Ophelia.

My job requires me to work by a certain set of rules. I once read a quote that resonated with me; ‘Rules exist for a reason. Rules exist because when people don’t follow them, people get hurt.’ Precisely the reason my job comes with a strict set of rules, in no particular order, they are as follows;

1. Never share my real name – Katie Collins at home/Ophelia Jones when I’m at work.

2. Punctuality – it’s basic manners.

3. Payment first – No exceptions.

4. Hygiene – both personal and sexual.

5. No mouth kissing – too personal.

6. Consent is key – enough said.

7. Safety is key – as above, always check in.

8. Sex is discretional, never inevitable.

9. Meetings will be monogamous unless pre-arranged.

10. The companion or client reserves the right to leave at any point, no questions asked. Compensation payments will be discussed in the initial contract.

11. Never cross business with personal/pleasure.

12. Stay in control – I always retain the upper hand.

13. No body modification – Including, but not limited to, plastic surgery, tattoos, or piercings – should I choose to modify my temple, it will be my choice.

14. It is NEVER romantic – do not cross those lines.

I’m sure you are curious about what exactly I do for a living. Honestly, it depends on who you ask; I would tell you I’m an ‘Escort’ or a ‘Personal Companion.’ Official documents state that I’m a ‘Personal Assistant,’ this is also what Mum tells people I do. Others use the term ‘Sex Worker;’ personally, I find that term too vague because the job entails far more than just sex. Finally, ‘Call Girl,’ again, in my opinion, It’s offensive; I’m a woman, not a child. Then there are the people who don’t understand the profession and are completely awful; ‘Prostitute,’ Whore,’ ‘Slut,’ ‘Harlot,’ ‘Strumpet.’ Need I go on? I think you get the gist of it.

I’m a strong woman with an impressive set of credentials and an intellectual head on my shoulders; I’m nobody’s fool. I could have had my hand at several occupations after completing university, but I didn’t want them. I’ve known for a long while exactly what I wanted to do. It started as a part-time job ten years ago, as a little side earner to see me through university. It was never sexual, to begin with. I worked for an agency where my job title was ‘Professional Girlfriend.’ However, the longer I worked there, I saw the kind of money that could be made from extending my ‘skills.’ The type of money that could, and has, set me up for life. Money that I was barely seeing twenty-five per cent of working for an agency. I never expected to enjoy the job as much as I do; it’s exhilarating to know I can make someone happy, even for a little while. When I left uni, I quit the agency and set up shop for myself.

I’ve done plenty of research. The one thing I never wanted from life was to wake up one morning and dread going to work, hate my life, and feel like I owed my life to some massive corporation that sucked my soul from my body. Nope. Not for me.

I own me. I own my life.

To top it all off, I made more than enough money in the first half of this year alone to allow me to live comfortably for the rest of the year. I understand that a lot of women are sadly forced into ‘the industry,’ with no choices available to them other than to sell their bodies for a pitiful amount of money­. I do what I can to support those women through various charities, but it isn’t enough. One day I’ll be in a position to do more to squash the stigma tied to the profession. For now, I do what I can, which includes constantly proving that I chose this; maybe it chose me, but I certainly don’t have to do it.

My clients are of various calibre, but they all have money, or they wouldn’t be able to afford me.

You have the one-time wonders; they might require a date or company for just one night, never to call again for whatever reason; I never ask. It’s never any of my business. Yes, morally speaking, I know some of the people I accompany will have wives, husbands, partners, etc. I’m not interested in being a homewrecker, so I follow a don’t ask, don’t tell policy. I never wear perfume, only citrus and tea tree-scented body wash when I’m with a client, there is less chance for my scent to rub off onto them, and if it does, it won’t lead to suspicions.

Then I have my regulars, clients who have come back time and time again. I can’t blame them. I offer a professional service, and I’m bloody good at my job.

These clients pre-book me to coincide with their business trips; some will even hire me to travel with them. I’ve seen some incredible places; when my client is in business meetings all day, I get to go and explore until I’m needed for functions in the evening.

For some clients, it is purely platonic; they require companionship or an ear to listen to their daily whines; others want a hot and heavy night. No two clients are the same, and I enjoy pleasing them all.

