It wasn’t your fault, it was mine. When I let them strip you everyone assumed including François that you knew the rules. If I had told François not to take your slip off he would have known that you were a nubee and they would have been satisfied with looking at your pussy. I put you at risk because they had the right to do anything they wanted to you once you are stripped.”“Anything?” she asked.“I suppose killing you would be in bad taste, but most everything else would be permissible.” Dave said with a serious look. I believed he was telling the truth as he believed it.“So what’s in the box?” I asked.He pulled the box out of his pocket and opened it. There were three earrings in it with several rhinestones attached to each ring. All were just a little bit different.Two of the shiny gold rings were identical, just mirror image of each other. They had one stone centered at the bottom of the ring that was about five or six millimeters in diameter flanked by two smaller stones about. She’d die if she ran into the Englishman!?! Despite the crush of people at the late hour, her paranoid mind imagined every eye was cast in her direction. Judging. Criticizing. Condemning her as the whore that she was. She felt another lick of heat sear across her scalp. If they were looking with a cluck of disapproval not far from their tongues, she could hardly blame them. Last week, she felt the same way: she’d shake her head and think, ‘I’ll never be like that…’ She’d built this illusion that what she did at Midnight Hot was different than this. Somehow better. She danced in a club, turned tricks on the side, but always in the relative safety of the club. This felt different. Her finger shook as she pressed the up button in the elevator lobby. A couple of elderly tourists got into the mirror-lined lift with her. She took a deep breath and refused to meet their judgmental eyes, imagined or not. The reflection in the bevelled mirror of the elevator doors said it all. Maybe they.
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