by Claire Adams
“Tell me you want it.” I unzipped my pants.
“I want it,” she said.
“Yeah? How badly do you want it?” I reached forward and shoved my finger inside her.
“I want it.”
I could hear the strain in her voice. “Good,” I said. I whipped my cock out and watched as her eyes went wide. I slipped my palm over the shaft. “You think you can take it?”
“I don’t know, baby,” she said in a flirty voice, but she sounded genuinely skeptical.
“I think you can handle it.” I grabbed her by the hips and flipped her over.
“Hey,” she squealed. She tried to look back and see what I was doing, but that would’ve just taken away from the fun. So I grabbed her by her long blonde hair, pulled her head back, and slammed my dick in.
I didn’t think I’d ever get used to the burn that slipped past the head of my cock and encompassed my shaft. I dove in deep, hit her spot, and pulled back. I knew how to draw out the moment, tease the body, and let the pressure build up until I lost all control and my hips took over. My cock screamed with desire, driven by the sound of her moaning. It kept getting louder and louder until she screamed along with it.
I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t slow down. That glorious pressure built up behind my balls, spurring me on. At first, it was just a tickle, nothing special. Then it became a burst, sliding up my shaft where it rested just below my head. I slammed my cock inside her, let it rest on her spot, and reached around to caress her clit.
I erupted immediately in a flash of raw, powerful energy that burst out and flowed into her. She tensed up around me and cried out. A wet wave flowed down over my cock. I pulled out and grabbed a tissue from the nightstand.
“God,” she said and rolled over onto her back. “That was amazing.”
“It was.” I wiped myself off and walked into the bathroom to wash off. I loved the way my face turned bright red after a session. My blond hair stuck to my forehead, and sweat dripped down my neck. If anyone saw me, I’d tell them I’d just finished working out, which was kind of true. This was a sort of workout.
When I got out of the bathroom, the woman lay on the bed naked with her head propped up in a seductive pose.
“You know where the front door is?” I tried my best to not sound like a total asshole. “I have work to do.”
She shot up off the bed to recover her torn shirt and bra. “Yeah, I can show myself out.”
She left the bedroom and I heard her walk down the stairs. My front door closed shut, and she was gone.
I collapsed on the bed and sighed. I could already feel the urge rising back up. Nothing could stop it. That’s why I used Tony’s delivery service. I could order them up and kick them out without having to go through the motions. The girls knew why they were here, and they consented to it, of course.
Cindy wasn’t innocent by any means. I’d looked at her file before I ordered her. She’d been working in this industry for nearly 10 years and had been with the escort service for the majority of that time. It wasn’t a side job or a quick gig for her, either. She was so dedicated to her job that she was willing to go under the knife so she could get paid better. She should’ve known the rules by now. If she didn’t, it wasn’t my job to teach her.
Chapter Two
Mercedes
My cousin Loren and I were packed into my tiny living room. I stood in the five-foot space between my TV and my couch, wearing a pair of black slacks and a blue blouse I bought at the thrift store.
“Well,” I said, turning around slowly to show off my outfit. “What do you think?”
“Where’s your habit?” she asked.
“My what?”
“Your nun’s habit,” she said.
“Is it really that bad?”
“It’s fine if you were interviewing for an office job. But this job is not that. Are you sure you understand what you’ll be doing?”
“It’s a package delivery service,” I said.
“You’re not that dumb. I know you’re not.” She got up to get a soda from the fridge.
I followed her into the kitchen. “What do you mean, ‘I’m not that dumb?’”
“Come on, Mercedes. It’s not just a package delivery service. It’s a sexy package delivery service. Dress for the job you want.”
“You want me to walk in there wearing nothing but a bikini bottom?” I grabbed a soda too.
“Be realistic. They won’t be looking at your job experience. All they care about is whether you have a driver’s license and a nice pair of tits. You’re not going to get the job looking like a secretary from the ‘70s.” She flicked the pussy bow sewn to the front of my blouse. “You might as well buy a pair of oversized glasses and get a roller set.” She looked down at my shoes and sighed.
I shook my head. “The interview’s downtown. I have to walk four blocks to get there. I am not going to wear stilettos.”
Loren frowned. “Those are nun shoes, and don’t you dare say they’re not. We used to sell them at Shoe Warehouse. They loved those things.”
“Do nuns really wear these?”
“Yes, come on.” Loren led me through the hall into my bedroom.
“What are you doing?”
She threw my closet open and started digging through the clothes pile on the floor. “I’m finding you something decent to wear.”
“I’m not even going to get the job.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m not hot enough for this.” I stood up to look in the mirror across from my bed. My hair was a stringy, dull blonde that hung over my curvy frame. “You think my butt is too small?” I turned to the side to inspect my ass. It did not look great in these baggy pants.
“Your butt is fine. It’s the outfit that sucks. But don’t worry. You look good.”
“Sexy delivery service good?”
“Yeah,” Loren said. She fished a pair of white heels out of my closet, looked them over, and threw them behind her.
“I’m not buying it.” I sat on the bed.
