Chapter 35: Remote Degradation
The silence after the phone call with Marcus was a living thing, thick with the smell of sex and perfume and their shared conspiracy. Ben withdrew from her, his breath still ragged. Iris felt the immediate, shameful chill of the air on her wet thighs. She watched him tuck himself back into his trousers, his movements efficient, already shifting from lover back to manager.
“You should shower,” he said, not looking at her. “We’ll be late.”
Iris didn’t move from the ruined chair. “Late for what? Our audition?”
That got his attention. He looked at her, his eyes a complex storm of affection and disgust. “For lunch. Remember?”
She stood, her legs unsteady. She walked to the vast closet, her bare feet silent on the carpet. Inside, her choices hung like costumes. She bypassed the elegant dresses, the tailored slacks. Her fingers stopped on a slip of crimson jersey. It was barely a dress, more a long t-shirt, its hem hitting mid-thigh. It had a deep, off-the-shoulder neckline that would leave her collarbones and the tops of her breasts perpetually exposed. Perfect.
She showered quickly, the hot water stinging the tender places Ruiz, Alan and Ben had used so intensively. She dried herself with a rough towel, not bothering with lotion. At the vanity, she applied a slash of red lipstick and smudged kohl around her eyes, turning her gaze sleepy and defiant. She brushed her hair into a chaotic, fiery cascade. Then, she stepped into the dress. It clung to every curve, the expensive fabric whispering over her skin. She selected her highest heels, black stilts that made her ankles ache just to look at.
Ben was waiting by the door, jacket on. He looked her up and down, and for a fraction of a second, his carefully maintained composure cracked. His eyes widened, then narrowed. “Iris. You can’t go out like that.”
“Why not?” She turned slowly, letting him see the way the hem rode up. “It’s just a dress.”
“It’s not a dress. It’s a provocation. You’re not wearing anything underneath it.”
She smiled, a slow, wicked thing.“Observant. Saves time, don’t you think?”
“For what?”
“For anything.” She walked toward him, the click of her heels the only sound. She stopped inches from him, her scent enveloping him. “You said you loved me. You said you loved this body of mine. So love it. All of it. Even the part of me I can't quite hide completely... The part of me that, when glimpsed, will let everyone know exactly what I am.”
She saw the conflict warring in him—the genuine, caring Ben who wanted to shield her, and the other Ben, the one who got hard watching her finger herself while negotiating her price. The second Ben won. A weary acceptance settled over his features. He just nodded, opened the door, and gestured for her to go first.
The walk to the elevator was a performance. The dress rode higher with each step, and she made no attempt to tug it down. A chambermaid pushing a cart froze, her eyes darting from Iris’s face to the blatant absence of underwear barely concealed by the taut fabric. Iris met her gaze evenly, holding it until the woman looked away, flushed.
In the opulent, marble-lined lobby, the afternoon light streamed through tall windows, illuminating the dust motes and the stunned expressions of the guests. A murmur followed their progress to the concierge desk. The manager, a man in his fifties with impeccable silver hair, looked up, his professional smile faltering for only a heartbeat before snapping back into place.
“Señor Carter. Señorita. How may I assist you?”
Ben’s jaw was tight. Iris leaned into his arm, letting her breast press against him. “Go on,” she whispered, her lips brushing his ear. “Ask him.”
Ben cleared his throat. “We’d like a recommendation for lunch. Somewhere… lively. Somewhere Miss Moreau will receive a warm welcome.” He forced the next words out. “Dressed as she is.”
The manager’s eyes flickered to Iris, taking in the dress, the heels, the deliberate, brazen display. There was no judgment in his gaze, only a cold, appraising calculus. He was a man who had seen everything. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod.
“Of course, señor.” He picked up a house phone, spoke rapid, low Spanish into it, then hung up. “A car is coming. The driver will know where to go. El Rinconcillo de la Deseada. It is… appropriate for your needs.”
The name translated to The Little Corner of the Desired One. Iris felt a thrill, dark and liquid, curl in her stomach.
The taxi was an old, black Mercedes. The driver, a heavyset man with a thick mustache, glanced in the rearview mirror as they slid in. His eyes lingered on Iris’s reflection, on the long stretch of her bare leg. He said nothing, just put the car in gear and pulled into the Madrid traffic.
