Realms and Rebels: A Paranormal and Fantasy Reverse Harem Collection

by C. M. Stunich

  “Gross.”

  She shrugs, pulls a tissue from a box and wraps it around the dirty thing, then shoves it toward me again. “Your call.”

  I take the wadded-up tissue with the condom nestled inside just to shut her up. There’s no way I’d get this tested. I know I didn’t have sex with this woman. It’s just more of the show. This entire thing must have been orchestrated by Zach, my best friend and a lover of practical jokes. I turn to leave.

  “Jerome.” My name pours off her tongue like a fine wine.

  I make it to the door, pause and turn back.

  “If you were happy with my services, you can leave a tip with Miss Cheryl downstairs. I’m sure you’re familiar with the method.”

  I roll my eyes and leave. Zach must have paid a lot to fake me out. Consummate actress or real prostitute, her performance is flawless.

  3

  Sydney

  I remain standing next to the bed for several moments after he leaves. Did I miss something? Was that guy faking it the entire time or what? I shake my head, clearing it. No time to try and figure it out.

  Each room is equipped with an old-fashioned black rotary phone, the vertical type with a separate handset that hooks onto a U-shaped stand. Except they’re modern reproductions, of course, and on the back is a light. When it’s flashing red, that means another john is waiting to be serviced. Mine glows a muted white, almost unnoticeable in the dim lighting. If it were flashing red, I’d pick up the handset, which leads directly into Miss Cheryl’s office, and find out where the next john was waiting.

  Smoothing out my dress, I stop to reapply fresh lipstick in front of the full-length gilded mirror and coil my damp hair over one shoulder. Looking good, Syd.

  I make my way down the carpeted staircase, running my hand down the mahogany banister for effect. If there are any johns entering the vectum, they will see my entrance, but I keep my gaze unfocused because most men don’t like a bold whore. Part of the reason a lot of men come to me is to regain control in their lives. There is a small contingent that wants the opposite, but those are a definite minority. I can easily play whatever role they like.

  The front door opens and closes with a thump. Twitters alight throughout the foyer but I dare not look up. Instead, I focus on gliding. Most of the women and men who work here are here as vampire food. Only a few like to earn extra money by going upstairs, which already sets me apart, so I don’t have to try too hard.

  I look down as if I’m focusing on my four-inch heels, which graze, expertly, over the carpeted stairs. When I reach the bottom I pause for effect and scan the room for a free space to sit.

  “Oh he’s here,” a punked-out boy-man says. “I hope he picks me to drain tonight.”

  “Like you’d be so lucky. You know his type and it’s not you,” a small girl with a pixie cut says.

  “Well it’s not you either,” he retorts.

  “It has been.”

  The girl narrows her eyes at the guy and angles her hips toward the front door. I don’t really care who the guy is that they’re gaga over. If anything, it makes me less interested. I’m not here to fight over anyone plus it sounds like whoever it is, it’s a vampire looking for a bite.

  “Oh my God,” comes a breathy voice to my right. “He’s walking this way. Does my lipstick look okay?”

  Disgusted, I remain at the foot of the staircase, yawn and study my nails, taking great care not to look up. I don’t have to feign disinterest because the reality is, I do not care.

  I smell him before I see him. Spice with hints of orange, pipe tobacco? Still, I keep my eyes on my nails.

  His deep rumbling laugh tickles my ears and the other guys and girls laugh around him.

  “Hey, Niall,” one of them calls. “Pick me tonight, please.”

  Desperate, ick.

  “I like a man who knows what he wants and isn’t afraid to ask for it,” Niall responds, close enough to me that his breath caresses my cheek.

  And still, I refuse to look up.

  “But tonight I’m in the mood for something new. Something I’ve never tasted before. Something with hair as black as a moonless night.”

