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Just before eight, a taxi drops us off outside the Imperial Hotel. Carson climbs out of the vehicle first, holding the door for me like a gentleman. I wasn't sure about this escort business at first, but if anyone can make it work, it's him. I know I don't know him very well, and I know I'm prone to getting myself into trouble by trusting the wrong people, but this time, I really feel like I can trust him, like he's going to take care of me. He proved it, this evening at the pub, when he didn't want me to do the job because he was worried that I'd get hurt. No pimp has ever done that for me before.

I step out of the taxi and look up at the hotel, twenty-three floors of wealth and luxury. I can't even remember the last time I was in this part of the city. I gaze out over the park across the street, the city lights reflecting off the drifted snow, a handful of hardy skaters circling the frozen lake. It's beautiful.

"Having second thoughts?"

I turn back to Carson and shake my head. "No, just admiring the view." He glances around, but doesn't look impressed. He looks nervous. "Are you okay?"

He gives me a startled look. "Me? Why wouldn't I be okay? What about you? Are you okay?"

"You need to calm down," I tell him. "Getting hysterical is not--"

"I'm not hysterical!"

"It's not going to help! Look, I've been fucked by worse guys than him, I can guarantee it, so if you can't pull it together, just go home. I'll be fine."

His ears flatten and he crosses his arms stubbornly over his chest. "I'm not leaving here without you." He regards me for a long, tense moment. "I just don't want to be responsible for you getting hurt. I guess...I guess I didn't think about this part of it, just the money."

"And it's a lot of money," I say. "It'll be worth it." He still doesn't look convinced. On a whim, I step close and stretch up, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. He looks startled and I feel my face heat up. "Thanks for worrying about me. Now come one, let's go inside before we freeze." I grab his paw and pull him across the street, dodging cars and puddles of slush.

The hotel has a dark green awning over the door, potted trees on the sidewalk, and a golden jackal in a neat, forest green uniform standing by to open the door. I'd once been chased out from under an awning by a doorman -- not this guy or this awning, or course -- for loitering on a cold, rainy night. The jackal smiles as we approach and pulls open the smudgeless glass door.

"Good evening," he says with a tip of his hat.

"Evening," I say with a smile. I could get used to this. The hotel lobby is huge, all gleaming black marble and polished brass, with crystal chandeliers and thick, dark rugs. We make our way over to the elevators -- not one, but three of them! The doors on the left slide open first and we wait for the people to get off before we step in. There's a chubby raccoon in the same green uniform as the doorman, standing beside the rows of elevator buttons.

"What floor would you like, gentlemen?" the raccoon asks.

"Seven," Carson says and the raccoon pushes the button. That seems like a silly job to me, riding an elevator up and down all day, pushing buttons for people when they're perfectly capable of doing it themselves. It would be an easy job, though. I wonder how much he gets paid. Not ten thousand dollars a night, I bet.

The elevator begins to rise, no rattling, no shaking, no squeaking. Talk about a classy place. I glance over at Carson. He still looks worried, his furry black brows knitted and his ears back. I hope he doesn't freak out.

With a subtle lurch, the elevator stops and the door open. Carson and I step out into a wide, quiet hallway. I look back over my shoulder at the raccoon. "Thanks," I say.

"You're welcome," he says with a tip of his hat. "You gentlemen have a nice evening." Everyone here is so polite! I could definitely get used to this. Carson leads the way down the hall. We don't have to go far to find room 704. I pull the keycard out of my coat pocket, my stomach taking a sudden drop, like I'm still on the elevator as I realize that this is really happening. I guess maybe I thought I was dreaming.

I reach toward the electronic reader on the door and jump as Carson grabs my shaking paw. "You don't have to do this," he says. "It's no too late to get out of here."

"Thanks," I say, looking down at his glossy black paw holding my silky white one. "I'm okay, though. Just a little nervous." He lets go of me and I slide the card through the reader. The machine beeps, a green light flashes, and the locks click open. Not sure what to expect, I push the door open.

Thick, dark blue carpet muffles our pawsteps as we enter the room. My mouth drops open as I stare up at the sparkling crystal chandelier hanging from the high, vaulted ceiling. Our entire apartment could fit in this one room. It has two sofas, several chairs, and a huge, flat-screen TV hanging on the wall. Across the room is a gleaming table that could seat six, with three glasses and a bottle of wine sitting on it. There's a full kitchen in the corner, and three doorways leading into other rooms. Through one I glimpse what looks like a study, with a desk and bookshelves. I can't see into the other two because the doors are closed, but I'd guess they're the bedroom and bathroom.

The door on the far right opens and I glimpse soothing blue tiles and gleaming white porcelain before Clyde turns off the light and steps out. He's taken off his suit jacket and tie, his shirt collar unbuttoned and his sleeves rolled up. He's certainly the most handsome john I've ever had and I feel my heart skip as he gives us a small smile and a nod.

"Good evening," he says, crossing the room toward us. He stops beside the table. "I was hoping you'd join me for a glass of wine before we get down to business."

"Thank you," Carson says, clearly trying to mind his manners. "That's very hospitable of you."

Clyde grasps the cork with his strong, flat teeth and pulls it out with a muted pop. He fills each of the three glasses halfway and hands two of them to us. I start to raise mine to my lips, but he raises his in a toast and I quickly stop. "To new ventures and new adventures," he says and then we drink. I don't know much about wine, but it tastes good, so I bet it's expensive. He motions for us to have a seat in the sitting area. "I'll be right back," he says and heads into the study. I glance at Carson, wondering if he's still as uncertain as he was. He just stares down at his glass, absently tapping his claws against the base.

