{{let's be alone together}}

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...ACT 1...

So, I have been thinking about this for the longest time. And tonight is New Year's Eve, and I've finally decided to go on with it.

I have considered spending my saved-up money on a lavish, stupidly expensive dinner for one, but... a change of plans, I guess?

I call an agency instead. You know, the special kind.

They ask about specifications, about my preferences. I've never actually thought about it before, but I let them know. I tell them how I like it.

And, surely enough, they deliver.

She arrives at my door at about 10 p.m., so I guess she is working tonight, despite the holidays. It doesn't matter. It will be good money for her, sure thing.

Well, better sex than food. Right?

I'm not so sure any more. Food used to be pleasure for me. Now, I am not sure what pleasure is any more. I thought pain would be pleasure now, but yea... that only lasts so long. It cannot last forever.

She presses the door-bell and I am suddenly nervous. True, the flat has been cleaned  -  I have too much time on my hands these days. I am not certain why it is that I'm nervous.

I wanted this. I want this.

I'm wearing some loose clothes, I have promised myself as much  -  to be comfortable tonight. No fancy clothes, no tight shoes, no belts that cut into my flesh, leaving me breathless and sweating. The petroleum-colored pants resemble sweatpants actually, and the cotton is soft against my skin. The greyish-purple blouse is falling off one of my shoulders, annoyingly so, and I self-consciously think that I have always hated it whenever my bra was showing, in any way, under or outside of my typically all-covering clothes. No real reason for it. I guess it's just something my dear mother left me with.

My shame.

The door-bell echoes again, and although the ringing sound is exactly the same, to my ears it sounds somehow impatient, urgent. I purse my lips and hurry to unlock the door.

She looks different from what I'd imagined. The agency has taken my words into consideration, but also added stuff of their own. She is the splitting image of the naughty school-girl trope. Or was it her  all along? Was she the one who chose the way she looked tonight?

She steps inside boldly, she's probably used to this by now. I think somebody must have driven her here, because she is not wearing any overcoat, and it is December outside. Her... handler? 

I don't really care.

She's chewing bubble-gum, and she looks perky. I blush as I catch myself checking her out, from head to toe.

- Like what you see, darlin'?

Her voice trails, and, quite on purpose, she swirls around as if her feet were clad in tight-fitting roller-blades. Yet, no such thing, she's wearing plain sneakers.

She's wearing a checked shirt, short-sleeved, and her skirt is hiding her hips and half her thighs. But she is slender, her long legs easily seen, on display, just like her pale-skinned arms. This one, just like myself, is not a great fan of the sun.

I nod, approving.

Her face is nothing special, quite generic actually, and I probably won't remember it tomorrow, as she is wearing the kind of make-up that 99% of the tutorials on YouTube are preaching. But her hair... They listened to me on this one. I explicitly asked for a red-head. And by the pallor of her naked legs and arms, I could tell that what I see is not hair-dye  -  she is a natural.