by Amy Brent
I slipped inside, and she closed and locked the door behind me. “Thanks,” I said, waiting for her to invite me to stay for a while.
“Did you just finish class?” she asked.
“Yeah. Well, sort of. I had to skip the end of my last lecture to meet with the financial aid advisor.”
“Right,” Heather said, her expression tightening. She knew the odds I had been up against when it came to university and money. “How did it go?”
“About as bad as it possibly could have. I need to come up with sixteen grand in two weeks, or I’m not going to be able to take the next semester.”
Heather looked as bad as I felt. “I’m sorry, Dev,” she said, reaching out and rubbing my shoulder. “Want to stay for a while? I don’t have any plans for the night, but I was about to throw together a plate of nachos and have a glass of wine. There’s more than enough for two.”
“That would be great,” I said, shrugging out of my coat and stepping out of my boots. “I haven’t eaten all day.”
The main floor of Heather’s townhouse had a vintage sort of feel to it. The hardwood floors were the original ones put in the house when it was built over eighty years ago. Heather had finished it with a darker stain to conceal some of the wear and tear it had endured from previous residents, and the rich color gave the space a very romantic sort of feeling. The walls and most of her furniture were white but rustic. Everything looked like it belonged in a home decorating catalog.
In the kitchen, I helped prepare nachos. I grated cheese while Heather chopped onions, peppers, and jalapenos.
“So,” she said, “let’s use our brains to figure this pickle out. You’ve been in tight spots before. There’s always a solution.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’ve never had to come up with that kind of cash so quickly.”
“There’s a first for everything,” she winked.
“Don’t get any shady ideas,” I scolded, pointing the half-grated brick of cheese at her accusingly.
“Not shady,” she said, shaking her head. “Practical. You need the money. I know ways that could get you that cash really quickly. No strings attached. But you might freak out a bit at first. Are you willing to hear me out?”
I resumed grating the cheese and shrugged one shoulder. “Listening couldn’t hurt.”
“Exactly,” she said, pouring nacho chips on a plate now. “I had a friend who was in a similar situation as you. She needed to come up with some quick cash in a short time frame. She did a bit of research and came across a site for cam girls. Do you know what cam girls are?”
I arched an eyebrow and stopped grating. “I do. I don’t think I should be—”
“You said you would listen,” Heather interrupted, “so listen. In one week, she made ten grand just like that! She was able to control what she wanted to show and what she didn’t. You’re a sexy girl, Dev. You have the kind of body people would be willing to pay for. Only if it’s something you’d be comfortable with. You don’t have to show it all, just enough to open the floodgates for the cash flow.”
“I don’t think I’m comfortable with that,” I said.
“Suit yourself,” Heather said, taking my cutting board away from me and scraping the grated cheese off it onto the nachos. She proceeded to decorate it with the rest of the toppings before popping it in the microwave. “Nobody is going to force you to do anything. But you and I both know how much you have wanted your MBA from NYU. It’s priority number one on your bucket list. If there’s a way to make that happen, why not at least try?”
It was hard not to see the logic of what Heather was saying.
“Forget I said anything,” Heather said as she peered at the timer on the microwave. “It doesn’t matter. I’m sure there are other ways you can make money without having to take your clothes off or suck on your own fingers in front of a camera.”
I laughed and covered my mouth. Heather joined in, and we erupted in a fit of giggles at the prospect of me sitting on my bed at home with my fingers in my mouth.
The nachos were tasty, and we spent the rest of the evening talking about everything other than my current money situation. When we were finished filling up on carbs and cheese, we sipped our wine and put on a movie.
I left halfway through. I was so tired that I had dozed off while managing to stay completely upright. I caught the bus back to my campus apartment, took the stairs up the six flights to my floor—our elevator had been out of service for the last month—and let myself in.
It still smelled like the cinnamon bagel I had for breakfast that morning before I went to school. I dropped my book bag by the door and shuffled through my tiny kitchen and living room to the back of my apartment where my bedroom was. I cut through it, nearly tripping over some of my clothes strewn across the carpet, and went into the bathroom. I brushed my teeth with sleepy eyes and stared at my reflection.
A cam girl. What an interesting prospect. I had never, ever considered doing something like that. I was the girl who liked to wear long-sleeve shirts when I wore short skirts. I liked to have a nice balanced ratio of bare skin to covered skin. Looking at my reflection with toothpaste dribbling out of the corner of my mouth wasn’t helping.
I spat, rinsed, and drank a cup of cool water. Then, I stripped butt naked and stood in front of the full-length mirror on the back of my bathroom door.
I was, and always had been, quite physically fit. As somewhat of a type A personality, I couldn’t get through my day without squeezing in a workout of some sort. Presently, I liked running in the mornings. With the arrival of the cold weather, that was likely to change to something indoors. Perhaps I would start swimming lengths again.