  He’s standing over me. I may as well earn my first wad. Pun intended. I look up, languidly, letting my eyes trail his body. The shoes are sporty but an ugly black and gold with Alpinestars written across the black strap holding them closed. My eyes work up his skintight leather pants, stopping at his belt buckle. A skull? How trite. With white gems for eyes, obviously rhinestones. All along the leather of the belt on both sides of the skull are nails. Actual nails, with the pointy ends sticking straight out like spikes. I close my eyes, not wanting to continue the ride.

  “What’s your name?” His breath is cool; a vampire who hasn’t drunk this week.

  “Sydney.” I keep my eyes shut, willing myself not to look up.

  “Is this your first night?”

  I offer my practiced tinkling laughter. “No sir, I’ve been here for a few months.”

  “You must be awfully popular if I haven’t seen you before now.”

  “Perhaps.” I sweep my hair over my other shoulder and the cool air chills the wetness left from the damp strands.

  He waits without speaking and I can’t ignore him any longer. I lift my eyes upward, past the belt and tight-fitting black leather jacket to—a redhead? Thick, auburn locks fall past his shoulders, framing a jaw so square it could be used as a hopscotch court.

  Eyes a deep forest green with a ring of dark gray and a burst of amber hug the pupil. Eyes that appear, on first glance, almost merry, but a darkness floats in their depths, far beneath the surface and he makes no effort to hide it.

  I offer him my I don’t give a shit about you smile. If he’s perceptive, he’ll read it correctly. One side of his lips crook upward and his eyes fall to half-mast.

  “Sydney?” He holds out his hand and I take it.

  A lightning strike of sexual attraction startles me, but I don’t react. It happens sometimes. No big deal. Doesn’t mean a thing.

  He leans into my ear. “I’d like to drink from you too while we fuck.” His hot breath sends chills down my spine but his words rouse anger. What the hell, Syd? You’re a pro. I do not react to men this way.

  “Fucking is on the table, drinking is not.” I swish my long, dark hair onto my back in a practiced move.

  He nods, then leads me up the stairs, walking just a pace in front of me and never letting go of my hand. An unexpected warmth bleeds through the chill of his skin and I find myself lured to follow him, almost like he’s a snake charmer and I’m the snake.

  He takes me into room D—Miss Cheryl has such an imagination—before letting go of my hand and sitting down on the bed. He pats the area next to him. I sit and his hands move up my back, rubbing in a circular motion.

  “So, Sydney, tell me, what’s your real name?”

  I laugh, a sharp bark. “Sydney is my real name.”

  He teases the skin above the collar of my dress. I bite down on the side of my cheek to keep from moaning. Having my back fondled is almost better than an orgasm. Almost. Not that I’d remember what having an orgasm with someone else is like anyway.

  “All right, Sydney, that begs two more questions.”

  I lean my head down so he can scratch the back of my neck and he does.

  “Why don’t you use a fake name like all the other girls?”

  “Why should I?” I murmur. “I’m proud of what I do and I’ve got nothing to hide. From anyone.”

  He chuckles, a rich, warm sound. “I sincerely doubt that but I’ll move on. Why did your mother name you Sydney? Or was it your father’s idea?”

  I stiffen at the mention of my father and then will myself to relax, hoping he doesn’t notice. His fingers trip down my bare arms.

  While I gestated in the womb, my mother decided I was going to be a boy. We grew up poor and all she had to watch on television were a few old VHS tapes that an American had donated. “She fell in love
with Sidney Poitier.”

  His hands stop and he leans in to kiss the side of my neck. His breath is warm and fragrant, smelling of tobacco and danger. “That, I was not expecting.”

  I moan and arch my back, starting my show. “What were you expecting?” I purr, waiting for him to tell me his fantasies.

  “Not a reason like that, but I like it. I also thought you’d know who I am. I mean, I understand you haven’t worked here for long, but . . .”

  “Who are you? Some famous American actor?”

  He nibbles my earlobe. “If you don’t know, I’d love to be no one tonight. Just a warm body pressing up against yours.”

  “Whatever you want, big boy.” Dropping my voice to husky as though I’m turned on, I say, “Did Miss Cheryl go over my rules?”

  He shakes his head, the sweep of his red hair, dancing in the low light. “I’m not one for rules, sweetheart.”

