The Gift

Donna knocked at the door and waited. She'd already checked herself in a hallway mirror just outside the elevator so she knew she looked good and everything was in place. It was the right hotel, the right room number, and she'd last checked the watch she carried in her silver clutch-bag in the lobby and counted the seconds since, so she knew she was precisely on time.

The door opened.

"You are Donna?" the man asked.

"That's me, Mr....?"

He smiled. "Smith, for now," he said, and held the door open wide for her.

He was in his fifties, slim, well dressed in expensive casual clothes. Just what she expected from the address. The Parker wasn't the type of hotel for the average traveler. That was why she'd worn her finest black dress with the plunging neckline and some subtle gold jewelry. Even so, her finest felt terribly insufficient as she walked into his suite.

The carpet was thick as sod. The walls were festooned with paintings and tapestries. The furniture was old and heavy with hand-carved filigree. Domed ceilings towered overhead, and from the centers of each room hung crystal chandeliers sparkling with almost hurtful brilliance.

Mr. Smith shut the door.

"I'm delighted you could come," he said. "And I admire your punctuality."

Donna said nothing. She'd learned long ago to let the client do most of the talking. She wasn't there for conversation, he hadn't hired her to listen to her speak. And in the meanwhile her self-imposed silence gave her time to absorb the grandeur of the place.

"Impressive, isn't it?" he asked, noticing her fascination with the décor. "I always stay here when in the city. Champagne?"

He stood near a draped cart on which sat a silver tray, an ice bucket from which protruded a green glass bottle at an odd angle, and two crystal flutes. Fruit decorated the rest of the cart surface; plump grapes, ripe pears and such.

"It's not the house bilge," he said when she neither accepted nor declined. "It's from my own vineyards. I always travel with my own. That way I know I'll have the best."

Donna joined him at the cart. He worked the cork free with a subdued pop and poured. Resetting the bottle in the ice he handed her a glass and tinged his own against it.

"To tonight," he said.

She nodded, smiled, and sipped.

Donna was no aficionado of fine wines. In fact, she usually preferred either a beer or something hard like vodka. But the champagne slid into her like liquid silk and left the most amazing tingle on her tongue and palette.

"You approve," he said, watching her face. "Good."

He walked towards the wall of windows surrounded by burgundy drapes.

"I trust your employer gave you all the particulars of this engagement?" he asked, watching the city sprawl out below him.

"He's not my employer," she corrected.

Without turning around he said, "Your agent, then. Whatever the relationship. Did he tell you precisely what was expected here?"

She wasn't sure what he meant. "He told me where and when," she said. Usually if clients have specific requirements -- costumes and props for role-playing favorites -- Cassius tells her. He'd said nothing about tonight.

"I suspected he wouldn't," Smith said. "He's not an honest man, you know. You deserve better."

Maybe she did, but that wasn't any of Smith's or anybody else's business.

"Well, then," Smith said, turning about and coming back to the cart for a refill. "I will give you the opportunity to refuse and leave, no questions asked, with whatever your normal fee is."

Donna sipped her wine. "What did you have in mind?"

Smith smiled. "Your liberation," he said, and drank. "The proposal is this. If I like what you do, then I will pay you enough so that you will never have to do this sort of thing again."

Donna smiled and had all she could do to keep from laughing. She'd had clients offer to support her before, set her up in exclusive apartments, to sit on a shelf, so to speak, until they required her pleasures again. As tempting as some of them had been, she'd always refused.

"I have one million dollars in cash," Smith said, "somewhere in these rooms. It's yours if everything goes well."

Donna stopped breathing for a second, because he said it so well she almost believed him.

"A million," she said, making sure she heard him right.

"In cash," Smith said. "And I wouldn't let that weasel you work for have a penny of it. I never mentioned an exact amount to him so he doesn't know. I just said a large reward. Tell him what you will. But the million is yours, if I like what you do."

She couldn't decide if he was legit or not. He looked sane, a bit gray, but otherwise in fine shape. His eyes were soft and kind, not at all like the eyes of man who plays games a lot.

"And, if you don't like?" she asked coyly.