There was a line down the middle of my stomach that, in the mornings, turned into the outline of four abs. My breasts were firm and perky but not overly large. My thighs were thick, and my ass was more than shapely. Buying pants had always been a struggle for me with my hips and small waist. I didn’t mind. I liked my body. I had worked to maintain it, and I treated it well.
Perhaps there were people out in the world who would be willing to pay a pretty penny for me to show a little bit more of myself. Maybe I could wear a mask. Maybe I could develop a persona.
The Silver Siren.
Lady Lillian.
Her Highness.
I shook my head, appalled at my own terrible ideas. I would have to work on that. Branding was important, I told myself.
Being sexy was also crucial, and that was not something I was good at. I felt like more of an athlete. Sexy was not a word I would ever choose to describe myself. Awkward, shy, smart, those all felt more fitting to me. But people didn’t sign on to watch smart cam girls, did they?
I highly doubted it. They wanted a girl who looked good while she pulled her thong down her legs and proceeded to twirl it in a circle while it hung from the heel of her stiletto.
I didn’t own any stilettos or panties I would be willing to spin around in front of a camera.
I sighed, gathered my clothes from the floor, and went to bed. I lay beneath the covers and stared at the ceiling until I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer. Then I drifted off into a restless sleep of being escorted off NYU campus in nothing but a very revealing black piece of lingerie that left little to the imagination.
My knees were skinned and burning from falling so many times while trying to walk in my six-inch heels.
Chapter Three
Ethan
“Mr. Garrison,” my financial advisor, Reginald, said slowly, “you are worth just over five and a half billion dollars. Based on your growth over the past six months, I would count on a healthy estimation that you will clear six billion by the first quarter of next year.”
I ran my hand through my hair and tried to digest what the white-haired, frail man in front of me was saying. Over five billion dollars to my name. How had that happened?
“I can’t believe it,” I said.
Reginald nodded with a wistful smile and use
d his index finger to push his silver-framed glasses farther up his very large nose. “It is a lot of money, sir. I know we have discussed the following quite thoroughly, but I feel compelled to bring it up again. It is crucial that you find yourself a successor, Mr. Garrison. This kind of money needs to be passed down. You need to protect you and your family.”
“I understand,” I said, already feeling bitter at the subject matter, “but I’m not ready to settle down yet. I’m twenty-nine. There’s time for such things later.”
“Time is relative,” Reginald said. “You don’t know how much of it you have left. If you aren’t willing to appoint the business to your sister or other relative, you must take the initiative to make other arrangements.”
“Other arrangements?” I asked skeptically.
“Indeed.” Reginald nodded, closing his book in front of him and leaning back in the chair across from me. He pressed all of his fingertips together and stared at me over top of them. “Twenty-nine is plenty old enough to consider an heir, Mr. Garrison.”
“An heir?” I nearly scoffed. “What is this, the eighteen hundreds?”
“Hardly,” Reginald said. “It is preparedness. It is wisdom. If there is no one you’re willing to hand everything to, perhaps you need to start from scratch. A child is a wonderful thing. And I must say, as your friend, Ethan, you could do with something in your life that isn’t work. I think it would be good for you.”
Reginald had been working for me for nearly seven years. We met frequently to make sure all my finances were in order, despite me always knowing they were because I had a knack for numbers and math and was a little bit of a control freak, and conversation often drifted into the more personal aspects of life. I respected him, and his opinion held weight with me.
“You’re suggesting I have a child?” I clarified.
Reginald fished around in his jacket pocket and withdrew a black business card. He handed it to me. It was plain and simple with a thin gold border. The company name was printed in elegant letters and was raised from the cardstock, One Billion Fantasies. I arched an eyebrow and peered at Reginald. “Sounds … classy.”
“It’s practical for someone like you, believe it or not,” Reginald said. “I’ve referred clients to them before and have only heard good things. They specialize in fitting the needs of billionaires. Anything from escorts to dates, anything one might require. I do not know if they have a surrogacy program, but give them a call. If they can’t help you out, they’ll at least be able to point you in the right direction. You’ve put this off for far too long, Mr. Garrison. You must take action.”
Reginald stood, and I followed, reaching across my desk to shake his hand. He let himself out of my home office, and I buzzed the front door to let him out. I lived in a penthouse on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. I had a dazzling view of the city out of my floor-to-ceiling windows that surrounded nearly every room. It was a place of luxury, and I liked it that way.
I sat staring at the business card for a full fifteen minutes before I called the number. A woman answered. She had a nasal voice and a slight English accent. “Thank you for calling One Billion Fantasies. This is Brooke.”
“Hi, Brooke,” I said, unsure of how I should phrase what I was calling for. “I’m not sure if you can help me or not. I suspect what I’m calling about might not be your company’s area of expertise.”
“Not to worry, sir. What is it you are in need of?”
“I was wondering if you had a surrogacy program.”
“Oh,” Brooke said cheerily, “not to worry at all, sir. We will put our feelers out there for you. I’m sure we can find something. Let me pencil you in for an appointment. Are you free on Wednesday morning at eight?”
