Vixens - The Candidate

2022 Nellskitchen. All rights reserved. The essayist asserts her rights as the creator of 'The Candidate.' This story or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner (except for brief quotations in a review) without the writer's express written permission. If it appears on a website other than Literotica, it is pirated and absent the author's permission. Note: All players in 'The Candidate' are over the age of eighteen.

THE CANDIDATE (Edited)

Prelude:

I dedicate this story to Sidney Biddle Barrows and her 'Cachet' girls.

*

Escort -- (noun -- es' kort): Unlike the woman playing the part, the label is disturbingly sure of itself. Appearances to the contrary—words mislead. Its truer meaning, conveniently cloaked behind society's thinly-veiled deceit, fools no one—call girl, lady of the night, escort; brand me as you please—beneath the razzle-dazzle dwells a whore.

Wenda Paget—the Candidate

***

Part 1: "Stockings and garter belts are mandatory on all dates."

*

Bad things cross her mind through the agonizing wait. Suppressing a tidal wave of jitters, Wenda, seated with the others, thinks hard. What happens next is up to her—and the woman on the other side of that door.

Wenda Paget fears what modern girls fear: her freedom to make bad choices. As if drawn by some mysterious force, she has already decided to do it. She knows it is a mistake. She even admits that weighing this or that amounts to cerebral theater; a lousy decision is a lousy decision.

Peculiarly, until yesterday, becoming a classy prostitute had never occurred to her; not once did any such thing cross her mind. That was before; now, she waits, fidgets—half-hopes the madam sitting on the other side of the tightly closed door tells her to get lost.

Wenda has barely made eye contact with the others. One comes across as an 'odd-girl-out.' Displaying industrial-strength disinterest; she does not fit with the rest. She is also the prettiest, the best dressed, the 'ready-to-go' girl. Two others are soccer moms; their wedding bands give them away. The last girl seems innocent; her demeanor is timid and unassuming. Courteous, retiring, something about her spells, 'foreigner.'

Gorgeous and glowing, one of the wives is very blonde—and very pregnant. Her gal pal has flawless white skin and bright blue eyes; she wears her hair loose; her extraordinary beauty makes Wenda feel hopelessly out of her league. Wenda assumes the married girls are in on this together; their familiarity is obvious.

Though edgy—they are equal parts excited. Suffolk County types, Wenda pictures them baking cookies for their kids' second-grade class. She half-expects their frisky six-year-olds to burst through the office door blaring, 'Mommy, mommy, our teacher made us go to the principal for using the wrong pronouns!'

It is a sure bet their husbands are hard-hit by the lockdowns. Needing money to sustain their swanky Hampton's lifestyle, they will marshal their kids onto the morning bus, then take the train into the city to turn tricks through early afternoon. Timing will prove crucial since each needs to be home to start dinner and catch those same kids exiting the bus after school. Wenda is also married. She wonders about sex for pay and how it might muddle her delicate relationship with Stefka, her wife of two years.

The quiet one, the outsider, has noticeably natural boobs—a curiosity in New York. Wenda envies her innocence. Eavesdropping, she notices a sexy Irish lilt. At one point, she asked the moms: "Do chemists in America display condoms in plain view?" Too nervous to warm to one another, the guarded group abstained from eye contact—and from asking what a chemist is.

A member of the escort agency staff sits nearby. Earlier, she had introduced herself as office supervisor, Celeste Goldfinch. Observant of the group's skittish edginess, the tiny sixtyish woman makes clear that she sees all and knows all—about everything! Lecturing snootily, her first order of business is attire: "Dress conservatively; stockings and garter belts are mandatory on all dates. Vixen girls," she stiffly insists, "never wear pantyhose—nor do they go out with bare legs, not ever!"

She is clear: at this lofty level of play, slutty presentation is a no-no, overly provocative appearance—taboo. Wenda wonders why the hot number, the girl who oozes attitude and sits bored and off to one side, is not 'out' too. Unable to help herself, Wenda has stolen glimpses of her. The sexy redhead is every girl's preconceived notion of a superlative escort. Sitting amid a cluster of rookies, she is curiously out of place. Pretending contempt for Celeste's admonishments, she casually files her nails.

"Individual interviews will follow, at which; Mrs. Lindholm will decide whether you have what it takes to work here at Vixens."

To the group's surprise, the firm provides health insurance! Everyone sat a little straighter at the news; the grinning Long Island moms high-fived each other.