Smith drained his glass. "Ah, there's the part he didn't want to tell you, I'm afraid." He offered her more champagne. She declined, for the moment.

"Then I get nothing," she offered. "Not even my normal fee."

Smith smiled. "It's not as simple as that," he said. "If I don't like what you do," and he said this next part as flatly as if he were accustomed to such talk, "I get to kill you."

She dropped her glass. It was empty, so nothing spilled, and the carpet was so plush it didn't break. Smith came to her, squatted down to retrieve the long, skinny flute, and handed it to her. When he brandished the bottle again she allowed him to fill it.

"You're serious," she said.

"Perfectly."

She drank.

"Why?"

Smith wandered back toward the window again. "Why?" he asked back. "Because, my dear, I am dieing. Some disease has gotten hold of me and the best doctors on the planet have given me no hope at all of seeing another year."

He faced her again.

"No worries, my dear, it isn't something catching. It's genetic, so I suppose I have my parents to thank for it. They also said it won't prove debilitating until the very end, so I suppose I have that much to be thankful for as well. Anyway, because of all this my money has become worthless to me. I may as well give it away, which is essentially what I've been doing for the past six months. You should have seen the tip I gave the bellboy for bringing up my bags." He laughed, recalling the look on the young man's face when he saw the denomination Smith had slipped into his hand.

"You've done this before?"

"Oh, yes, of course," he said. "London, Madrid, Paris, Rome. Now here. Now you."

She worried about asking the next question, but asked it anyway.

"And has anyone gotten the million?"

"Oh, they all have," he said. "I'm a man of simple pleasures."

Then, this was easy money. But, easy money always came at risk.

"Then, why the bit about...?"

"Killing you? I don't know, it just adds a bit of spice to the proceedings, don't you think? I've never killed anybody before. I should think I'd like to know what that feels like at least once before I die. So, you see, I have two reasons for all this. One is to give away my money before my bloodsucking relations and lawyers tear my estate to shreds post mortem, as they say, and the other is to know what it feels like to squeeze the life out of somebody, to watch the eyes go blank, to feel the body surrender and become just so much empty detritus."

Too many thoughts ran through her head at once. The smart thing to do was take her normal fee and leave, because this man clearly was not playing with a full deck. But, the prospect of all that money was proving far more of a temptation than she could turn away from. And if he was telling the truth and had given millions away to all those other women then why not her, too? Unless of course it was all a lie.

"I don't suppose I could see the money?" she asked.

Smith smiled apologetically. "I'm afraid not," he said.

What if there was no million? What if this was his idea of a cruel joke, and the reason Cassius had never mentioned any of this was because this sick fuck had just dreamed it up in the last few minutes before she arrived?

"Let me put it to you this way," Smith said, reading the confusion in her face. "One outcome could be we do it and I pay you the regular fee, tell you it was all a cruel joke, and send you on your way. You'd be no worse off than if I'd never said a word about anything else. Another is, I'm telling you the truth, and afterwards I hand you a suitcase with one million dollars in American currency and you get to live whatever kind of life you've always dreamed of."

"And another is, you kill me."

Smith smiled. "Have you no confidence in yourself, my dear?" he asked, moving close to her. "You are a professional." The back of his fingers gently caressed her cheek. "A very pretty professional." That hand went down her throat to her exposed chest. "And talented, besides," he went on. "You don't get paid large sums of money because you are ordinary. You are special, and you've proven your abilities by reaching the level of success you now enjoy." He withdrew the hand, and assumed a more businesslike air. "If you have any confidence at all this should not be a difficult decision."

She drained her glass.

"Then let's do it," she said.

Smith smiled. "Splendid," he said, and placed both their glasses on the cart, took her hand, and escorted her to the bedroom.

"The bath's in there, if you'd like to freshen up," he said, indicating yet another room to the side.

Donna excused herself and went there, closing the door not entirely. She always left bathroom doors ajar, inviting the client who wished to come in and observe. Some of them liked that. Smith, apparently, did not.

