Best of 2017

by Alexa Riley

  These people, the ones with nothing to their name and every reason to be bitter, are some of the nicest people I’ve ever met in my life. They take everything with thanks, and ask me about my day with genuine interest, like they haven’t got better things to worry about than my cruddy life away from here.

  Frank knows everyone, literally every single person that comes up to us. I follow him as he makes conversation. He asks one guy about his bad leg, and some poor old woman about her grandkid’s birthday last weekend. She tears up as she tells him she got to spend time with him at the foster shelter, and I tear up too, because there is something so real and so raw about this place and these people, something so sad and so warm all at once.

  I’m so homesick for my old life that I have to fight the urge to curl into a ball and never get back up. I twist my cold fingers in the tassels of mum’s scarf and push the pain back inside, dishing out those hot soups to those less fortunate than I am and counting my limited blessings.

  At least Joe and I have a roof over our heads. It may take every penny I earn to run the place and keep it that way, but Joe always has food in his belly and warm cuddles at night.

  Maybe that’s why Mr Henley comes here, to feel gratitude for his lot in life.

  Who knows.

  I guess Frank does, because on the way back to the kitchen he tells me how he works at all three branches, how once he started this work he couldn’t just walk away at the end of the evening.

  Looking after people on the street is everything to Frank. His volunteers are like a second family to him, he says, and so are the people out there in the cold.

  I wonder if Mr Henley is like second family to him. The thought feels weird.

  I help him pack away, even after everyone else has gone, and he’s turning off the lights for the evening when he asks if I’ll be back next week.

  I tell him I’ll definitely be back next week, and every week after that if he’ll have me.

  He calls me Amy and I smile like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

  The weirdest thing about all this?

  On my way back to the underground I realise I’d be back next week regardless, Mr Henley or no.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ALEXANDER

  MM.

  Maybe she’s a Margaret or a Millicent or Mollie. A Mary, or a Maddie, or something trendy like a Miley.

  Mary Moore.

  Miley Montgomery.

  Margaret Mackenzie.

  I could just look her up on my employee database, of course. A few keystrokes and I’d have every M name on our books at my fingertips.

  But I don’t.

  There is something so ethereal about this girl’s presence in my home. One wrong move could blow that sweet illusion away.

  At the other extreme, knowing her actual name might give me dangerous options, so I force myself to remain ignorant.

  I name her Molly May instead.

  I like that. Sweet Molly May.

  Molly May enjoyed her breakfast, her note told me so.

  This morning I didn’t leave another, just made sure there was an empty bowl and spoon on the tray on the island, trusting she’ll know what it’s there for.

  I’m disappointed to find nothing in its stead when I return. No sure way of knowing if Molly May ate her fill or simply put the empty bowl back in the cupboard.

  I tell myself it’s done, our ridiculous little note exchange nothing more than a passing fancy. She’s most likely relieved, free to carry out her daily tasks without having to concern herself with looping her letters just so for her fool of an employer.

  Despite my rational mind telling me it doesn’t matter shit whether my cleaner left me a stupid little thank you note or not, there’s definitely a pang of frustration in my gut.

  It’s annoying.

  Distinctly annoying.

  I console myself with the pornography I’ve committed to avoid, then finish myself off to the fantasy of little Molly May with my hands around her throat, retching streams of saliva all over her stripy uniform.

  It’s the best orgasm I’ve had in months, and that’s distinctly annoying too.

  MELISSA

  THE NOTES STOP.

  I try to shrug it off and pretend it doesn’t matter.

  I’m sure it doesn’t matter, not to him. He was just a powerful man taking a moment to make his lowly cleaner feel comfortable.

  The disappointment only makes my plan all the more important, because now I’ve had a taste, just the tiniest little taste of how good it feels to be known by Alexander Henley, I can’t bear to let that go.

  So here I am, trying to hide my bellyful of nerves behind a calm smile as I teeter on my new-old heels through the centre of Chelsea en route to meet CF.