“These,” Loren said, holding up a pair of black heels that looked like they’d been designed to stab somebody.
“I’ll break my ankle the second I walk out the door.”
“Prove it.” She handed them to me.
“Really? You want me to wear these?”
“Yes, Mercedes. You need this job. It’s good money.”
I pulled off my sneakers and snatched the heels from her. “Fine,” I said, forcing my feet into the stilettos. When I stood up, my feet wobbled, and I almost fell on my face. “No,” I said, sitting back down. “Just no.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Loren said. “Don’t you have flats?”
I pulled a pair out from under a pile of shirts. They were simple and straightforward. “What do you think?”
Loren nodded. “Those will work.” She turned back to my closet and pulled a pair of denim short shorts off the top shelf. “And these.”
I frowned. “For a job interview?”
“Absolutely,” Loren said. “You’re highlighting your qualifying assets.” She handed me a tight white T-shirt with a daisy on the front.
“Should I splash water on it?” I asked.
Loren handed me a skin-colored bra. “It might help.”
“I don’t know about this,” I said.
“You need this job, Mercedes. That’s why you begged me to get you an interview.”
“I know, but why do I have to dress up like this? You wear sweatpants to work.”
“I change when I get there.”
“Into what?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Sometimes I choose. Sometimes the guys choose.”
“They choose?”
“Oh, yeah. I’ve worn everything from schoolgirl outfits to sexy lederhosen.”
I laughed nervously. “Lederhosen?”
“Don’t ask.”
“This won’t work,” I said. “I’m not good at this kind of thing. I should just s
tart applying at fast food restaurants. Maybe I could be a waitress.”
“We’ve been over this,” Loren said. “This pays twice what you’d make waiting tables. And the tips—Mercedes, don’t be stupid.”
“I do need it. I had to disconnect my landline last week because the collection company kept calling. It was literally nonstop from 8 in the morning till 5 at night. As soon as one call ended, they called right back.”
“Is that even legal?”
“I think they could get away with it no matter what. They weren’t from here.”
“That’s just sick.”
“In the end, I got so mad I literally tore the phone out of the wall.”
“What happens if you don’t pay?”
“They’ll take me to court, I guess. Which means I’ll have to pay them back and shell out legal expenses. Like I can afford that.” I sighed. “I couldn’t care less about them. I’m more worried about my mother. You know she’s taking two shifts a day now? She barely has time to sleep, and my parents still aren’t making it, Loren. The insurance company is threatening to cut them off. They’re saying it could cost millions to pay for my father’s hospital bills.”
“I’m so sorry.” Loren rested a hand on my shoulder.
I pulled away. “There’s nothing I can do.”
“You can work.”
“Yeah.” I nodded my head and pushed my thoughts aside. I kept telling myself that what would happen, would happen, but that didn’t make it any easier. “You really think I’ll get the job? I’d hate to go down there dressed like this to get turned down.”
“Did you see the way that guy looked at you when you turned in your application?”
“That was disgusting,” I said.
“What did you expect? Church ladies?”
We both laughed. “Do me a favor,” I said.
“What?”’
“Keep me distracted.”
“Of course.” Loren sat down next to me. “I want a Bloody Mary.”
“With extra olives.”
“And tons of hot sauce.”
“But not too much vodka,” I said. “It’s about the flavor.”
“What do you say?” Loren asked. “Should we go?”
“Absolutely.” I kicked her out of my room so I could get dressed.
Chapter Three
Jake
When I was a kid, our teachers showed us these antiquated propaganda videos about body image. Some of them featured testimonials about anorexia and bulimia and how society’s views on looks were unfair to women. In an ideal world, looks wouldn’t matter. People would be judged on the content of their minds and not their appearance, but that wasn’t the way the world worked.
If I didn’t care about my appearance, people wouldn’t pay any attention to me. People have been attaching warm, fuzzy feelings to good-looking faces long before we could call ourselves human. It is an instinct so powerful that it acted not only on a conscious level, but on an unconscious one, as well.
I’d read plenty of studies showing that good-looking people tended to get better tips, better jobs, and when people were asked to free write about good-looking people, they tended to give them more positive character attributes than they gave to ugly people.
Who was I to deny a natural law like that? I owed my success to pragmatism and a firm understanding of the way the world worked. Idealism was nothing more than gilded ignorance. That’s why I never left the house unless I found some way of emphasizing my assets.
Work was no different. I made a point to wear tight jackets, even tighter shirts, and slacks that hung in all the right places. If I wanted to maintain my position as the CEO of a billion-dollar company, I had to look the part.
Corbin Enterprises owned more than a dozen restaurant and bar chains in both the Eastern and Western Hemisphere. Restaurants are about flair and presentation. Bars are the same way, so I had a little fun. I showed up to work in a different car every day. I wore colors like bright blue and lavender button-ups that would stand out. Little things like that made all the difference.
I headed home from work that evening driving a sleek, white Lamborghini when I hit a block of traffic downtown. A sign at the end of the street said, “Oxygen Grand Opening,” in bright blue letters.
