Chapter Four
Household

Traci watched as the john got dressed. She was lying on her back, hands cuffed to the bars of the headboard of the large bed. Son of a bitch had cinched those motherfuckers tight, and she was going to have marks on her wrists: bruises, maybe cuts.

She would have sighed, if not for the red rubber ball buckled between her jaws. He really had not been all that brutal, other than that. She had been with a lot worse. Like the one with the needles, or the one with the fondness for rubbing hot pepper sauce into places where it would provide the most pain. Then there were always the one's who just plain wanted to slap the shit out of you. She regularly had to take time off for black eyes to fade. That was, of course, unless her pimp found someone who LIKED the merchandise marked up.

And after all, she was being paid well. She was getting five hundred, so she figured that Rafe must have gotten at least twice that much.

The john slipped into his crisply pressed shirt, buttoning every button. Monogrammed. Her eyesight was good, and she could make out the letters SHB. She was not supposed to know his name, of course. Usually the johns told her a fake name, so she could scream it while they fucked her. He had said she could call him whatever she wished, it did not matter. So the initials were a clue to his real identity, a hint. She filed it away idly. Who could tell what would eventually prove useful?

He stepped into knife creased pants, carefully tucking his shirt in smoothly before zipping up and putting on the belt. Then he slipped into shoes she knew sure as hell didn't come from PayLess. After that, he went to the mirror and put on his tie. Rafe wore ties sometimes, but they were the kind that were already made up when he bought them. This dude tied his own, knotting it meticulously. Yeah, he was a thorough bastard. He had her in every hole she had last night. He was not old, but usually they were starting to slow down at least a little by his age.

It was kind of creepy the way he was ignoring her. Hell, she did not expect cuddles and kisses the morning after. She was a whore, and she was at ease with that. But the complete lack of acknowledgement, unless she intruded upon his activities, was unusual.

He selected a gold Rolex, and and a pearl tie tack with matching cuff links from a box on the dresser. After studying the effect in the mirror, he changed them for plain gold. Jesus, she thought, he's taking more care with his dress and looks than I do when I go to meet a client.

Stephen slipped on his suit vest, then the jacket, settling it perfectly. He examined himself in the mirror again, twisting to get the full effect. Once again he thought about purchasing a free standing floor mirror so he could properly see how he looked from behind. Perhaps a nice antique. Something Victorian, or earlier.

At last he walked over to the bed and turned his attention to the tart. He examined her dispassionately.

She was young, no more than twenty-one or two. But she was not going to look young much longer, living as she did, he thought. Already there were signs. She carried faint scars: breasts, ass, belly, thighs... Accepting pain was part of her profession, she was paid extra for it. But it was impossible to do that and remain unmarked, no matter how careful you tried to be, how sternly your pimp instructed the johns.

She was naked, the remains of a brown satin teddy and camisole lying about her in flaps and strips. Some of them he had torn away with his teeth, some had been sliced away with an Exacto knife. My, that had made her nervous. But he had not touched her skin, had left it unmarred. With all his years at his various hobbies, he had the skill to cut with precision.

"You did well last night," he said. Adequate, actually, but there was no reason to be harsh. She had tried. He opened the nightstand and took out an envelope. Going to the dresser, he got his wallet, extracted another hundred, and added it to the cash in the envelope.

Going back to the bed he laid it on the stand. "That's for your underthings." He knew it was far too much, but he felt inclined to give her a tip. She would not be telling her pimp, he was sure.

He checked his watch. "Your services were purchased up till nine o'clock. Dominic will be up to release you then, and see that you get home."

Without another word he turned and left the room, leaving her lying there cuffed and naked, butt resting in a cold smear of last night's jizm. She wondered if she would be allowed a shower before she left. Probably not. This time she did sigh, whuffing it noisily through her nose, and settled back to wait for nine o'clock.