  My head snaps up and I swivel to face him. “Well, I am, and if you want a piece of this,” I caress my breasts, squeezing them and licking my lips, “you’ll have to abide.”

  “Oh, I want a piece of you all right.” He sits back on the bed, leaning against the elaborately carved wooden headboard and slowly unbuttons his black shirt. He’s taken the leather coat off and left it somewhere, but that ridiculous belt is still on. “Tell me your rules, little one, I’m all ears.”

  Little one? Condescending much? Though his tone was anything but. Maybe the other girls like that nickname. Not me. “Okay, well, that nickname’s gotta go. It wasn’t one of my rules but it is now.”

  He laughs. “I like you.”

  I wag my finger in front of my face. “Rule number two, don’t like me. That includes not falling in love with me or deluding yourself into thinking you have. I’m not here to be liked or owned in any way. I’m here to be fucked. To show you a good time. To make you scream when you come.”

  From the deep set of his jaw as he clenches, the sides pulsing, he’s unmoved. “We’ll see about that. Rule number three?”

  “No kissing.”

  “I figured. Four?”

  I take a deep breath and hold it, close my eyes and let it out. “Do not try and make me come.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “No orgasms for me.”

  He cocks his head. “Meaning you take care of yourself?”

  “Yes, exactly.”

  “No problems there, as long as you tell me what I can do or how to move so you get off.”

  “No, no, no. I do not come with clients. I make you come but I do not have orgasms unless . . .” I shrug. “. . . I’m alone.”

  “That’s a new one. I don’t know if you’ll be able to stop yourself with me. I’m quite the consummate lover.”

  “I’m sure you are, Romeo. Just don’t focus on trying to give me an orgasm.” I hold my hands up and out to the sides. “Okay?”

  “You got it. Anything else?”

  “Less talking.”

  4

  Niall

  This woman obviously has no idea who I am, and for the first time in a couple of years I revel in the anonymity. The ability to be just another guy fucking just another girl. I don’t have to be famous and she doesn’t have to be a whore. Just for tonight.

  I work my belt, careful not to snag it on anything and careful to lay it out on the nightstand. I don’t need her trying to pry out the diamond eyes. It wouldn’t be the first time. One of the many hazards of being rich and one of the many reasons I have no interest in a girlfriend or a wife. Ever. They’re all out for one thing. Money.

  But not in the upfront way a whore is. You pay a whore for goods and services. I chuckle. Correction: you rent the goods and pay for the services. It’s clean, it’s simple, it’s honest, and there are zero strings attached. They don’t pout when you don’t call the next day. They don’t make a scene when you refuse to purchase yet another bauble they insist they can’t live without. I’m no one’s bitch. I’ve worked hard to get where I am, to get what I have. And I’m not losing that in a media circus of a divorce.

  I don’t usually ponder the background of my whores but Sydney, somehow, is different. Why did she hesitate before telling me her mother named her after an old American actor? And then the defiance, as though she dared me to say something rude about it. No matter, that’s the other beauty of purchasing sex: I don’t have to pretend to be interested in their backstories. And I refuse to admit to myself that there is something about this particular woman that makes me want to know a little more about hers.

  No, I’m renting that creamy, olive complexion with eyes so green they glow, almost iridescent, like a cat’s. Green like my own, but there’s such a vast difference. Mine are dark and broody. I should know, I’ve perfected that look over the years. Hers are bright, almost magical.

  “Stand up and turn around.” I want to see how her dress hugs her curves before I rip it off. Her confidence is intoxicating. I’ve been with more whores than I can count but this girl. This woman. She’s not like the others. She puts on a good front, but there’s some deep, deep pain hidden inside. I see something just like it every day in the mirror.

  Who hurt you? I want to ask. But it’s too soon. She’d bolt like a green stallion. When she finishes the slow circle, I reward her with a smile. The one that melts girls’ hearts the world over. This girl’s heart must be buried in ice because she barely smiles back, almost as though it’s an inconvenience for her to stretch her mouth into a tiny fragment of a grin.