Wenda regretted not having read The Mayflower Madam by Sydney Barrows. The dicey memoir might have proven helpful, but time had not allowed.

Upon closing, Celeste probed for questions but faced stony silence from the antsy women. Already anticipating competition for clients, no one dares ask anything. The group, however, still needs answers to the central question of sex, money—and how the two connect. Smartly, the capable manager neglects it. She leaves the decisive matter for the second round of interviews.

A tap on her shoulder draws Wenda's attention. "Am I missing something?" The Irish girl questioned. "She hasn't spoken about...you know." She hesitated, unable to say the 'S' word. "Shouldn't we ask?" Her entreating look said she needed money—fast.

Assuming her visa was about to expire, Wenda shook her head and, gazing into her friendly Irish eyes, whispered, "I guess Eileen does that privately."

"Oh, I see. Thank you." For sure, she was an illegal alien.

***

Part 2 -- How did this happen?

*

Wenda had only met the agency's owner, Eileen Lindholm, a day ago. Their few rousing minutes together left an indelible impression, however. The madam oozed experience; she understood women and was too accomplished to think Wenda was anything other than the definitive rookie.

Their brief meeting left the untested college-junior searching for answers: is there a place in the world of paid sex for the amateur who has never donned the hooker's habit of suggestive party dresses and ankle-strap heels? Is it conceivable that value attaches to someone who knows nothing of the hidden underworld of pricy dates with strangers?

Eileen's out-of-the-blue proposition had taken Wenda by surprise; astonishingly, moments later, she offered Wenda, if not a job—an interview.

Through the following day, the nineteen-year-old fixated on the uncanny moment. Startling herself, the student craved the interview. She even knew what it implied—sort of. Now, she is the candidate.

How did this happen? How had a harmless chat with a stranger brought Wenda to this?

***

Part 3: "...in fact, you have a special prettiness."

*

With nothing on her schedule, Wenda went window-shopping. There, her tidy world of college lectures and boring dormitory life careened off sanity's straight and narrow railway. As she stood outside of Felina's, the reflection of a smiling, statuesque woman strayed into the polished display window next to her own. Her grin was beamingly friendly. As she stood off to one side, the fortyish knockout's blazing eyes locked onto the mildly astonished shopper's, seizing them as if by a Klingon tractor beam.

Nodding in the direction of the window display, she insisted, "You'd look heavenly in that teddy; it's erotically virginal. You must have it—in white." As Wenda turned around, the stranger extended a delicate hand, which, since it happened in New York, the wary sidewalk bargain hunter scarcely clutched.

"Thanks," Wenda said awkwardly. "Unfortunately, it's beyond my budget."

Exemplifying all things stylish, the slender intruder stood erect. To-die-for high cheekbones governed her radiant appearance. Her partially open green blazer flaunted a willowy waist and broad hips. Her hair was dark, full, its texture shimmering. She introduced herself: "I'm Eileen—Eileen Lindholm."

Horns blared as drivers backed up behind her very black, sleek, and double-parked limo, brazenly obstructing rush-hour traffic. Barely catching her name, Wenda loudly called out her own. "Wenda—Wenda Paget! Do I know you?"

Eileen ignored her personally fashioned traffic jam and looked Wenda up and down as she held onto her hand. Turning serious, she added, "No, we haven't met, but, listen, Wenda, you're very pretty...in fact, you're more than pretty—you have a special prettiness."

Wenda, puzzled and more than a little taken aback, blushed. "I find exciting work for girls like you," she continued. "I'm on the lookout all the time—how about making extra money by working for me—it's a lot of money."

"I'm an art student," Wenda maintained.

Disregarding the clumsy non sequitur, Eileen half-raised an eyebrow, replying, "Of course—and I'll bet art school is all kinds of fun. Only, it's nice to have money, isn't it?"

Smiling, Wenda countered, "Money is nice. Um...what kind of work?"

Eileen ducked the question. Instead, firmly grasping Wenda's shoulders, she held her at arm's length and gazed admiringly. Shaking her head, she searched Wenda's bright eyes, adding, "Anyway, I'm on guard for appealing ladies who have that special look. When I spotted you on the sidewalk, I called to my driver; I said, 'Sam, pull over this instant! I have to meet her!'" Wenda looked over at the limo driver, who, impatiently rolling his eyes, nevertheless stood at attention.

