Masked Definitions Read online

  Masked Definitions

  A. E. Murphy

  Cover Design and Formatting by Dedicated Ink

  © A. E. Murphy 2016

  ISBN: 978-1536944525

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.

  As always there are so many people I’d like to thank for being amazing and solid influences in my life.

  I’ll start by apologising to my readers for the delay in this book’s release. I underestimated how tired I’d be when starting my new job. I’m so sorry and I really hope you find that it was worth the wait. Thank you so much for your patience.

  To my partner, Ali. You have worked yourself tirelessly and to the limit to support me in my writing and new job. I don’t know how you do it but I certainly appreciate it.

  To my kids for being so strong, helpful and caring. Never do you complain when I can’t do the things you want to do because of work. I love you. I don’t know what I did to be blessed with such amazing spawn.

  To Elisia Goodman, thank you for being such a perfect friend and for formatting this book so swiftly. I wish you all the best in your many endeavours.

  To Adriana Rizak-Healing, thank you for helping me with this story every step of the way. Without your encouragement I would have scrapped it thousands of words ago. You’re amazing and I can’t imagine life without you.

  To Samantha Louise Heaney, thank you for my camel magnet. It’s as if it was made just for me.

  To Addi Whillock, you’re insane. Don’t ever change.

  Rivka Spicer, as always you are bloody brilliant and you manage to twist my terrible writing into something pretty without complaint. Thank you.

  To everybody I met in Essex, I apologise for the after party. That’s what happens when I have too much vodka. I appreciate you all purchasing the penis lollies. They were heavy.

  I’m dedicating this one to my readers. It is your continued support that pushes me to test the limits of my imagination and your continued love that gives me the courage necessary to release it all. I really hope you enjoy this one.

  “What exactly can you do?” His words echo through my mind over and over again. I can still see his eyes, hungrily scanning me up and down as I pulled my hair bobble from my hair, letting my thick dark waves cascade around my shoulders.

  “Everything,” I muttered and my tongue skimmed my lips. My eyes never left his; that’s trick number one. Peer into their soul and make them feel like they’re the only man in the world that you’d act like a whore for. Make them feel like it’s their masculinity and their cock that has you all twisted up inside. Whisper little moans as you rub your body and gaze at them, letting them think that they’re the only person you pleasure yourself over. “I can make you come just by sitting on your lap.”

  “Show me.”

  I showed him and now I’m showering the lingering filth from my body. True to his word he didn’t touch me; he only watched and begged me to let him use my body as his little fuck doll. Those were his words. He called me his whore, his mistress, he asked me if I liked to be dirty… naughty. Which I did and I told him so too.

  And then when he released his pleasure onto the inside of his expensive underwear, he gave me the job and cheered that I was going to make him rich.

  My new name by night is Masked Enna.

  My name by day is Olivia.

  “FUCKING NO!” Max yells, throwing his empty can at the box TV only three feet in front of him. “Pass the ball you bunch of skinny legged pricks!”

  “You’ve been gambling again.” I frown and pick up the can from the ground before tossing it into the bin by the door. I can always tell when he’s been gambling because he never watches sports otherwise and he certainly doesn’t get angry at them unless money is riding on it.

  “Don’t be a bitch; it was only a tenner. Besides, they’re going to win and I’m going to take you out for a fancy meal on Friday night.” He pulls me onto his lap and presses his lips to mine. I smile against his mouth and deepen the kiss, leaving us both breathless and wanting. It’s probably not the best mood to leave him in, considering my profession. “Now get your arse to work before you’re late.”

  My husband Max, whom I married at the tender age of eighteen, is currently in between jobs. He’s a hard worker, he just can’t seem to keep his temper in check or his hands to himself. Then there’s the fact he has a bit of a gambling problem, which he won’t admit to. I’ve been on the losing end of that gambling addiction more than once. He has promised he’s getting better and, until tonight, it seemed that way too.

  Things will get better; he’s battling depression.

  I say to myself and hug him tight.

  “I’ll see you later,” I say softly and kiss him again, running my fingers through his short dark hair.

  He doesn’t watch me as I pull on my coat and sling my bag over my shoulder. Nor does he say goodbye as I leave without him. Sometimes it upsets me that he doesn’t want to walk me to work, but then again I’m glad that he doesn’t because if he did, he’d discover my true profession and that would probably be the end of us.

  I walk around the corner to where the usual shiny black Range Rover waits for me with its tinted windows. I shouldn’t be so bold as to keep getting picked up so close to home, but I don’t live in a good neighbourhood. It’s dark out and there have been two muggings on my street in the last month alone.

  “Hurry up.” Rick, my boss, pushes open the door from within the car and I climb inside, relieved to feel the heat blowing out of the dash. “It’s fucking freezing out there.”

  “Hmm.” I grab a mask from the glove compartment and hold it up to the window. My eyes go to Rick.

  He blushes. “Don’t look at me like that.”

  “It’s new.”

  “I had it made.”