The room was all white tile and mirrors, with gold fixtures and white porcelain devices. It even had a bidet, which she'd never used before and wasn't quite sure how to approach. This being no time for experimenting with water, she did what she had to do and washed her hands. She considered getting undressed and re-entering his bedroom naked, but feared he might consider that cheeky. She smoothed the tight wrap of the dress and rejoined him.

The bed was a huge affair, sitting on a raised platform in the middle of the room. Four dark cherry posts rose from the corners and a fine white canopy draped across a framework above, dripping down on all sides like a morning mist cascading down the side of a mountain. The lighting was soft, offset to throw no shadows.

"Music?" Smith asked, and without waiting for an answer touched something on a dresser and soft strings and piano drifted in from unseen speakers.

He came to her, and his hands held her face lovingly as he smiled down at her. His hands then lowered slowly, and for a second encircled her neck before descending lower to her arms. Donna shivered. Smith seemed amused.

The back of the dress had a clasp at the top, then a long open space before a brief zipper opened it to her hips. Smith reached behind her to loosen her garment, and she allowed him to lower it to her waist. His eyes fell on her chest, on the soft swells of her breasts lifted by the frail brassiere. The bra had a small snap between the cups and he reached in gently, barely touching her skin, and opened it. She wriggled her arms at her sides and the bra fell away from her.

"Perfect," he declared.

And they were. Cassius kept telling her to invest in augmentation surgery but she knew her breasts were just the right size and shape for her body. Anything else would have looked as fake as they'd be.

Her skin was smooth as spilt cream, pale, and her nipples were dark as rosebuds. Smith held them and the nibs puckered to attention, entertaining his fingers for a while. And then he helped ease her dress the rest of the way down, kneeling to assist her as she stepped out of it.

Still kneeling, he slipped her skimpy thong panty down over her hips, guided it past her knees, and she stepped out of it losing her shoes as she did. His face was even with her crotch then, and he admired the clean even skin of her belly and mound for a while, and then leaned his face in and planted a single gentle kiss on her there.

He stood and took her hand, and walked her to the bed. Without direction, she undressed him, slowly, neither one of them in any particular rush. When his chest was exposed she kissed him there in a dozen places, her hands exploring the vast expanses of his reasonably muscular back. He was in excellent shape for a man his age. She wondered if all the talk about a deadly disease wasn't so much hogwash. Perhaps this was all a game after all.

When she had his pants and boxers down around his ankles he sat on the edge of the bed and she squatted down to remove his shoes and socks. She shoved his clothes aside and held his knees, moving them apart, and then eased into the V his thighs formed.

He had a good erection, nothing massive, nothing deformed. His legs were hairy but his balls were trimmed nicely. She held his cock in her hand and felt it pulse against her palm. It stiffened even more as she lowered her face and kissed the swollen head.

He had told her he was a man of simple pleasures and that had been no lie. He let her suck on him a bit before moving them both up on the bed, and there they engaged in perfectly normal sex acts, nothing overtly kinky or outrageous. He enjoyed putting his mouth on her pussy, his hands cupping her ass as he did so. He entered her in the male superior missionary position, his cock sliding into her waiting wet cunt so nicely she gasped when the full length of it was properly buried. Perhaps he was better endowed than she had assumed.

After a while they flipped over and she straddled his hips, impaling herself on him while he massaged her breasts. On all fours she offered him her ass which he kissed but would not violate. He rode her that way for a while and the insisted on returning to their first position for his culmination.

His face contorted painfully as he came inside her. His cock shot long hot strings of cum and she tightened her muscles to milk him as if she had a hand inside her. He collapsed after he was spent and she held him for a while as he slept.

She must have fallen asleep as well because she woke sometime later to his mouth lapping at her pussy. He gave her a marvelous orgasm that way and she reciprocated by having him lie down propped up with a mountain of pillows while she sucked his cock dry. When his shriveled dick slipped from her lips she climbed up beside him and they slept again.

She awoke alone.

Smells of coffee from the next room dragged her from the bed as if by ropes attached to her nostrils, and she quickly slipped on a robe he had left for her at the foot of the bed.

