Catherine settled into the couch with elegant precision, crossing her legs with the kind of authority that commanded rooms through presence alone. "So, let's discuss exactly what working for Meridian would entail."

I nodded, and she continued with practiced efficiency. I watched her fight the visible struggle—maintaining professional composure against a body recognizing something it wanted.

"Typically, new male recruits undergo three months of intensive training before seeing their first client." She pulled a tablet from the couch cushion, swiping through comprehensive documentation. "The curriculum covers several essential areas."

She showed me detailed syllabi—weeks of content organized with military precision.

"Sexual technique at medical school level. Most men think they understand female pleasure. They're catastrophically wrong. We teach anatomy, arousal psychology, the neuroscience of orgasm. How different women respond based on age, experience, trauma history, cultural background. How to read micro-expressions that telegraph pleasure versus performance. How to make a woman feel genuinely worshipped rather than just efficiently fucked."

Another swipe. "Emotional intelligence training. Our clients aren't paying twenty thousand dollars for orgasms—they can buy expensive vibrators for that. They're paying for connection, validation, feeling desired. You need to understand the specific desperation that comes from being powerful everywhere except your own bedroom. The rage of being brilliant but invisible to your partner. The grief of watching yourself age while your husband chases younger bodies."

Her fingers moved with unconscious grace, nails clicking rhythm against glass. "Cultural education. You'll serve CEOs who speak four languages, diplomats' wives who've lived on three continents, artists who can discuss philosophy for hours before touching a bed. You need to hold conversations at their level. We're not hiring pretty idiots—we're cultivating companions who satisfy mind and body simultaneously."

"And discretion protocols." Her voice took on steel. "Non-negotiable. You'll sign NDAs that would bankrupt you if violated. Never discuss clients by name, never photograph them, never acknowledge them publicly even if they acknowledge you first. One mistake ends your career and potentially destroys theirs. Some of our clients are married to men who could ruin lives with a single phone call. Your discretion protects everyone."

Catherine set the tablet down with deliberate gesture. Studied me with intensity that felt like physical pressure. "Usually, demonstration of capability comes in the final two weeks. We bring in professional evaluators who judge whether you've actually learned what we've taught. Pass, you start taking clients on probation. Fail, you leave with education but no job."

She paused, let silence stretch.

"However."

That single word shifted the conversation's gravity.

"Victoria spoke extremely highly of you. Ortega and Anya too." Her smile held sharp edges. "But then I made calls. Checked references you didn't know you'd provided. Did research that would concern you if you knew how deep my connections run."

She leaned forward, genuine curiosity breaking through. "The Voyeur Wellness Center interview is legendary in our industry. Dr. Ortega doesn't just interview candidates—she dismantles them psychologically. Tests their understanding against her three decades of clinical experience. Makes them demonstrate knowledge that most sex therapists with PhDs couldn't articulate. She's made grown men cry. Made experienced sex workers question their entire understanding of intimacy. Her rejection rate is ninety-four percent."

Catherine's expression shifted into something mixing respect and intrigue. "You not only passed—she called me personally. Said you demonstrated more sophisticated understanding of female arousal and pleasure psychology than any candidate she'd evaluated in fifteen years. That you understood concepts about desire and fulfillment she usually has to teach to people with masters degrees in human sexuality. Coming from Dr. Ortega, that's not a compliment. That's prophecy."

I kept my expression neutral.

"So, here's my proposal." Catherine's voice took on decisive quality. "You skip the three months. You skip cultural education—they tell me you're naturally intelligent with near-photographic retention. You skip emotional intelligence training—your presence suggests you understand desire at instinctual level. You skip discretion protocols because they have already explained what happens if you violate confidentiality."

She stood, smoothing her pantsuit. "What you don't skip is the demonstration. I need to see whether these glowing recommendations translate to actual capability. Not because I doubt them, but because I have a reputation to protect. One disappointing session reflects on Meridian's entire brand. One woman leaving unsatisfied spreads through social networks faster than any positive review. I can't afford mistakes."

"Understood," I said, voice steady despite electricity building in my chest.

"The demonstration is comprehensive." Catherine moved toward the door with purposeful stride. "You'll be evaluated on technical skill—whether you actually know what you're doing. Emotional attunement—whether you can read what she needs versus what she says. Stamina—whether you can last long enough to satisfy rather than just getting yourself off. Creativity—whether you can adapt, surprise, make it feel unique. And most importantly—whether you can make a woman feel like she's the only person in the world who matters.

"Like she's a goddess being worshipped rather than a transaction being completed."

She opened the door, then paused. "I should mention—I usually do not observe these demonstrations. Professional distance. But given I'm breaking twenty years of protocol to let you skip directly to final evaluation, I'll be observing in person today. I want to see exactly what makes you worth breaking my own rules."

The hallway stretched before us. "The demonstration rooms are on the fifth floor. Private, completely soundproofed, equipped with everything you might need. Your evaluator is already waiting."

We walked in silence—her heels clicking precise rhythm, my shoes answering in softer counterpoint.

The Taboo Aura pulsed low but building. Around us, women in offices paused in their work, unable to explain sudden flush or racing heart, not understanding that a walking god was passing through their space.

Catherine led me to a private elevator—brushed steel doors, biometric scanner beside the call button. She pressed her thumb to it, and the mechanism beeped acceptance. Doors slid open revealing interior more luxurious than most living rooms. Mirrors on three walls. Soft lighting. An abstract painting that probably cost more than cars.

We stepped inside. She pressed the button marked simply "5."

The elevator rose in engineered silence—designed to create anticipation, let occupants prepare mentally. Catherine stood perfectly still, but I could See the curiosity warring with professional composure. The Eyes showed me her elevated heart rate visible through pulse at her throat, slight tension in shoulders, fingernails pressing against palms.

She wanted to see what I could do. Needed to see it. Not just for business reasons. But because something in her recognized that I represented a possibility she hadn't encountered before. Potential to redefine what she thought excellence looked like.

"One more thing." The elevator approached fifth floor. "Your evaluator's name is Dominique. French-Canadian, former actress who worked in legitimate theater and adult films both. Been with Meridian six years, seen everything, impressed by nothing. She's evaluated every male escort we've hired, and her approval rating is thirty-eight percent. Most men who impress me don't impress her. Most men who think they're gods in bed leave her room humbled and unemployed.

"No one has ever even come close to satisfying her let alone tire her."

The elevator chimed arrival—soft sound like a starting gun.

Doors opened onto a hallway that looked nothing like floors below. This floor breathed sensual luxury without apology. Soft lighting created warm glow. Deep burgundy carpet muffling footsteps. Walls painted cream and darker burgundy, creating cocoon feeling—separate world from reality outside.

Art that was definitely more suggestive—abstract paintings of intertwined bodies rendered in oils, sculptures celebrating human form in ways bordering explicit.

Five doors lined the hallway, each marked with simple brass numbers. From behind closed doors, faint classical music—cello adding atmospheric weight.

Catherine led me to door marked "3" and knocked twice—precise, businesslike.

"Come in." Voice from inside—accented, feminine, carrying amusement like she knew exactly what was about to happen.

Catherine opened the door and gestured for me to enter first.

"Demonstrate everything they claim you can do. Dominique will provide her assessment afterward. Take whatever time you need—could be one hour, could be four. Whatever's necessary to showcase your capabilities comprehensively."

I stepped through the doorway, and Catherine closed it behind me with soft click that felt like sealing fate.

Inside, the room was exactly as promised: private, luxurious, designed specifically for what was about to happen.

Time to show them what a god could do.

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