They drove away from the wide, sunlit boulevards, sinking into a labyrinth of narrower streets where the buildings leaned close together, their facades stained with age and graffiti. The sunlight grew diffuse, filtered through laundry strung between balconies. The driver finally stopped outside a non-descript door, a simple brass plaque the only marking.
“Here,” he grunted.
Ben paid him. The driver’s final glance at Iris wasn’t leering; it was weary, knowing. As if he’d dropped many beautiful, extravagantly-dressed women at this same door.
Inside, it was the opposite of what she expected. Not a seedy den, but a clean, well-lit tapas bar. It smelled of garlic, paprika, and fried fish.Normal. Except the patrons were all men, and their conversation died the moment Iris stepped over the threshold. Every head turned. The air changed, thickening with a unified, predatory interest. These were not the wealthy, polished clients of the Ritz or the Prado. These were harder men. Men with rough hands and watchful eyes. A bartender with a scar through his eyebrow gave Ben a slow nod.
A table in the back was cleared for them immediately. As Iris walked to it, she felt the dress cling, the cool air of the bar whispering against her exposed skin. She didn’t walk; she let her hips roll with the deliberate, languid rhythm she used on stages and in bedrooms. A fork clattered onto a plate.Someone swore softly in Spanish.
They sat. A bottle of red wine appeared without them ordering. Ben poured two glasses, his hand steady. “This was a mistake,” he said under his breath, his eyes scanning the room.
“It’s exactly right,” Iris replied, sipping the wine. It was cheap and acidic. “This is the reality, Ben. This is the market. Not just velvet rooms and champagne. This too.”
A man detached himself from the bar. He was broad, wearing a worn leather jacket. He approached their table, ignoring Ben completely. His eyes, a flat, hungry brown, devoured Iris.
“You are new,” he said in heavily accented English. His gaze dropped to her neckline, stayed there.
“I am,” Iris said, holding his stare.
“How much?”
Ben started to speak, but Iris kicked his shin under the table. She set her wine glass down. “For what?”
The man’s lips curled.“For you. For an hour. Upstairs.” He jerked his head towards a curtained doorway behind the bar.
Iris felt a familiar numbness settle over her. This was the pure exchange, stripped of all pretense. No gallery talk, no fine wine. Just hunger and price. She looked at Ben. His face was pale, his knuckles white around his glass. She saw it then, the real cost of his love. He had to sit here and listen.
She turned back to the man. “A thousand euros.”
He laughed, a short, barking sound. “For that? I can get a girl for fifty.”
Iris leaned forward, letting her neckline gape. She saw his eyes lock onto the shadowed valley between her breasts. “But you don’t want a girl,” she said, her voice dropping to a low, intimate murmur. “You want me. You want to be the one who gets to fuck the red-haired whore in the outrageous dress who walked into your bar. That story is worth a thousand. To you.”
The man’s laughter died. He studied her, the challenge in her green eyes. He pulled a thick roll of bills from his pocket, peeled off ten notes, and slapped them on the table. “Half now. Half after. If you are worth it.”
Iris looked at the money, then at Ben. His expression was shattered. She gave him the faintest, most imperceptible nod. This is what you wanted, her eyes said. This is what love looks like now.
She stood, took the man’s rough hand, and let him lead her towards the curtain. She didn’t look back.
Upstairs was a single, spare room with a washbasin and a narrow bed covered in a faded spread. The man, whose name she never learned, pushed her against the wall as soon as the door closed. His mouth was on hers, rough and tasting of tobacco and wine. His hands groped her breasts through the thin fabric, pinching her nipples hard.
“Turn around,” he grunted.
She obeyed, facing the wall, her cheek pressed to the cool plaster. He yanked the short dress up around her waist, exposing her completely. A calloused finger probed her, testing her wetness. He grunted in approval.
There was no finesse, no prelude. He unzipped his jeans, freed his cock, and pushed the thick, blunt head against her entrance. But he wasn’t fully hard...
Iris felt the insistent but flaccid pressure against her and understood immediately. A cold clarity washed over her. She pushed back against him, not with violence, but with undeniable force.
