“You’re late! Stella, for God’s sake, girl.” Cynthia was petite, and loud. Almost as loud as her pink hair, which yesterday had been turquoise, and tomorrow would be something different. It was her parlor, her business.
“I’m so sorry. Traffic.”
Cynthia raised an eyebrow. Then carried on her bustling. “Well, your first is waiting. Do you have a plan, like we talked about?”
Stella nodded. She must have looked frightened.
“No no no. Listen,” Cynthia took her elbow and led her down the hall, to the door with her name on it. It opened into a comfortable dressing room. “You have to be confident. Authoritative. No one who comes through your door is gonna take you in their arms and let you cry, babe.” She went into the closet and came out with a bustier and high boots. “I like your stockings, the pattern works well for all that leg you got. Garters?”
“Put this on. Throw on some red lipstick. And get into character. These boys are scared, they need strong. That’s you now, Boss.”
Stella nodded. Cynthia gave one last look and left. As she pulled the door to, Stella called out. “Wait, does he have a name?” the man who was waiting just on the other side of the back door, waiting for her to do God knew what to him. The butterflies turned into full blown nausea.
Cynthia poked her head back around. “Yes. Slave. Sub. Boy. Whore. Bitch. Whatever you want to name him, that’s his name.”
And she was gone.
~Stella (a working title)