Best of 2017

by Alexa Riley

  But no, no fucking way.

  “Three twenty,” I say to Claude.

  My father tips his head. “This girl, she’ll have a tit job, yes? And get those dangling fucking pussy flaps trimmed off?”

  I could kill the sonofabitch with my bare hands as Claude responds in the affirmative. “Buyer’s expense, of course.”

  My father nods. “Three fifty.”

  “Four hundred,” I counter.

  Claude’s eyes widen, a greedy smile on his face as the room murmurs. It’s safe to say everyone else is out of the running.

  “Four-fucking-twenty!” my father shouts. “Don’t be a fucking fool, boy!”

  But I am a fucking fool, a fucking fool with a raging hard on in my fucking trousers and an unstoppable desire to block his chances of ever laying a finger on that poor girl.

  “Five hundred grand!” I snap.

  The room goes silent. Dead silent.

  Claude’s gavel hangs paused in the air.

  My father shrugs, laughs to the crowd. “He used to have a crush on Debbie Harry, silly little teenage thing.”

  The rooms laughs with him, but I don’t care. I’m past fucking caring.

  “Five hundred grand,” Claude says. “Any further bids?”

  Once, twice, three fucking times, and the gavel comes down with a bang that makes my heart soar.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  ALEXANDER

  I’VE PAID a cool half a million for one night with some little blonde slip of a girl who doesn’t know what the fuck she’s signed up for.

  I think my fixation with the cleaner was less insane than the craziness I’m involved with now, but that doesn’t matter. My heart soars, and it’s a welcome rush.

  It would have been worth it just to win the standoff with my cunting father, but there’s more to it than that.

  Amy.

  She excites me.

  The prospect of pushing her limits excites me. It’s base, and thoroughly immoral, the intent to corrupt something so innocent, but this is not a charity endeavour. I’m going to take my money’s worth.

  The only saving grace is that she’ll spend her first time with me and not my father. She’s dodged a bullet there, one she’ll never be aware of.

  I fill in the specification form as soon as I’m home, listing my preferences for tomorrow evening. My criteria is easy. Simple.

  Wear whatever she likes.

  No preferences on makeup, or waxing, or what kind of scent she has on.

  I want her, as her, exactly as she is.

  Claude’s message tells me he’ll confirm ASAP, within the hour.

  Good.

  I’ll be waiting.

  MELISSA

  BOTH DEAN and I jump to attention as the email alert sounds on his phone.

  I can’t look. I really can’t look.

  I ask him to read it for me, perched on the edge of the sofa with my heart in my hands.

  His fingers are shaking as he calls it up, his voice croaky.

  “Tomorrow night.”

  I can feel my heartbeat in my temples. Tomorrow. I really didn’t think it would be so soon.

  “Does it say anything else?”

  “An instruction box with client preferences.”

  “And?” My eyes feel like dinner plates.

  “And it says none.”

  “None?”

  He turns the screen and I scour the text. He’s right, it says none.

  “So I wear what I like?”

  “I guess so.”

  Guess. I can’t believe we’re guessing over something like this.

  “What do you want me to do?” he asks. “Reply or… it’s not too late to change your mind…”

  I take the handset from him. Click the button to confirm my availability.

  “I guess I’ll hear more before then.”

  “Before you rock up to fuck some random in a hotel room somewhere? You’d fucking hope so, Lissa.”

  I nod.

  He’s right.

  The confirmation goes through, and I wait.

  It’s all I can do.

  ALEXANDER

  SHE’S AVAILABLE.

  I scan Claude’s suggestion. Harley’s Tavern. 8pm.

  But no. Not this time. I’ve used Harley’s so many times over the past couple of years, but this is different. I don’t want to take her first time in a place I’ve been so many others’ every time.

  No, I reply. Book Delaney’s spa.

  Reckless. Close to home. But I’m feeling it, dancing on the edge.

  I’m not sure I care about falling off.

  A ping straight back.

  That’ll be extra.

  Cunt. Like I haven’t paid enough already.

