by Alexa Riley
I stare at the camera, the glaring light. I can hear him breathing. Heavy breathing.
“Come for me,” he says.
My own breaths are ragged. So hot. So scared as my trembling hands leave my throat and I’m hitching my legs, my heels scrabbling against the fabric of the chaise longue, but I don’t care as I touch my aching clit.
Don’t care as I rub like crazy.
Don’t care as I hiss and my eyes burn at the camera.
Don’t care as I feel myself losing control.
When I come it’s a rush and a shudder, my thighs clenching around the fingers on my clit. A little murmur that I stifle with my hand, and my head lolls back, waves of white rolling through me.
And then it stops.
It all stops.
A shivery rush as I realise I’m naked, naked and exposed, and that my stupid heels are digging into Claude’s posh furniture.
“I’m so sorry,” I whimper as I scrabble to change position. “My heels! I should’ve been more careful… I’m so sorry…”
But Claude doesn’t seem to care. He doesn’t say a word as I look up at him with wide eyes, and then I hear the click as he turns the camera off.
He adjusts his trousers, and suddenly I feel sick.
“Can I get dressed now?” I’m already yanking up my knickers as I ask him.
He hands me my bra, and tosses me my dress from behind him.
I get dressed as quickly as I can, and then I sit, my knees tight together as I wait for his verdict.
He stares at the camera screen as I stare at him, nodding his head with a smirk.
“Very good,” he says.
My hands are twitchy, I have to clasp them in my lap. “What happens now?”
“We work out the fine print,” he says.
ALEXANDER
ONCE I’VE SHOT my load over my faceless cleaner I can’t fucking stop.
A day of shitty client meetings with a constant fucking semi, and not even my stint in the soup kitchen can ease the fucking cravings.
I watch porn until I my eyes are bleary, trying to come over any fucking thing other than the thought of choking her in her uniform, but it doesn’t work. Nothing fucking works. My cock is sore and aching from my constant jerking, and yet nothing will tip me over the fucking edge.
In desperation I try a different search, one that makes my gut lurch.
Gay bareback rough.
Christ, what have I fucking become?
I’m minutes away from accepting defeat and checking out Claude’s listings just to regain some fucking sanity when the guy on screen takes a big fat cock in dry, his face a grimace as it ploughs all the way to the balls.
And I come.
Thank fuck, I fucking come.
I’m a wreck. My thighs tense and straining, my temples pounding as I gather my breath.
This has to stop.
I’ve got to stop.
I take as hot a shower as I can stand, scrubbing myself down as though body wash has any chance of cleaning away my own disgust.
I browse my regular dealers for current listings of rare gemstones, and spend twenty-five grand without even thinking about it.
I take Brutus out after midnight and barely notice the rain.
I smoke three cigarettes this evening instead of one.
And then, when I finally slip between my perfectly folded back sheets, I find I’m fucking hard again.
I tell myself it’s just one more time. Just once more that I’ll allow myself to jerk off over that poor little oblivious cleaner. But I’ve come twice more already by the time I finally get some fucking sleep.
MELISSA
I TRY to remember everything as I prepare to tell Dean what happened with Claude.
It’s late by the time we have a coffee and I’ve checked in on Joe. He’s fast asleep, none the wiser of my crazy mission, thank God.
Sweet dreams, little one.
I kiss his head before I head out to face the music.
Dean looks terrible, pacing around the living room with his hands behind his head.
“I’m fine,” I tell him. “Seriously, Dean, I’m fine.”
“For now,” he says.
I feel better for meeting Claude, as weird as that sounds. He didn’t seem to think I’d be walking into a snuff movie, and if that’s really what he has planned for me then he’s a damn good liar.
Before I left he presented me with a ream of paperwork that made the NDA I signed before cleaning Mr Henley’s house look like a love note. Why would he bother if I wasn’t going to make it out of there?
I glanced over it at best, then signed Amy’s name at the bottom. What does it really matter what it said? It’ll either be Mr Henley that wins me or it won’t. An epic win or an epic lose.
At least the twenty grand in Joe’s trust fund will go some way to softening the blow.
That’s how much I’m getting. Twenty grand for one night.
Claude asked me what my expectations were, said he could offer me a figure right there and then if I didn’t want to risk losing out at auction.
I accepted his first suggestion, before he changed his mind. I’ve never seen anything like twenty grand, I’ve no idea what that kind of cash would even look like.
But I’ll find out.
He says the client will pay me in the hotel room, assures me they will be good for it.
There are rules, of course.
I’m not to count it until I’ve left. I’m not to talk about money. I’m not to swap any personal details with the client whatsoever.
When the successful bid has been accepted I’ll be notified of the appointment. I’ll be sent the venue details, and I’ll be booked into a hotel room for the evening.
My buyer will decide how they want me dressed and an outfit will be waiting for me in the hotel room wardrobe.
I’m to be shaved as per the client’s preference. I’m to wear makeup in line with the client’s preference.