  “Dress off.”

  She doesn’t argue as others sometimes do, asking if I would rather remove it. She doesn’t ask me how I want her to disrobe. She doesn’t even hesitate. Instead, she dances around the bed, like a stripper performing a slow and sensual tease. She pulls one strap off her flawless shoulder and then the other. Her hands glide over her body and I watch the way she touches herself because that’s my first clue. Being a good lover starts with keen observation. Sex is about pleasing my partners, whether I’m paying them or not. I get off when they get off. Sydney claims she doesn’t get off—and I love a challenge.

  “Come closer so I can touch you,” I say.

  She shimmies over and I move to the edge of the bed. She turns her back to me and I unzip her dress, slowly, taking in each delectable inch of her bare skin as it reveals itself to me. Her upper back is unblemished and I lean in to kiss it. I stop unzipping and run my hands along the light muscles and toward her shoulders, following with kisses along her spine. She gyrates her hips and her head tilts back.

  I circle her neck with a hand and grasp, not too tightly but tight enough so she knows I’m in charge. More acting, or a genuine sound? I reach my hand up, climbing up her neck and over her chin, dipping a finger in her mouth. She bites and sucks on it expertly, showing me what she can do to my dick. I push my finger into her mouth, circle and pull it out, running it wet and hot over her thick lips.

  “Is there anywhere I can’t touch you?” My tongue is thick in my mouth, my voice gruff.

  “No,” she breathes. “Touch me wherever you like.”

  I unzip her dress further, exposing more skin, the wing bones of her back—and I stop, frozen. Staring. She wears a crisscross of scars, old and thick, lighter than the rest of her olive skin. I keep one hand on her jaw, my finger poking in and out of her mouth while I run kisses over her scars and then use my tongue to lick them. I’ve been alive for a very long time. Vampires and witches live much longer than humans. I know these scars are from a whip. Licking and kissing her back, I keep unzipping the dress. More scars reveal themselves, some from blades, and I have to grit my teeth and force my eyes shut because I want to jump out of my skin right now and kill whoever did this to her.

  “Niall?” Her voice is softer than it had been. “Do you still want me with the scars? Or would you prefer I turn off the lights?”

  “Sydney.” Her name sticks in my throat. I spin her around, almost too forcefully and she hides a wince. “Who did this to you?”

>   She tosses her hair, reaches behind herself and finishes unzipping her dress. With a little shake of her shoulders it falls off her exquisite body, catching her curves on the way down. “Rule number five.” She shakes her head, waggling a finger in front of my face and bends over toward me. Her full breasts push out of the top of her red lace bra, begging to be touched. She pulls my hands toward them. I hadn’t realized I was holding them in tight fists. The woman plants them on her tits and I squeeze and knead appreciatively.

  Cupping them, I thumb her nipples through the thin fabric and they plump up for me. “Come here.” I wrap my hands around her ass, caressing her exposed butt cheeks, which defy gravity around her matching thong. Warm and unscarred. I yank her forward and bury my face in her cleavage, licking up the length of it.

  She moans and this time it’s different. This time it’s real. I squeeze her ass, pinching the hot skin gently, and then work my hands down her orbs and between her legs. She widens her stance for me and I follow her perfect lines to the insides of her sleek thighs, stroking up and down the tender skin there. She juts her body toward me and I smile, inwardly. Pushing my hands up and over the crotch of her thin lace panties rewards me with her soaking pussy, wet completely through the fabric. Yeah, this lady may know all the tricks in the world but she’s never met anyone like me before. I’m going to make her beg. For real.

  5

  Sydney

  Stepping out of the shower, I check the clock and crawl back onto the bed. It’s hard to believe that an hour has passed since Niall left and with him, too many firsts. The first first, I enjoyed the way he touched me. The second first, I enjoyed being with him. The third first, it felt genuine, not like a job. And the fourth first, I fell asleep, something I haven’t done with a john since I was an inexperienced fourteen-year-old.