Buy Me Sir
Page 15
He heads in my direction and I bristle when he clamps a hand on my shoulder.
“Good call, boy, I knew you’d make it. You here for the librarian, nice piece of pussy, isn’t she?”
“I’m not here for the librarian,” I sneer, and his eyes light up.
“Of course, Blondie, yes.” He tips his head. “You’ll be going up against your old man, Alexander. I’ve got my eye on that one.”
The idea makes me seethe. “Back off,” I hiss. “I get first choice, remember?”
He shakes his head. “Not this time, boy. Not when there’s a pretty pink hymen on offer.” He laughs and slaps my back. “May the best man win.”
There’s no best about it. I try to shrug off the disgust as he heads back through the crowd.
I’m about to walk away on principle, fuck this whole fucking spectacle, but the hammer comes down at sixty-five grand on the brunette, and the next lot flashes up on screen.
Amy.
Twenty-one.
Virgin.
No limits.
I have to look twice at the screen to make sure, but it’s right, Claude confirms it in his summary.
No limits, not a single one.
My throat is bone dry as they play her intro video, and I know the girl shouldn’t be here, she’s too innocent, much too innocent. The nervous sparkle in her eyes, her shy smile.
I can barely look, but I can’t turn away.
She’s absolutely fucking beautiful.
She tells the camera she has no limits, none at all. She tells the camera she’s a virgin. She tells the camera she wants this.
Claude zooms right in on her untouched pussy like the seedy cunt that he is, and she’s perfectly imperfect, her pussy lips puffy and uneven. Her tits aren’t perfect either, natural and fleshy with tight little pink nipples.
There’s an intimacy about her that makes me uncomfortable as I watch her play with herself on screen, as though she’s staring right into me, right through me.
I have to swallow a weird lump in my throat as she wraps her fingers around her throat and tells Claude that’s what she likes, and I nearly come in my fucking pants, right then and there in this disgusting fucking place with these disgusting fucking people.
The bidding starts before I’ve even regained my fucking clarity.
One hundred grand.
One twenty.
One two five.
My father comes in at one fifty.
I head him off at two hundred grand, my eyes meeting his and hoping my stare burns him to fucking death.
He nods. Two twenty.
Two fucking fifty, I say.
Another bidder, some idiot who can’t see what’s going down here. Two sixty.
Three hundred grand, my father says. And let that be a fucking end to it.
But no, no fucking way.
“Three twenty,” I say to Claude.
My father tips his head. “This girl, she’ll have a tit job, yes? And get those dangling fucking pussy flaps trimmed off?”
I could kill the sonofabitch with my bare hands as Claude responds in the affirmative. “Buyer’s expense, of course.”
My father nods. “Three fifty.”
“Four hundred,” I counter.
Claude’s eyes widen, a greedy smile on his face as the room murmurs. It’s safe to say everyone else is out of the running.
“Four-fucking-twenty!” my father shouts. “Don’t be a fucking fool, boy!”
But I am a fucking fool, a fucking fool with a raging hard on in my fucking trousers and an unstoppable desire to block his chances of ever laying a finger on that poor girl.
“Five hundred grand!” I snap.
The room goes silent. Dead silent.
Claude’s gavel hangs paused in the air.
My father shrugs, laughs to the crowd. “He used to have a crush on Debbie Harry, silly little teenage thing.”
The rooms laughs with him, but I don’t care. I’m past fucking caring.
“Five hundred grand,” Claude says. “Any further bids?”
Once, twice, three fucking times, and the gavel comes down with a bang that makes my heart soar.
Chapter Nineteen
Alexander
I’ve paid a cool half a million for one night with some little blonde slip of a girl who doesn’t know what the fuck she’s signed up for.
I think my fixation with the cleaner was less insane than the craziness I’m involved with now, but that doesn’t matter. My heart soars, and it’s a welcome rush.
It would have been worth it just to win the standoff with my cunting father, but there’s more to it than that.
Amy.
She excites me.
The prospect of pushing her limits excites me. It’s base, and thoroughly immoral, the intent to corrupt something so innocent, but this is not a charity endeavour. I’m going to take my money’s worth.
The only saving grace is that she’ll spend her first time with me and not my father. She’s dodged a bullet there, one she’ll never be aware of.
I fill in the specification form as soon as I’m home, listing my preferences for tomorrow evening. My criteria is easy. Simple.
Wear whatever she likes.
No preferences on makeup, or waxing, or what kind of scent she has on.
I want her, as her, exactly as she is.
Claude’s message tells me he’ll confirm ASAP, within the hour.
Good.
I’ll be waiting.
Melissa
Both Dean and I jump to attention as the email alert sounds on his phone.
I can’t look. I really can’t look.
I ask him to read it for me, perched on the edge of the sofa with my heart in my hands.
His fingers are shaking as he calls it up, his voice croaky.
“Tomorrow night.”
I can feel my heartbeat in my temples. Tomorrow. I really didn’t think it would be so soon.
