Fetish

“Their honor resides therein,” Delbène explained to me when I questioned her about the thing. “We do, by all means, wish to amuse ourselves with these girls; but why ruin them? Why cause them to detest the memory of the moments they passed in our midst? No, we have that virtue, and however corrupt you suppose us to be, we never compromise our friends.” - Juliette, Marquis of Sade Tall, blond and with a delicate way of showing herself, Cathy was one of those girls who was pretty and knew she was pretty. Just as she knew the guy sitting next to her in class was spying on the book she was reading, picking up some nasty and explicit details about an orgy of nuns. She didn't know him, didn’t know absolutely nothing about that man beside her, but she purposely altered the rhythm of her breathing and crossed her legs as she ran through those indecent paragraphs; the book itself was cruel, perverse, and devastating, but what spurred her on was teasing a stranger and pretending not to know what she was doing. If she tried really hard, she might even look flushed. That student would no longer pay attention to the Aesthetic Theory lecture they were attending, very likely would be unable to pay attention to anything else for the rest of the day, as his mind would be caught up in the image of the girl getting horny beside him while reading Sade. And he would feel powerful, because the little cross pendant around her neck made him sure she was just an innocent girl experiencing sensations she probably didn't understand. But Catherine understood pleasure all too well. Of all the things that spurred and aroused her, being watched was her favorite. — Wonderful lecture, wasn't it? — Said Professor Myers, Cathy's advisor, at the end of the class. The lecture had been led by a visiting professor from the Department of Arts. — Absolutely, professor. — Cathy replied, with her best smile. — So how's your dissertation going, Catherine? — Myers asked. — Excellent. It's good… — Excellent or good? — I honestly don’t know. — Cathy confessed, laughing. — I'm at that stage where I want to throw everything in the air and start again. — Don't be silly. Drop by my office and let's have a little discussion. Maybe you just need a little guidance. — Of course, Professor Myers. I need to go to work now, can we talk next week? — Of course. See you later, Catherine! — See you! It hasn't been that long since sweet little Catherine Johanna West went from a straight-laced church girl to a woman who doesn't mind being naked for an audience, as long as they're throwing money at her. "It's the city, it corrupts us," said Ella, her best friend and roommate, once smoking a joint in her apartment. Neither Ella nor Cathy were New Yorkers, but both were absorbed into the chaotic city life at one time or another. Ella was three years older, stripped of all the cheap morals that had covered her her entire life when she realized that the life she wanted was not designed for good girls. Between bar counters, sugar daddies, strip poles and cam sessions, Ella made her way through Columbia Law School and was about to graduate with honors and a paid internship at a major New York firm. Meanwhile, Cathy still couldn't see herself retired from strip poles. The Bastille was a fine strip club in Manhattan, very exclusive and frequented only by powerful men who won't throw bills smaller than $50. A professional ballerina since the age of 14, Catherine had no difficulty in adapting to the poles. The money was good and the work was fun but very tiring. She introduced herself under the false name “Bella”, in honor of her older sister whom she hated. Catherine was what might be called the black sheep of the family — the only person who understood her was her brother, Cameron, who died five years ago when she was just seventeen. In the club's dressing room, she was getting ready to perform: pink blush and gold glitter all over her body. Her personal brand was not a femme fatale with pointed eyeliner and dark lipstick, she had opted for a much more romantic character. She always wore light colors and left her hair wavy, she sold the fantasy of a nice, simple girl who ended up on the strip poles. She performed with her cross pendant and a cheap necklace named "Bella" that she bought just for that, to make the rich men who watched her imagine her as the good Christian girl who reluctantly took off her clothes. A man once paid her six thousand dollars so she didn't have to work the rest of the week just because she pretended it was her first private dance. These men came and went, unexpectedly inspired to be heroes for one night. Catherine didn't believe in heroes and she knew very well that it wasn't generosity that made up those men's minds, it was some kind of very closeted male guilt, after all they created a world where girls like her need to undress in exchange for money. Cathy knew exactly how to take advantage of that kind of guilt. — Hey Baby Bells, the stage is yours in five minutes. — Said Alexa, one of the girls who had just come back from the main stage, sweaty and carrying a huge wad of bills. — Thank you, I'll be ready. — Said Cathy, closing her book. — How's the house? — You will love it! — Alexa said, laughing. — A bunch of academic nerds sitting at the front desks. Round glasses, sweaters, turtlenecks, tweed suits… It's the whole thing. — Oh, great! I love these guys. Cathy laughed. — I'll pretend to have dropped out of high school, let's see how many of them will try to convince me to go back. — Unless one of them knows you. — Said Alexa. — I heard them talking about Columbia. That's where you go, isn't it? Out of curiosity, Catherine walked to the main stage entrance and peeked at the front tables. Luckily for her, no known faces from the Department of Literature were there. She sighed in relief and went back to the dressing room to finish getting ready. In a few minutes, she was on stage and began her show, flaunting her slender figure of 5’8, crowned by medium-length blonde locks. Her face matched her body; both had an angelic but highly appealing feel. Six years of classical ballet gave her a figure that was both raw and delicate, strong and soft, just the way she liked to show herself. There was nothing better than feeling the rain of dollar bills brush against her skin - and somehow the hundred-dollar bills were even more pleasurable. She danced until she was tired and came down from the stage to take a break and walk through the club, hoping to be accosted by a few gentlemen asking for private dances or handing her two-hundred-dollar tips just to see her smile. She saw a group of interesting men at one of the mezzanine tables: the six-thousand-dollar bottle of Japanese whiskey on the table indicated something good. One of them looked at her from above and she pretended to blush. She felt that he was about to call her there, but a voice behind her called her instead: — I'd like a private dance, if you don't mind. — Said the man. Catherine recognized the voice but could not remember who it belonged to. When she turned around, her eyes widened to see that the man was none other than Dr. Theo Russell, the professor of Aesthetic Theory who gave the lecture she attended that afternoon.