“Stop,” she said, her voice flat, devoid of the performance she’d given downstairs.
The man grunted in surprise, his hands stilling on her hips. “What?”
She turned around, facing him. His cock, half-hard and ruddy, bobbed between them. The hunger in his eyes was now mixed with confusion. This wasn’t the script.
“You’re not ready,” she stated, looking down at him. “Strip. Everything off.”
He blinked, his bravado faltering. “You tell me what to do?”
“You paid for an hour,” Iris said.
In her heels she stood eye-to-eye with him. “My hour. My rules. Take your clothes off. Now.”
A slow, intrigued smile spread across his rough face. He liked this. He shrugged off his leather jacket, pulled his shirt over his head. He stood before her in just his jeans, which he pushed down his thick legs. His body was powerfully built, covered in a patchwork of old tattoos and scars.
“Now go wash it,” Iris commanded, nodding downwards at his cock and then toward the small basin in the corner. “With soap.”
He chuckled, a low, rasping sound, but obeyed. He turned his back to her, and she heard the splash of water, the rough scrubbing of hands, and then the gentler attention he paid his manhood. The mundane act in the squalid room felt more intimate than the sex he’d imagined. She used the moment to open her small handbag, extracting a single foil packet.
When he turned around, his cock was clean, but still only semi-turgid. Iris pointed to the narrow bed. “Lie down. On your back.”
He did as he was told, arranging himself on the faded coverlet, his eyes watching her with wary fascination. Iris reached for the hem of her crimson dress and pulled it over her head in one smooth motion. She stood naked before him, her pale skin glowing in the room’s dull light. She saw his breath catch, saw his cock twitch against his belly. Progress.
She didn’t join him on the bed immediately. Instead, she walked to the foot of it, her movements deliberate, and she stared at him as she caressed her breasts, then stood astride, and showed him just how ready for sex she was. She then climbed onto the mattress, kneeling, and then swung a leg over his head, positioning herself in a sixty-nine. She lowered her wet, exposed cunt inches from his face. “Look but don't touh yes,” she ordered.
He stared up, his eyes wide. The view was deliberate, obscene, and utterly vulnerable. She was fully open to him, the dark red folds of her pussy lips glistening. She reached a hand between her own legs, spreading herself wider for his inspection, her fingers sliding easily through her own slickness. A low groan escaped his lips.
Then she bent her head and took his softening cock into her mouth. She worked him slowly, with a focused, technical precision that had nothing to do with passion. Her tongue traced the vein underneath, her lips created a tight, steady pressure. As she sucked, she began to play with herself in earnest, her fingers finding the frantic, familiar rhythm. She thought of Ruiz, of the hotel bathroom, of the power that came from orchestrating her own pleasure amidst someone else’s use of her.
Her breathing hitched. She focused on the feeling coiling in her abdomen, chasing it, pulling it tighter with each flick of her fingers. The man beneath her was hardening fully now in her mouth, his breaths coming in short gasps as he stared up at her working hand.
Her orgasm built like a wave, vast and undeniable. It crashed over her with a force that made her back arch and a ragged cry tear from her throat around his cock. Her muscles clenched wildly, her thighs trembling on either side of his head. She rode it out, her fingers never stopping, until the last shocking tremor subsided.
Panting, she released his now rock-hard cock with a soft pop. Still hovering over him, she tore the condom packet with her teeth. She took him in her mouth again, just the head, and used her lips to roll the latex down his length, her tongue smoothing it into place. It was a skill, clinical and erotic.
Then she moved. In one fluid motion, she pivoted, turning to face him. She straddled his hips, her spent body feeling both heavy and electric. She looked directly into his eyes, a faint, knowing smile touching her lips. She guided him to her entrance and slowly, exquisitely slowly, sank down onto him until he was buried to the hilt inside her.
She began to move, setting a deep, rolling rhythm. She watched his face contort, his hands grabbing at her hips. When his breathing became frantic, his eyes squeezing shut, she stopped. Completely. She held herself still, a statue atop him.
“No,” she whispered, smiling down at his frustrated groan. “Not yet.”
She started again, building him back to the edge with relentless, perfect strokes, only to slow to a maddening halt once more. She repeated this dance for what felt like an eternity, a master of escalation and denial. The digital clock on the bedside table ticked away the minutes. Fifty had passed.