The same cart that had held champagne the night before now held a silver service with coffee and warm pastries. Smith was dressed and pouring them coffee when she entered the room.

Little was said as they ate. The morning sun shone brightly in through the massive windows. Below, the city was coming to raucous life once again. Donna stood watching the traffic and the people all milling about, in such hurries to go nowhere.

"Feeling rested?" Smith asked from behind her.

She hummed in agreement, then said, "And I take it that my still being alive means you were pleased?"

Smith laughed. "More than pleased," he said.

He came up behind her, wrapped his arms about her middle, hugged her, and kissed the top of her tousled head. "You were superb," he said.

She twisted in his embrace so they faced each other.

"And?"

Smith laughed and released her. "Get dressed," he said.

She went back to the bedroom and the bathroom beyond, removed the robe, and washed up before going back to the bedroom naked. If he had been there waiting for him she would have fucked him all over again. He had been a most undemanding lover, and allowed her to relax and enjoy herself instead of always being on alert for whatever particular itch her client of the moment felt needed scratching.

But, he was not. Her clothes were folded neatly on a sideboard. She dressed and rejoined him in the parlor.

Smith moved aside the white drape from the cart and revealed two lower shelves. On one sat a pair of black binoculars, and on the bottom was a small brown leather suitcase, which he pulled out and placed on the nearest chair.

"All yours," he said, stepping away from it.

Donna watched his face and then watched the suitcase, and after a while she asked, "May I?"

He gestured grandly toward it. "Be my guest," he said. "The case and all its contents are yours."

She walked to it, trying not to seem too anxious, and put her hands on the clasps. She hesitated. This could still be some sort of colossal prank. There could be anything inside that suitcase. There could be nothing.

Her thumbs worked the clasps and she flinched when they sprung open.

Donna lifted the lid.

Bundles of cash occupied ever available square inch of space, bulging right up to the top.

"I put a little something extra in there for you," Smith told her from across the room. "You really were spectacular last night."

Donna wasn't quite sure what to do. She stood dumbly staring at the cash.

"You can count it if you like," he said. "But I assure you, there's at least a million there."

It looked real enough. And there certainly was enough of it to add up that far. She closed the case and turned to face him.

"Thank you," was all she could think to say.

Smith grinned and reached for the house phone. "You are more than welcome, my dear," he said, then into the receiver he said, "Can we get someone to help a young lady with her bag?"

He hung up. In another minute came a knock at the door and Smith merely said, "Enter," and a young man in a red bellhop suit came in. The expectant look on his face told her this must have been the same young man whom Smith had so handsomely rewarded the day before.

Smith handed the boy some cash and told him to take the young lady downstairs and put her in a cab for wherever she wanted to go. The money he handed the boy could have bought the cab outright.

Smith came to Donna as the boy hefted the suitcase and he kissed her forehead in an almost fatherly manner. "Thank you so very much," he whispered to her.

She couldn't think of anything to say that would express what she felt. She wasn't even sure what she was feeling to begin with. It was all still so unreal.

She left the room with the bellhop.

Smith went back to the cart and poured himself more coffee. He took the binoculars from under the cart and went to the window. In a few minutes, far below, he saw the bellhop and Donna emerge. Donna got into a yellow cab, the suitcase beside her, and the cab pulled out into traffic.

From the window, Smith could see a great distance, so long as the cab didn't veer off to either side of the cement and steel gorge laid out before him. He put his cup down and lifted the binoculars to his eyes, found the cab in the ocean of swarming traffic, and followed its progress.

The cab exploded.

Doors flew into the air behind great tufts of smoke and flame. Windows on adjacent vehicles shattered. The sound came next, a crack and rumble, and then the cries of panicked pedestrians scrambling madly for cover.

Smith put the spyglasses down and went back to the phone.

"I'll be checking out this morning," he said. "Do have someone here in about an hour to take my things, and have a limo waiting to take me to JFK."

He hung the phone back in its cradle.

"I feel like Rio," he said, and for a moment affected the stance of a flamenco dancer while outside sirens wailed as fire and emergency vehicles worked their way through the clog of stymied traffic. He went into the bedroom to pack.