The Mistakes We Make
“Your feet are spectacular; they taste delicious too.” Sergio Bianchi, a heavy Italian man, moans out while running his tongue up the roof of my foot. If you had told me a year ago that I would be here letting big fat Italian men get off on sucking my feet, I would have laughed in your face.
This is not where I saw my life going. But when you have a three-year-old little boy that depends on you, there’s nothing you won’t do. Hence, my current situation. Now you’re probably wondering, what is it I do that lets men molest my feet?
Hi. I’m Hannah McKay (AKA) Chastity. And if you haven’t already guessed it, I’m an escort. I work for a high-class escort service in New York City called Exclusivity. It’s the best of the best. The clients are all respectful, well-dressed, well-groomed, well-mannered, and well-educated men between the ages of twenty-five and forty-five. Most are stockbrokers from Wall Street, lawyers, CEOs, hedge fund managers, and high-level business executives.
Most of these men are single, but occasionally you’ll get a married client. Some men just want companionship. Others want a pretty young thing to hang off their shoulders at galas and other company functions. Some may look at me dressed in my tight red dress ending at the thighs and my five-inch Manolos and see a prostitute. That’s farthest from the truth. See, there’s a difference. Prostitutes get paid to fuck men for money, whereas escorts have an option. One of the reasons I work for exclusivity is because of the options.
Now, I’m no virgin. I have a son, after all. So, obviously, I’m no saint, but I’m not about to fuck a man for money. Exclusivity hires girls to fill every need a man may desire. Companionship, sex, or, in Sergio’s case, fetishes. I checked the companionship and fetishes box. I don’t mind pleasing a foot-obsessed man. But I draw the line between dressing up as a cat and being locked in a cage for a man’s sexual gratification. Yes, I have heard horror stories from some of the other escorts.
The truth is, I never saw my life going in this direction. I had a happy one until Fletcher Remington entered it.
Three years earlier
“Hannah, I need you over at table five. Milani is shitting her brains out in the bathroom again. Need you to cover her.” Mario, the owner of Barbetta’s, a popular Italian restaurant, belts out while shoving a tray of tiramisu into my side. Milani is a three-hundred-pound Italian woman in her forties. She is a sweet lady, but I swear all she eats is spicy food. This is why she spends half of her shift on the toilet. Leaving me to cover for her. Hey, I’m not complaining. More tips for me.
I started working here at Barbetta’s six months ago. A quaint Italian restaurant located in the theater district of New York City.
“Dang girl, why do you always get the sexy business tycoons? While I’m stuck waiting on these bored housewives who have nothing better to do than bitch about the whore’s their husbands are screwing.” Dana says, rolling her eyes.
I met Dana Davidson six months ago when I started working here. She’s such a little firecracker. With long red hair, bright green eyes, and a slender body, she has all the men’s eyes on her. I’m what you would consider to be average. Dark chocolate brown hair, deep green eyes, and too many curves for my liking.
My eyes follow Dana’s toward table five. Two sharp-looking businessmen sitting locked in what looks like an intense conversation. Both scream money and power.
“Han, do you know who that is?” Dana screeches excitedly at the man with light brown curly hair. Makes me want to run my fingers through it while he’s licking every inch of my body. Don’t go there, Hannah. A man like that would never go for a woman like me. He’s dressed in what looks like an Armani suit. Are those Gucci dress shoes?
Looking down, I see my white blouse stained red from the spaghetti sauce a little girl splattered on me at my last table. It’s paired with a black-length pencil skirt that I bought at a secondhand shop in the city. My white vans are scuffed up from being on my feet for hours. Hair is tossed in a bun. And I’m pretty sure there’s food in it. Yup, I’m a hot mess.
I give Dana a confused look. “Is he a big deal or something?” I wait for her to explain, but she throws her head back in laughter. What’s so funny? Her eyes go to my spaghetti-covered blouse. Then, before I can tell her otherwise, she fingers the top three buttons. Popping them off in the process.
“At least show some cleavage. Those two men are boob guys. And girl, you have the perfect ones. Don’t be covering them up. Let those suckers breathe. Now go get it, girl.” Dana says, walking away but not before landing a hard smack to my ass.
With tiramisu in hand, I make my way over to table five. Jeez, they’re even better looking up close. I’m about five inches from their table when I trip on my feet, causing the tiramisu to fly in the air. And landing right on the sexy tycoon’s lap. Fuck my life.
His business associate sitting across the table, who looks to be in his early forties, starts laughing hysterically at this humiliating situation. Way to make an impression, Hannah. “Sir, I’m so sorry,” I muttered nervously.
I will not cry.
“What the hell, lady! Watch where the fuck…” Lifting his head, his words halt, and his eyes roam down my body. He likes what he sees because his eyes soften. The owner, Mario, chooses this moment to run over with a fancy dish towel in hand. Screaming something in Italian. What I’m not sure. I start to help, but Mario waves a hand.
“It’s fine. A little tiramisu on a person never killed anyone.” The dark blue-eyed sex god says with a grin.
“She could make up for this little embarrassing scene by licking it off your dick Fletcher.” His very arrogant business associate says, chuckling.
My cheeks heat at the suggestion. The man I now know as Fletcher smirks. “No, I would much rather be the one doing all the licking.” I can’t help the wetness pooling between my legs.
“Hannah, go grab another tiramisu.” As I’m about to do as the owner demands, Fletcher grips my wrist.
“Hannah. A beautiful name for a beautiful woman. Skip the desert. You can make up for it by letting me take you out.” Standing, he leans in and kisses my cheek softly while slipping a business card into my hand. “My number is on the back. Call me; I promise you won’t regret it.”
If only those words were true. Instead, I should have listened to my intuition. Accepting that business card was my first mistake, and it wouldn’t be my last when it comes to Fletcher Remington.