Origin

by Chloe Adler

  Origin

  A Reverse Harem Romance

  Chloe Adler

  Contents

  Copyright

  Forward

  1. Sydney

  2. Sydney

  3. Sydney

  4. Niall

  5. Sydney

  6. Kaden

  7. Sydney

  8. Jerome

  9. Sydney

  10. Sydney

  11. Niall

  12. Jerome

  13. Sydney

  14. Niall

  15. Sydney

  16. Niall

  17. Kaden

  18. Sydney

  19. Kaden

  20. Jerome

  21. Sydney

  22. Sydney

  Author Musings - unedited and raw

  Copyright

  Inconceivable Origin by Chloe Adler

  Book 1 - The Vectum Chronicles

  Copyright © 2018 by Signum Publishing

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Criminal copyright infringement including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

  ISBN: 978-1-947156-06-7

  © 2017 Cover Art by Cora Graphics

  Editor: Elizabeth Nover - Razor Sharp Editing

  This is a stand alone reverse harem story. If you like it, please do check out my other books. I have 3 complete series :)

  1

  Sydney

  Standing outside of Ichor, the blood bank slash brothel that I’ve worked at for the past couple of months, I hide in the shadow of a white Corinthian column. Smoking is frowned upon and I’m not quite ready to give up my clove cigarettes yet. But I will have to very soon since my last pack from Mexico is running low and I haven’t found a place in San Diego County to purchase them yet, not even illegally.

  I crane my head upward to blow the smoke along one of the ridiculously out of place columns that line the front of this particular vectum. I’m sure they’re supposed to look stately and luxurious, but here in the supernatural capitol of California, Distant Edge, they look like a bad set piece from The Greatest Story Ever Told. Not even Sir Sidney Poitier himself could class up this joint.

  One last drag and I crush the clove under my favorite pair of spiked stripper heels, black rhinestone Jimmy Choos. Of course, I’m not a stripper. I’m a call girl. Actually, that’s the PC name that other girls in my profession prefer to be called.

  Really, though, I’m a whore.

  A prostitute. A hooker. A lady of the night.

  Don’t judge me. I was raised in this profession. I don’t know anything else. My mother was a whore and her mother before her.

  Don’t feel sorry for me. I love my job.

  My third john here gave me these shoes. What was his name again? No matter, John Number Three will suffice.

  One of the many male donors rushes by in a hurry to clock in and I catch the heavily studded wooden door with the front corner of my shoe. Crap idea. That hurts. I bite back a cry. Embrace the pain or die. Words to live by, in my case.

  I make my way to the dressing room, a huge area banked with mirrors and stools. The toilets and sinks are in an attached room to the right.

  Shrugging out of my clothing, I place it all in a wall cubby and pluck my outfit from a clothing stand bowed down with costumes.

  During the first night of this job, a little over two months ago, Miss Cheryl picked out a costume for me. The madam demands that everyone here wear one to stand out and attract clients. But I don’t mind, it’s one less thing to think about. I’d put up with worse to work here. I picked this brothel for several reasons, the most important being money. I can make more here in Distant Edge than anywhere else in the world because it’s one of three known enclaves where supernatural creatures run rampant without handlers, collars or leashes. Money or not, though, Signum creep me out.

  “Hey, Sydney,” says Amaya and I wave. She sits in front of the bank of mirrors. I met Amaya a few weeks ago. She’s one of the few who are welcoming to newcomers, probably because she’s one herself. Amaya is the color I was supposed to be, dark skin and eyes, curly dark hair.

  I’ll bet her skin hides bruises a lot better than mine.

  The other reason I’m here is because being my own pimp stopped working. And there’s no way I’m going to sign up with one of the many disreputable pimp daddies in San Diego, where I’ve been hooking for the last year. After getting ripped off and beaten up for the third time in a month, I found myself at Ichor’s door, looking for a safer way to earn and hoping a madam would be kinder than a pimp.

  Though there’s some shit even I won’t do.

  Miss Cheryl understands that I have no desire to be a blood donor, but for legality’s sake, I had to fill out a W4 as though I were one. Hooking isn’t exactly taxable. “If you want to, you can earn more by offering yourself as a vampire’s meal,” she told me on my first day, gesturing to the lavish velvet couches and brocade chairs in the parlor. Each was filled with nubile young men and women in various states of undress and passion.

  “I’m a hooker,” I informed her. “Plain and simple.”

  She nodded. “Where else have you worked? Do you have a record?”

  “I worked for most of my life in Ensenada until moving to San Diego last year. I know what I’m doing. I have no record.”

  “You’re Mexican?” Miss Cheryl narrowed her eyes and leaned closer, sniffing the air.

  What was she expecting to uncover? Beans and rice? Asshole. I’m used to people judging me for my profession but not for my ethnicity. For Christ’s sake, we’re spitting distance to the border. Half the town is brown. I tilted my chin up and looked down my nose at her. “Yes.”

  “Too bad you don’t look it,” she said. “We could play that up. Men like exotic here.”

