Low Profile Sex Worker
“Pre-emptive self defence, Rick. I'm sure you think it is the best kind.” I agreed that I did. “The laws in the United States are so arcane and complicated. City, county, state, federal, that it is pretty certain that you are going to be breaking some law if someone wants you to be. Especially when you are involved in the sex industry. Hell, being a dominatrix is perfectly legal in Manhattan but can have me prosecuted for assault and battery in Boston, even if the client begs me for it. And the Feds will come for you anywhere if they think they can use you. So nothing that can even be vaguely used against me by a US Attorney later, no matter where in the world. Because those bastards can and will get you if they want you. So I make sure they don't want me.”
In the back of my mind came the distracting thought that if the US Attorney were a heterosexual male or gay female, they would want her. I pushed that away. I did not need that kind of nonsense in my head while I was working. While we travelled she was dressed extremely casually and low profile. Not even business suits or anything that formal. And she certainly never looked like a sex worker or how a civilian would expect anyone in the adult industry to dress. Jeans, boots or trainers, lots of peasant blouses. Apart from the one time we visited a ski resort where the bundled up warm- weather gear came out. She insisted I wore casual too. And she updated that from my usual combat trousers and Timberlands to things that she regarded as more appropriate. I had to admit she was right as well. I did not have a lot of vanity, but I knew I looked a lot better while I was travelling with her than I did beforehand.
The exceptions were when she was what she called “on duty” or “performing”. Then the fetish wear came out. Though some of the fetish wear seemed to consist of beautiful Armani business suits and killer heels rather than the latex and corsets I expected for her profession. It seems that top level businessmen often have a fantasy about being dominated, hurt, humiliated by a female boss or their Personal Assistant or whatever. And when she was working and “in uniform” I was expected to do the same. My usual work gear or suit and formal shoes fitted in perfectly and met with her approval apparently. And I increasingly found myself caring what a professional dominatrix cared about the way I looked, which I have to admit freaked me out more than a little as I did not normally give a flying fig what anyone thought about my appearance. In fact, the less I was noticed the better.