CHAPTER TEN
“Make up your mind to have no regrets
Recline yourself, resign yourself, you're through
“I always get what I aim for…
and your heart 'n' soul is what I came for.
“Take off your coat…
don't you know you can't win?
“You're no exception to the rule…
I'm irresistible, you fool.
“Give in... give in... give
in.”
-
Adler and Ross
Parihn had heard a saying once, while on Terra
Roma: “If you’re going to be raped
anyway, you might as well lie back and enjoy it.” It was a cruel, callous
little declaration, and she had no doubt a man had coined it—probably a man who
wanted quieter victims.
It did, however, have a
certain practicality to it… and for many that lived their lives in servitude it
was, in a twisted way, good advice. The very persona of a prostitute—whether a
common street slattern or an incredibly cultured tar mal shavan—was based in large measure on doing that which you did not want to do, and looking extremely happy about it.
So, in that sense, it made sense.
Certainly the events
of the past 13 hours hadn’t required any sort of inspired performance: Jerrell
had been pleasant, witty, charming and solicitous of her desires, for the most
part.
Of course, the fact that it was, ultimately, her desire not to do this strayed somewhat past the
boundaries of his restraint.
They’d talked about their respective lives, and she’d been
forthcoming when questioned—not that Parihn particularly wanted to reveal
things to him, but because she had made a promise… and keeping her word was of
enormous importance to her. Lying had been easy long ago… and a much younger
Parihn—a Parihn who had just escaped a life of sexual slavery—had promised
herself then that she would adhere to the truth, nigh worship it, for the rest of her life.
Of course, she knew, other promises she’d made or
implied—especially to herself—were in peril of falling by the wayside.
Jerrell told Parihn he’d thought about her quite often over the
years—that he’d regularly pestered Xorc for reports on her well-being and
happiness. He even admitted to occasionally using his not-inconsiderable
resources to follow her career a bit more closely than a casual, or even an
interested but unconnected, observer might.
“I didn't say that to anger you,” he reassured her, after noting
the sudden set of her jaw. “I just wanted you to know that I've been sincerely
interested—admiring you from afar, I suppose, if you're the poetic type.”
His words left her even colder.
That, she thought, is not
admiration, Jerrell.
It’s obsession… and
voyeurism.
The dinner had been intimate, lavish, and well-prepared:
Non-replicable, perishable delicacies Parihn hadn’t been able to partake of
since her departure from the Rigel system—a number of them illegal in
Federation space—had been laid out beside other, more conventional
preparations. The temptation was just too great, and, despite her initial
intentions, she’d sampled a few—sensing that he'd simply instruct her to eat
more if she didn't at least make a show of enjoyment.
The first step down the
slippery slope, Parihn, she chided herself.
Caviar from the Caspian Sea, deep water
mollusks from Amphitria II, Maine lobster, pastries filled with Andorian royal
jelly… if I’d wanted a confirmation that Jerrell is still in “the business,” I
have it now. You don’t make this kind of latinum selling drinks. The
information in which he trades must be pretty… informative.
Even as he poured them each a
small aperitif she recognized as a potent, prohibited aphrodisiac, made from a
fermented fruit that grew only in a closely guarded glade on Dionysus II, her
host made an effort to cover his tracks.
“I’ve had most of these
things in stasis for a few years now, waiting for an opportune instance to
share them.” He seemed on the verge of adding to his statement, then decided
against it.
Probably some sort of ill-considered comment
about my being the dessert.
“I don’t understand,
Jerrell.”
“What’s that, my dear?” he replied, with that offhandedly
cultured tone that was part and parcel of his usual demeanor… and which she
found incredibly irritating.
“This is hardly necessary,”
Parihn asserted. “You’re going to have
me tonight whether or not I’m impressed with your larder or your largesse.
“Now we both know it’s bad
business to waste resources on a done deal.
“What’s your game?”
His expression soured
momentarily into petulance, then mutated towards exasperation.
“There’s no ‘game,’ Parihn. I
thought you might appreciate these things like few others could. You’re a woman
of the senses; you might have denied that while playing Starfleet, but, in your heart, you know I'm right.
“Not a whore… but certainly, by breeding and instinct, a
hedonist… and there’s nothing wrong with that. As a matter
of fact, tempered by your mind, it's one of your most attractive qualities.” He
sipped at his drink and gauged her reaction.
Or, rather, he tried.
For much of the evening,
Parihn had been aware of Jerrell’s sustained effort to probe her thoughts—to
assess her emotional state. The attempts were discrete, and circuitous: No doubt
he’d learned a number of tricks in the last decade, the better to get his way
with just about anyone.
