Chapter 1: Arrival at the Incall
The knock came out as three timid raps, barely audible over the thumping bass seeping through the door. Mikael wiped his palm on his chinos, the other clutching a plain envelope. The hallway air was thick with the smell of old cigarettes and something sweetly chemical, the linoleum sticky under his cheap loafers.
The door opened inward.
She was taller than he’d imagined, even without the heels. Which she was wearing. Sharp, black, ankle-strap heels that brought her eyes level with his forehead. He had to look up.
“Mikael.” It wasn’t a question. Irina leaned against the doorframe, a silhouette against the dim room behind her. She wore a simple black silk robe, loosely tied. Platinum hair fell over one shoulder. Her green eyes tracked down his body, then back up, amused. “You are early. Nervous?”
“A little. Yes.” His voice sounded thin. He held out the envelope. “This is… as we agreed.”
She took it without looking, her fingers long and manicured. She flicked it open, thumbed through the notes with practiced speed, and tucked it into her robe pocket. “Come in. You are letting the damp in.”
He stepped past her. The apartment was a single room divided by imagination and a folding screen. A kitchenette with a single bulb, a living space dominated by a large, worn sofa. A desk lamp with a broken shade cast a frayed circle of light over a low table holding a bottle of vodka and two empty beer bottles. The bass was louder here, a phone on the counter pulsing with it.
“Shoes off,” she said, closing the door. The lock clicked, a final sound. She turned and really looked at him, her gaze analytical, cold. “So. The little man wants to be humiliated.” Her eyes dropped to his crotch. A smirk touched her lips. “And already hard? Just from the door. Pathetic.”
Heat flooded Mikael’s face. He was, straining against the fabric of his trousers. The shame was immediate, acrid in his throat, but underneath it, a thrilling jolt shot through him. She’d noticed. She’d said it.
“I…” he began.
“You smell like nervous sweat and laundry detergent,” she interrupted, waving a hand dismissively. “It is not a good smell. The bathroom is there.” She pointed a sharp nail toward a slightly ajar door, steam curling from the gap. “Shower. Thoroughly. There is soap. Wash everything. I do not taste cheap deodorant.”
He stood frozen, a man of forty-three being scolded like a boy.
“Now,” she said, her voice losing its amused edge, gaining a flat, undeniable authority. “Unless you want to leave with your envelope still empty.”
He moved. The bathroom was tiny, tiled in beige, fogged with steam from a dripping showerhead. A bottle of lavender body wash sat on the ledge. He undressed quickly, folding his clothes on the closed toilet lid with obsessive neatness, a habit from home. His hands were shaking. He avoided looking at his reflection in the misted mirror, but he couldn’t avoid the sight of his own naked body: soft at the middle, pale, his erection jutting, absurdly eager. He felt a wave of nausea, of dislocation. What was he doing here? In this strange, dirty apartment, about to pay a girl young enough to be his daughter to…
The water was scalding. He scrubbed himself raw with the lavender soap, the scent cloying and feminine. He washed his hair. He stood under the stream until his skin was pink. The reality of the act settled on him, heavy and terrifying. He was going to cheat. He was going to say the things he’d only typed in the dark on secret forums. He was going to be seen.
The water shut off with a squeal. The silence was abrupt, filled only by the distant, persistent thump of the bass. He toweled himself dry with a threadbare but clean towel. He hesitated, then wrapped it around his waist.
When he emerged, the main room was darker. The desk lamp was off. The only light now came from the bedroom, through a doorway he hadn’t noticed before. A cracked window screen sliced the weak external glow into jagged stripes across a vast landscape of a bed. It was a king size, swamped in heavy black sheets. The pillows were dented.
Irina stood by the window, facing away from him, silhouetted. She had removed her robe. She was wearing only a black lace thong and her heels. Her back was a long, muscular taper, her legs impossibly long, the muscles in her calves defined from the height. She turned her head, a profile of sharp cheekbone and platinum wave.
“The towel. Leave it there.”
He let it drop. The air was cool on his wet skin. He crossed his arms over his chest, then forced them to his sides.
She turned fully now, leaning back against the windowsill, arms crossed under her breasts. She looked him over, a slow, thorough inspection that made his skin prickle. Her expression was one of detached evaluation, like she was assessing a piece of furniture delivered to the wrong address.
“Come here,” she said.
He walked forward, the moth-eaten carpet rough under his bare feet. He stopped a few feet from her. She didn’t move.
“Closer.”
He took one more step. Now he could smell her: the lavender oil from her skin, underneath it something warmer, musky.
“You are even smaller up close,” she observed, her voice conversational. Her eyes were on his face, then deliberately traveled down. “And there it is. The famous little thing. All that fuss for this?” She gave a soft, derisive laugh. “It is like a thumb. A nervous little thumb.”
Mikael’s breath hitched. His erection, which had flagged from anxiety, twitched back to life under her blatant, contemptuous stare. The words lanced through him, exquisite and awful.
“Does it excite you?” she asked, genuinely curious now. “When I say these things? Does it make your little thumb harder?”
He nodded, unable to speak.
“Say it.”
“Yes,” he whispered.
“Yes, what?”
“Yes… it excites me.”
“Louder.”
“It excites me!” The words came out strangled, too loud in the quiet room.
A slow smile spread across her face. It wasn’t kind. It was a smile of possession, of a game she knew she had already won. She pushed off the windowsill and took the single step that closed the distance between them. She loomed over him, the full six feet of her in heels a palpable, dominating presence. He was staring at the hollow of her throat.
“Good,” she purred. One hand came up, not to touch him, but to place a single fingertip on the center of his chest. She pushed, gently. “On your knees, little man. Let’s see if you can do something useful before we even get to the bed.”