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anyway.
    Men touched me. They did it all the time, and I was used to it. None of it meant anything to me. They sucked on my nipples, and I moaned theatrically and pretended that I couldn’t get enough, that I was desperate for more. It was all acting. It was like brushing my teeth, or painting my toenails: not unpleasant, but routine, mechanical.
    But now, with “Mr. Turner” on top of me, I suddenly felt alive again.
    Snap out of it , I told myself sternly. He was still a client. I still had a job to do. I stretched beneath him as much as I could, arching my back slightly, pressing myself against the length of his body. “What are you going to do with me, sir?” I purred.
    “Everything,” he said, and it was both a promise and a threat.
    The heat between my legs intensified.
    He pushed himself onto his elbows. One hand stayed clamped around my wrists, and the other untied the knot at my waist and opened my robe, spreading the silky panels onto the mattress and exposing my bare body to the air. He gave me a long, slow once-over, appraising my body like I was a race-horse he was thinking about buying. He slid his free hand from my shoulder to my hip, and my skin prickled in its wake.
    I closed my eyes.
    “You sweet thing,” he said. “Are you embarrassed? You don’t have any reason to be. Your tits are gorgeous, and I imagine your cunt has similar charms.”
    His crude words should have annoyed me, but instead they increased my arousal. I was an object, a warm body that he would use for his pleasure, and it should have made me angry. I was a person . This was my job , not my purpose in life. I didn’t exist to satisfy any man’s sexual appetites.
    But I wanted to satisfy his.
    I was learning so many new and delightful things about myself.
    Heavy sarcasm on the delightful .
    “You could take a look at it and find out,” I heard myself say, lush and melting, the perfect whore, the perfect bedmate. Only this time I meant it.
    “Mm, warm and willing,” he said. “How much of that is simply for show? I’ll have you dripping wet and begging for me.” His hand moved from my hip to my breasts, sliding across them like he was taking stock of his territory, and then he pinched one of my nipples so hard that I yelped and jolted beneath him.
    “That hurt ,” I said.
    “I’m sure it did,” he said. “I think you liked it.” He bent his head and put his mouth to the same nipple he had just pinched, and flicked his tongue across it, teasing it into full hardness. He switched to my other breast and gave that nipple the same treatment, moving back and forth until I was shivering and cradling his head in my hands, wanting more, wanting everything, and unwilling to ask for it.
    None of this, after all, was about my pleasure.
    He pulled away at last and rolled to one side, freeing me. “Stand up,” he said. “I want to see you walk.”
    I obeyed without thinking, and then teetered in my shoes as gravity sucked all the blood out of my head. “You want me to—walk?”
    “That’s right,” he said. “I want you to walk to one end of the room and back, so that I can watch your ass.” He spoke slowly, like he thought I was kind of dumb.
    Well, compared to him, I probably was. But I had something that he wanted, and I had years of practice at making myself appealing to men. Smarts weren’t everything. What was between my ears had never paid the bills. It was the stuff between my legs that mattered.
    I spun and strolled across the room, very slowly, deliberately planting one foot directly in front of the other so that my hips swayed back and forth. I had a slim waist and a round ass, and I knew I looked good. When I reached the far wall, I stopped and looked back over my shoulder.
    He was definitely staring at my ass.
    The heat in his gaze sent a slow pulse of desire through my body. I had never wanted anyone to touch me so badly.
    I turned again and walked back toward him with the same slow, deliberate steps. I