Parihn, though, wasn’t just anyone. She’d trained with an acclaimed adept of T’Pel for
over two years… and T’Vaar had declared on more than one occasion that her
friend’s progress was “more than adequate.”
Thus, Jerrell was having less
success—that is, none at all—than he’d expected.
And she was determined that,
since she had to sleep with this man, he would at least have to do things the
old-fashioned way: In anticipation of what Parihn had known was a real chance
she’d have to associate with him on her arrival, she had carefully, resolutely
set her mental defenses as T’Vaar had taught her even before reaching Way Station 242, so that Jerrell would be able to
receive little of either mental or even emotional cues via his psionic powers.
Bad enough that she was being coerced into having sex with him by circumstance
and necessity; she wasn’t about to let him access her secret desires, her
preferences and turn-ons, and use them to make it one of the best experiences
of her life—for that was exactly what he’d do, given the
chance, in his attempt to win her permanently.
Parihn believed even that tactic—probably one of Jerrell’s favorites, she
guessed—doomed to failure, but… it certainly wouldn't make things easier for
her. Not for the first time that evening, she drew upon her courtesan's persona
to conceal a frustrated, angry frown behind a smile, and thought, Once a thief, always a thief.
She found no ready
counter-argument when a particularly unforgiving subconscious took that moment
to remind Parihn of her own past.
The parallels, she knew, were
impossible to ignore.
***
With but a glance, Parihn
wagered she knew who'd decorated the bedchamber. It—like him—had that touch of
overdone pretension masquerading as tasteful style: A few too many paintings
crowded the walls; the tables and stands were bedecked with more objects d’art than would allow true appreciation of
them. The room had the look of having been arranged by someone who wished to impose their sense of style, rather than simply express it.
Parihn couldn’t prevent a
slight grin, and wrinkled her nose in distaste, momentarily amused despite her
predicament. She still possessed a young noblewoman’s (now offended) eye for
arrangement—even if such things were of no real importance to her any
longer—and she was almost tempted to pluck it out.
Nouveau riche, as the humans say… and doesn’t even realize it.
The only thing worse than trend-followers are trendsetters—well, bad ones, that is.
Then, as she turned, her gaze
fell on a canvas mounted on the near wall. Before she could moderate her
reaction, Parihn took an eager step towards it.
It was a portrait of her.
She remembered the day the
picture had been completed; Parihn had been nine years old. Her father had
promised his fidgety daughter an entire Ktarian chocolate puff if she’d just sit still for that hour more the artist—a brilliant, nervous
little Angosian lured to Sha’Krel for this very task—said was “absolutely
critical to capture her essence.”
Parihn admitted the fussy man
had done as he'd promised; she could almost feel the girl she’d been—an
extremely happy, lovingly spoiled child-woman now dead and gone for almost
twenty years.
“It’s one of the few things
of value that survived the sack of your father’s palace.”
Jerrell had slipped behind
while the vision of Parihn's younger self had captivated her. They'd yet to
touch, other than their brief handshake… but now, she felt his hands caress her
bare arms.
The sensation, she noted,
suddenly troubled, was not unpleasant.
“Even then, there was something about you,
Parihn,”
he whispered.
Viciously, she sniped,
“Pedophilia doesn’t become you, Jerrell. Let’s stick to the here and now.”
It bought her a few more
minutes, as she’d intended.
He stepped back, perturbed.
“I merely meant you were
beautiful then, too, Parihn... and became
even more famous—legendary—after you disappeared. Your old patrons write poems
and songs; they tell stories of your elegance and eloquence, as well as your
skills… all of them.”
She closed her eyes, and
gritted her teeth.
Of course, you had to add that last, didn’t you, Jerrell?
Those tales must be intriguing: No doubt by now I
don’t even need to dance; I can simply fly around the room…
and probably bring a man to climax just by looking at him.
“I have to admit,” he
continued, oblivious to, or unconcerned with, her emotional state, “I’m looking
forward to seeing you dance. Your reputation has only grown in the years since
you left Rigel… and I never had the chance to watch you.”
For a moment, she was tempted
to comply. There were a number of pieces in the room valuable enough to cause
him real anguish were she to “accidentally” break one during her performance.
It was a petty thought,
though…
…and destroying art wasn’t
going to salvage her situation.
“And you won’t now,” she
affirmed, even as he circled to stand before her. “That wasn’t part of our agreement—unless, of course, you’d
rather I dance than...”
But when he grasped her
shoulders and his mouth came hungrily down on hers, Parihn knew, and lamented.
His
preference had been clearly expressed.