But Ann is making this really hard. She speaks in short sentences, only giving up the absolute minimum. She barely even looks at me, instead keeping her eyes glued on the food. At least she's appreciating that part of our evening. It's easy to tell that she genuinely enjoys every single dish, and while she was adamant that I not mistake her for a common call girl or whore, she doesn't seem to care what I think about her eating behavior. After being somewhat hesitant at first, she soon digs in as if she hasn't seen food in days. Not once does she cast me one of those insecure looks seeking reassurance that I've grown accustomed to receiving from other women. Most of them look at me as if they were asking for permission to eat, and I've always hated it with a passion.
"Glad you're enjoying your food," I comment, mostly to see if my remark causes her to break.
She's still chewing when she looks up at me, hurrying to swallow before coming up with a reply.
"It's fantastic," she says. "I give you that, you know good food."
I huff. "How generous."
She casts me a cocky smirk, an expression that’s usually part of my repertoire. This girl will be a piece of work, that's for sure. I can't wait to bend her over my knee and hear her yelp in pain when my belt leaves its mark on her sweet perky ass.
If she agrees to all of this. I need to remind myself that nothing is official yet. She needs to sign the contract first and become mine completely, ready to submit to my will and ready to put her own life on hold for as long as I need her.
As soon as the dessert plates are cleared from our table, she looks up at me with expectant eyes.
"Would you like an espresso?" I ask.
"No," she says. "I want to talk business."
"Hold your horses, young lady."
I cast her a warning look, a gesture that's lost with her.
Belinda said it would be hard to find a girl who is as cold-hearted and calculating as me, but that was before this one appeared. Ann doesn't strike me as a dreamer, a girl with a soft heart and a strong yearning for romance, the desire to find her one and only, and live her own fairy tale ending with a prince riding up on his white horse. It definitely wouldn't hurt if she had at least some of those qualities, though.
I order an espresso for the both of us, even though she indicated she didn't want one. I hate drinking by myself, and I'm sure she'll take hers with a smile once it's placed in front of her.
She shoots me an angry glare when the espresso is brought to our table. She probably resents me for disregarding her comment about not wanting one. I don't care. We're playing by my rules, and the sooner she understands this, the better.
"You've seen my inquiry," I begin, making sure to capture her attention by intensely fixating on her eyes. "I need someone to play the role of my girlfriend in public. I'm about to announce my candidacy to run for Congress, and I need someone to make me look good at official events, someone who can convince people that I'm loyal, trustworthy, and good-natured."
"Which you are not," she responds. Her tone sounds so unapologetic that I don't trust my ears for a moment.
I choose to ignore her remark.
"Could you handle this level of responsibility? This job requires a lot more than being my personal slut. I'd also expect you to be able to hold a conversation, speak about public affairs - in a non-offensive way, of course - and make people believe that you truly are my life partner, and have been for a few years. I'm not in the public eye yet, and haven’t been, so it'd be easy to make this relationship seem more established and serious than it actually is."
She looks at me, her face relaxed and without expression. It's hard to know what she's thinking.
"If you're not simply looking for someone to keep your bed warm, why did you go to the agency?"
Unlike most other girls, she has no trouble withstanding my unyielding gaze. I can't intimidate her with a simple look, at least not yet. Her submission will have to be earned, and it might be the hardest one I’ve had to earn yet.
I can't fucking wait.
"Because I need that partner to be more than a symbol for my legitimacy," I tell her. "I've been a client at this agency for long enough to know they provide quality girls who are mentally and physically stable enough to handle what I demand from them."
She narrows her eyes.
"Submission," she says, in a voice so low that I can barely hear her. "Your inquiry said that you want a girl who will submit to your will. What does that mean?"
Our eyes lock on each other again, testing, searching for something, but I'm not sure if we're looking for the same thing.
"You're a smart girl," I say. "I'm sure you know what that means."
She shrugs. "Not entirely, to be honest. I do have a vague idea, but I don't know how close it comes to reality."
There’s that word again. "Why don't you share that vague idea with me, and I'll let you know how close it is to my reality?"
She sighs, coming dangerously close to rolling her eyes at me again, but she remembers the threatened repercussions just in time and refrains from doing it. Good girl.
"You're the paying client," she says. "Why don't you just tell me what you expect of me, and I'll tell you whether I'm in or not. I know what you're willing to pay, so I don't expect this to be easy, but there may be certain things I wouldn't-"
"I'd fuck you," I blurt out, interrupting her little monologue. "Let's just get that out of the way. I want to fuck you, hard. I want to do more than that to you, though. I want you to obey, to do what I tell you to do without talking back, and if you don't listen to me and do as I say, you'll get punished. You'll be spanked, tied up, choked, have your hair pulled-"
"Okay, okay," she interrupts, raising her hands up in a sign indicating for me to stop. "I get the idea."
She's trying to act all nonchalant, completely unfazed by my words, my promises, my threats.
But I can tell what it does to her.
The color of her cheeks has changed again, her breathing accelerated, her dainty fingers are shaking when she lowers her hands, and for the first time ever, she's evading eye contact.
It's just a tiny crack, but she's already breaking before my eyes. She's shivering, but glowing with the heat of anticipation.
"You'd love it, wouldn't you?"
Her eyes dart up to mine, the question lingering between us. She's not going to reply because she doesn't want to admit it. She can't say yes, but she also refuses to lie to me.
"What would that look like?" she asks, batting her eyelashes nervously, as if she could chase the excitement away like that. "In everyday life, I mean. I would have to live with you, right? For more than a year. What would my life look like? Would I have to give up my free will completely, not be able to make a single decision for myself?"
"You're not going to be my house slave," I say. "And I have no interest in having you at my feet all day, every day. You'll get your free time, and I don't care what you do in that time, as long as it doesn't hurt my agenda. But yes, you would have to let go of most of your freedom. And your job."