EL POLICIA

The presidential suite was bathed in a soft, diffused light, as if every corner had been designed so that nothing could ever be seen clearly. Everything was muted. Silent. Discreet yet suffocating luxury. The curtains were drawn, shutting out the outside world, and in this bubble suspended above the city, Chantelle lay still, wrists crossed over her stomach, eyes covered by a black silk blindfold.

She no longer knew how long she had been waiting. Maybe five minutes. Maybe thirty.

This was the twelfth time.

Eighty-eight more nights remained before all of this would end. Before she would be free.

The door opened without a sound. She didn't see him enter, but she immediately felt his presence. That woody, dry scent—restrained but haunting. His scent. The one she would recognize among thousands, because it imprinted itself inside her throat, her core, her very pulse.

Him. He said nothing. Never said anything.

Chantelle felt the mattress dip beside her, the tension in the air shifting, as if every molecule in the room bent under the silent authority of this man she never saw. His warmth drew near, slow, controlled. She recognized it immediately, that warmth she both dreaded and awaited.

He never asked if she was ready. It wasn't necessary. The contract was clear. She knew every clause.

His fingers glided over her hip, slowly, with disturbing precision, and everywhere they touched, they left behind shivers that spread beneath her skin like an uncontrollable nerve impulse. He traced the contour of her pelvis with studied slowness, exploring every curve. She saw nothing, but she felt everything. The subtle friction of his trousers against her bare thigh. The dry grain of his fingers, slightly rough, contrasting with the softness of her own curves.

The pressure of his palm increased, descended toward her lower stomach, then stopped just before the intimate, as if to keep her in a feverish state of anticipation. An anticipation that was becoming almost painful.

She wasn't allowed to touch him. That was the rule. But her fingers clenched involuntarily, gripping the sheets. She wanted to return every gesture. To steal his breath away. To anchor him inside her. But she wasn't allowed. Her palm pressed against her own thigh, her throat, that unbearable emptiness between her legs. Where he still wasn't. Where she already wanted him.

He leaned in further, his chest barely brushing her breasts, his mouth descending slowly, insidiously. When he grazed the inside of her thigh, she stifled a moan, hoarse, too raw to be feigned. Her hips jerked in an uncontrollable spasm.

He stopped. As if he wanted her to understand that he dictated the rhythm. That she was merely territory to be conquered. He wasn't seeking to please her. He was exploring her. Dissecting her. He reigned over her.

And tonight... tonight, he was neither gentle nor brutal. He was precise. With an almost cruel slowness. An animal patience. As if he wanted to dissect her with his bare hands.

His fingers slid between her parted thighs.

Her pelvis rose despite herself. Seeking. Calling. Demanding what still delayed.

He let his mouth travel up, slowly, damnably slowly, until it reached her lips. But didn't brush them. Stayed there, close, breathing heavily, silent.

And then, he entered her. Not suddenly. Not with a cry. But with a fierce slowness.

— Ah... ah... oh my God... yes...

She arched her back, gasping, lips parted on a silent moan, fingers clenched so tightly they marked the sheets. Unable to hold back the rising fire. That thick, burning, uncontrollable surge. Knotting her throat. Emptying her of everything. Except him. He barely moved. Just enough for her to feel. Just enough for her to want more.

She wanted to beg him, but the word stuck in her throat. There was no room for words here. Just breaths, shivers, waves.

With each movement, she felt her thoughts crumble, one by one. A rhythm calculated to the edge of endurance.

— Mmmh... ah... more... don't stop...

She lost her footing. She was nothing but body now. Flesh offered up. Broken breath. Contained orgasm.

And in that darkness she wore over her eyes, in that humid obscurity, she forgot everything. Her name. Her story. The contract. The numbers.

Only he remained. Him, the stranger. Him, whom she would never see. Him, whose face she would never know. Nor even his voice. But who, each time, carved a deeper, more indelible mark within her.

When it was over, she lay there. Gasping. Naked. Trembling. Empty. Undone. Her stomach still knotted with residual spasms. Her sex pulsing with his absence. Her legs open.

She remained lying down, the blindfold still over her eyes. She heard the sound of water running in the bathroom.

The man in the bathroom had finished washing and putting on his impeccable clothes.

The man, after dressing, approached the door. Her heart quickened. For the first time, she dared to break the silence.

She gently cleared her throat, then, in a slightly hesitant voice, finally shattered the silence that had enveloped them for so long.

— Sir, could I have an extra eight thousand euros this month?

It was the first time she had dared to speak to him. Until now, their relationship had been confined to mute exchanges, a cruel game where gazes never met.

No response. Not a word.

The man walked toward the door, his rigid silhouette in the morning shadows. He closed it behind him with a dull thud, a sharp sound that made Chantelle jump. The room immediately fell back into its oppressive silence.

As soon as she heard the door slam behind him, Chantelle breathed a sigh of relief and quickly removed her blindfold. A bitter disappointment clenched her throat. He hadn't answered her.

She needed that money so badly.

The day before, the doctor had called her. His voice was grave, heavy with concern, as he told her that her grandmother's condition had worsened. The kidney cancer she suffered from, despite all the treatments already paid for—which had cost over a million euros—was showing new, worrying symptoms.

So today, she had dared to ask, simply to try.

But the man's silence had chilled her heart.

She got up slowly and walked to the bathroom. Without really thinking, she ran a hot bath, hoping the warmth would silence for a moment the weight pressing on her chest.

She wasn't happy with what she was doing. Never, as a child, had she imagined selling her body, or trading her dignity for money. But life, cruel and relentless, had taught her that dreams sometimes fade under the weight of reality.

Ever since she was five years old, since her mother died of a sudden illness, everything had fallen apart. Her father, quickly remarried, had relegated her to a shadowy role, a stranger among her own family.

Her grandmother, despite her meager means, had taken over, raising and educating her with a rough but sincere love.

Chantelle grew up between these two worlds, knowing little of the warmth of her father's house, preferring to avoid the cold glances of her father and stepmother.

Then, a year ago, illness struck again: her grandmother's kidney cancer.

The doctors had mentioned a million euros, a sum impossible to reach on her own.

She had gone to beg her father, hoping for a gesture, for help.

But he had driven her away, without a glance.

"She's not my mother, why would I spend money on her?" he had spat out, contemptuously.

After her father's brutal refusal, Chantelle found herself with her back against the wall. She had no options left, no support. So, broken but determined, she made a decision she never thought she'd have to make: she went to a private club, where bodies and silences were negotiated.

She hadn't even entered yet and her legs were trembling. But she no longer had the luxury of hesitation. Her grandmother was dying.

And that's where she stumbled upon an offer... colossal. Unexpected. Shocking.

A contract for one million euros, in exchange for one hundred nights with a man. One hundred nights of intimacy, of submission... with a stranger. She would never know his name, his face, or his true identity. A contract forged in mystery, signed in secrecy.

Only one detail was beyond doubt: this man was immensely rich. Because no poor man could have, or would have wanted to, pay such a sum to buy nights of darkness.

She had signed. Without asking questions. Without even reading the clause twice. She was too afraid the offer would be withdrawn if she hesitated.

The essential condition of the contract was strict: she must never see the man. On each of the one hundred nights, she would be taken to a presidential suite. She would wear a blindfold, and she would have only one role: to obey. To submit. To be there for him, and ask no questions.

The man was her master. For one hundred days.

Today, she was at the twelfth meeting. And although she had learned to master her fear, she never quite got used to it.

But she held on. Because with each payment, she saved jealously. Every cent. She counted, she noted. For her grandmother, for the one who had sacrificed everything for her.