The Fantasy Emporium 001

Forbidden Cravings Served
In Good Taste

Frankie turned the card over but there was nothing on the back, just the elegant scrawl embossed on the front of the delicate business card.

"What the hell is this?" she asked her best friend.

Smiling like a cat, Samantha sighed contentedly and sat back on the wrought iron chair. The restaurant patio was empty as their fellow Los Angelinos seemed to be afraid of the unusual early spring chill. As both Frankie and Sam were recent Midwest transplants, a balmy fifty-eight Fahrenheit in late February was a novelty, and fairly tropical to their senses.

Tapping her manicured fingers on the glass-topped table Frankie waited patiently for an explanation, Sam's obvious hesitation only piquing her interest more and more.

"It's like a club."

"Mickey Mouse? Mile High? Sierra?"

Sam chuckled and downed the rest of her mimosa. "Mile High."

"So...like a plane charter service with hookers or what?"

"No, not exactly." Looking around, Sam made sure their waiter was nowhere to be seen and leaned in close as she tucked her long blonde hair behind her ears. "It's a high-class escort agency, really, really high class."

"You paid for sex?"

Sam leaned back and shrugged, suppressing another chuckle at Frankie's saucer-wide blue eyes. "Like every other client, as far as I can tell, I got this card from a friend. I called them and found out about it, and they reassured me."

"Spill, spill, spill!"

"Well, you can request any fantasy. I mean, nothing sick, no kids, no animals, and everyone has to consent, but you can be as detailed as you want. You can tell them over the phone, come into the agency, or send an email."

"Bullshit!" Frankie snorted unladylike. "What if my requested fantasy is Tom Hiddleston plays strip chess with me?"

"Well, you never know. Most likely they could find a lookalike. When you start out you can ask for a menu and go from there."

"A menu?"

"A simple outline of their most requested fantasies from people like you."

"Like me."

"A heterosexual woman. But all that's after you're approved. For example, if you call, you have to tell them I recommended you. They research you, ask you to take the usual blood tests, run a credit check, and then you pick your fantasy."

"How much does this all cost?"

"Trust me, what you can afford. It's high end but a sliding scale. If what you request would cost more than you can afford they suggest alternatives."

Frankie mulled it over. "Yeah, but...why? You're gorgeous; you can have any man you want."

Sam sighed, shoulders slumping slightly. "You know what it's like. Bob and I never dated anyone else, got married right out of college. Since he's been gone you know it's been a string of losers. Too many idiot boy toys who wouldn't know foreplay if it hit them in the face who just want my money, or older operators who want my money. Or out of work actors who can't remember my name. This is L.A., honey; you want quality sex you're going to have to pay one way or the other. And if you're going to pay, why not make an honest transaction and pay an expert who's guaranteed to show you a good time?"

"Huh," was all Frankie could manage.

"Do you want to know what I paid for?"

"Hell yeah!"

Sam laughed. "I knew it, you horndog. All right, no details, you're my sister from another mister, so...gross. I just wanted a night with a man like Bob. Sweet, Midwestern, farm-boy type. We went out to dinner; we went dancing, then we, uh, retired on a boat."

"A boat!?"

"Sailboat, docked. Do you want to know what my friend likes to get?"

"Sure."

"He likes to have a younger woman spank him."

Scandalized and intrigued Frankie licked her lips and leaned closer, eyes narrowing. "It's John, right?"

Sam shook her head. "Nope. Besides, his students practically throw themselves at him when their grades are low. If he was into that I'm sure he could get it in seconds flat. No, this friend just likes a woman in her early twenties who is nice, sweet, wholesome looking, to spank him then they fool around."

"Hmm." Frankie couldn't deny she was intrigued. "So what was on the menu?"

"Hang on." Sam fished through her purse and pulled out her Android phone, poking the screen for several seconds. "I've got the email. I did it through email. Here we go, ready?"

"Of course!"

"Remember, this is the menu for straight women."

"Shoot."

"All right, there's ravishment by an eighteenth century pirate."

Frankie laughed. "Damn romance novels, I always said they were ruining women."

Sam shrugged noncommittally. "There's sex with a stranger in a seedy motel room."

"Or as we call it in L.A., Tuesday night."

Chuckling, Sam continued, "Then there's pampering from an older man, sex with two men at the same time, and here's an interesting one: being a stripper and seducing a client."

"And that would be an average Thursday night."

Sam tossed her napkin at her friend. "Don't judge. Don't you remember when Mrs. Fitzgerald left us alone in the library and we devoured every Nancy Friday book we could?"

"We were twelve!"

"And you're telling me, Francis Audrina Goldstein, that you don't have fantasies that you've never experienced?"

"Sure. Winning a Grammy. My ex-husband humiliated stark naked on national TV. Suddenly discovering I'm the long-lost heir to the throne of some European nation. You know, normal stuff."

"Well, I think you're repressed. There's something I want you to do."