Stephen made his way downstairs to the brakfastroom He wondered how many houses left in the world actually had rooms designated specifically for the first meal of the day? Probably not that many. The more proletariate breakfast nook was not uncommon. little crannies tucked off kitchens throughout America, barely larger than booths in a family restaurant. The breakfast room here was as large as the master bedroom of most of today's 'starter homes'. It was complete with french windows, a modest sideboard, and an orange tabby cat sleeping in the midst of a small jungle of potted plants.

He paused to scratch behind the cat's ears before sitting. It lifted it's head just enough for it's chin to clear it's paws and slitted yellow eyes at him. It yawned, showing ivory fangs and an amazing amount of pink gullet and tongue, then settled back to sleep, having accepted it's due. Stephen admired cats. They never seemed unsure of their place in the world.

He sat at the only place that was graced by a place setting and briskly rang the small handbell that sat to the right. He had almost stopped being self conscious about that. While he found it ridiculous, it pleased Miss Fulham. She was an excellent employee, and he saw no reason to deny her such a harmless eccentricity.

He was in the act of withdrawing his hand after replacing it when the door to the kitchen swung open. Miss Fulham entered, dressed in a sober grey dress that might as well have been a uniform for all the personality it expressed. Stephen had known the woman for over twenty years, and couldn't recall more than a dozen or so times he'd seen her dressed in anything but grey or black. Unless he had been mistaken, and some of that black had actually been a particularly deep shade of navy.

She was a sturdy, vigorous woman with hair the color of dusty cobwebs, and was somewhere between her mid fifties and early sixties. He could not be any more accurate than that, as she was one of those dour faced women who scarcely changed throughout their lives. He would never have been rude enough to ask her age.

Miss Fulham set his morning half grapefruit in front of him, cradled on a bed of crushed ice. The edges were precisely scalloped, the sections neatly loosened. It had been sprinkled with just enough salt to draw the juice and blunt the tartness, and an obscenely red marischino cherry graced the pit in the center. "How would we like our eggs this morning, sir?"

Stephen picked up the proper grapefruit spoon (not a soup spoon, not a teaspoon, not a dessert spoon. His mother had left an assiduously maintained set of silver). "Oh, scrambled, I suppose. I'll let you off easy this morning." They exchanged smiles. Stephen had not eaten an egg any way but scrambled since he had been old enough to express a preference. "Do we have bacon?" Miss Fulham gave him an as if you have to ask look. "That and a little toast."

She nodded. "You've a good appetite this morning. Juice?"

He spooned a section into his mouth and considered as he chewed. His lips pursed at the tart bite of the citrus. "No. Milk, I think. And... strawberry preserves. Is Dominic back yet?"

Every morning Dominic drove into town for the papers, the previous day's mail, and whatever odds and ends Miss Fulham required. "Just. Shall I send him in?"

"Please." Stephen continued eating steadily. This was not his favorite part of breakfast, but it had been a morning ritual since he had grown a full set of teeth. His mother had often waxed poetic on the health benefits of citrus. He could cater to this small obsession without undue discomfort, and it earned her good will in other things. It had become habit and, even though his mother had passed away years ago, he continued. He was not a man to break habits when they had been so carefully cultivated.

He was just laying down his spoon when Dominic entered from the kitchen. "Morning, boss." He laid the Wall Street Journal, the local paper, and a small stack of envelopes on the table.

"Good morning, Dominic." Stephen picked up the mail and sorted through it quickly. He frowned, examining one. "Damn. They've sent the phone bill here again. Why can't they remember to send it to my accounts manager, like the other utilities? Take care of it for me when you get a chance, would you?" Dominic took the offending bill and tucked it in his jeans pocket. "Why don't you get your coffee and join me while I sort the rest of this out?"

"Sounds good." Dominic went back into the kitchen, where Miss Fulham was putting the finishing touches on Stephen's breakfast. He went to the row of hooks hanging beneath the cabinet that housed the second best set of china and chose a thick mug. Pouring the coffee, he said, "He's ready for that. Want me to take it in?" He knew what the answer would be. He said it more to tease her than anything else.

"The very idea. Know your place, Dominic Genello." She arranged the plate and glass of milk on a wooden tray that had sprays of gold and rust leaves painted around the rim. A nice touch for a fine fall morning, she thought with satisfaction. The silver tray would have been a bit much for a weekday breakfast.

