by Kelly Favor
When the pictures first appear, I can’t believe what I’m seeing. There must be a mistake. This can’t be the same guy who just purchased me online.
It’s impossible.
What I’m seeing is literal perfection—a square jawed man, with thick dark hair swept over his forehead, eyes that are seductive and intelligent, showing a hint of amused cruelty. In some pictures, he is featured in tailored suits that cling to his chiseled body like body paint. In others, he is wearing far less attire. One pic that keeps me ogling, is of Dermot Nash on the beach in some tropical paradise, tan, gleaming in the sun as some gorgeous plaything looks up at him with pure adoration. His muscles are taught, his swim trunks tight enough to show a hint of the monster beneath.
My mouth is agape as I page through one picture after the other. Dermot hanging with sports stars, supermodels, climbing aboard a private jet. Giving a tour of his multi-million-dollar home in New York,
It says he lives in Manhattan.
I manage to find the address of his home in New York and match it with the correspondence I’ve received from GirlFundMe.
The addresses are exactly the same.
The Dermot Nash that is making me salivate, making my heart go pitter-patter, making my nipples stiff and my pussy wet…
He is the man who bought me for a month.
Dermot
“We’ve recovered all of the devices in your home.”
Max Edwards is the head of my security team. He’s sitting across from me in my office, a large man with a shaved head, sporting a black turtleneck. He is as smart as he is big and mean.
“How many were there?”
“Three. Two small cameras and one audio device. All were placed in your bedroom. We were able to see when the devices were activated and match it up with security footage to find our suspect.”
I lean back in my chair and wait. “You know who did this?”
He nods. “It’s almost one hundred percent. Six months ago, on Friday night, you brought a woman named Becca Windsor home at approximately midnight.”
Six months? Six months of spying on my private life? I feel like the wind’s been knocked out of me.
And to make matters worse, it’s Becca Windsor. It’s not difficult to remember who she is. I inhale sharply and close my eyes.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Becca Windsor is a problem for many reasons, not the least of which is that she’s the daughter of Alastair Windsor, the wealthiest man in Europe. Becca is a gorgeous socialite who’s never had to work a day in her life. But she’s not stupid, not by any stretch of the imagination. She is cunning, rich, and probably insane.
That didn’t stop me from fucking her brains out over the course of a demented weekend of debauchery that I regret more and more each day that passes.
I should’ve known it would be her. Even during the encounters with Becca, of which there were many in a short period of time, I had a gut feeling that something was way off. I didn’t listen to myself, and that’s a rarity. I took a risk and now I’m paying the price.
I open my eyes. “We were together the entire weekend.”
Max folds his hands. “The devices started operating that Monday. It’s almost certain she planted them sometime during the weekend, perhaps while you were in the shower. They were recording ever since. Many hours of footage. It’s a major breech, obviously.”
“What do we do next?” I ask. I’ve never dealt with anything quite like this before.
“We make contact with the suspect, try to ascertain the threat level posed. There might be a way to de-escalate the situation and eliminate the incriminating evidence. The key is to understand her motives. Is she looking for money, retribution, something else?”
I sigh. “It’s not money, Max. She’s richer than God.”
He smirks. “I’m aware. But people always want more.”
I shake my head. “No. She’s crazy. She thought she was falling in love with me. Or maybe she just wanted me to be in love with her. She was becoming obsessive, almost instantly. I saw that and got out of the relationship. But not soon enough, I guess.”
“Crazy is bad. That’s sort of worst case scenario as far as I’m concerned.” Max looks me in the eye. “A crazy person with motivation, intelligence and financial means can make your life extremely difficult, Mister Nash.”
“I’m aware.”
“The risk is that she releases the footage of these various women to the public. It will harm them and it will make you look culpable. It will be assumed that you took the videos without your partners’ knowledge, that you are the one responsible for the leaks. It won’t matter if you can prove otherwise, because by the time you get that information to the public, the damage will be done. Your reputation will be tarnished.”
“This could ruin me, Max.”
“If we’re not careful. The first step is to get in contact with the suspect.”
“Should I do it?” I ask him.
“Definitely not,” he replies. “She wants you. We have to use that to our advantage, hold you in reserve to draw her out.”
“As bait.”
“Sort of. I prefer to call it leverage,” Max says, smiling, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
This is worse than I could’ve imagined. And I have a feeling it’s only just getting started.
My driver picks me up at the office a couple hours later. We’re going to Teterboro Airport where the plane is due to arrive.
The plane carrying one Haisley Parker, of GirlFundMe, from her obscure little corner of the world, to me. As we drive, it occurs to me how strange it is to have literally purchased this woman. She is now my property, in a manner of speaking.
I scan over her pictures on my cell phone, re-watch her video again and again. Is it possible that she won’t come off as hot in person as she does here? It doesn’t seem as though she used any special filters, angles, or other trickery to change her appearance.