"Oh, god..."

Sam rolled her eyes. "A lot of their clients are into being watched. They send out invitations to current clients to watch if they want. There's one tonight and I RSVP'd plus one."

"I am NOT going to an orgy!"

"Keep your voice down, Frankie! It's not an orgy. If I ever went to one I wouldn't invite you of all people. You'd probably walk up to the clients and start asking questions, then critiquing. Just come tonight for some entertainment, and if you don't have fun, we'll never speak of it again. If you do, I'll give you The Fantasy Emporium's contact information."

"Oh, god," was all Frankie could manage as she flagged down their waiter, signaling to their empty glasses.

One week later Frankie sat in the nicest waiting room she had ever seen, fidgeting nervously. Was this a midlife crisis? Did women even have those? Wasn't it enough she and Sam had moved across the country? Wasn't it enough she had chopped her plain brown hair into a sleek, flattering cap and dyed a purple streak on the side that Sam's daughter Marianne had deemed "fucking awesome"? Or what about her pickup phase, when she had gone to the singles spots, enjoying the cougar lifestyle?

All right, so she was sick of it, but not interested in another serious relationship. At least, not any time soon. The memory of leaving work early to come home to find Brian in the arms of another man still smarted like hell. If he'd been gay and unable to come to terms with it until he hit fifty, she would have understood. Instead, she'd known since they met at a convention he was bisexual.

He'd had the nerve to claim it wasn't cheating. Ha!

She looked around. She could be in the lobby of a five star hotel, the furniture sleek and modern, but comfortable. The coffee was damn good, made to perfection by a secretary who looked like a kindergarten teacher in Versace who sat at a distant desk quietly typing away.

What was she doing? Emailing a client? I'm sorry, Mr. Smith, but Angelina Jolie and Megan Fox are not available, however we have two women, nearly identical... She almost laughed but suppressed it.

They'd run her credit and background check, she'd done her blood test the day before, and now it was time to select a fantasy. She preferred face to face rather than email, as Sam did. Perhaps it was all the years of hearing patients share every intimate detail, or all the time she'd spent looking at naked bodies with detachment, but she'd lost her shyness somewhere around the time when they'd gotten to the cadavers in medical school and she'd learned about terminal erections first hand.

She kept thinking about the scene Sam had brought her to. She had known nothing, not even how to dress, and had just come to the small beach house. Walking up all she could think was it was maybe three bedrooms and probably cost a couple million.

Inside there had been candles everywhere. There was a coat check girl who'd given her an eye mask and cloak to wear, very Eyes Wide Shut. She couldn't recognize anyone, not even Sam, as they milled about. Waiters served champagne in small, delicate flutes, and all over the walls were paintings that they studied.

The only furniture in the open floor plan had been a narrow padded bench in the center, and dozens of padded chairs surrounding it. When a soft bell had run she had followed the crowd and sat down as a stunning woman who looked like a brunette glamour model had led a young man out. He wore a suit framing a nice body beneath a fairly plain face, and neither had been masked.

It was easy to guess the man was the client, the woman an employee, but when the action began she hadn't seen what she expected. No quick blowjob followed by furious, selfish humping, instead the client had worshipped her.

Neither had spoken as he stepped behind her and began kissing her neck. His hands began on her shoulders but as he moved down, kissing along her spine, they had ghosted over her, hitting no obvious erogenous zone.

The woman had become truly aroused, flushed and panting, hands clenched to fists as she held still. Either she was truly turned on, or she was a better actress than any porn star.

Frankie had found herself unable to look away, aware of nothing and no one else as she watched him fall to his knees, then turn her to face him. The contraption she wore, Frankie thought it was a merry widow but was unsure, had been crotchless, and so they saw it all as he parted her folds with one hand and then feasted.

It had been worship, pure and simple. Perhaps if she ever did discover she was a queen she might look into a harem. That would be something, she thought with a snort.

"Francis?"

Startled, Frankie looked up and saw a woman her own age, petite, slim, and nearly a dead ringer for Guinevere as Rossetti had imagined.

She was so used to being called Dr. Goldstein, or Mrs. Williams (why did people think a dyed in the wool feminist would take her husband's name at marriage?) that it took her a moment to register her own first name. "Frankie, please," she said she rose.

Guinevere smiled. "Forgive me, Frankie. I'm Alana. We only first names here, so you know."

Frankie took her hand. "Got it."

"Follow me."

They went into an office that reminded her of a classy version of her shrink's, Dr. Farbe. A real Joan Miro was on the wall, the stark colors contrasting the softer shades of the room in a way that arrested the eye without jarring.

"Have a seat," Alana said and indicated in the comfortable looking couch.

Frankie sat down as Alana pulled two bottled waters from a small fridge hidden amongst wood-fronted cabinets and set one on the coffee table before her before taking the perpendicular love seat.

"All right, everything is in order. Have you looked over our menu?"

