Did he see my wet cheeks? My swollen eyes? My trembling lips? The way Jimmy gripped me and I dangled at his side? I didn't know if the stranger would be a friend or foe, but I didn't have time to consider it.
I cried, "Help!" as Jimmy tugged on my arm again, making me stumble after him.
The stranger asked if I was okay, to which Jimmy yelled at him that I was fine and to get out of he way. Their next words were lost to me as I suddenly slumped to the ground in a heap of burning needles. The next thing I knew, Jimmy was sitting beside me, unmoving. His eyes and mouth were wide open.
The floor seemed to shake as someone else hurried down the stairs. Voices echoed around my head, and I struggled to push myself further away from Jimmy. I didn't recognize the woman's face that floated in front of mine before I closed my eyes against the worst headache I'd ever had.
Other people gathered around us on the landing. It wasn't until I was on a gurney in the emergency room and talking to a police officer that I was able to give the details of what had happened. That I learned my rescuer's name was Malcolm, and that he was in the waiting room constantly asking about my status.
Thankfully, I did not have a concussion, and my ankle was just sprained. However, I had dislocated my shoulder. It had been corrected, but I would need to wear a sling to give it time to fully heal.
As a result of my statement of the incident on the stairs as well as what had transpired over the course of the past year—culminating in the activities in the private room earlier tonight—Jimmy was arrested for domestic battery. The most embarrassing part was having pictures taken of my bare ass and legs that showed the marks and developing bruises from the most recent beating as well as the tumble down the stairs. But it was a hard truth I had decided to face, despite the consequences.
It seemed so ironic that I was reporting a crime in a club that had caused me pain when that is exactly what I—as well as others—went there to experience. It was amazing that the police believed me. That there were no repercussions against the club itself.
I went home to the empty loft. I jumped at every little sound, thinking Jimmy had been released and was coming back. I sat up all night going over every detail of our relationship. What I had missed, and what I had allowed to happen. I swore I'd never get into another kinky relationship again.
A couple of models I knew from work helped me move out the next day and insisted I stay with them. Although they asked a lot of questions, I kept my answers simple. And despite not divulging explicit details, I found that I had a lot of support.
It was a miracle to hear Jimmy didn't fight the conviction. He was sentenced to thirty days imprisonment with probation and a fine. I also learned more about him after the ordeal than during the entire time I'd been with him. Like the fact that he was in the porn industry. His job in "entertaining" was really as a male actor in adult films. Which explained how he could afford the upscale loft. And his cryptic answers to my questions about liking the theatre. Show business was still show business, whether on a stage or in front of a camera.
From what the police told me, he mostly did bondage scenes where he inflicted acts upon willing female actors. So basically, he got paid to be a Master with multiple slaves and submissives. Rarely did he have sex with them, which explained his virility with me most nights. After a day of being kinky with no release, no wonder he was raring to go once he got home. The only reason the police revealed any of these details to me was for my own health. I'd never been more scared and then relieved in my life while I waited for those HIV test results.
I was also told I wouldn't have a problem with Jimmy in the future. But I was still anxious as the date of his release drew closer. I hadn't needed to worry.
I had enjoyed the modeling I'd done in the city, but I loved acting more and thought that would be my profession. I was going to auditions again as well as looking for a part-time job. Neither were successful, though. So when my agent called with an opportunity to do some modeling abroad, I told her to put my name in the pool. If they rejected me, my position would be no worse than it already was.
Someone involved with the overseas job recognized my headshot from the prospective candidates. He not only liked my portfolio, he'd seen several of my performances with the troupe the past summer. As a result, I went with five other girls to Europe for five weeks where we were treated like royalty. We visited countries I'd only dreamed of. Ate at restaurants where I couldn't read the menus. Attended elite fashion shows. Wore expensive clothes. And it was all funded by our sponsoring modeling agency.
It wasn't difficult to immerse myself in this new life. To convince myself that I could make a career out of being a model, as cutthroat as that world was. But at night when I was lying between Italian sheets, I would remember the life I once led back in the states. What my inner self desired and wanted. Just not with Jimmy. And the occasional results of that lifestyle didn't mix with being a model, in my opinion.
When I returned to Chicago, I continued to model but also