  It’s dark, and I’m glad. It already feels like everyone is staring at me, like they know I’m an outsider, that I don’t belong around these parts, with my second-hand gown and the jacket that needed stitches on the inside seam.

  I have to take a minute to calm my breathing when the posh signage for Finch Hamilton auctioneers comes into view.

  The main entrance claims it’s closed for the day, but there’s a little light shining above the posh oak reception desk I spy through the window. The door is locked when I try it, so I press the intercom.

  “Side entrance,” a voice barks, and it’s him, CF, I recognise him from my first phone call.

  The side entrance is dark, and I’m slow on my heels. The door is already open when I reach it, and Claude Finch is a huge shadow beyond, big and broad and dressed in a pinstripe suit. He beckons me in, then locks it.

  He slips the keys into his inside pocket, and the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. He’s older than I expect, a silver fox with a slick moustache. He looks as though he should be wearing a monocle.

  “I’m Amy,” I lie, keeping my smile confident and hoping he doesn’t realise my legs are wobbly.

  “Alright, Amy,” he says, “come on through.” He points to a door at the back of the corridor, and I walk on ahead of him. I feel his eyes on me, know he’s hanging back to check out my ass in this slinky dress.

  Judging me. He’s definitely judging me.

  It feels grimy, but I don’t care. I just want to be good enough.

  His office smells of old leather, his desk covered in guides to antiques and reams of paperwork. The seat he offers me squeaks as I lower myself into it. He stares at me from across the desk, opening his hands to offer me the floor.

  I feel so small. So pathetic.

  “I want to… I’m hoping to…”

  “Sell yourself,” he says. “Yes. I have buyers.”

  Buyers.

  My nerves jangle. I can’t speak. I don’t know what to say.

  Claude sighs and I feel like I’ve already failed. “So, tell me, Amy, have you ever offered your services for sale before? My clients have… particular tastes. We are a niche agency.”

  I shake my head. “No. I’m, um…” I can’t find the words, and I wonder if I should say them at all, because he might not want me if I’m inexperienced. He might tell me to come back when I’ve sucked a few dicks and know what the fuck I’m doing.

  Maybe he’ll offer me his, and I don’t want it. I really don’t want it.

  “You’re what?” he prompts, and he’s impatient. The kind of guy that wants it straight or he’ll chuck you out on your ass.

  “I’m a virgin,” I tell him. “But I can learn… I’m a fast learner…”

  His eyes widen, and I’m petrified he’s going to tell me to fuck off out of here. “A virgin? A genuine, honest-to-God, un-fucking-touched virgin?”

  I nod. “Yeah. But I…”

  “A medical will have to confirm.”

  I nod again. “Sure.”

  The biggest smile creeps across Claude Finch’s face, and it’s scarier than the scowl he was wearing before. “You want me to put your sweet little cherry on the market? First time goes to the highest bidder? I hope you�
�re not playing games with me, sweetheart.”

  No. I want my sweet little cherry to go to Alexander Henley.

  I can’t say that, so I smile instead. “Yes. That’s what I want. Please.”

  He laughs. “Alright then, Miss…”

  “Randall,” I lie. “Amy Randall.”

  “And you brought ID with you, Miss Amy Randall?”

  I dig my fake passport from my clutch bag, hoping beyond hope Dean’s dodgy friend delivered a decent forgery.

  Claude nods as he looks it over, and then he slams it onto the photocopier at his side. “For my records,” he says. He taps away on his keyboard, and I wish I could see his screen. He pulls a face. “Good, good. I see you have a good credit rating, Miss Randall. We like that. We don’t take… desperates.”

  I keep smiling, my foot tapping in mid-air as he leans down to a desk drawer. I hear the rattle of keys, and my breath hitches as he presents me with a questionnaire. I lean to take it but I can’t stop staring at the camera in his hand, some high end digital thing. It lights up as he angles it towards me.

  “Are you, um… is that for pictures of me?”