Frankie nodded, unscrewed the top of the bottle and took a swig of water, nervous. Nothing on the menu had really appealed. Truth be told, she'd rather be the ravishing pirate than the simpering maiden, she'd done anonymous sex in a seedy motel room (and it wasn't anything to write home about), and the thought of two men would be forever connected to Brian and his medical assistant Juan for the rest of her life. "Nothing jumped out at me,"' she managed.

Alana smiled and relaxed into the loveseat. "I'm here to help. Feel free to inspect my licenses if you like, but I am a fully accredited sex therapist, and helping people discover their fantasies is my specialty."

"How come it's all female employees?" Frankie blurted out, fraught with nerves.

"We have a full staff of all genders, but when a client comes in we choose those who we know will help you to feel most comfortable."

"Huh."

"Why don't we start with this? What is your favorite non-sexual daydream?"

She was tempted to go with the one where Brian lost all face, but that wasn't the one that she had playfully dreamt of all her life. With a sigh, and happy they started off the topic of sex, she instead said, "I discover I'm the last living blood relative to some royal family in a tiny European country, and suddenly I'm royalty, with a palace, gobs of money, and an adoring population who thinks I'm amazing."

Alan smiled soft and wide. "Excellent. And is there a prince consort? A kept lover? A harem? What lover or lovers does a queen have?"

"Uh, I haven't really thought of it."

"All right, that's fine. Now, it's a fantasy, nothing is off limits. Do you imagine it in the current time, or in history?"

"Oh, god, now. Sure, old dresses look good, but life before indoor plumbing and penicillin? Hell no. Do you know how many people used to die from simple cuts and rampant sepsis?"

Alana's smile never faltered and seemed wholly natural, and with the topic of medicine and health Frankie found herself relaxing.

"All right. I know what you're getting at. I wouldn't want a consort, I'd prefer to rule alone, and when the crowds worship their leader, I want it to be just me. I guess I wouldn't even want a...what do you call a male mistress?"

"A kept lover," Alana said without a touch of humor.

"Yeah, too much work, look at what Anne Boleyn did from that position. And a queen doesn't really do casual sex in the twenty-first century. So, hunh."

"I'm quite sure they do. In fact, I suppose they do a better job than the rest of us," Alana offered.

"How so?"

"Well, a queen could seduce a commoner and it is patently clear he cannot hope to achieve more than a night, their stations are so disparate."

"Yeah, but how would she find one?"

"She's queen. She can command any audience. Say she's traveling, sees a man she likes in a village. She can make inquiries, issue a summons."

Frankie sat back and thought of it. Being driven in a Rolls, a nice older one...no, racing along in an Aston Martin Vanquish, running away from her guards for a lark, passing through some small hamlet with quaint old buildings stuffed with Starbucks and Aldis. There he'd be, walking a dog along the street.

Just see one, claim him. That seemed nice.

"Yeah, that makes sense."

Alana rose and went to her desk, pulling an old-fashioned photo book from her desk and brought it over. "Let's start there, your highness. The men in this book are your subjects, let's find one you want, and we'll pan from there."

Opening the book Frankie licked her lips. The photos were high quality head shots, but next to them were simple everyday Polaroids. And all the men in there looked just as good in candids as in the pricey headshots.

She leafed through, admiring them, the older, the younger, the buff, the slim, the tall, the short, the thick, the handsome, the plain, every type in all the colors of the human rainbow. Finally, as she neared the end, she found a man who was a dead ringer for the one she had envisioned.

"Him."

Alana smiled. "Wonderful. He's thirty-seven, five feet, nine inches tall, one hundred and eighty pounds, extremely intelligent. I can give you any other stats you'd like."

"Actually, I'd rather hash out what we'll do. I have an idea." She licked her lips, remembering the scene she had watched at the...party? Whatever it was, worship, that had looked damn good, and it looked like fun.

"Oh?" Alana said, producing a pen and paper from the side table.

"Well, he wants to be mayor of his town, needs some help, and he'll do anything..."

One month later Frankie sat with her old roommate from college, Maddie, who stared at her with saucer-wide eyes as she clutched the card. As it was March in Chicago, they were inside the coffee house sipping on Intelligentsia Diablo creamed to death. Frankie was flying out in two days as soon as the house sale closed, and she was happy to spend time with an old friend, one who looked like how Frankie had felt one month earlier.

"Hookers?" Maddie asked.

Frankie just laughed.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thank you for taking the time to read this. It's a short introduction (ironically non-erotic) for a new series of purely erotic stories in The Fantasy Emporium line. In future stories there won't be plot, character development, just sex. There will be male and female protagonists, sensual and rough, straight, bi, gay, and lesbian tales. Each story will appear in the category that best defines it and does not need to be read in order. I hope you enjoy this series of quickies, and as always, I welcome feedback and sincerely appreciate your ratings, thanks!