With the offer of an all expenses paid weekend in St. Petersburg came the unsolicited transfer of several thousand Euros. I haven’t been working as an escort for a while now, all my profiles are gone, there is absolutely no indication that I am expecting to be paid for my time. And yet, he continues to pay me like I’m for sale.
I hate it, not enough to say ‘no’, but enough to be irritated by it. Before going to St. Petersburg, I had the will and determination to find out whether he thought of me as a body for hire, or something more. We have plenty in common, kinks, fetishes, love of travel and adventure. Over the years that I’ve known him, I have changed. I never really needed the money from being an escort, but it was helpful. I found being an escort was a great way to combine meeting people, traveling, with my desire to please others, be dominated, and willingly submit to the right person.
While the success rate was low, he had always been able to make me his submissive. To humiliate me, punish me, and, yes, to want to be dominated by him. Not just during our paid time, but beyond. Now that I’m no longer an escort, no longer ‘charge’ for my time, finding time with him should take our relationship forward. Maybe there is something growing that can lead to a serious D/s relationship.
I am ready to give him a gift, the gift of my submission to him. Only, though, if he also takes on the responsibility of being my Dom. Money destroys this dynamic. He is not really responsible, because he pays and can walk away whenever he wants. I don’t really submit, because he pays me to do so. How could he ever tell the difference? How could I ever tell the difference?
Before I have a chance to bring up the topic, he begins to take pictures of me. I’m dressed in a fully transparent latex dress, I’m his model. He gets to live out his kink, seeing me in humiliating, erotic, fetish clothes; taking pictures of me. I’m an object. There is no dialogue. He dictates what I do, how I stand, where I look. I may as well be an object he hired to wear his idea of fetish clothes.
I’m trying to changes the subject. “So this is what you pay me for?” Hoping to evoke some kind of reaction. He’s too busy getting the right angle and lighting. “You know, you could just fuck me instead.” Still no discernible reaction. “You could probably do the same thing with other girls and they’d be paying you.” He’s cold as stone. Going about his work.
Another series of pictures and he puts the camera down. Sitting back on the couch, he begins to talk.
“You think you know me, but you don’t. I don’t know you either, apart from the few days we get to spend together each year. I’ve noticed the small changes, how your links disappear from escort sites, how your body isn’t what it used to be, how you no longer look like ‘late 20s’ as your profile said when we first met. That’s all fine, we all move on, we all age. But we don’t become different people.” I was trying to get a word in, but he pushed me onto the bed and held his hand over my mouth. Not forcefully, just to make it clear, it was his turn to do the talking.
“There is a wonderful line that I remember from a play I once saw. I may be a little off, but it goes something like this: ‘I am who I am, because you are who you are, and you are who you are, because I am who I am. But if you are no longer who you are, then who am I?” He looks at me and pauses. I don’t quite understand.
“I think of you as the fetish loving, submissive, escort. That’s who you are. If that’s who you are, then I can be the person you know. And I like the person you know.” I sit up and give him a sweet kiss. Yes, I like the person he is. A lot.
“If you are no longer an escort, if I don’t pay you, then you are no longer who you are, and I am no longer who I am. It changes everything.” I shake my head, no, it doesn’t have to change anything.
“If I’m no longer the person you know, I may not be a person you like. I may not be the person I like. What if I begin to take you for granted, see you as ‘normal’, see myself as just another person in a long list of people who had the privilege to fuck you?”
“What are you saying?” I’m more than a little confused. Maybe this is all about him, how the money makes him feel, not about me at all.
“I’m saying that I know parts of me that are not pretty. Why do you think I started seeing you as an escort? You make me a better person. I pay you, and then do everything I can to make you forget that I paid you. If I don’t pay you, then I would be my regular self, with all my faults, because I don’t have to make you forget you about the money.”
“And what about me? Have you ever thought about how the money makes me feel?”
“No, and I don’t want to. I pay you, so I don’t have to. You don’t have to see me, you have a choice. All I know is that I treat you better, with more respect and care, with more energy and thought, when you are a slut, a whore, a fucking escort. If you’re a person I care for, you are no longer a filthy, dirty, cock-sucking pig. You become a person. And I’m not good with people. I hurt them. I would hurt you. Please don’t make me.”
All I can think is ‘hurt me, I can take it.’ It’s easier getting hurt in the open than feeling hurt and having to smile. I look at the pictures on his camera. That’s who I am to him. An object to make him feel better. It’s true, I don’t know him, but I know myself and I’m more than an object he can download on his computer.