Sweat sheened both their bodies. His control was gone, replaced by a desperate, begging need in his eyes. She leaned close, her lips brushing his ear.
“Now,” she breathed.
She slammed herself down onto him, finding a brutal, punishing pace. Her earlier orgasm had made her impossibly slick, and she used it, taking him as deep as he could go. She fucked him with a final, desperate fury, and he erupted inside her with a choked, animal shout, his body buckling beneath hers. His hands clamped onto her thighs as if he were falling, his eyes rolling back in his head. It was a violent, total surrender.
He collapsed, spent, beneath her. For a long minute, the only sound was their ragged breathing. Then, with a tenderness that shocked her, he reached up and brushed a strand of damp hair from her cheek.
He helped her rise, his hands gentle. He fetched a clean towel from the basin and handed it to her silently. He picked up her dress from the floor and held it open for her, guiding her into it, and smoothing the fabric over her hips with a reverence that felt like worship. He knelt and slipped her feet back into her towering heels, fastening the straps with careful fingers.
He took her hand in his large, calloused one and led her downstairs, back into the bar. All conversation died again. Every eye was on them, on their clasped hands, on her reclaimed dishevelment.
Ben was exactly where she’d left him, the second glass of wine untouched before him. He looked up, his face a mask of dread and relief. The man walked Iris right to their table. He let go of her hand only to pull the remaining five hundred-euro notes from his pocket. He placed them neatly on top of the first stack.
Then he turned to the silent, watching room, his voice loud and clear, rough with emotion.
“This woman,” he announced, clapping a heavy hand on Iris’s shoulder, “is the best whore in the world.”
The words hung in the smoky air. They weren’t vulgar. In his mouth, in this place, they sounded like a sacrament. A few men nodded slowly, their eyes on Iris holding a new, potent respect. One raised his glass to her in a silent toast.
Her client turned and left, the door swinging shut behind him. The bar’s noise slowly returned, a low hum now tinged with her legend. Iris slid into her seat opposite Ben. She picked up the full stack of euros, folded it, and tucked it calmly into her handbag.
Ben was staring at her, his eyes hollow. The worship in the room was a palpable force, a crown of filth and adoration she now wore. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out. He just reached across the table, his fingers trembling slightly, and touched the back of her hand where the stranger had held it. The gesture was one of utter defeat, and of a terrible, binding understanding.
Ben’s fingers lingered on her skin, a brand of complicity. Then the bar owner, a stout man with kind eyes, appeared beside their table holding two small clay bowls. “Compliments,” he said in halting English, setting down patatas brazas and gambas al ajillo. “For the lady.” He produced another bottle of wine, already uncorked. “She brings life.”
Ben withdrew his hand, nodding his thanks. He watched Iris as the owner retreated. She picked up a gamba, sucking the garlic oil from her fingers with a slow, deliberate pleasure that made his stomach twist. He poured the wine. It was better than the first bottle, earthy and full. He drank half his glass in one go.
“He called you a whore,” Ben said, the words tasting of ash.
“He paid me a compliment,” Iris corrected, her voice even. She ate another shrimp. “He understood the transaction. No lies.” A man two tables over raised his glass to her again. She met his gaze, held it for a beat, then returned to her food.
Ben drank more wine. The warmth spread through his chest, dulling the sharp edges of his dread. This was the path. This was the price. He watched the evening light bleed from orange to purple through the dusty window. The bar began to fill, the energy shifting from the day’s tense quiet to a boisterous, gathering chaos. A guitarist unpacked his instrument in a corner.
“She is like a flame, your woman,” the owner said to Ben later, refilling his glass. “Men see her and feel warm. They want to be near.” Ben just nodded, swallowing the bitter truth with the wine.
The music started, a lively, pulsing rumba. Feet tapped. Fingers snapped. Iris’s body began to move almost imperceptibly in her chair, a subtle sway of her shoulders. A man in his thirties, with a scruffy beard and rolled-up sleeves, approached. He bowed slightly to Ben, then extended a hand to Iris.
“Para bailar?” he asked, his eyes bright.