She eyed him sternly, but she knew he was only joking with her. He was an odd boy, Dominic. Good looking, though. He had that almost pretty olive-toned skin so many Italians have, with the big brown eyes that seemed to go with it. He wore his coarse black hair longer than she thought proper, hanging down in his eyes and on his collar. Still, Mister Baxter did not mind, so she said nothing.

He was twenty-five, and had worked for Mister Baxter about five years now. He had been called in to help Mister Baxter when one of his pets... let's see, that would have been not the last, or the one before, but the one before that. In any case, the poor thing had passed on. Mister Baxter's friend, Mister Thomball, had convinced him that it was much too risky for Mister Baxter to handle the disposition of the remains, as he had before. He had offered the services of a professional cleaner.

It was Dominic who had arrived at the house, with Mister Thomball's name as an entry. Despite his youth, he had been thorough. Impressed, Mister Baxter had, with Thomball's permission, hired Dominic full time. Now Dominic slept in the basement, having declined a room of his own. He kept a cot next to the desk that held the computer and surveilence monitors.

He followed her into the breakfast room, sipping his coffee, and watched her serve Stephen, then remove the now finished grapefruit. He sat down as she exited the room, saying, "Anything interesting?"

Stephen shrugged. "Begging letters, and an invitation to a charity ball. They're going to have a bachelor auction, and they want me to put myself up for bids. I might do it. It sounds amusing." He began to eat. "I won't need you till lunch today. I may not need you then. I'll phone if I don't. Would you like a piece of toast? I can't fathom why Fulham insists on giving me two slices when I never eat more than one."

Dominic accepted the slice of toast and spread it thickly with strawberry preserves from a small china pot. "Makes the plate more symetrical, I guess. Maybe she thinks you eat them occasionally, when you give them to me." He bit into the crisp bread, a glob of bright red dropping on his chin. He chewed with relish, then wiped the preserves off his chin with his thumb and licked the digit clean. "Mm. She used the brandied preserves. Just as well you don't want it all, boss. You could end up buzzed."

"It would hardly do to show up at the office tipsy."

"Yeah, but who would dare comment on it?"

"True. Would you or Fulham please give The Tank a good going over some time today?"

Dominic was about to take another bite, but lowered the bread. His eyes glinted, and he said in a low voice, "You going hunting again, boss?"

Stephen took a long swallow of milk, then used his napkin to wipe away the faint moustache. He had never quite mastered drinking milk without decorating his upper lip. Consequently, he never drank milk outside his own home. "Yes, Dominic, I believe I am. Just a quick foray to scout territory today. The young female last night just made me realize how much I miss having a pet of my own choosing." He ignored the way Dominic shifted in his seat. He knew the younger man was becoming sexually aroused at the thought of what Stephen pursueing his interest could mean to himself.

Stephen finished his breakfast, crossing his utensils neatly on the plate and folding his napkin beside it. He consulted his watch as he stood up. "The female upstairs contracted till nine o'clock. When that time comes, be good enough to go release her. If you don't care to drive her into town, provide a taxi."

Dominic followed him out to the entry hall. Stephen checked a thermometer near the front closet that registered the temperature outside. Sixty-six degrees. The paper had predicted a temperature drop to the mid fifties by late afternoon. Stephen chose a light coat for his return trip.

As he opened the door, Dominic said, "The whore still has about forty-five minutes on the clock."

Answering the unspoken question, Stephen said, "Yes, Dominic, you may fuck her if you wish. Just remember that I promised to have her back in good shape, and if you go over the time limit, you must compensate her at your own expense. This is important. I would hate for her business manager to distrust me, as I may want to use his services in the future. And she's fairly expensive."

Dominic grinned. "No sweat. I can do a hell of a lot in forty-five minutes."

Stephen thought about a certain videotape of Dominic with Tessa. "Yes, you can." He went out to his car as Dominic bounded upstairs, two steps at a time.