  No, men like pussy. My new madam is an idiot. My raven hair, pale skin, and green eyes do just fine, even if I’m not “exotic.” I doubt I’d do better even if I were full-blooded. Not that I know that I’m not, really. Mom didn’t know which john fathered me, but from my looks, she guessed it was the Scandinavian one. Or maybe that was just what she hoped.

  I finish dressing, check the makeup I pre-applied at home, and arrange my long, dark, wavy hair to fall over one shoulder. I snatch a black ribbon out of one of the jars on the counter and snap it around my wrist. Staring in the mirror, I run my hands over my medium-sized body. No one would ever mistake my curves for a Californian waif.

  “Ciao, Amaya.” I exit the dressing room, walking down the short hallway and through the main foyer.

  “Oh yes!” screams a girl writhing beneath a vampire clamped to her neck. “Don’t stop.” Her cries of passion escalate as his hand pushes up her tight leather skirt, working hard between her legs.

  Miss Cheryl appears at my side. Her cherry-red lips are pursed as she studies me. I flip my hair and appraise her. She’s a statuesque woman who has worked hard for her station in life, and it shows. Underneath the Botox and filler, her skin is sallow, like she’s spent too many hours hiding from sunlight. Perhaps she’s Signum as well. A vampire? I’ve heard they can go outside in the sunlight but prefer not to. But I don’t ask. Even I know that’s beyond rude.

  “I know you’re not from here, but surely you know what that is.” Her eyes narr
ow and she juts her chin toward the couple. I fear I’m about to fail another test.

  “Of course. I’m just surprised to see it out in the open,” I hedge.

  “Let me walk you to your first appointment tonight.” She crooks a painted nail toward the grand staircase and I have no choice but to follow her up. What the hell is this about?

  Halfway through my climb, I peek back at the girl, who is now screaming and bucking under the vampire. He remains clamped at her neck, one hand under her head and the other still buried under her skirt. I snort. She sure is putting on a show—hoping to get a better tip, no doubt. And a complete amateur. Her eyes are slitted, but they’re darting back and forth beneath her lashes to watch his reaction. Idiot. If I can spot it from here, he’ll know too if he looks up.

  Besides, why come for a john? I never do. It’s just as easy, if not easier, to fake it. Just like my mother, no one taught this chick what an orgasm brings with it: the attachment hormone. Sadly, a whore is delusional if she thinks she can attach herself to a john. They are always unavailable. I learned that from watching Mamá get her hopes up, only to be let down again and again. She certainly was talented when it came to pleasing men, but she never learned the most important lesson: they don’t stick around.

  Plus there’s no way she’d have ever let a Signum have sex with her. Demonios, she called them. Ah, that good old Catholic upbringing. Whoring can be overlooked but not consorting with Signum. She even made me promise, on her deathbed, that I’d never drink a vampire’s blood, no matter what. She believed it would change me into a vampire too, even though that nonsense was debunked at least two decades ago. Regardless, I don’t see a reason not to keep my mother’s dying wish.

  Miss Cheryl stops on the landing above me, following my gaze to the girl in her obvious throes of “ecstasy.” “I take it you’ve never experienced that?”

  “What? Being bitten? Nope, not yet.” At least Mamá didn’t make me promise I wouldn’t let a vampire suck on me.

  “Well if a vampire wants to bite you while giving you an orgasm, you’re in for an extra special treat.” She winks and continues forward.

  ¡No manches! That’s not going to happen. Ever. And she knows it. I’ve informed her of all my rules. She even wrote them down.

  A door halfway down the hallway flies open with a bang. Out steps the staff nurse, Eleanor. She’s the one who collects samples of my blood each week to test for STDs, and for that I am grateful. If we had someone like her in Mexico, maybe Mamá would still be alive.

  “Sydney.” She nods and offers me a tight-lipped smile.

  Miss Cheryl clears her throat. “Thank you for cleaning that up, Eleanor. I was just showing Sydney where she’ll be for tonight.”

  “Perfect timing.” Eleanor brushes past us and hurries down the hallway.

  I look at Miss Cheryl, but she’s already walking again.

  2

  Sydney

  Miss Cheryl tells me to wait in the room at the end of the hall and she’ll send the john to me. This is not the typical protocol. For the past two months, unless a john was in line, standing by until I finished, I’ve perched on a couch in the parlor with the other girls waiting for a john.

  Still—I do as I’m told. Head down, ass up, Mamá always said.

  I pose on the bed, cleaning my nails with the tip of a file. Most people don’t understand how rewarding this kind of work can be. When it’s good, it’s very, very good. When it’s bad, it’s ugly. In order to keep going, I choose to remember the good and bury the bad.

  Deep.

  Not only do many men see me as a goddess and treat me as such, there’s a rush from the power exchange because I always come out on top. Their only expectation is during the act. I love reducing men to their basest needs, fulfilling their desires and then never having to hold their hands through the rest. I get to be whomever I want when I’m with them. If I want to be a virgin for one night, I can be. If I want to be Salome, that works too. It’s playacting, wish fulfillment and utter control all at once. I got so sick of defending my reasons for being a ho to laywomen that I stopped interacting with them altogether. My only friends now, if they can even be called that, are other hos.

