Chapter 2: Transformation

Sarah noted the judgmental glances of the well-dressed guests and staff of the hotel as she passed through the lobby with Brady. It was a very fancy and expensive hotel; she had never dared step into the establishment in the previous five years, despite living on the streets in its shadow. If it weren’t for the presence of Brady, she was absolutely certain that hotel security would be shortly escorting her from the premises. Brady seemed oblivious to the attention, even when an elderly besuited man and his slightly younger red-dressed blonde companion avoided entering the elevator: We’ll wait for the next one, with a slight grimace. Sarah completely understood. It had been at least four weeks since she’d been able to bathe, and while she might have been used to it, she was also certain that she was riper than she’d like to admit. Frankly, she was surprised that Brady deigned to ride the elevator with her, but he seemed as oblivious to her unwashed state as he was to the looks she was receiving. Either he was oblivious or he was very competent at masking his thoughts.

The elevator ride to the eleventh floor was uneventful. Nobody joined the car, to Sarah’s relief.

Brady’s suite encased an area that rivalled a ballroom. White marble covered the floor. A separate bedroom partitioned to the left. A large sitting area with comfortable looking sofas, a small office desk and overstuffed chairs appeared ahead.

“The bathroom is over there.” Brady gestured towards the north wall of the suite where a closed door beckoned.

“You sure you don’t mind?”

Brady laughed softly. “Enjoy. Everything is in the bathroom. Help yourself to whatever you need.”

“Thank you,” she said. She hesitated only a moment, before he could change his mind. She strode into the suite, her sneakers quiet on the tile. She placed her sketchbook, pencil and Tim Horton’s cup carefully on the desk as she passed.

She felt his turquoise eyes following her until she passed through the bathroom door, flicked on the light and closed the door behind her.

Brady hadn’t exaggerated. The opulent bathroom was outfitted in white marble. The shower could easily accommodate four people with multiple shower heads and a gentle rain dispenser. Two deep sinks sat below a full sparkling mirror.

She gazed at herself in the mirror. The girl in the mirror possessed long stringy blonde hair falling about her shoulders. The blonde of the strands of her hair seemed to retreat from matting and dirt, creating an uncharacteristic dingy blonde colour. Splashes of dirt smudged her cheeks. Her clothing screamed the street, ripped in all the wrong places, caked in some places with mud. Her fingernails carried some very old remnants of red polish; two nails broken to the quick, the remainder longer, mostly due to the unavailability of nail cutters. Permanent grime embedded itself under the nails. Overall, the girl in the mirror looked exactly as she was: a mangy street rat.

Glumly, she kicked off her sneakers and toed off her holey socks. In one motion, her jeans met her ankles and she kicked them away. Her plain panties were stained and her skin peeked through various tears in the fraying fabric. She peeled her t-shirt from her upper body and it joined the denim under the sinks in a disorganized ball. Her breasts were average, but needed no bra. She hadn’t owned a bra for a long time. With a sigh, she pushed her panties to her ankles and kicked them to join the small pile of clothing.

She was definitely underweight, her ribs prominent below her breasts, but only as a consequence of living on the street. Absently, she pushed her breasts together. Despite her hair, the dirt and dried sweat, she wasn’t totally unattractive. Even so, she remained confused as to why Brady had invited her to the suite. He didn’t seem the sort to be desperate enough to fuck a girl that looked and smelled like her.

Her last lukewarm shower had been about four weeks ago at the Y. She didn’t like showering there, but as the saying went about beggars, she lacked choices. Hans, the receptionist and gatekeeper at the Y, would let her shower there after hours in exchange for watching her as she washed. As a result, she skimped on showers; she only bathed when she couldn’t stand the state of her skin or her scent any longer, and even then, she minimized the time she spent naked in front of Hans. At least, Hans kept his hands to himself, if not his eyes.

The private suite shower beckoned.

Sarah struggled with the shower controls, but eventually figured them out. Soon, she was testing a cascade of water with her fingertips. She adjusted the temperature to boil, and stepped into the glassed-in enclosure with a contented sigh.

The hotel body-wash scented of peaches and she scrubbed her skin twice, especially her face, breasts, underarms, between her legs and her toes. On the first pass, she grimaced at the muddy water as it swirled down the drain. The second pass contained more suds than mud. A razor kept company with the various soaps on a ceramic ledge. She soaped a third time and passed the razor over her legs, her underarms, between her legs. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had access to a razor. The hotel shampoo also scented strongly of peaches. She was working up a third lather in her hair, when the bathroom door opened.

“Dinner should be here in thirty minutes,” Brady’s voice floated through the steam. She wasn’t even certain he had stepped into the bathroom, the billowing steam was so thick.

She blinked shampoo out of her eyes. The hot water reddened her bare skin, a sense of euphoria descending into her. She already knew they were going to have sex; why else would he have invited her up here? She was far from shy; if Hans could watch her shower, it seemed foolish to avoid Brady seeing her naked. She couldn’t see Brady through the steam; she presumed he couldn’t see her yet either, but she sensed the bathroom door closing again.