  My fingers smooth over the hard masquerade mask. It’s black with tiny black and white gems creating patterns around the eye holes. The bottom has a layer of tight lace, which covers my mouth, giving my client only a shadowed look of my full lips. Even though my clients will never see it, I apply nude lip colours to my mouth and carefully perfect my liner like Picasso would perfect his paintings.

  I call it my war paint. It gives me courage before my battle with a man’s libido.

  “It came at the perfect time too. I have a new client for you.” His grin is wicked but I’m not interested.

  “I’m fully booked.” I pull the mask on and clip it all into place. It fits like a dream.

  “You’re never too fully booked for this man.”

  My brow arches. “He’s important?”

  “He owns this fucking city, baby.”

  Cringe. “I hate it when you call me that.”

  His answer is to laugh and turn the radio up. “This guy will make you rich.”

  “You say that every time,” I mutter and stare ahead.

  “It’s working isn’t it?”

  “Slowly.”

  “You’re bringing in the dollar, baby. You’ll get your bonus cut soon enough.”

  “Don’t talk like that.” I frown at him, though he can’t see the frown through the mask. This is one of the reasons I love them so much; the smooth velvet lining does wonders for my complexion and nobody can see how I feel about anything. I’m emotionally shut off from the world because of one thin piece of metal and fabric. “You sound like you’re trying to be a teenager and it doe
sn’t suit you.”

  “What the fuck ever,” he sniggers, showing crooked teeth and eye wrinkles. “So, you’ll do the new guy?”

  “I never do the guys, Rick.” I lean in and whisper in his ear, loving it when he shivers. “I ruin them for all other women.”

  “A-fucking-men, baby. That you do.”

  We arrive at the club, parking in the underground garage which can house up to twenty cars. Members have to pay extra to use this facility and only trusted ones get to use it.

  The girls, though none of them wear a mask like myself, are all high-class. All of them come from money. All of them have status and standing in society, not including myself, so our identities need to be kept safe.

  My favourite lady of the club is Meah. Unsurprisingly her favourite client is her wealthy husband’s closest friend. Scandalous by far, if anyone were to find out it would ruin her, but I suppose that’s what makes it all the more fun.

  This is why they’ve all joined; most of them don’t even need the money. It’s the thrill they seek, the adventure.

  “You go on up to your room and get ready. You’ve got a busy night.”

  I always have. When word got around the members that there was a new girl in the building, I had them fighting for time slots. When word got around of my particular talents… well I haven’t had a dull night since.

  I am not complaining. Not at all.

  I think the fact I wear a mask adds to the excitement too. They all want to know who I am. They all think they know who I am. You’d think they’d just rip my mask off to discover that I’m a nobody, but they’d be immediately barred and it would ruin the illusion I’ve created for them.

  I enter my room after using the service elevator to take me to the second floor. Even the service elevator is fancy. This entire building from top to bottom is elegant and would suit a royal. It’s funny how the beige walls and gold frames are nothing more than the mask of a seedy club in which men shoot their seed along the ass cheeks of women.

  I just dance and touch but I know that in this building lies the next level of women. Women who sell their bodies to the highest bidder.

  You wouldn’t think so, looking at the hand crafted candlesticks and pretentious art work.

  My room isn’t huge but it isn’t small either. I have a chaise on one side with an almost empty bookshelf behind it. A nearby mini fridge is full of drinks, snacks and a few tubes of unused flavoured lube. I don’t know why or how they got in there. They weren’t in there on Thursday of last week but they were in there Friday. Nobody else uses my room; I’d know. There’s only one desk with a large curved mirror and it’s my makeup that’s scattered along the surface. All of it is untouched. It might be messy but it’s a mess that I alone understand.

  Max: I miss you. Don’t be home too late.

  I smile at my husband’s text. I love it when he’s sweet to me.

  Olivia: I’ll try. <3

  I won’t try. It doesn’t matter how early I leave work, he‘ll be asleep when I get home after drinking his weight in beer.

  I poke my pretty mask after applying my makeup, making sure the translucent lace covers my near-perfect pout. My lips are slightly lopsided but thankfully it’s nothing a little contouring and lip liner can’t fix.

  I rid myself of my everyday clothing, which usually consists of jeans and a large jumper for cold days, or flowery dresses in the summer. I don’t normally go for revealing clothing; I never have. You wouldn’t believe it looking at me now as I spray my body with water, using the en-suite shower. I’m clean, but I like to be extra clean for my clients. There’s nothing worse than exposing yourself to a paying customer and having something trapped in your folds.

  It’s inevitable in real life; it’s going to happen and there’s nothing weird or gross about it, but everything here, in this building, is a fantasy. I have to be as perfect as an anime character.

  As I’m drying myself, the phone by the door rings. I answer it and wait for Rosie to give me my list of clients for the night.

  I’m surprised to hear Rick’s voice on the receiver. “Remember what I told you in the car?”

  “Of course.”

  “He’s on his way to the suite now. He likes lace.”

  “Okay.” My heart begins to race with anticipation. “Who is he?”