Probing, the bewildered student rephrased her question: "Really? What do you want with me?" Muttering something unclear, the stranger rummaged in her purse, hurriedly producing a business card on the back of which she jotted something. After handing it to the astonished student, Eileen retreated to her limo, whose door an aggravated chauffeur held open.

"I'm late and can't talk more right now," the woman called out. As she slipped into the back seat, Wenda glimpsed the underside of her arresting stockinged legs. She wore a white garter belt, apparel the student had never seen in real life!

The limo's rear window slid down as Sam closed the door, and the stranger offered a final proposition, "Phone me at the number on the card. I need an hour; that is all, just an hour! Tell my girl, Celeste; you have the 'pink' card—the pink one! You will like what I have to say! Don't forget! Goodbye!"

As suddenly as Eileen's image had intruded into the storefront window, she was gone. Wenda, dumbfounded, stared as she drove off, then glanced down at the business card's ornate burgundy lettering.

...EILEEN LINDHOLM — 212-745-1702...

Catching a scent, she fluttered the little ticket under her nose and, breathing deeply, Wenda walked a few steps, stopped, and thought, 'Chanel.' On the back of the card, the amusing trespasser had scribbled a stupefying word: "Puppy."

Before melting into Manhattan's general dissonance, Wenda again glanced at the enticing teddy, her thought, 'too expensive.'

***

Part 4: "It's something illegal. I'm right; you know I am."

*

Obsession seized her. Wenda hunted the internet for the mystery woman. Observing her preoccupation, Stefka, her ever-possessive wife, warned dismissively, "You just wait; it's something illegal. I'm right; you know I am. It's New York! People don't just accost you on the street for no reason. It's something bad, you'll see."

"Maybe," Wenda acknowledged.

Stealthily, Eileen managed to fly under the radar in the information age. A search of the dark web, however, turned up answers. Matt, Wenda's geeky neighborhood friend, knew his way around that hidden world. There, the astonished techie discovered the gorgeous stranger was none other than New York's most sought-after madam. Known for discretion, her jet-setter clients paid dearly for services rendered.

Nonetheless, she could not get the creepy encounter out of her head: Tying up midtown traffic to meet her; what did she want? Giving in to her curiosity, Wenda tapped the woman's number into her phone. A disciplined voice came on the line: "Vixens, this is Celeste; how may I help you?"

"I'm Wenda Paget, Celeste," she nervously stuttered. "Eileen told me—that is, she said I should call. She said she might—"

Capably protective, the guarded receptionist cut her off: "I'm afraid Mrs. Lindholm is presently engaged. You may leave a message."

Thinking her opportunity might fall flat, Wenda play-acted as if she knew what she was doing and, summoning a hint of resolve, said, "She left me her card."

"Oh? And what card is that?" Celeste briskly asked.

"The pink card; she wrote 'puppy' on the back—I don't know what a puppy is, but..."

"...that's all right," Celeste interrupted, the wary aggravation in her voice softening. "I know. One moment, please, Miss Paget; Mrs. Lindholm just became available."

Later that morning, waiting outside the office of the shadowy dispenser of pink business cards, a group of anxious women stole glances at one another. Each wondered how the others had encountered the stranger. With questions many and answers few, Wenda occupied herself through reflection, anything to turn her apprehensions away from yesterday and her chance meeting with the woman in the limo.

***

Part 3: Might Wenda hold power over great men?

*

Given the right makeup and shoes, Wenda considered herself marginally attractive; however, after speed-reading past the tsunami of escort service listings running page after Google page, she questioned any notion that she bore a 'special prettiness.' The internet girls stunned the self-conscious web-surfer, leaving her wondering about Eileen's interest. Ultimately, fantasy held sway, and Wenda daydreamed about joining the torrent of nameless girls fanning out over the city—searching for whatever it is that fills the emptiness from which women stubbornly flee.

That all happened yesterday. Today, Wenda's thoughts are very much back in the here and now, and she simmers in loneliness. As a diversion, she focuses on the madam's delight in pastels. Soft, vulnerable; the surrounding office radiates lilac. It bathes the visitor in soft femininity, its glow soothing. New to the game, she overlooks that even simple things like colors are part of Eileen's big picture, a temptation to the naïve to tumble into her spider web of sex with strangers.

Opposite her chair is the portrait of a woman. Wenda recognizes her. She is 'Lydia,' the mistress of the celebrated artist Henri Matisse. The scandalous 'Ice Princess,' whose orphic beauty held sway over the master of the School of Fauvism, stares at her as if to say, 'you are just like me.'

