Elizabeth Finn - The Devil’s Pawn

I don’t breathe until he’s left, and when he’s gone from the room, the comments start.

“Well, you’ve obviously fucked him.” From Angela or Emily—to be determined.

“And you obviously made an impression.” From Claudia, the beautiful Asian woman with the shiny, jet-black hair.

“Honestly, what the hell was that? I’ve never seen Mr. Pennington speechless before. Not really in his nature.” I think … yes, that was from Teresa.

I say nothing at all, knowing they have no idea what truly lies behind this bizarre encounter, but all continue to eye me speculatively. If they only knew how truly humiliating my first experience was with Derek, they wouldn’t be nearly so intrigued. Let them be intrigued. It’s far better than the reality of the matter. When my coffee is finished, I stand to leave for my room to get ready for my noon appointment with the tailor and gynecologist. As I stand, Liz does too, and she follows me from the room. She walks me to my room and enters after me.

She asks how I am, worry crossing her face, and I assure her that I’m fine. As I start setting out jeans and a T-shirt, she stops me cold. “You can’t wear that!”

“Why? I mean I’m just going to the tailor and the gynecologist. Do I really have to wear a dress to see a vagina doctor?”

She laughs at my sarcasm before continuing. “In fact, you do. You fuck for a living, dear Ashton, so yes, you wear dresses. They keep you easily accessible…”

“So I’m expected to sleep with the tailor and the gynecologist?” I blurt out incredulously.

Liz laughs again before continuing. “God no. The tailor is far too gay to care how accessible your vagina is, and the gynecologist is going to have you in a gown far more revealing than any dress we wear within minutes of you arriving. It’s just the expectation.”

My face falls at this fact, though, and I have to admit, “I don’t have any other dresses other than this one.”

The somewhat shocked look that passes over Liz’s beautiful face turns to a broad smile within only a moment as she continues. “Don’t worry. I’ll find you something that will work.”

She’s out the door without another word, and I retreat to the shower and let the warm water soothe my body. Once bathed, I walk back to the bedroom to see a black dress lying on the bed. It is short. Hooker short. I have to remind myself that I’m exactly that. I return to the bathroom to finish getting ready, not at all prepared to try on the dress yet. Again, my unruly curls go up in a bun, and I brush on some lip gloss.

When finally prepared to face the dress, I return to the bedroom once more and hurriedly work my way into it. It is a short version of a 1920s frock dress. The wide waistband hits at the hip, the neck is wide, and the dress sleeveless. The difference between Liz’s version and the 1920s version? No woman in her right mind would have been caught dead in a skirt cut this short in the 1920s; it’s mid-thigh, and I have to remind myself that I’m lucky. I’ve seen far shorter out on the street, but I’m used to 100 percent demure, or perhaps not demure, but at least asexual, so this will take some getting used to. As I look myself over in the mirror, I note the only things missing are a long strand of pearls, finger-waved hair, and a headband … and of course another foot or so of fabric. The long strand of pearls I can handle, but the finger waves and headband will have to wait for another time. I toss the pearls, fake of course, over my head and tie the strand in a loop at my chest before I exit my room.

Having gotten my coffee and a shower, I’m feeling better. On the ride down in the elevator, I’m actually somewhat optimistic about meeting with the tailor. I’m terrified that I’ll end up looking like a hooker—again I remind myself that’s exactly what I’m supposed to look like—but excited all the same. I am a girl, after all, and while not nearly as girly as the other women in this place, I am still capable of looking forward to playing dress-up for a while.

I check in with the front-desk receptionist as I reach the lobby, and she points me toward a darkened limousine sitting outside. Well, this is far different from the subway I’m used to on the odd occasion I can afford even that. I approach, and the driver hops from the front seat and, with a nod, opens the back door for me. I step into the cab, not noticing that I’m not alone until I’m fully within the cab and ready to sit back to seat myself. When I catch sight of him in the rear-facing bench seat across from me, I trip miserably on my own feet and fall to my knees in the space between us. Damn high heels. He watches me coolly, the good Mr. Pennington and his alleged “impressive” cock.

I swallow my dignity and right myself as smoothly as possible as the limo pulls from the curb. Mr. Pennington says nothing to me as his eyes move over my dress, taking in my appearance. Once finished, he looks out the window, bored. I say nothing for many seconds, trying to decide how to respond to his presence.

Finally, I speak. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

His eyes move from gazing out the window to look at me. “It’s my job to decide what you wear. I have to be here.”

With no other explanation being offered, he looks back out the window to the passing cityscape. I resort to doing the same, suddenly a bundle of apprehension. We pull up to a small elegant shop no more than ten minutes later, and as the driver opens the door, Derek waits for me to exit before stepping out himself. What a gentleman.

We walk into the shop together and are greeted by the very gay Jacob, who is expecting us. He shows us to an expansive fitting room, leaving us to collect the few dresses he’s pulled for me. Derek takes a seat in a plush armchair as I stand awkwardly by. The room is mirrored on two sides. A small moveable platform sits in the center of the room for hemming. As I stand fidgeting with my back turned to Derek, I see him in the mirror appraising my look. As I watch, he lets his eyes move up my legs to the short skirt. He continues up my body, stopping at my bottom briefly before continuing up my back. The wide neck of the dress falls in a low scoop halfway down my back, and his eyes stall there, regarding, judging, or just plain hating the look. I can’t tell. When his eyes eventually leave my back and meet mine in the mirror, I suck in a quick breath as my face flushes. Derek, on the other hand, calmly eyes me impassively as my core trembles and my face turns redder with every passing second.

Jacob interrupts this awkward encounter only moments later when he returns to our room carrying an armful of dresses with him. I set about the task of trying on the dresses in front of two men, one of which hates me and the other of which is too gay to care I’m a woman. I realize too late that my cotton boy-cut brief underwear were perhaps not the wisest choice for the occasion. As Derek takes in my undergarments for the first time as I pull Liz’s dress off over my head, his eyebrows raise in shock at my emasculate choice.

Jacob notices as well and giggles—yes he’s that gay—in amusement while shaking his head and commenting to Derek. “You’ve obviously got yourself an interesting one here, huh?”

Derek looks to my eyes briefly before returning the comment. “You have no idea.”

As I try on dress after dress, Derek strikes down every one. The dresses are outlandishly sexual, and lewd in many cases, and I’m happy he hates them. But what the hell is he expecting? Jacob finally gives up trying and asks Derek that very question. Derek’s only response, “Demure.” Now demure, I can do.

Jacob appears stunned for a moment but exits the room, returning minutes later with evening gowns that actually look like evening gowns. I try on a number of satin and silk gowns that fall slimly against my skin and hug my slight curves. Derek appraises each, nodding his approval before Jacob starts pinning the too-large dresses onto my small frame.