“Does it say anything else?”
“An instruction box with client preferences.”
“And?” My eyes feel like dinner plates.
“And it says none.”
“None?”
He turns the screen and I scour the text. He’s right, it says none.
“So I wear what I like?”
“I guess so.”
Guess. I can’t believe we’re guessing over something like this.
“What do you want me to do?” he asks. “Reply or… it’s not too late to change your mind…”
I take the handset from him. Click the button to confirm my availability.
“I guess I’ll hear more before then.”
“Before you rock up to fuck some random in a hotel room somewhere? You’d fucking hope so, Lissa.”
I nod.
He’s right.
The confirmation goes through, and I wait.
It’s all I can do.
Alexander
She’s available.
I scan Claude’s suggestion. Harley’s Tavern. 8pm.
But no. Not this time. I’ve used Harley’s so many times over the past couple of years, but this is different. I don’t want to take her first time in a place I’ve been so many others’ every time.
No, I reply. Book Delaney’s spa.
Reckless. Close to home. But I’m feeling it, dancing on the edge.
I’m not sure I care about falling off.
A ping straight back.
That’ll be extra.
Cunt. Like I haven’t paid enough already.
Fine. Let me know it’s confirmed.
Another message. This purchase also comes with compulsory five percent cash tip on the night. It’s in the small print.
Sure it is.
My fingers jab the handset as I type out my response.
Just fucking book it.
I toss my handset to the side.
Melissa
Another email. I feel heady as I stare at the screen, weirded out by how surreal thi
s is.
I’m expecting Harley’s Tavern, of course. I’ve already looked it up again on Dean’s phone.
I’ve scoped out the route on the underground, know just how to get there.
But no.
Delaney’s Spa Resort. Kensington Gardens.
I’m shaking so bad.
“It’s not Harley’s,” I tell Dean, and his eyes widen.
“Is that good or bad?”
“I don’t know. But it’s Kensington…”
He looks as stressed as I do. “That’s gotta be good, right? Close to his house…”
I shrug. “I really don’t know.”
I scroll further down.
You’re booked into room 216. Your client will be waiting in suite 12 at 8 sharp.
Dress to impress.
Ok. I breathe. Room 216. I guess I check in as Amy Randall. Cool. I’ve got that.
A couple more lines of text reinforcing the earlier rules about money, not talking about it, not counting it.
And then finally, one final little line.
Your client is Ted.
I remember Cindy’s voice, so clearly. He has a private email address, some random account under the name Ted Brown. It was open on his screen one day…
A breath. A gasp.
Surely… surely it has to be…
A moment of staring at Dean in crazy, mute shock.
And then I dance around my living room.
I barely sleep a wink, but I feel ok for it, running on adrenaline and more than a bit of excitement.
Dean holds up a picture on his phone as I feed Joe his breakfast cereals.
I stare at the metallic crystal and take a breath.
“Native bismuth is known to be found in Australia, Bolivia, and China.”
Dean nods. “Good.” He holds up another.
“Moldavite, found in the Czech Republic. Known as the Holy Grail stone.”
“You got it.”
I’ve only got one final job on my list today.
We take Joe to the park to feed the pigeons on the way, and I soak up the sunshine, realising all over again that tomorrow I will be twenty grand better off, and not a virgin anymore.
Ted.
I pray to God it’s really him. Really, really him.
I wish I had a bigger budget as I step inside the New Age shop on the corner of Barrow Street.
I pick out a couple of nice looking stones. A sparkling amethyst and a tiny little lump of garnet. A green banded malachite.
And an angel hair quartz, its sides so smooth. I roll it in my palm.
This one. This is the main event.
Dean takes it from me and holds it up to the light. “Nice.”
I smile. “Angel hair, for good luck.”
“You’ll want it.” He nudges me, then hoists Joe up on his hip.
I pay for my crystals and a little velvet pouch to put them in.
Alexander
I count twenty-five grand from my safe in used bank notes.
I put the envelope in the case with my sex toys.
And then I choose my suit for the evening.
It’s an easy choice.
Black, white, black.
I polish my shoes to a mirror shine.
I shower and shave.
I get dressed. I choose my finest cufflinks.
I let Brutus out for his final crap of the evening.
And then I go.
Melissa
My choice of dress was easy. I only have one that’s anything like suitable.
My sparkly heels clack loudly on the marble floor of Delaney’s Spa Resort. I’m early, a good hour ahead of schedule.
I paste on my brightest smile as I head up to the reception desk, and I must look ok, because the woman behind the counter smiles right back.
“Amy Randall,” I tell her. “Room 216.”
She taps on her keyboard, then scans a keycard. “Welcome, Miss Randall. Your room is on the second floor. Do you need a porter for your bags?”
I don’t have any bags. I feel myself burning up.
“No, no need,” I bluster. “They’re not arriving until later.”
She hands my card over. “Enjoy your stay.”
