That thirtieth word

The Supremo hesitated: will this really be worth the promise?

Of course, they had guaranteed, the organisation, that ancient behemoth that has been churning out those nameless nymphs since the beginning of time.

No, these are not your ordinary women. The organisation is right in charging over a hundred times than any of its competitors, for they do not produce them by the dozen: every woman who graduates from there emerges an artist of the highest order.

They are not merely mounds of flesh smeared with cosmetics from obscure shops in Europe that provide discounts round the year. They are different, for they know.

They know what men want. They know what Man wants.

This one is no different. He knew that she knew from the moment he set eyes on her and she set eyes on him and they set eyes on each other.

She was yet another of them: every step, every word, everything was measured. She knew exactly what she was doing.

A shiver ran down his spine when she ran a finger up his wrist.

Will this really be worth the promise?

The Supremo had used their service before. He had never left a single cent unpaid. But this… this…

It was really not much, if he thought about that — what they were asking for. But then, even if it did not sound harmful, this was nothing short of blackmail…

***

“Please read out the instructions, Mr Supremo, Sir.”

“Fine. You will have the finest employee from our organisation. She will fulfil every need of yours for exactly four hours, no more, no less. Of course, as per norms, you will pay her the full amount in cash when she leaves.”

“But there is something below that…”

“Yes, Mr Supremo. We have an extra clause this time.”

“But…”

“Please read it, Mr Supremo, Sir.”

“There will be a tab on the words she speaks, as always, for security reasons. The tape will be erased once she reaches us. However… wait, what?”

“Please go on, Mr Supremo. I can assure you there is no typographical error.”

“You will have to add the thirtieth word she utters at the end of your next political message… what? Why?”

“We have our reasons, Mr Supremo. However, our representative is outside your door. If you want her to return, that can be arranged for.”

“No, wait: what if I do not keep my word once I am through?”

“You are a man of honour and reputation, Mr Supremo. It will not do your image much good if one or more of our representatives reveal the darkest aspects of your life hitherto unknown to your subjects.”

“But, but… this is blackmail!”

“Please do not use these words, Mr Supremo, Sir.”

***

The entire telephonic conversation echoed in The Supremo’s ears. The thirtieth word: why the thirtieth? Why not the twenty-ninth or the thirty-first?

She understood. She smiled. It was that kind of smile — one that makes a man burn down kingdoms, set fire to the world, worse, perhaps…

“Please do not be anxious, Mr Supremo, Sir. The word count will be maintained automatically. The thirtieth word will be printed out from this little device on my bracelet,” she pointed at a small black rectangle on the platinum surface with a smile before kneeling in front of him.

Did these words count? Goodness, why did he not keep a tab?

She saw him go rigid, deep in thought. She looked up. She knew. She nodded.

Why did I not keep a tab?

But his thoughts got immersed as he got engulfed in the familiar unfamiliarity of heaven and hell and earth and rain and sun and moon and day and night and fire. He lived and died many a time, a slave to her immense skills and charm, all the time remaining vaguely aware of her knees somewhere close to his toes yet somewhere far, far away…

The thirtieth word…

It seemed a phrase from a conversation in another world in another life as he surrendered helplessly to her complete mastery. He knew and then he did not and then knew again and then it went on…

And then she relented. He felt wobbly. He needed something to hold on to, something to cling on to… he kneeled to reach out for that cascade of hair…

She spluttered and collapsed as he found ecstasy. 

And as he sank back into the couch, he heard a whirr; a small, almost minuscule piece of paper was emerging from that forgotten black rectangle on her bracelet.

And as she recovered and got to her feet, her eyes an amalgamation of pride and guilt, The Supremo tore away the piece of paper.

The print was so small that The Supremo had to squint. He muttered it once, twice, thrice in an almost inaudible voice before looking up to the woman with the obvious question: “What the hell is covfefe supposed to mean?”