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I hung up the phone a moment ago. It was the concierge calling; my car is downstairs.

I took a long, jasmine and vanilla scented bath this morning, easing the soreness from my body. Heels are fatiguing, and Anatoly’s party kept me mostly on my feet for ten hours. I ordered a lumberjack’s breakfast from room service. I only taste when I hostess here; I am always ravenous by morning.

This particular car, these moments alone in the suite, they are Anatoly’s parting gift to me. I have played the part of his mistress for five years, but as we speak he is on an international flight, and it’s not likely our paths will ever cross again.

I collect my garment bag and my big, slouchy leather satchel. I take a long look around the room, but it’s only a hotel suite. There is nothing here to be nostalgic about.

Inside the garment bag is a red dress. Anatoly liked me in tight red dresses and big hair.

To be fair, Anatoly liked me in his Armani dress shirts, but the men he entertained in his hotel suite liked me in tight red dresses and big hair. They liked my tits spilling out of my tops. They liked my bawdy laughter and glossy lips. They liked that Anatoly was willing to share.

They liked that for Anatoly, for the price he was willing to pay for my time and affection, I would be their fantasy for a few stolen moments at one of Anatoly’s lavish parties.

Just last night, a young man, a newcomer to Anatoly’s circle, shyly asked me if I would consider two men at the same time. I was nursing a glass of champagne after dinner, observing the assembly. There was a diplomat and his wife, both in their sixties, a cluster of younger, hungry-looking men, Anatoly’s poker cronies, several notable bankers and lawyers, a state politician, one or two other girls I knew–every world has its own smallness.

The young man was handsome, courteous. I raised an eyebrow, flicking a glance around the room. He was slim, with a sharp chin and deep-set eyes which fell on a large, muscled man loitering by the bar. The big man returned his gaze, his eyes dancing over my body briefly before returning to mixing his cocktail.

I leaned in close and whispered, “Only two?”

It was not the first time two men have used me as a conduit for feelings they cannot express.

Anatoly woke this morning full of melancholy, forgetting as he thrust into me, his big hands palming my breasts, that his feathers lined my nest. He fucked me like a soldier leaving for the front lines. I rocked my hips up to meet him, taking him in as deep as I could, wrapping my legs around his barrel of a torso and holding tight to his arms.

He stopped just as the rhythm began to take me out of myself. He could feel the muscles in my cunt flex.

He rolled over on his back, cock hard and glistening with my wetness.

“Take your pleasure, my dear. I want to watch you come one last time.”

I lowered myself over him, taking him in, knees pressed into the bedding; I held him there, feeling him stretch me, fill me up. I took his hands, placed them on my hips. With one hand, I rolled my nipple between two fingertips, the other hand I slipped between us, pressing a finger to my clit.

Anatoly never took his eyes off my face.

I held myself still until it was too much. I know myself well enough. Almost as soon as I began to move, the orgasm rolled over me. I rocked myself over the edge. Anatoly bucked his hips beneath me.

I dozed afterwards; when I woke he was gone. He left a note:

Take your time, darling. A car is coming for you at noon. Take the necklace to a jeweler. It’s as ugly as sin, but the stones are real. Do svidaniya, A.

I opened the velvet box under the note. The necklace was far uglier than sin.

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