Pages and Stockholmgirls. Almost all the people who contact her are a waste of time. Lots of crude language, promises of wonderful sex, threats of violence and punishment.
She always trusts her gut instinct when she starts to correspond with someone new. This particular message was well-written. It was fairly direct, but not disrespectful. He said his name was Wille, his phone number was blocked, and he lived in a nice area.
In his third email he explained what he wanted to do to her, and how much he was willing to pay.
She took that as a warning.
If it sounds too good to be true, then there’s something wrong. There are no free meal-tickets in this world, and it’s better to miss out on a generous deal than put yourself in danger.
Still, she’s here now.
The man returns and hands her an envelope. She counts the money quickly and puts it in her bag.
‘Is that enough for you to show me your underwear?’ he says.
She smiles warmly, gently takes hold of both sides of her dress and slowly lifts it above her knees. The hem rubs against her nylon tights. She pauses and looks at him.
He doesn’t meet her gaze, just stares down between her legs as she gradually raises the dress to her waist. Her silk underwear shimmers like mother-of-pearl beneath her pale tights.
‘Are you shaved?’ he asks in a slightly hoarser voice.
‘Waxed.’
‘Completely?’
‘Yes,’ she replies.
‘That must hurt?’ he says, sounding genuinely interested.
‘You get used to it,’ she says with a nod.
‘Like a lot of things in life,’ he whispers.
She lets her dress drop again and takes the opportunity to wipe the sweat from her palms as she smooths the fabric over her thighs.
Even though she has the money she’s starting to feel nervous again.
Possibly because he paid so much, five times more than any previous client.
In one of his emails he explained that he was prepared to pay extra for her discretion, and for his specific wishes, but this is way above her normal rate.
When he wrote to tell her what he wanted to do, she didn’t think it sounded that bad.
She remembers one man with worried eyes who dressed up in his mother’s underwear and wanted her to kick him in the crotch. He paid for her to pee on him as he lay on the floor crying in pain, but she couldn’t do it. She just grabbed the money and ran.
‘People get turned on by all sorts of things,’ Wille says with an embarrassed smile. ‘Obviously you can’t force anyone … I mean, you have to pay for some things. I’m not expecting you to actually enjoy what you do.’
‘It depends, but I do sometimes enjoy it if the man’s gentle,’ she lies.
Naturally Sofia promises full discretion in her ad, but she still has one safety measure as a precaution. She keeps a diary at home, where she makes a note of the names and addresses of people she’s arranged to meet, so that someone will be able to find her if she ever goes missing.
Besides, Tamara saw Wille once, just before she stopped working as an escort, got married and moved to Gothenburg. Sofia knows that Tamara would have posted a warning on the sex-workers’ forum if he’d behaved inappropriately.
‘As long as you don’t find me revolting and repulsive,’ the man says, taking a step closer to her. ‘I mean, you’re so beautiful, and I’m … well, I know what I look like. I was OK when I was your age, but …’
‘You look good now,’ she assures him.
Sofia thinks of all the times she’s heard people say that escorts have to be like psychologists, but most of the men she sees never say anything personal.
‘Shall we go up to the bedroom?’ Wille asks lightly.
Sofia follows him up the broad wooden staircase thinking about how badly she needs to pee. The soft carpet is held in place on each step by thin brass rods. The light from the large chandelier reflects off the varnished banister.
Sofia’s initial plan had been to concentrate on exclusive clients, the ones who were prepared to pay more for an entire night, ones who wanted company at a party or on a trip.
In the three years she’s been working as an escort she’s had maybe a couple of dozen jobs like that, but most of her clients just want a blow-job after work before they go home to their families.
The master bedroom is well-lit, dominated by an imposing double bed with beautiful grey silk sheets.
On the wife’s side there’s a Lena Andersson novel and a jar of fancy hand cream, and on Wille’s side there’s an iPad with finger-marks on the dark glass.
He shows her the black leather straps he’s already tied around the bedposts. She notes that they’re not new, the creases are slightly cracked and the colour has begun to flake off.
The room suddenly shudders and spins around a couple of times. She looks at the man, but he seems unconcerned.
He has white marks at the corners of his mouth, from toothpaste.
The staircase creaks and he glances towards the hallway before looking back at her.
‘I have to be able to trust you to release me when I say so,’ he says as he unbuttons his shirt. ‘I have to be sure that you won’t try to rob me or just run off now that you have your money.’
‘Of course,’ she replies.
His chest is covered with fair hair, and he’s making an effort to suck in his stomach while she looks at him.
Sofia thinks that she can ask to go to the bathroom once he’s tied up. There’s an en-suite. The door is open and she can see the shower and a patch of gold mosaic wall in the mirror.
‘I want you to tie me up, and take your time with it – I don’t like violence or force,’ he says.
Sofia nods and takes her shoes off. She feels dizzy again as she straightens up. She looks him in the eye before lifting her dress up to her navel. It crackles with static. She slips her thumbs beneath the top of her tights and starts to pull them down. The feeling of constriction eases as the thin fabric puddles around her calves.
‘Perhaps you’d rather be tied up instead?’ he asks, smiling at his suggestion.
‘No, thanks,’ she replies as she starts to unbutton her dress.
‘It’s actually pretty comfortable,’ he jokes, tugging gently at one