  “You know I can’t say.” Three months ago I was made to sign a tonne of non-disclosure contracts and other such documents. The bosses don’t tell us who we’re dancing for and they don’t tell them who’s dancing for them. If it so happens that the dancer recognises the client or vice versa, it has to be dealt with in a professional manner and never spoken of outside the club again.

  “I know the protocol but a bit of a warning never goes amiss, Rick.”

  “He’s a Duke.”

  I laugh a little. “It’s the twenty-first century. Does that even mean anything these days?”

  “Out of respect,” he bites and I fear I may have angered him. “It does. But he isn’t just a Duke, baby. He owns this fucking city. He has hands in all pockets. But you didn’t hear shit from me.”

  “I don’t even know who you are.” I hang up the phone and move to the mirror. I stare at the reflection of my naked body and watch the shadow of my mouth move as I say, “He likes lace.”

  Let’s give him lace.

  The door is closed, as I knew it would be. Shade, the large security guard assigned to this floor, gives me a small nod of acknowledgement before looking back to the numerous screens that show a downward view of each room. There are two other guards leaning against the walls farther down the dimly lit hallway. Though there is very rarely an incident, security is a must. The men aren’t allowed to touch. They touch, it ruins the suspense.

  We are their forbidden fruit; if they take a bite, it’s not as whole as it was when dangling from the tree, or in this case, from the pole.

  It is imperative that the men do not touch. Touching loses business. They come back because they love the tease, not because they love the taste.

  As Rick says, all pussy tastes the same but none of it looks the same. Whatever that means.

  I open the door to the suite and step into the darkened room. I give my eyes a moment to adjust to the red light. I still have yet to automatically adjust to it like the other girls said I would. It has been three months.

  “Well, aren’t you exquisite?” A heavy yet posh cut-glass Queen’s English accent sounds in the darkened room.

  I don’t falter in my routine.

  “And I have yet to see an inch of flesh.” His voice is deep, alluring. I find it attractive. This isn’t the first time I’ve felt like this over a voice and it won’t be the last. “Show me your body.”

  Demanding, isn’t he?

  I turn to face the mirrored room. Each wall is covered with reflective glass to give the client the best view of his ‘money.’

  “Are you hard of hearing?” He snaps, sounding impatient as I finally see him sitting in what can only be described as a throne. All men pick that choice when in this room. It has a seven foot high back, a seat pad of cushioned velvet, arms of hand carved wood, as thick as my thigh, and the legs are made of gold. Yes, real gold. It’s an odd sight but I won’t deny that seeing a man sat in that chair, as I bare my body to him, gets me excited.

  I blow out a breath and prepare my ‘show’ voice. Because that’s what this is to me. A show. Nothing more.

  “Girl.”

  “Do I look like a girl to you?” I ask brazenly, my voice husky, sultry and low as I stop before him just out of reach. My sternum is level with his head. He must be tall. Taller than most.

  “I have yet to see you behind that lovely lace gown you’re wearing. I’ll judge you then, if it would please you.” He leans forward in his seat, giving me a better view of his face.

  For a long moment I’m startled. He’s handsome and so much younger than my usual clients. He can’t be over thirty-three.

  His dark hair casts a coppery
glow in the red light, though I have no doubt that in the sun it would be jet black. It has been smoothed back and just slightly curls around the back of his ears. The front frames his face like the top of a love heart, the ends coming to rest against chiselled cheekbones.

  It’s his eyes that capture me the most. They’re so light. In this darkness I cannot tell if they’re an icy, steely grey, or a blue, or a green. I just know that if I stare into them for too long he may pull my soul from my body and hold it captive forever.

  “Get on with it, then.” He snaps, and his interested eyes become quickly doused and look away. “I don’t have all evening.”

  “Yet you booked me for the entirety of it.” I state and bring my hands to the top of my gown.

  “I like the way you speak. It’s very cultured. Are you high-born?”

  I almost laugh but my character remains strong and seductive. “Questions cost.”

  “I have money.”

  “I have no doubt.” I pull the cord that is tied around my neck, which releases the fabric, allowing it to spill open as I bend forward, keeping my tight, toned rear in the air as I go eye to eye with the man I’m about to own. He smells delicious, like vanilla and leather. “But questions don’t cost money.”

  “No?” He quirks a brow and strokes the lace that is draping over his leg. Then his eyes come back to mine before I dip my face into his neck and blow the slightest breath along his jaw from his ear to his chin. I hear him gulp. “What do they cost?”

  “My time.” I pull back, allowing him to stare at my mouth through the lace long enough to notice my smirk.

  “Is that not the same thing?”

  I smile fully and run the tips over my fingers over the backs of his hands, ever so gently. “Perhaps.”

  “How old are you?” His hand comes up to loosen his tie. He’s not the first man to arrive here in a suit. In the same way that my mask is my armour, I’d say their suit is theirs. I have this theory that when they don the suit they remain the ever astute business man, but when they take it off they can relieve themselves of their ruthlessness and selfishness.