In fact, as far as I can tell, she hardly wears makeup.
Such a change from most of the women I deal with in Manhattan and the world of high society.
They are always tricked out in the finest clothes, and out of their clothes they are tricked out with the best boobs, the tightest asses and toned legs from hours at the gym with trainers, nutritionists, and even plastic surgeons.
They wear makeup, reapply it constantly, even after sex.
They don’t ever want to be seen in their natural state, it would seem. And that’s always been just fine with me. I only want them for sex, and most of them are quite good at it, seeing it as just another skill picked up on their way to locking down the perfect guy.
But until now, I never realized that maybe natural is sexy in a different way.
Or maybe it’s just hot on this girl.
Haisley.
I mutter her name again and again, and soon we are at the airport. The driver gets out and heads to collect the girl and her bags and escort her to me.
I feel a slight shiver of nerves, something I almost never get. I haven’t been nervous, let alone scared, for a very long time.
Those emotions were bled out of me a long time ago. I don’t think about that time in my life, the time where everything I cared about was taken from me. Or maybe I let it go. Whatever it was, I’ve stopped allowing my mind to even think about who I was back then.
I had to if I was going to survive.
It was either die or move on. I suppose I chose to move on, not that I am proud of that fact. I just know that somehow, I continued to live, in a manner of speaking.
But I stopped feeling.
I only feel anything nowadays, when I fuck. When I come.
Which is why it feels so utterly foreign to me now, when I sense those little butterflies raging around my stomach. I suppose it must just be due to the fact that I don’t want this hundred-thousand-dollar girl to end up being a dud.
That would be awkward, inconvenient and extremely
disappointing.
And then I see her coming towards me, my driver wheeling her two suitcases (both extremely old and battered), across the pavement.
She’s every bit as hot as she looked in her pictures and video, even more so in the flesh. She’s wearing a short skirt, a light jacket, and her hair is up in a bun. Her legs are not as tight and toned as the models and socialites I typically fuck, but they are somehow sexier for their smooth, pale silkiness.
She looks like untouched silk, her eyes wide and frightened, those thick natural lips parted ever so slightly.
Her curves are audacious without any effort.
She has no idea how sexy she is, I decide. But then again, she must. She put her price so high because she knows it.
What other reason could there be?
A girl like this has the goods and knows it. Don’t get it twisted, I tell myself. Don’t ever trust a girl who sells herself to the highest bidder.
My driver puts her bags in the trunk and then opens the door to allow her inside. She peers into the interior as if a giant snake is going to attack her.
And when she sees me, her eyes go even wider and her mouth gapes. “It’s you.”
“Who else would it be?” I remark.
“I…I…”
Her stuttering and nervousness is rather adorable, I decide. “Get in,” I tell her.
She immediately does as I command, and my cock is now raging harder than ever. I need to fuck her right away. As soon as we get back to my place. I will ravage her body, suck her luscious tits, eat her sopping wet pussy, and then fuck her like he’s never been fucked before.
I can guarantee that much. She has never been with a man like me, a man who knows women’s bodies, their needs, and just how to please them.
My driver gets in and asks where to.
“Home,” I tell him.
I can feel her next to me, even though she’s a few feet away. I can feel her heat, sense her trembling flesh.
I like that she’s nervous, and I can also tell that she wants me. It’s easy for me to pick up the signs, always has been. If a woman isn’t interested in me (it happens, if rarely) I feel absolutely no compunction to convince myself otherwise.
When it comes to the female mind, I have zero illusions. I allow myself to watch them and read them clinically, without preconceived ideas. And because of this, they are disarmed, and generally powerless to resist my charms.
So it is that I instantly saw on her face the depth of her lust for me. She wants to be fucked as badly as I want to fuck her.
That is without question.
What does seem different, is her lack of poise. She doesn’t give off the whiff of an experienced player. She doesn’t seem used to this kind of thing. Even if she’s new to being bought, she can’t be new to men. Can she?
Haisley clears her throat. “Umm…are we going to…I don’t know…talk?”
“Talk? About what?” I turn and look into her big, wondering eyes. I hate that I instantly feel…something. Something that I know I shouldn’t feel, not now, not ever.
Suddenly, I need a stiff drink. Or maybe my stiff cock inside a warm, wet pussy.
“Talk about ourselves. Get to know each other?” she squeaks.
“I read your dossier,” I reply, keeping cool and recovering my wits. “Your file. I have plenty of biographical material about me online. Did you not research me?”
“Of course, but—“
“Then you already know whatever information I would generally share in a first meeting.”
Haisley’s eyes narrow. “You didn’t share why you bought me.”
That is true, and her quickness of wit and nerve takes me a little by surprise. I didn’t expect this frightened little thing to actually challenge me. Her big wide eyes have transformed a little, and now I can read defiance and steel in her gaze.
Strangely, my cock is even harder.