Ben looked at Iris. Her green eyes were luminous in the dim light. He gave a single, slow nod. He knew where it would lead. She took the man’s hand.
He spun her into the space cleared between tables. She moved with an innate, fluid grace, her crimson dress flaring around her thighs. The music possessed her. The watching men cheered, clapping in time. When the song ended, the dancer led her not back to Ben, but to his own table. She laughed at something he said, letting him pull her onto his knee.
Ben watched her take a sip from his beer. Another man, younger with a sharp smile, said something to her. She turned, laughed again, and let herself be lifted onto his lap instead. Her dress, already short, rode higher. A possessive hand settled on her bare thigh.
The guitarist started a slower, more sensuous song. The first man leaned in and kissed her. It wasn’t a request. She kissed him back, open-mouthed and hungry. The second man, not to be outdone, turned her face to his and did the same. She allowed it, her hands braced on their shoulders. The bar erupted in rowdy approval.
The strap of her dress slipped down her arm. No one fixed it. It slid further, exposing the pale curve of one breast, then the taut, pink nipple. A cheer went up. The man with the beard bent his head and sucked it into his mouth. Iris arched her back, a sharp gasp lost in the music.
Hands were everywhere then. As she was passed to another man, then another, fingers stroked up the inside of her thighs, pushing the hem of the dress up around her hips. The fabric was a useless barrier. A hand grasped her upper thigh, its thumb slipping down between her legs, a bold, exploratory touch. She pressed her thighs together, trapping the hand for a moment, then let them fall open.
Someone yanked the dress down her body. It pooled at her feet like a shed skin. She stood naked except for her heels in the middle of the bar, illuminated by the warm, dirty light. She didn’t cover herself. She put her hands on her hips and threw her head back, a goddess of filth accepting tribute. Men knelt. One, an older man with weathered hands, parted her with his thumbs and buried his face between her legs. She staggered, bracing herself on his shoulders, a long, low moan pulled from her throat.
She looked over the man’s greying head, her eyes finding Ben’s across the smoky room. They were glazed, ferocious. “Condoms!” she shouted, her voice raw and commanding. “If you want to fuck this cunt, you use a fucking condom!”
They scrambled. Wallets flew open, foil packets were produced. The man on his knees was pulled away, replaced by a younger one rolling latex down his thick erection. He bent her over a barrel someone had dragged into the center of the floor. He entered her in one brutal, grateful thrust. The sound he made was one of pure worship.
She took him, her nails digging into the wood. When he finished, shuddering, another was there, already sheathed and hard. He turned her around, lifted her, and she wrapped her legs around his waist as he drove her up against the rough plaster wall. The crowd chanted, counted, became her clock.
Ben lost count after seven. He drank wine. He ate cold tapas. He watched Iris become a vessel, a communal sacrament. Her skin gleamed with sweat and saliva. Her cries became hoarse, then silent, her mouth open in a soundless scream as a man with a thick mustache pounded into her from behind on all fours. Her red hair was matted. Her body was a map of red marks and gleaming fluids.
The landlord appeared at Ben’s elbow as a man with tattoos covering his back fucked Iris slowly on a table, her legs hooked over his shoulders. “I call taxi señor?” he asked gently, placing Iris’s crumpled dress on the table. “For you and the lady?"
"Wait till she tires," he said, knowing he'd have trouble tearing her away.
But it was the men who tired. Ben waited until the last man finished, until Iris slid off the table, her legs buckling. He walked to her, through the crowd of sated, reverent men. He wrapped the dress around her shoulders like a shawl. She leaned into him, her weight fully surrendered. Her body smelled of sex, of many men, of salt and spent lust.
“Twenty-five,” the bearded man who had kissed her first said quietly, handing Ben a folded stack of euros. “We kept count.”
The night air was a cold shock. He bundled her into the taxi. She collapsed against the seat, her head on his shoulder, and was asleep before they left the narrow street. She slept the entire way back to the Ritz, her breathing deep and ragged. Ben held her, staring at the passing city lights, the euros a lump in his pocket. The digital clock on the dashboard glowed 2:07 a.m. They had been gone for twelve hours. She's made just over €3,500 in total. Should he tell Marcus, he wondered? Should he take a cut? Should he bank it for Iris?