“Uh, yes,” I said, a little surprised she had handled my request so quickly.
“Wonderful,” Brooke said. “I have you scheduled for eight. Do you have our address?”
“Yes, it’s on the card.”
“Perfect. What was your name, sir?”
“Ethan Garrison.”
“We will see you on Wednesday, Mr. Garrison. Have a fabulous evening.”
Brooke hung up the phone. I sat, stone-still, my mind rolling around the idea of fathering a child without a mother around. I had the money to make sure the child grew up happy, that was for certain, and I had always wanted to be a father when the time was right. Maybe the time was now. With my business, the odds of me ever settling down and marrying were slim. It was a sacrifice I had willingly made. This could potentially give me that family life I had been craving while also providing the opportunity to protect my business and my wealth and keep it in the family.
But the prospect of a child was daunting. It was unnerving. It was stressful.
I leaned back in my chair. The legs creaked. I stared up the ceiling and tried to think of something else.
It was impossible. I needed to relax. I needed something that would vanquish the tight little knot of nerves that had formed in my gut.
I wanted a girl, one like the blond bartender from the other night. She had been a fun way to de-stress, and she had seemed to enjoy it as much as I had. I thought of her pink pussy and her heavy eyes as she had watched my cock slide in and out of her.
But if I wanted to bang, I had to go out and find someone. I wasn’t feeling up to it. Tinder was always an option but not an appealing one tonight. I wanted to get off fast.
Fuck it.
I opened an incognito tab on my web browser and, within a few clicks, arrived at my favorite porn site. I scrolled through the first couple rows, searching for something that caught my eye, and paused at an image of a curvy brunette girl with her legs spread apart. She had a dildo in her hairless pussy and a vibrator pressed to her clit.
I undid my belt and unzipped my fly. Within moments, I was pulling myself free. Blood was rushing to my cock, and it was growing hard and long just at the thought of getting off. I leaned over and pulled open the bottom left drawer of my desk. I fished around for a while until I found a bottle of lube I had stored in there for this exact occasion. I struggled for a brief moment with the lid, cursing under my breath, until it finally unscrewed. I squeezed a dollop into my palm, dropped the lube back in the drawer, and kicked it closed.
I clicked play on the video.
As the girl from the thumbnail appeared in a lacy black lingerie set, I wrapped my fingers around my cock and worked the lube up and down until I was slick and slippery. The steady up and down felt so damn good, I maintained that pace for a while.
My eyes were on the girl as she stripped and stepped out of her lingerie. Her toes were painted red, and her legs were dangerously long—or that was an illusion cast by the six-inch heels she was rocking? I didn’t care. I was there for the quick payoff, nothing else.
She sat down on the edge of a white leather sofa with her knees pinched together. She teased the camera for a while before pushing them apart and running her fingers up the inside of her thighs. When her hands reached her pussy, she leaned back. One finger flicked over her clit while the other held her lips apart, giving the camera a good view of what she was working with.
My cock was throbbing. I pressed my thumb up against the sensitive spot right beneath the head and worked it in a slow circle. My rhythm matched the porn star’s.
There was something so sexy about a woman getting herself off. I had always thought so. It showed that she knew what she liked. It showed that she knew her body and was willing to fuck herself until she came.
I released the pressure I had on the tip of my cock and resumed the up and down motions. The warmth from my palm was pleasant, and the lube was still slick and erased all sensation of resistance.
I tightened my grip and pretended I was fucking a tight little pussy. The girl in the video was now pushing two fingers into herself. She was wet and ready for someone to fuck her. No one appeared to take care of her, so she leaned over and pulled a pink dildo into view. It was long and curved. She put it in her mouth a
nd sucked on it as she fingered herself.
I gritted my teeth. I was getting close. I could feel the tension in all my muscles as my whole body prepared for the release I was so desperate for. I quickened my rhythm and let my fingers slide over the tip of my cock where it was the most sensitive. Little jolts of pleasure rippled through me at the softest touch.
The porn star pulled the dildo out of her mouth and her fingers out of her pussy. She placed the toy between her legs and pushed up until it slid inside her. She eased it in, her eyes seemingly fixed on me, much like the way Keddy’s had been.
My breath hitched in my throat. It was getting harder and harder to hold on. My cock was so hard now that had I let go, it would have been resting up against my belly.
The porn star began fucking herself with the dildo. Her juices leaked on the couch she sat on. I matched her cadence. After a short half a minute, I needed more lube.
I leaned down, my cock aching at not being touched, grabbed the lube and pumped a more generous amount into my hand. When I gripped myself again and began working my hand up and down a little shiver traced down my spine.
The girl in the video had her vibrator in one hand now. She must have grabbed it when I leaned down to get my lube. She had it resting on her clit. Her eyes were closed, and her head was tilted back so she was looking up at the ceiling. Soft little moans were whispering out of her lips. It was as if she were in the room with me, as if I was the dildo in her. I certainly wanted to be.