Safe in her framed surety, Lydia flaunts her arrogance. And why not? The long-ago paramour mastered the master. Might the unassuming Wenda prevail like Lydia? Might she one-day hold power over great men? Lydia projects femininity at its purest—its most dangerous. Wenda esteems her.

Muffled words seep through the heavy main office door. Though indistinct, they transmit hostility. The door opens with a sudden whoosh of air, and a redheaded, freckle-faced stunner rages out. With long, slender legs and beautifully frosted hair, the woman unleashes waves of hostility directed over her shoulder and back at the madam. Something has pissed off the thirtyish beauty, and she does not care who knows it.

Sporting a black party dress seized at the shoulder with a glittering sequined clip, the hooker marches straight for the exit, her gold-hooped earrings bouncing as her hard heels snap angrily at the polished maple floor.

Her stagy recital leaves little to the imagination, and the tiny audience finds her bedazzling looks and air of self-confidence bracing. Dramatically tossing her head back, she snubs the other girls and prances by like a detached supermodel taking flight on fashion's commanding runway.

As she exited, Celeste, Eileen's administrative assistant and a Ruth Bader Ginsburg look-alike, half-stood from her creaky swivel chair and peered quizzically over her geek-chic, black-rimmed glasses. Severely—but hesitantly, she said, "Etta, if you accept the assignment, don't shave—he insists you be...that is, he wants natural cooch!"

For a forbidding moment, Etta stopped, then, slowly, deliberately turned about. Displaying a mocking half-smile, she carefully enunciated: "All fucking right, I already told ya; I'll take the Arab guy—natural snatch and all! Got it?"

"Um...I just need to be sure," Celeste added, "that Mrs. Lindholm's directions are clear."

Arrogant bitch, Wenda thought as the escort slammed the door behind her. God, she was magnificent.

***

Part 4: "I assume you swallow?"

*

Inconsiderately, the swaggering working girl had left open the door to the madam's office, and Wenda peeked in to find Eileen. The latter sat perfectly composed, wearing a bright amethyst suit. Displaying a warm smile, the madam waved her in. Don't mind Etta," Eileen assured her, "She's one of our most asked-for girls. But she's having a bad day; she's on her period and faces a tricky assignment with a Saudi prince."

"What does he want from her, like...um...to do?" a curious Wenda asked.

"He's an 'insertion' freak, sweetheart. Ever met one?"

"Um...no, not really."

Eileen went on to explain the client's peculiar fetish. "This guy—a number of our escorts have seen him—implants pastels into a girl's vagina—and sometimes into other places. To stretch her, he inserts one pencil at a time. The thing is, he is super sweet and never asks for sex. He's married, so penetration is only about objects." Wenda, suddenly restless, squirmed. Shifting her weight, she faked understanding, then waited as the madam booted her laptop.

"I'm giving your résumé a glance; it'll just take a minute," Eileen said.

Submitted online, Wenda's résumé contained zero hints of sex-work experience. Nevertheless, the madam seemed inviting. "Please, Wenda dear, relax—I won't bite." Leaning back in her chair, the antsy candidate pretended to be something other than anxious.

Despite her butterflies, it was a welcoming beginning as, from time to time, Eileen, her eyes glued to her screen, grinned and nodded. As she awaited the madam's verdict, she thought about the other girls, their differences, their sameness. Why she wondered, is Eileen interested in a jittery prospect playing a weak hand?

She gazed out the window at the blur of the city's soaring buildings. The view inspired feelings of insignificance—and privacy. Would the towering structures hide her misbehavior from the prying eyes of family and friends? Was she meant to wander Manhattan fucking strangers for money? The swarming island afforded privacy—for bad behavior; it concealed evil ways—her ways. Unexpectedly, she grew confident, thinking, she might—might—do this without her mother finding out!

Startlingly, Eileen, looking up from her screen, addressed just that. "Our Vixens generally...well, we encourage you to tell your mothers," she casually offered. "Sex for pay is an emotional rollercoaster, Wenda, especially if you get attached to a client—it happens. You will need your mom for support because men do not just pay us for sex; they pay us to go away."

Wenda's emotions gasped at Eileen's outrageous suggestion. Telling her mother was out of the question. She could never—ever do it. Her mom was, well, her mom—too good, too straight, too set against Wenda doing bad things like selling her sexual self.

Eileen persisted: "Your mother should know you take clients, Wenda. When the time comes to tell all, an escort's mom is her go-to gal—she can trust no one else."