  “Video. Call it a brochure. Just fill in the questionnaire first so I know how to catalogue you.”

  Catalogue me.

  I recognise the tick boxes on the form. I’ve seen them listed under the girls’ photographs in Mr Henley’s beside drawer.

  I remember Cindy’s words. He keeps the ones with fewer ticks, just so you know.

  I hand the form back untouched. He looks at me like I’m a total idiot.

  “No, sweetheart, you have to fill those in. Check the ones you definitely won’t do. Err on the side of caution.”

  “I have,” I tell him.

  He laughs. “Amy, sweetheart, if there’s any terms you don’t understand you have to ask. Believe me, you’ll want to know what you’re signing up for.”

  I shake my head. “I understand them all, and I’m done. I don’t want to tick any boxes, thank you.”

  His expression is strange, a weird mixture of bemused and excited, his eyes glinting in the glow of his banker’s lamp.

  “Miss Randall, I’m going to be frank here, my clients have extreme tastes, some of these men will be looking for these services, and they’ll expect you to deliver.”

  I tip my head. “Will any of your clients kill me, Mr Finch? That’s all I really need to know.”

  He scoffs at me. “Good God, no. What kind of agency do you take this for? If you’ve got some kind of fucked up suicide wish, this really isn’t the place.”

  I laugh, because this is crazy. This whole thing is insane. “No,” I tell him. “I mean if I’m walking out of there alive, then I’m good. I don’t care what else they want to… pay me for…”

  He raises an eyebrow. “You’re willing to say that in your introduction video? That you’re hard-limit free?”

  I nod. “Sure, if that’s what you… want me to do.”

  He’s really excited now, and I know it, trying to hide his grin under a steely nonchalance, but it’s too obvious. He’s practically slavering.

  “Well then, Miss Randall.” He points to a chaise longue at the back of the office. “You’d better make yourself comfortable.”

  CLAUDE FLICKS on a table lamp at the side of me and I sit in the glow, perched awkwardly on the edge of his chaise longue while he fumbles around with the settings on his camera. I’m still not really sure what he wants from me, and it’s all I can do to breathe, in and out, holding onto the single little thread of composure keeping me from freaking out.

  “Take your jacket off, please.”

  I shrug it from my shoulders and he takes it from me. He hangs it on a coat stand.

  “And your dress.” My eyes must look like saucers, because he shakes his head. “No need for shyness, Amy, believe me, the real experience will be considerably more intimate.”

  I have to stand to shimmy my dress up and over my head, and I’m glad I chose my very best underwear. I’m in pink lace, a cheap but pretty set I bought from the discount store on our estate. The bra is slightly too small, but I guess that’s ok, because Claude’s staring at the spill of flesh over the top of the cups, and he looks pleased as Punch.

  “I need you to be yourself,” he tells me, and I nearly laugh out loud. Like anyone could be themselves in this place, bared in skimpy underwear while some random old guy pulls out a video camera. “Just relax, we have time to do a few takes if necessary.”

  He pulls up a stool real close, his camera in his hand as he angles it for a decent view.

  “We really need to do this?” I ask, although I’m sure it’s a pointless question.

  “It’s imperative we offer video for our auctions. It makes our buyers more invested.”

  I wonder if he jerks himself off to them afterwards, then force the idea away.

  “Lay back,” he tells me, “make yourself comfortable.”

  I do as he asks, leaning back on my elbows. I flinch as he lands a hand on my knee, taking a breath as he eases my legs open.

  “That’s good,” he says. “I’ll be doing this as an interview, so answer honestly, and do exactly what I ask.”

  I nod, and he clears his throat.

  “Our auction lot four of the evening is Amy, a rare specimen indeed. Amy, tell our bidders of your sexual history.”

  My voice is so quiet. “I’m a… I’m a um… a virgin…”

  I stare up at the camera, and the light is on me, it obscures Claude’s face, and I’m glad. I close my eyes, and in that moment I forget I’m here, in this place with a man who plans to sell me like it’s the most normal thing in the world. I pretend I’m in front of Mr Henley, imagine him watching this video later, imagine him bidding on me.