“I don’t feel the need to share that,” I say, but somehow am disappointed in myself for this response. It’s lacking.
As if sensing that, she wilts a little. “Oh.”
“What about you?” I retort, trying to regain my footing. “You were quite vague as to your reasons for being on the site as well.”
“I suppose we both have that in common,” she says, raising an eyebrow.
“And I can’t say I give much of a shit why you are here,” I tell her. “The point is that you are here. And you are mine, to do with as I please.”
“Within reason,” she clarifies.
“I’m not sure I like the sound of that.”
“Within reason?” she asks.
“No qualifications. We do what I want, when I want. I don’t pay a hundred thousand dollars for a reasonable time. I pay to get everything my black little heart desires.”
“So…what does that mean? Are you going to—hurt me?”
I can’t believe she asked me that. I make a face of disgust. “Hurt you? What the hell?”
“Some guys are into that. They like slapping women around, choking them. I don’t know exactly.”
“Men have done that to you?” I demand, and suddenly I feel protective and enraged at the thought of it. I want to find each and every one of them, go to their houses, kick down their doors, and thrash them within an inch of their lives.
Haisley shakes her head. “No, no, nothing like that. I just have read things. Scary stuff about why men want to buy women. Why a man such as yourself might need or want to purchase a woman.”
“Such as myself? What kind of man am I?” I chuckle.
“Rich. Handsome. Successful.” She fidgets with a small, simple ring on her hand. Her fingers are delicate, like porcelain.
“You can’t imagine why I might need to exchange money for sex? Well, you’re right, I have never done this before.”
Her eyes widen again, surprised.
I’m a little surprised too. I hadn’t intended to divulge that bit of information. But I suppose it can’t do any harm.
“So why now?” she asks.
“I have my reasons,” is all I say.
Not a chance in hell she will ever know a thing about what brought me to this unseemly position in my life.
The only thing she is here for is to give me relief. She is here for my pleasure, and my money. She will get the money, and I will deliver even more pleasure to her in return, something that I don’t even need to do contractually.
I could be selfish, get myself off and not even concern myself with her enjoyment.
But my enormous ego demands that I give the woman the time of her life. Every single time.
And as far as I’m concerned, that is more than enough. This girl came here for the money, she will walk away having been fed, wined and dined, pampered, and then given countless orgasms the likes of which she will never have again. And she will get the money, too.
If that isn’t a good deal for her, I don’t know what is.
“And what about you?” I say.
“What about me?”
“How many men have paid for your services?”
“None,” she says. She looks at me without blinking, and I can immediately see that she is telling the truth.
“So why now?” I retort, throwing her own question back at her.
She smirks. “I have my reasons.”
Haisley
This is not what I expected.
I don’t know exactly what I expected, actually. Just…not this.
He’s arrogant, but when I look in his eyes, I see something else. Am I imagining it?
I feel like there is a strange softness behind all of his bravado, his posturing. It’s as though he’s a magician who uses sleight of hand to misdirect the audience. Only instead of doing a card trick, Dermot Nash is trying to pretend he is a callous, wealthy jerk, without a shred of emotion in his body or soul.
And yet, there are moments during this car ride together when I am certain I see more than cold calculation and raw greed.
P
erhaps I am just being swayed by his looks, his charisma, his charm.
Let’s be real, I think. His fucking sex appeal. You are primed and ready for a man, and then you get this man of all men.
He’s every girl’s dream, the kind of man you touch yourself to in the dead of night, cry out into your pillow, imagining his dick entering you again and again and again.
The car has gone silent after our latest salvo of verbal bullets, and I feel the weight of expectations fall on my shoulders. I can hear the hum of the road beneath the wheels, and next to me is the hottest man I’ve ever laid eyes on.
When I glance ever so subtly to the side, I can tell he notices, as the corner of his mouth twitches upward into a smirk.
Shit. I’m way out of my league here.
I’ve never even slept with a guy before, hardly even kissed or done much more than fumble around with some immature idiots after a few too many drinks.
Why didn’t I ever have sex?
And suddenly, I wish I had screwed any random guy, so long as I’d have gotten that out of the way.
Because the pressure now is crushing me. Dermot Nash, who has had every experienced, beautiful woman at his beck and call, did not sign up for a virginal prude.
This is false advertising at its worst, and what will he say when he realizes what he’s gotten for his hundred thousand dollars?
It’s dawning on me that I have made a huge mistake, signing up for this, peddling myself as a commodity and lying about the goods. I feel sick again. I feel really, truly ill.
The world is spinning.
I’m starting to have difficulty breathing. Trying to pretend I’m fine, I casually ask if I can roll down the window.
“Of course,” Dermot replies, and hits a button. The window slides down a few inches and air pours into the car. I inhale, close my eyes, tell myself to calm down.
Just breathe. Just relax before you blow this and don’t get paid.
Your life, your father’s life, is depending on this working out.
“Haisley,” Dermot says softly.