I can’t hide my shaking fingers as I take it from her.
My room is incredible, huge and cream and modern. The lighting is low and sensual, the bed the biggest I’ve ever seen.
But I’m nervous. Too nervous to enjoy it.
I pace back and forth in my stupid heels, sipping water from the complimentary bottle in the minibar.
Forty minutes. Thirty-five.
Twenty.
Fifteen.
I check my makeup. Reapply my pale pink lipstick and fluff up my hair.
I check Dean’s phone is on silent and screen-locked. I check I have my crystals and fake ID in my clutch bag.
I adjust my tits in the stupid lacy bra I wore for my video.
Five minutes.
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I turn off the lights on the way out.
And I head up to the top floor.
The corridor is empty, the thick burgundy carpet soft under my heels as I head to the mahogany door at the far end.
Suite twelve. Its gold lettering looks so regal.
My belly is a twisted knot of butterflies.
Moment of truth.
I tap gently. Once, twice.
And then I breathe.
Please, God. Please, please.
The door opens so slowly and I see the cream carpet first. I don’t even know I’m looking at the floor until I clock the freshly shined shoes, the tailored trousers.
The shirt I pressed yesterday before I left. The tie I hung on the inside of the closet.
He’s immaculate.
Perfect.
I look up at the face I’ve been dreaming of, and I have to check myself, squeezing the clutch bag in my hands as though this whole thing is going to vanish into a cloud of dust.
His eyes are dark, his jaw tense as he steps aside to let me in.
“Amy,” he says, and I can’t stop staring, not as I brush past him and step into the room, my eyes wide open and fixed on his.
The door clicks shut.
“Hi,” I say, and it sounds so lame.
I drag my eyes away to take in the room, and it’s amazing. Everything is amazing. The lighting is low and warm, and there’s champagne in ice on the dresser. I don’t know what to do, so I do nothing, just balance on my stupid heels, shying away as he steps by so close.
I’m gripped by this terrible impulse, this crazy urge to gabble it all out, the whole thing, tell him who I really am, and how much I wanted this. I want to… I really want to…
“Champagne?” he asks, and I nod.
“Please.”
He pours me a glass and my fingers touch his for just a moment, just like they did when he offered me his cigarette packet all those years ago.
There’s a weird lump in my throat I can’t swallow down, not even with a mouthful of champagne.
He doesn’t take a glass for himself. He stands still and easy, his gaze piercing. Judging.
I realise in that one shuddery moment that he doesn’t know me, and I know it’s crazy that somewhere deep down I felt like he would.
His stare is cold and unfamiliar, his face stern and guarded.
Dangerous.
“I don’t enjoy small talk,” he tells me.
I nod. “Sure.”
“You specified you had no hard limits. Is that true?”
My belly lurches. “Yes…”
I sip my champagne and try to ignore the disappointment inside. The horrible little spark of disillusionment.
I’m not the woman he left a thank you cookie for. I’m not the woman who ate muesli in his kitchen. I’m not the woman he chased down the street last night.
I’m not even the schoolgirl he shared a cigarette with outside the school gates.
I’m a prostitute.
“Are you ok, Amy?” His question is demanding, his tone is brusque.
“I’m fine, thanks.”
I don’t sound fine and I know it, my voice is thick with stupid tears that threaten to spill, and my legs are all shaky and pathetic.
“Do you want a moment?” He gestures to an armchair by the dresser.
I perch myself in the seat with my knees together, cursing myself for how ridiculously wrong this is going.
He looks unimpressed, reaching down into the minibar and pulling out a bottle of mineral water. He fills a tumbler and swaps it for the champagne in my hand.
“Amy, I’m going to ask you a question, and I need you to answer me honestly.” He rests on the arm of the chair opposite and his tone is so curt.
Oh shit.
I nod, gulp down some water.
“Do you want to call this off? The door is right there, one chance only.” He tips his head to the exit, and I feel myself pale.
“No!” I insist. “No, that’s not what I want. Please. I’m just…”
“A virgin who’s sold her first time to a stranger, yes.”
His words hurt, a wash of indignation at the thought he assumes I’m so cheap. But why wouldn’t he?
“That isn’t… it…” I say. “I, um… I want this.”
He smiles for just a second. “Amy, darling, you don’t know what this is, I can assure you.”
I’m losing him. I can feel my dreams unravelling and slipping away. And I can’t let them. I can’t let that happen.
I get to my feet, relieved to find my legs toughen up enough to hold me steady. I pace straight up to him, close enough that the gorgeous scent I know so well hits me in the temples, and I keep my eyes dead on his as I pluck the champagne flute from his fingers and raise it to my mouth.
He nods, ever so slightly.
I’m close enough to see the fine lines around his eyes. The faint shadow of stubble on his jaw. The tiny birthmark on his right cheek.
“I have no hard limits,” I say. “I didn’t lie.”
He stares right through me. “Is that so?”
“Yes. I’ll do anything you want.”