  I take a breath.

  “And you’re twenty-one?”

  I nod. “Yes.”

  “Tell me, Amy, what are your hard limits?”

  This is my moment, and I know it. I imagine Mr Henley’s stern expression, the way he’ll be watching this video, the way he’ll be wondering if I’m worth bidding on.

  “None,” I tell the camera, and I make sure I’m looking right at it. “I have no hard limits. I’ll do… anything…”

  “No hard limits, you’re sure about this?”

  I force a smile and nod and in my head I’m looking at Mr Henley as he stares down on me like he did when I barged into his meeting room. “I’m sure.”

  Claude’s voice grows softer, and my skin prickles, my breath evening out.

  “One of our fine bidders is going to win you, Amy, is that what you want? You want one of our fine gentleman purveyors to take your virginity?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you want to fulfil their every fantasy, yes?”

  I picture Alexander Henley’s hands around my throat. How it will feel. “Yes.”

  “Are you a dirty girl, Amy? Show our buyers what a dirty girl you are. Show them what feels good.”

  Panic. I feel it snaking around my belly. But there’s something else, something that makes me feel so… hot.

  Him.

  Claude’s voice sounds so far away. “Let our buyers see you, Amy. Take off that pretty little bra.”

  My fingers just do it. They fumble with the catch at the back and let the bra fall loose. My tits aren’t really that impressive, so I push them together to make them look bigger, and my nipples are hard as I thumb them.

  “Has a man ever touched those sweet tits, Amy?”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  “How about your tight little pussy? Have you ever had a man touch you there?”

  I shake my head again. “No.”

  I know what he’s going to say before he says it, so I take a breath and spread my legs for the camera, knowing full well he’s going to be focusing in on my little lace knickers.

  I shaved. Everywhere.

  I’m so glad I did.

  “That’s good,” Claude tells me and I wonder if he’s hard. “
Show me how you touch yourself.”

  Me. Show me.

  It’s not him I think about as I slip my hand between my legs, rubbing my clit through the lace of my knickers. I shift my hips and my thighs fall open, my heart pounding as I focus on how much I want this. How much I want Alexander Henley to see me like this.

  I imagine myself in his bed, the scent of him on his sheets, the way I came over and over as I thought of his body against mine.

  I can do this.

  I close my eyes, and I’m with him. His dark eyes so stern and his jaw so tense as he tells me what he wants from me. What he needs from me.

  I tip my head back and my fingers move faster, circling my clit in quick little motions, my back arching as I bring my knees up.

  “Take them off,” Claude tells me, and his voice is croaky.

  I hook my fingers into my knickers and wriggle them down, letting them slide from my feet. They catch on my sparkly heels for just a second before they drop to the floor.

  “Very nice,” Claude says. “Show me.”

  My fingers spread my pussy lips, and I hope I’ve got it right. He moves the camera closer, and I guess I’m doing ok.

  “Wider please,” he says, and in my mind it’s Alexander Henley doing the ordering.

  I hitch my thighs wider still and I pull my lips apart so hard it hurts.

  The camera moves so close between my legs, “Nice,” he says, “clench for me, Amy.”

  My pussy pulses with heat at his words and I clench for him.

  I hear him swallow. Hear him licking his lips. My God.

  “Beautiful,” he says, pulling the camera away and focusing on my face.

  My legs are shaky and my breaths come out shallow, but I keep Mr Henley’s image close in my mind.

  “The man who will take your virginity, Amy, tell me what else you would like him to do to you. Tell me what turns you on, Amy.”

  I know exactly what I need to do. “This,” I say and let go of my tingling pussy, trailing my hands up my stomach and over my tits, and then I wrap my fingers around my throat and squeeze just a little, pretending its him, pretending it’s him watching me right now, and it works, my clit is fluttery and the muscles in my belly are tight.