Of course, I sighed. I had to sit in traffic for more than an hour because some idiot decided to renovate a hole in the wall and call it a nightclub. I knew exactly what building they rented. It was a small, rectangular room, not much bigger than a studio with black, spray-painted walls and a wooden bar that was barely big enough for the bartender to serve drinks.
Like with any club, the allure was in the gimmick and the image. Blue backlights lit the chrome sign above the door. Matching blue lights hung above the front windows, and a strobe light flashed on the sidewalk. It was just a way to get people to pay $15 for a watered-down drink. The customers would spend five or six minutes there and forget the place existed when they left.
Places like that only lasted a few months. The majority of their money came from their grand opening. It was obvious why. The line to get in stretched for two blocks. Most of the people in line were two-bit thugs and nickel and dime dealers. I saw a lot of stained jerseys and baggy pants, but clusters of women stood in line, too, wearing tight, slinky dresses and mini-skirts.
A pair of blondes stared at me from the back of the line. One waved at me. The other grabbed her by the arm to pull her away, but her friend wasn’t having it. She wanted a piece, and she wasn’t the only one. Most of the girls that passed by took more than a passing glance. Plenty of them were openly interested.
I kept my eyes on the road. I could have whoever I wanted, whenever I wanted. Half the girls at the office fought to get my attention, and I hadn’t even given them a reason to think I liked them. People constantly threw themselves at me. The men wanted to be my friends, and the women were ready to lift their skirts the second they saw me.
The problem with looking good was that everybody thought that they were entitled to a piece of me. I was the one, the knight in shining armor—the subject of their wet dreams. They thought fate would pull us together, and that somehow, their fairy godmother would give them a dress beautiful enough to get me to marry them.
It had always been this way, but it started to get out of control when I made my first million. Women could smell it. They saw the labels on my clothes, the expensive cars, and the house, and knew right away that I was the one. It got so bad that I had to worry about my safety. I moved out of my million-dollar, two-story home into a gated fortress. I had cameras and motion sensors installed, and I even took armored cars to big events.
This paranoia and disillusionment kept me from making meaningful contact with others, and it was terrible, but I couldn’t have it any other way. How could I respect people when I saw what happened when they found out I was rich? I certainly couldn’t respect women. They shamelessly hunted me down. They blew my phone up, and when they finally realized that I wasn’t ready to marry them, they turned bitter, even violent. More than one girl had lost her mind over me.
The sex made it even worse. I’d tasted every flavor, from dark chocolate to creamy yellow, women that most men could barely dream of, but not one them was enough to satisfy me. Looks mattered, but substance mattered even more.
Substance was dangerous. It meant the possibility of attachment, and ultimately heartbreak, but I was an addict, and I was building up a tolerance. I needed something more potent.
Traffic moved slowly until I passed the club and moved into the office district. I hit a red light two blocks up and leaned my head back.
I was tired. Work was tedious, and the last thing I wanted to do was sit around waiting. A hipster bar on the corner caught my eye. It had a seating area that’d been closed off with a rusted fence, and a blonde woman leaned against the fence, staring at her phone.
She wasn’t perfect. Her nose was too big, and her hair was dull, but she had a nice body, and she wasn’t gawkin
g at my car like it was the most amazing thing she’d ever seen. She didn’t even look up from her phone. I couldn’t help but think that she had a lot of the qualities I wanted.
I didn’t need a pair of $15,000 breasts or skin dyed a ridiculous shade of orange. I needed somebody real who didn’t have to spend six hours in front of the mirror every morning. Someone who didn’t obsess over whether their nose was the perfect width. This girl was casual—natural. I needed somebody like that.
I decided to call my guy Tony.
“What up?” Just the sound of his voice made me shiver. I imagined him sitting in his back office surrounded by mounds of cocaine and a pair of girls on either arm. The truth was probably toned down a bit, but I wasn’t too far off.
“Hey, Tony.” I was always neutral with him. Just like with any thug, you didn’t want to sound too eager. They’d try to take advantage of you. But I didn’t want to sound aggressive, either. It would make him feel threatened.
“You looking for something sexy to sink your dick into?” His voice went low, as if he didn’t want anyone to hear him. “I just got these twins. You gotta try them. They’ll hop right on it.”
“Not tonight,” I said.
“Come on, man. You’re missing out. Triple Ks. I’m not even kidding. They’re like beach balls.”
I tried to block the image out. “I was thinking of something a little different.”
“I’m down with that.”
“No, I—look, I was downtown a couple hours ago, and I saw this girl. She had long legs, a tight little butt with short blonde hair. Nothing fake about her.”
“Yeah, I got you. I just got a new girl in—fucking sexy. All natural. I’ll send her down tomorrow. When do you want her?”
“Six, and don’t put her in one of those ridiculous costumes you get at the dollar store.”
“Hey, those are top of the line, man. I have them custom-made.” He sounded like was ready to fight.
“Alright, just send her down, and no collagen this time. That shit was ridiculous.”
“Cindy? I don’t know what you’re talking about. She’s all natural.”
“Okay, thanks.”
