand staircase, however, she was the goddess of poise and the kind of grace her last Mistress expected.Don’t think of her here. To conjure that woman’s image in Monique’s mind was to invite death into her heart.
“Mr. Carlisle,” she greeted, hand extending to shake his. “You’re early tonight.”
“Sorry for the inconvenience.” He removed his outer coat and handed it to Sybil, who took it with a graceful bow and hung it up in the wide closet by the door. “My guest canceled earlier today, so I came when I was ready. Don’t mind me, Madam. Sybil will take good care of me.” He wrapped his arm around Sybil’s midsection when she returned, planting a kiss on her cheek. “She always does.”
Still, Monique could not let them go without making sure Mr. Carlisle’s needs were tended to. Eventually, she passed him to Sybil’s care and escorted them to the Receiving Room adjacent to the dining room. The last thing Monique saw before closing the door was Sybil ‘pouring her patron a glass of liquor from one of the Manoir’s many wet bars.
“Ms. Witherspoon and Ms. Warner.” The doorman’s voice was steady. It helped that he was also the primary bouncer should a client get too rough. “Here to receive their salutations.”
“Shit,” Monique muttered. This is what she hated about them all showing up the same night. She wouldn’t rest until they left the next morning… if she rested at all. She also had no idea who this Ms. Warner was, and meeting new clients in the Manoir could be risky. However, she was the guest of Ms. Samantha Witherspoon, the patron of another lady named Chelsea. Sure enough, Chelsea, with her platinum blond hair and red cocktail dress, was there to take the coats of both her patron and their guest.
Samantha Witherspoon was a nondescript woman of many, many means.Old money.Stinking rich money that nobody could remember the origins of, but it was probably nefarious, and thus best buried in the annals of history. The woman had a receding hairline but did her best to look presentable in a wrinkle-free designer dress and some of the nicest perfume Monique had the pleasure of smelling.
Ms. Witherspoon’s guest, on the other hand, was a stark contrast.
“This is my old friend, Helen Warner,” Ms. Witherspoon said with a flourish to the tall individual behind her. “We went to St. Agnes together. I told you about St. Agnes, right, Madam?”
Monique nodded. “Of course. Home of the best lacrosse team this coast has ever seen.”
“That’s right!” Monique hadn’t remembered anything. Ms. Witherspoon was the type who lived for her glory days, even if those days were in a private high school for elite students. Almost all those girls played lacrosse. And every one of those schools had “the best lacrosse team on that coast.”
“You were introducing me to Ms. Warner?”
“Oh, forgive me.” Ms. Witherspoon gestured to her friend, who demurely nodded. “Helen and I are in similar fields of business. She was in town this weekend, so I told her she should come and live like a queen for a night.”
As long as she doesn’t expect anything. With all the other patrons there, the talent was booked for the whole night. Usually, guests were relegated to employees whose patrons hadn’t shown up, assuming they liked each other enough. The women worked there willingly, and if they didn’t like a prospective client, they were allowed to decline an invitation to rendezvous in her room, a lounge, or the Dungeon. Of course, a lady who turned down too many clients wasn’t any good to Monique. Yet there was one, Yvette, who turned down almost everyone except her rich patron who more than paid for her residency.She really should move out. As much as Monique liked the money, she liked having a thriving business more. A thriving business meant customers seeing many clients for spankings and dirty talk.
“Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Warner. I hope you enjoy your stay here.”