I’m to do everything in line with the client’s preference.
In the interim I’ll have to undergo a medical at a private Harley Street clinic, and although it usually takes a few months for a satisfactory screening, Claude says mine will be cleared in days, what with me being a virgin and all. My bloods should be whistle clean, he said.
Dean listens as I tell him all this, shaking his head all the while.
The only details I leave out are the buyer options Claude wanted me to agree to.
A boob job and a labiaplasty should the client require it, at their expense. Apparently there will be a bonus expenses payment for that. A bonus payment should I leave the appointment with any marks which last longer than a fortnight, too.
I said I’ll have to get back to him on the whole boob-labia stuff. I’m really not sure I want to undergo surgery for this craziness. I mean there’s Joe to consider… and work… my actual work…
What if it isn’t Mr Henley who wins the auction, and I have to leave my job for the sake of surgery that some other man thinks I need. I mean there’s the money… but… I can’t bear the thought of walking away from Mr Henley’s house…
I daren’t even think about that, so I don’t, just assure Dean again that this is all going to be fine and I’m cool with everything, really cool with everything.
“You’re fucking crazy,” he snaps. “This is all fucking crazy.”
I can’t really argue with that, so I don’t.
My auction will happen in just under a week, all being well. A Friday evening to leave the weekend clear. That’s standard practice, Claude says.
Until then I’ll wait.
Wait and dream.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
ALEXANDER
IT’S great to see my boys on Sunday afternoon. They’re wearing the new shirts I sent them, full of smiles at the prospect we can share this new football craze of theirs.
I play along, pretending to the best of my abilities that I’m as excited as they are by the upcoming fixtures
, and it leaves me with no uncertainty that they’re changing. Rugby is old news, and no matter how much I try to fight it, it’s only a matter of time before I become old news too.
Football, and Hampshire, their cool older step-brother and new younger sibling on the way.
And Terry. Cool dad Terry.
This is their life now, and I’m… well, I’m still the same old workaholic they knew in London.
I’m pained as I make the drive back to the city, as though the final shreds of my soul are bleeding out through the cracks. It’s been a long time coming.
My fingers feel dirty as they grip the steering wheel. The kind of grime no antibacterial gel can scrub away.
I’ve spent my entire adult life pulling the strings of those around me, as my father did. Still does.
Clients, judges, juries, boys’ club fraternity members. The women I pay to serve me. The women I don’t.
The people whose fate rests in these filthy hands and what I choose to do with them.
People may despise me for the outcomes I manipulate in order to fulfil my legal duty, but they respect my ability to deliver.
People do what I tell them because the alternative is unfavourable.
Plenty fear me, but not a single person who has truly known me has ever come out the other side loving me. Sad but true.
My boys still have that obligatory affection for their father that all young children have before they learn better. My boys will learn better as they get older, just as I did.
I’m feeling it already. My word is no longer God. My idea of fun is no longer their absolute benchmark for a good time.
Brutus stares out of the passenger window for the entire journey, giving occasional grumbles as though he’s sorry to leave them behind too. I’m probably reading too much into it. Seeing things that aren’t really there.
I’ve got into a habit of that lately.
It’s another sad truth that having the house feel like more of a home is beginning to highlight the fact it really isn’t one.
There’s a sadness around the scent of fresh orchids tonight as I walk in through the door. Their delicate floral radiance unable to counteract the knowledge that someone was paid to put them here.
Paid to turn my bedsheets down and stock up my kitchen with necessities – as nice as they may be.
And yet there is still a fragile spark of hope in me.
It’s dangerous.
Dangerous to feel touched by someone’s consideration.
Dangerous to want more of it.
“What’s she like, boy?” I ask Brutus as I eat yoghurt straight from the tub.
He stares at me, angling for whatever I’m having.
“Is she nice? Pretty?”
His lolling tongue tells me nothing other than he wants yoghurt too, and it’s grotesquely adorable enough to let him lick the remnants from the pot.
I guess I’ll have to find out for myself what she’s like.
MELISSA
I’VE BEEN POKED and prodded and jabbed with needles at some expensive clinic in Harley Street, all paid for, no questions asked.
They said nothing about my general state of health, making no comment whatsoever as they weighed me, and took my height, and checked in my eyes and ears, and… everywhere else…
They asked me about my menstrual cycle and informed me I’d been listed to receive a contraceptive injection. I let them jab me in the ass with it without argument.
I’m just glad it’s over as I race across town to finish up at Mr Henley’s house after lunch.
I’m rarely out at this time of day, normally up to my elbows in scrubbing and polishing. That or playing with myself in his bed, although I’m trying to do less of that now. Trying.
My work handset shows me he’s in court all day today, and my internet search this weekend told me he’s got some big case going on. They showed a picture of him leaving the courtroom, steely and immaculate as his client – some rich oil tycoon – trailed behind.
I wish I still had the dream of being a lawyer ahead of me. I wish it was me in an expensive suit representing clients in court, the excitement of the trial, the hushed negotiations behind the scenes.
