Elizabeth Finn: The Devil’s Pawn

Trimbles occupies the top five floors of the twenty-five-story building, and our particular floor is the very top level. As we exit the elevator, we enter a long corridor with very high ceilings. It looks like a five-star hotel, except there are only perhaps five doors on each side of the corridor in a space that would likely contain twice as many rooms were it a hotel. Liz walks me to the far end of the hall, and we enter a large expansive area through a set of French doors. The room beyond is open with the same tall ceilings. It is a living room of sorts. Furniture is arranged in a central area and faces an expansive entertainment center with the very latest high-tech gadgetry. There are two sectional sofas that create a sort of horseshoe design meant to accommodate a group comfortably.

Off to the side of the living area is a pool table and sound system. Behind that space is a large dining room with an oversized dining room table that can fit twelve comfortably. Beside the dining area is an expansive kitchen, open to the rest of the great room. It is, like everything else in the room, designed with the highest-end appliances and cabinetry. On the other side of the kitchen is a media space with more seating. This corner of the great room sits on the outside corner of the building, and the two expansive walls of the building meet here, but the expansive walls are actually walls of windows offering an incredibly amazing view of the city. The room in its entirety is larger than most houses I’ve been in, and is appointed far more impressively than any home I’ve ever seen. My world consists of dark, cheap hotel rooms that smell, a different room every night as I move around constantly. This home will be mine, and whatever nightmares I endure here, I will at least have a warm, clean, and dry place to sleep.

Liz explains this is our common living space. The individual rooms assigned to the women are large bedrooms with their own bathrooms, but the living space is shared. Mr. Pennington’s space is on the opposite end of the long corridor and is a full apartment with a living space and kitchen of its own. After showing me around the kitchen and touring the great room, she escorts me along the corridor to what will be my room. It is directly opposite Mr. Pennington’s apartment and is the last room available on the floor. That leaves eight women living on this floor. There are six rooms along one side of the corridor, mine included, and on the opposite side of the corridor is Mr. Pennington’s apartment, and then the short side corridor that houses the elevators, and then two more rooms and the great room.

As we enter my room, I see that my bags have already been brought up and placed at the foot of the bed. The room is impressive. Again, the outside wall is one expansive window from the floor to the high ceiling. There are drapes that can be closed, but I can’t imagine what would ever make me want to block out that view. The bed is a massive king-sized contemporary platform bed that sits with its head against the window wall. It has no headboard, and the platform is designed with simple straight lines. The furniture is equally simple, but beautiful. There is a dresser, a chaise lounge and a TV mounted to the wall. The bathroom sits off the side of the room and has a double sink, large soaker tub, and separate shower. The toilet is in a small, separate private room. The expansive walk-in closet is also accessed from within the bathroom.

As we return to the bedroom, Liz sits in the chaise, and I sit on the bed nearby. It’s time to review the rules and expectations, and I wonder oddly if there is anything other than fucking me, and begrudgingly at that, that Derek will do. But Liz explains her role further when she advises me that she’s the floor’s senior escort, and it is her responsibility to help me acclimate to our house. As she reviews the rules, my heart lurches with each passing statement. She speaks as if she is speaking to anyone anywhere while reviewing the ins and outs of being an escort, and I have to remind myself that speaking about sex so overtly is quite a normal thing here, and of course, it would be.

First and foremost, we’re expected to accommodate the wishes of our clients to the extent that we can safely do so. We’re expected to have sex, vaginal and oral, at any time our client might request it during our time with them. We are also expected to have anal sex, but are only required to agree to this once every two weeks, though you can agree more often if you choose because it does pay better, and as such, women often choose to engage in this act more often than they are required. Other women, who find the act distasteful and uncomfortable, appreciate the small measure of control it affords them. I have a feeling I will fall into the latter of these categories. I’m terrified enough about having sex. Anal sex is a whole other monster for me to fear.

Women are not to orgasm unless asked to by their clients. Some like for women to orgasm, others prefer they not. Clients are required to use a condom when engaged in vaginal and anal sex. They are not to come inside a woman’s mouth. House managers are exempt from the safety precautions, as their sexual health is as managed as the escorts’. We are expected to be well groomed, and it will be up to Derek whether I keep my pubic hair or lose it altogether. The other women of the house are waxed completely, and so I should expect the same. I’m to wear dresses on the gaming room floor, when I am with Derek, and whenever I leave Trimbles. Makeup is required, but we have a spa that will handle choosing the appropriate cosmetics and hairstyle for me. I sure hope they throw in lessons as well.

We are monitored closely by cameras in our bedrooms and bathrooms, and as I follow Liz’s hand as she points up to the corner of the room, I notice, for the first time, the small, black dome mounted in the corner of the room. It is able to monitor every inch of the room. The other is mounted in the corner of the bathroom and covers all visible area in that room as well. The only areas that aren’t watched by camera are the walk-in closet and the toilet room off the bathroom.

Liz goes on to explain that Mr. Pennington has access to view the footage in real time or turn over control to the security department that monitors all working time of the women from all four houses. Mr. Pennington can’t monitor all activities of his women on any given night, and he is often in the gaming room for the better portion of the night as well, so it is the primary responsibility of the security department to monitor the activities of the women and report any problems to the appropriate house manager. It sends a chill up my spine to imagine Mr. Pennington watching my every move should he choose to do so. He could be watching my interaction with Liz at this very moment, and it is an unnerving thought I find hard to shake. However, since he seems to hate me, I’m guessing he’s doing just about anything else in the world but watching me … I hope.

Liz continues talking, moving on to Mr. Pennington and what his expectations are. It is a far less procedural and far simpler experience that she relates. There are no set rules when working with your house manager. They are all different, and so she can tell me only what she knows through her own history with him. He is cold and difficult to read. No duh… But, he isn’t violent, and he has no real interest in punishing his women. He fucks hard and always from behind, shocking given his oh-so-personable attitude. He will rarely, if ever, give his women permission to come. He also follows the house procedure to a T and uses condoms whenever he has sex with one of his women, though he’s not required to. He also refrains from coming in his women’s mouths, though as a manager, again he could choose to if he wished. But according to Liz, “his cock is impressive,” and she never leaves dissatisfied, though she always “finishes” herself off with her vibrator when she returns to her room. Again with the overt language and description. I blush furiously at her casual tone, and I haven’t the slightest idea how I’m supposed to respond. I can’t help but wonder, in my overly naïve brain, what exactly an “impressive cock” looks like, but I terrifyingly acknowledge I’ll likely find out soon enough.