  There’s a short knock on the door.

  “Come in,” I purr.

  The door opens and a man peeks around the corner, his expression pained. Immediately I slide off the bed and cross to the door, taking his hand in mine. We’ve got a first timer, and a skittish one at that. Any sudden moves will scare him right back out the door.

  I coax him inside, tugging gently on his hand while wetting my lips. When he’s across the threshold, I close the door behind him and lock it as Miss Cheryl instructed. He clings to me like a lost puppy.

  “What’s your name?” I lead him over to the bed.

  “Je m’appelle Jerome Durand.” His voice is monotone. Not like the Frenchmen I’ve encountered in the past who speak in lush, lilting tones.

  “And what are you looking for, Jerome?”

  He tilts his mop of loose blond curls toward the bed. Well, duh.

  “¡Desde luego!”

  His dull blue eyes scan the room. Ah, a wasted blue. The faraway look, the lack of eye contact, the drooped lids have nothing to do with lust. I lean in to catch a whiff. No alcohol here. He actually smells quite good, like soap and freshly cut grass. Actual grass, not marijuana, though his glassy eyes would suggest otherwise. He must have eaten it instead of smoking it. Pot, I can deal with. As long as he’s on a mellow drug, I don’t mind. It’s alcohol and amphetamines that spell black eyes and bruised ribs. Luckily every room has a panic button. Bouncers sit in a back enclave lined with monitors, though Miss Cheryl assures me they’re only turned on if someone presses the button. I’d assume she’s lying except she doesn’t spring for enough bouncers to watch us all twenty-four seven anyway.

  “Miss Cheryl went over my rules with you?”

  “Your rules.” His curls bounce as he nods.

  Good. That’s done. I always have to check first, since Miss Cheryl isn’t always forthright with my johns beforehand. She must not be used to a seasoned pro such as myself having rules. “Are you ready for a good time, Jerome?”

  “A good time,” he responds immediately, his French accent thick.

  “Well you’ve come to the right place.”

  He flops down on the bed with a thump.

  “Is this your first time, honey?” I stand in front of him and discreetly reach into the nightstand drawer to remove a condom and lube.

  “My first time?” He looks up at me. Then his eyes seem to notice my outfit and breasts, trailing down my body. “My first time.”

  Dropping the accouterments on the nightstand, I let my hands trail down the short length of the 1920s flapper costume Miss Cheryl has me wearing. It doesn’t show off my tits and ass as much as I’d like, but “we don’t want to be too obvious, do we, dear,” she stated, vetoing the hot nurse and sex-kitten stripper getups. “Besides, once they see you naked . . .” and then she winked at me.

  If this were a normal john, I would have excused myself to go to the bathroom for a few moments. Anticipation is akin to foreplay. There, I would usually pull my tits out, tweak my nipples, wet my lips and splash lube on my pussy so it’s wet. If I entered a room looking fuckable, I could get away without any foreplay, slide the condom on and go to town.

  But if I walk away, this guy might rabbit. “Oh sweetheart, there’s nothing to be nervous about. You’re going to love it.”

  “I will love it,” he repeats.

  Perhaps he’s not high. Maybe a slow adult, mentally challenged. Couldn’t Miss Cheryl have told me that in advance? Well, now that I suspect it, I will accommodate. I’ll have to go slowly and not startle him. “How about we start by taking your pants off? Would that be okay?”

  “Take my pants off.”

  “Great.” I kneel down in front of him and undo his belt buckle. He lets me, sitting up straight, stiff as a board. Poor thing ma
y not even know how to relax. I can help him with that. “Lift your butt up a little.” He does and I wrestle his jeans over his slim hips and down his legs. He’s commando and doesn’t have a hard-on. Must be too nervous. I have to remove his shoes and socks and lift each leg to get them fully off. He doesn’t resist but he doesn’t help either. It’s fine, I’ve experienced everything at least once.

  I move back up to his dick, which lays completely soft against his stomach. Wrapping both of my hands around it, I bring my mouth down and suck. He stiffens under my expertise and after several seconds his cock is full and hard, practically choking me. Just the way I like ’em. I move my hands to his inner thighs and nudge them open. He lets me and I keep sucking his dick, bringing my head all the way down to the base before pulling up and drawing hard on just the tip. Even nervous men are usually putty in my hands at this point, but Jerome doesn’t make a sound. I move my hands back to fist him and look up at his face while jacking him off. He stares straight ahead, his face utterly blank. Autistic, maybe?

  “Hey baby, want to lay back on the bed?” I reach up and push against his shoulder gently.

  “Lay back on the bed.” He flops backward, hitting the bed like a corpse thrown from a passing car.

  I shimmy up his body, reach for the condom and quickly unroll it, covering his cock. Straddling him, I position my pussy over his cock. The scene isn’t very hot for me but I do get turned on from giving head so I’m wet enough. I add a bit of saliva to my hand and press it against myself before pushing against him. I wait with his cock pressing against my entrance.