Pure fiction - really!

She considered his proposition with some bemusement.

"Evict the housemate.
Blow off the job.
Keep the cats if you must, but do something about the damn cat hair.
In fact, do something about the entire toxic waste dump you dare to call your home."

And in exchange?
In exchange for privacy and time to write and walk and garden and breathe?

She’d be his.

It was that simple.
His mistress.
His kept woman.
His courtesan.
His odalisque.

She liked the last two best. She thought of herself in Paris, dressed in 18th century finery, running a salon for others of intellectual and artistic bent. Or not dressed, lounging on a couch among rich linens and silks, displaying herself to his appraising, hungry eyes - or recovering from the ravages of his hands and teeth and tongue and cock, glowing red and striped with welts from the assaults of his uncontrollable lusts. She saw herself in a painting by Boucher, though hardly neatly coiffed and posed. She was sprawled on a bed, russet tresses in disarray, with a profusion of strands detached from her scalp when he hauled her by her hair in his fury at wanting her that much.

Except this wasn’t 18th century Paris. And despite her red hair, there was no way she could be mistaken for some 15-year old Irish girl, delicious in the seeming innocence of her naked beauty.

A middle-aged odalisque.
She did love the idea.

Perhaps he would take her to Paris…