Maybe one day I’ll be able to live the excitement through him, maybe he’ll confide in me as we lie in bed at night, asking my opinion as he whispers client secrets in my ear.
Or maybe I’ll end up trapped in a hotel room with some random guy who wants to fuck me up in exchange for twenty grand.
There’s a sweet little street market open in Kensington as I head back to the house. I feel ok about glancing at the stalls today, feeling more presentable with my crappy uniform stuffed out of sight in my shoulder bag.
The clothes and jewellery are so out of my price range it’s not even worth a thought, but there’s a boutique cupcake stand at the far end, and I can’t resist a quick look.
That’s when I see it. A dark chocolate and orange swirled muffin with a vanilla yoghurt fondant.
I think of him.
Of course I think of him.
I don’t care that it’s unprofessional as I root in my handbag for my purse.
I leave it on the island as I finish up for the day, looking so pretty with its deep purple cupcake case. I make sure it looks inviting, placing it just so on a cute little stand I found in the cupboard, and cover it up with a clear glass bowl that I guess someone used to use for baking.
I hope I’m not totally overstepping my boundaries, hoping he’ll forgive me rooting around his kitchen to leave him a gift.
My throat is dry as I tear out a piece of paper from my notebook, my fingers shaking as I find the right words.
Dear Mr Henley,
I saw this and thought of you. I hope it’s even half as nice as your breakfast recipe.
Thank you for being so generous with your muesli.
MM.
I’m convinced I’ve made a professional faux pas as soon as I am back on the underground, but my calendar tells me it’s too late to undo my mistake even if I wanted to.
ALEXANDER
I DON’T BOTHER HEADING BACK to the office after court today. My driver picks me up as soon as I’m done, which is just as well since I narrowly avoid a pointlessly antagonistic run-in with Ronald bastard Robertson on the steps outside. I’ve got no time for his crap.
Nor have I any time for the congratulatory calls my father attempted several times today after the quarterly board report showed we’re twelve percent up on last year’s turnover.
It would have meant something once.
All of this meant something once.
Winning meant everything to me.
My head’s fried with the whole sorry lot of it as I step through the front door, dropping the keys on the smoking table and giving Brutus a pat on the head as I make my way through to the kitchen for a glass of water.
I’m not expecting it. Not in the slightest.
The bacon was a thoughtful professional gesture, but the cupcake waiting for me on the cake stand is something entirely different.
I stare at it as though it’s some kind of optical illusion, as though it may disappear in a puff of smoke and leave me gawping like a fool.
I read the note before I dare touch it.
Dear Mr Henley,
I saw this and thought of you. I hope it’s even half as nice as your breakfast recipe.
Thank you for being so generous with your muesli.
MM.
She saw this and thought of me.
The strangest stabbing feeling in my ribs. A beautiful revulsion. A beautiful pain.
Thought of me.
I can’t remember the last time someone thought of me.
I can’t remember the last time I received a gift that wasn’t a branded fountain pen.
I lift the bowl so carefully to uncover the cake.
Dark chocolate and orange.
I smile.
Of course.
Brutus grumbles as I tease down the cake paper, bu
t he can grumble on.
“You’re allergic,” I tell him, and he cocks his head. “And you can go fuck yourself, boy, this is all for me.”
Sinking my teeth into that muffin is the greatest culinary pleasure I’ve ever experienced. Not because I have a particularly sweet tooth, and not because I’m even particularly hungry, but because it’s such a thoughtful gift.
A vanilla filling. Thick, like creamy yoghurt.
My smile grows wider.
She thought of me.
MELISSA
AN EMAIL from Claude tells me my medical was satisfactory. I’ll be up for auction on Friday evening.
I wonder how it works, trying to shake off the horrible little fear that Alexander Henley won’t even be there to bid. He’ll be out on the streets, dishing out hot meals, nowhere near the Chelsea saleroom.
But Claude would know that, there must be… early bids, remote bids… I’m not sure how it even works, but I’m sure it does.
I breathe.
I’m definitely sure it does.
There’s a breakthrough today as I step through the door. Brutus comes padding up before I’ve even deactivated the alarm, and his tail is wagging. It’s actually wagging.
I dare to ruffle his ears as I grab him a fish stick and he doesn’t even flinch.
He likes me. For real, he likes me.
And so does someone else.
The sob chokes as soon as I see it, a crazy sense of excitement zipping through me at the sight of a plate on the kitchen island.
It’s a cookie. Chocolate chip and topped with pink icing.
Thank you it says in iced yellow letters.
There’s a note, but it takes me a few moments to calm down enough to read it.
MM,
Touched, genuinely.
I saw this and thought of you.
With my thanks,
AH.
It’s the greatest cookie I’ve ever eaten in my life.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
ALEXANDER
EVERY EVENING I RECEIVE A GIFT.
A cake, a fresh pineapple, a bottle of freshly squeezed orange juice from the health-food deli two streets down.
