‘We don’t have a deal yet.’

‘True,’ he says, and retracts his hand, but the smile on his face is taunting and smug.  He knows she needs the money.

The rest of the journey passes in silence while Lana’s stomach churns.  She is so nervous she actually feels afraid she will lose the few vegetables she has eaten on the floor of the cab.  Fortunately, the taxi turns into Bishop’s Avenue and they come to a stop outside a large, white, three-story Regency house.  There are fancy cars parked bumper to bumper along the length of the street.  Rupert pays the cab driver and they walk up a short flight of steps to a set of black doors.  Rupert rings the bell and through the tall windows Lana sees the kind of people that she has only seen in magazines.  Immaculately dressed and dripping in jewelry.  She looks down upon her cheap orange dress in dismay.  She pulls at the hem, but her efforts at modesty are counter-productive, as more of her cleavage falls into view.

‘Don’t worry,’ Rupert lies cheerfully.  ‘You’ll do.’

A round man in an old-fashioned butler’s uniform opens the door.  His manner suggests disdain.  He can tell instantly they do not belong.  Rupert haughtily informs him that they are guests of Blake Barrington.  The man eyes register recognition.  A glimmer of a smile surfaces.  He nods politely and stands aside to welcome them in.  Lana takes a deep breath, enters the grand hallway and stifles a gasp at her splendid surroundings.

From outside it did not appear so large and spacious.  She has never been anywhere so beautiful.  Now she understands what Rupert meant by the smell of old money.  The walls are covered with museum quality paintings.  She gazes up at the cherubs and Madonna-like women looking down at her with awe.  They are so beautiful that she wants a closer look, but Rupert is guiding her firmly by the elbow towards a sort of anteroom where a young woman takes her coat in exchange for a ticket.

From two open doorways live classical music and voices emanate.  A waiter carrying a tray of champagne stops in front of them.  Lana has hardly drunk at the restaurant in an effort to remain sober and level-headed, but now she knows she must be drunk or she will never be able to go through her deal with the devil.  A pasty white devil with dandruff.

Lana takes a glass, and with a restraining hand on the surprised waiter’s arm, drains the tall flute.  The bubbles hit her at the back of her throat and make her eyes water.  She returns the empty glass to the tray and snags another two.

‘Thanks,’ she says breathlessly, and the waiter, a young Mediterranean type, allows his dark, restless eyes to wander down to her chest.

Rupert watches her with feral, excited eyes.  He wants her drunk.  He has plans for her.  He guides her by the small of her back into one of the rooms.  Lana looks at the other women’s clothes.  They probably cost more than she makes in a year.  Lana feels many pairs of eyes on her.  She is aware that she stands out like a sore thumb.  She looks towards the string quartet and finds their eyes on her too. Damn that Barrington guy for inviting them here.  She sucks her champagne glass dry.  Another waiter passes and she pulls another glass from the tray.

‘Go easy,’ Rupert warns.

She turned towards him with a bright smile.  ‘I thought you wanted me drunk and pliable.’

He takes her elbow and leads her deeper into the room close to a large palm plant.  With his back to the party he says, ‘I don’t like fucking inert bodies.’

Her eyes widen.  The champagne has already gone to her head.  No time better than now.  She feels courageous again.  ‘OK, I’m ready to talk terms now.  ‘Right, you don’t want inert bodies.  What do you want?’

From the camel’s lips came cold breath. ‘Have you read Fifty Shades Of Grey?’

Almost all the other girls at the agency have read the book and she has been present while they have raved about it, but she has been confused by its popularity.  Did women really have a secret desire to be owned by a powerful man?  Could it be love when a man wants to tie you up and flog you raw?  When she mentioned it to her mother, her mother had smiled and astutely remarked, ‘The Western woman sneered at the woman in the purdah and now she dons a dog collar and worships at the same altar.’  Lana looks into his pale eyes.  ‘No, but isn’t it about a sick man who abuses his lover?’

‘Perhaps it is not a sickness, but a matter of taste.’

‘Is that what you want from me?’

‘Not quite.  What I really like is taking a woman by force.  A dangerous activity likely to end me behind bars, so I am willing to settle for consensual rape.  You will meet me in parks and alleyways, or I will pick you up in my car from a street corner and you will pretend to resist while I overpower you and rape you.  There will be a bit of pain and sometimes it will involve a little bleeding, but I will never mark your face or leave any permanent scars.  And when I am finished I will leave you in the gutter to make your own way back.  Would that be acceptable to you?’

Shocked to her core, Lana hears her own voice as if from far away say, ‘How many times would you expect this…service from me?’

‘Let’s say five times?’

She feels as if she is a stick-figured bird precariously perched on a thin wire.  Rupert’s face is frozen into a cold mask.  A businessman to the end.  Ten thousand must be the going price.  The champagne has made her feel quite light-headed.  He is waiting for something from her. He has already figured that her body is her last option.  Can she really agree to let someone rape her?  Unable to speak she nods.

‘Perhaps I should let you lick the brim to taste the poison,’ he murmurs, and moves closer to her.  Instinctively, she takes a step back on her tall shoes, and if not for the solid wall against her back, would have fallen.  With the trailing fronds of a palm tree and his big body hiding her from the party his hand comes up to pinch her right nipple.  So hard she gasps in shock and pain.  He takes that opportunity to crash down on her open mouth, bumps his teeth against her lips, and pokes a pointy, muscular tongue into her mouth.  His tongue tastes coppery and bitter.

Copious amounts of saliva pour into her mouth making her want to gag.  The oysters she has not eaten but watched him eat flash into her mind.  His tongue feels slimy and dirty.  She wants to brush her teeth, rinse, spit, and rinse again with the extra-strong mouthwash that her father used to have in the bathroom cabinet.  She truly needs to go somewhere and be sick, but pinned tightly by his strong ox-like body to the wall she finds herself totally unable to move.  She feels his hand force itself between her thighs and slide up quickly.  His rough, sausages-like fingers are already grasping the rim of her knickers and pushing the material aside.  And there is not a single thing she can do about it.  Tears gather at the backs of her eyes and begin to roll down her face.

Suddenly he removes his mouth and looks down at her.  Her face is white with horror and she is gasping for breath.  He brings up a hand and touches her face.  Her distress seems to please him. Her suffering is his pleasure.  She is playing the part perfectly.  If she had enjoyed it, it would have spoilt it for him.

‘For most part the symptoms of excitement and fear are so similar most men cannot tell the difference.  I can,’ he whispers close to her ear, his thick fingers moving into the folds of her flesh.  ‘I am going to finger-fuck you amongst all these high and mighty people and none of them will ever know.’

She is filled with loathing for him.  Her brain scrambles for escape.  ‘Don’t you care,’ she whispers back, through horrified lips, ‘what these people will think of us?  Of you?  I thought you were pleased to be in the company of the crème de la crème of society.’