When Clyde comes back, he's carrying a small, brown paper bag and several sheets of lined tablet paper covered in strong, blocky handwriting. He sits down in one of the chairs across from us. He opens the bag first, taking out ten bundles of crisp bills and setting them in two equal stacks on the coffee table between us.

"Ten thousand," he says, "as we agreed upon. Half now--" He pushes one of the stacks toward Carson. "And half when we're finished." He puts the other stack back in the bag. I can tell that Carson is wary of a trick, but he doesn't say anything. Clyde places the sheets of paper on the coffee table beside the stack of money, then leans back in his chair and takes a sip of his wine.

"I kept thinking about our earlier meeting," he says, and there's something so relaxed and casual about him, like we're just a couple of old friends having a drink, I can't help but like him. "I would hate for you two to get hurt doing this, and there are some less than honorable people out there, so I took the liberty of jotting down a few notes, just things that I've learned over the years about how to conduct this sort of business and not get killed or arrested."

"Thank you," Carson says, picking up the papers. His golden eyes skim over the top sheet, then he looks up at Clyde. "Not to sound rude or ungrateful, but...why are you doing this?"

Clyde chuckles, a warm, rumbling sound. "I suppose you remind me of someone I used to know, a young colt who got in over his head in a business he didn't understand. Someone helped him when he needed it, and now I'm helping you."

"Well, thank you again," Carson says. "We appreciate it."

"And now," Clyde says, giving me a pointed look before draining his wine glass in a single swallow. "If you're ready..."

I gulp, my heart starting to pound again, but I cover by taking another drink of my wine. I hand the glass to Carson and stand up. Clyde motions toward the bedroom door and I head over there. I stop at the door and glance back to see if he wants me to go in, but he's still sitting in his chair, wearing a very serious expression as he says something to Carson. Carson nods and Clyde stands up, carrying his empty glass to the table before coming over to me.

"Go on in," he says as he approaches. I open the door and step inside. It's dark and for a moment, I just stand there, letting my eyes adjust. I hear him step up behind me and my mouth goes dry. He turns on the light and I blink, my gaze sweeping the large, elegant bedroom. The first thing I notice -- indeed, the most noticeable thing in the room -- is the giant, king-sized bed, stripped down to a single burgundy sheet, the restraining straps already attached to each of the bedposts. All of a sudden, three thousand doesn't seem like enough.

One time, a john took me to a dirty motel out by the freeway. He paid extra to tie me up, but he used duct tape and then he beat the hell out of me before fucking me so hard I couldn't work for two weeks. That was the last time I agreed to any bondage shit. I flinch as Clyde speaks right behind me.

"There's one more thing I was wondering if you'd do for me. There's a big tip in it if you do."

"What is it?" I ask.

"I don't want you to cum," Clyde says. "When you feel yourself getting close, tell me."

"I think I can manage that," I say. I wasn't planning on cumming anyway. None of my other johns ever even got me close. "Why didn't you bring this up earlier?"

"I would have," he says, stepping around me and heading across the room, "but your manager seemed a little...tightly-wound."

"Yeah," I say with a nod, "I don't think he realized what he was getting into."

"But you did," Clyde says, giving me an appraising look. "Or at least you thought you did." He stares at me for another moment, then picks up a large, fluffy towel from off the dresser and tosses it to me. It's bigger and thicker than Carson's spare blanket. "Get undressed," Clyde says. "Everything. Then lie down on the bed. You can cover yourself with the towel. I'll be back in a minute."

I watch him open a door into the bathroom and disappear. Alone, I glance around, considering my options. Five thousand is a hell of a lot of money. There's nothing stopping me from making a break for it, getting Carson, and getting out of there. But that's probably not the best way to get repeat customers. Or any other customers at all. Word gets around, Clyde had said. Absently, I wonder if Clyde is his real name.

Finally, I shrug off my coat and peel my shirt off over my head. My jeans and thong join the pile beside the door, and then I climb into the middle of the huge bed, spreading the towel over me, covering myself from chest to knees. It's very comfortable, the mattress firm, but soft, the sheet smooth, the towel warm. I wonder what it would be like to sleep in a bed this nice. Maybe Carson and I can get a new mattress with the money -- I'm pretty sure he found his in an alley somewhere; it smells like the couch.

Or hell, we could each get a new mattress, and find a new apartment so that we can each have our own bedroom...Or maybe we'll just get a new mattress. I've actually gotten used to sleeping with him, his soft snores and warm breath in my ear, his wandering paws sliding around me in the middle of the night, waking up with his morning wood against my ass -- I think I'd miss him if I had to sleep alone.

Of course, what's he going to want? He made it clear from the beginning that this was just business, but sometimes I think I catch him looking at me, like maybe he wants me. I don't know. I've always been a terrible judge of character. Like that reindeer said, I'm too trusting, I believe people too easily, and it's always getting me into trouble.

The bathroom door opens and seven feet of trouble steps out, wrapped in a plush white bath robe. I swallow hard, my gaze lingering on the hem of the robe, which rides just above his knees, trying to catch a glimpse of his cock hanging down. I don't see anything, but that doesn't mean it's not there.

"Ready?" he asks, setting the alarm on his smartphone. I don't think I've ever been less ready for anything in my life, but I nod. It's only three hours.