The trouble with having so many wonderful regulars is I have to keep strict punctuality, which means I can only have a couple on my books at a time. What is a girl to do when she’s so popular?

I have three main regulars currently on my books;

Robert Mitchell is a high-profile business owner in his forties from out of town. He’ll call me when he’s coming into town on business.

Eugene Phillips is now retired, but he made his millions in property. He’s by far one of my oldest clients at eighty-two, don’t judge so fast; with Gene, it’s never been sexual; he likes to have company; I’m more of a granddaughter role for him; it’s nice.

And finally, Rupert George, the man sitting across from me now. Rupert is only in his early thirties but appears much older; I thought he was lying about his age until I checked his ID. Rupert works for his father, though I’m not entirely sure what he does exactly; however, I know that the payments I receive from Rupert come from his trust fund.

Rupert’s dark hair was once full and lustrous, sadly now, prematurely receding and greying. His blue eyes are crinkled at the edges, and not in an endearing way. It isn’t that he’s an ugly man; he’s just a little—meh! Totally boring and mundane and does nothing to excite one’s senses. But that’s the way the job goes. Some days, I get a handsome man like Robert that I can’t wait to sink my teeth into. Others, I have to force a smile through dinner and mentally write my shopping list during sex with a man like Rupert. It’s the luck of the draw.

Rupert seems nervous tonight; he isn’t his usual pretentious self. He keeps running his hands through his thinning hair, sweeping it over to the side, trying to hide his balding spot. I politely sip my champagne and slice through my butter-soft steak as I listen to him talk.

Swallowing a large gulp of champagne, Rupert looks up, “Enjoying your dinner, Darling?” He asks before wiping his mouth on the cotton napkin.

I am, of course; it’s delicious. Rupert has a taste for expensive restaurants, but I won’t lie; I’m looking forward to slipping into my pyjamas, though that probably won’t happen tonight. I internally roll my eyes; I can’t tell him that, can I? Being the professional woman I am, I smile sweetly, finish my mouthful and answer him with a half-lie, “Of course, it’s wonderful, as always. Looking forward to dessert?” I tease. I always know how to get them, the little phrases that send them into overdrive, always leaving them wanting more.

“Mmm,” he hums low in his throat. To anyone else in the room, we’re an ordinary couple on a date; only Rupert and I know of our arrangement.

I swallow my last mouthful and place my cutlery on my plate, indicating I have finished my meal. The waiter approaches our table, and I tell him to send my compliments to the chef on a beautiful meal. The waiter makes eyes with Rupert in an unspoken conversation. Rupert nods slyly at him before the man walks away with our plates. What was that about?

“I’ve enjoyed our time together, Ophelia,” Rupert begins, “How long has it been?”

I scrunch my brow in thought, “Hmm, I think it’s been around six months since our first ‘date’,” I answer.

“Six wonderful months.” Accentuating his words, he grins a slimy smile at me. I feel awful because he means well, but Rupert doesn’t know this will be one of our last meetings. I need a fresh face; of all my regulars, he’s the one I chose to replace. I need more. More excitement, more anything.

My mouth forms a tight smile, and unable to answer, I sip on my champagne, tilting the glass horizontally to finish it.

“I think we have enough for another?” He offers the bottle towards my now empty glass.

I nod, “Just a small one.”

He nods to someone across the room. The ambient music lowers, “I truly have enjoyed every moment of our relationship, Ophelia.” I don’t correct him on terminology, but I want to. This is an arrangement, not a relationship.

“As have I, Rupert.”

“I fully look forward to spending the rest of my life with you, in fact,” he continues.

Huh?

Rupert stands up.

He wouldn’t?

Stepping around to my side of the circular table, he stops in front of me.

My breath becomes shallow, and my palms clam up.

What. The. Fuck?

No. Surely, Rupert isn’t about to do what I hope he’s not about to do?

“Rupert.” My voice quivers, too quiet to be heard; even my pleading eyes aren’t enough to gain his attention.

My heart thunders in my chest, pounding as though it’s about to break right out of my chest as he bends awkwardly down onto one knee, pulling open a small velvet box. The ring he presents inside is exquisite.

“Will you marry me, Ophelia?”

~**~