  Fine. Let me know it’s confirmed.

  Another message. This purchase also comes with compulsory five percent cash tip on the night. It’s in the small print.

  Sure it is.

  My fingers jab the handset as I type out my response.

  Just fucking book it.

  I toss my handset to the side.

  MELISSA

  ANOTHER EMAIL. I feel heady as I stare at the screen, weirded out by how surreal this is.

  I’m expecting Harley’s Tavern, of course. I’ve already looked it up again on Dean’s phone.

  I’ve scoped out the route on the underground, know just how to get there.

  But no.

  Delaney’s Spa Resort. Kensington Gardens.

  I’m shaking so bad.

  “It’s not Harley’s,” I tell Dean, and his eyes widen.

  “Is that good or bad?”

  “I don’t know. But it’s Kensington…”

  He looks as stressed as I do. “That’s gotta be good, right? Close to his house…”

  I shrug. “I really don’t know.”

  I scroll further down.

  You’re booked into room 216. Your client will be waiting in suite 12 at 8 sharp.

  Dress to impress.

  Ok. I breathe. Room 216. I guess I check in as Amy Randall. Cool. I’ve got that.

  A couple more lines of text reinforcing the earlier rules about money, not talking about it, not counting it.

  And then finally, one final little line.

  Your client is Ted.

  I remember Cindy’s voice, so clearly. He has a private email address, some random account under the name Ted Brown. It was open on his screen one day…

  A breath. A gasp.

  Surely… surely it has to be…

  A moment of staring at Dean in crazy, mute shock.

  And then I dance around my living room.

  I BARELY SLEEP A WINK, but I feel ok for it, running on adrenaline and more than a bit of excitement.

  Dean holds up a picture on his phone as I feed Joe his breakfast cereals.

  I stare at the metallic crystal and take a breath.

  “Native bismuth is known to be found in Australia, Bolivia, and China.”

  Dean nods. “Good.” He holds up another.

  “Moldavite, found in the Czech Republic. Known as the Holy Grail stone.”

  “You got it.”

  I’ve only got one final job on my list today.

  We take Joe to the park to feed the pigeons on the way, and I soak up the sunshine, realising all over again that tomorrow I will be twenty grand better off, and not a virgin anymore.

  Ted.

  I pray to God it’s really him. Really, really him.

  I wish I had a bigger budget as I step inside the New Age shop on the corner of Barrow Street.

  I pick out a couple of nice looking stones. A sparkling amethyst and a tiny little lump of garnet. A green banded malachite.

  And an angel hair quartz, its sides so smooth. I roll it in my palm.

  This one. This is the main event.

  Dean takes it from me and holds it up to the light. “Nice.”

  I smile. “Angel hair, for good luck.”

  “You’ll want it.” He nudges me, then h
oists Joe up on his hip.

  I pay for my crystals and a little velvet pouch to put them in.

  ALEXANDER

  I COUNT twenty-five grand from my safe in used bank notes.

  I put the envelope in the case with my sex toys.

  And then I choose my suit for the evening.

  It’s an easy choice.

  Black, white, black.

  I polish my shoes to a mirror shine.

  I shower and shave.

  I get dressed. I choose my finest cufflinks.

  I let Brutus out for his final crap of the evening.

  And then I go.

  MELISSA

  MY CHOICE of dress was easy. I only have one that’s anything like suitable.

  My sparkly heels clack loudly on the marble floor of Delaney’s Spa Resort. I’m early, a good hour ahead of schedule.

  I paste on my brightest smile as I head up to the reception desk, and I must look ok, because the woman behind the counter smiles right back.

  “Amy Randall,” I tell her. “Room 216.”

  She taps on her keyboard, then scans a keycard. “Welcome, Miss Randall. Your room is on the second floor. Do you need a porter for your bags?”

  I don’t have any bags. I feel myself burning up.

  “No, no need,” I bluster. “They’re not arriving until later.”

  She hands my card over. “Enjoy your stay.”

  I can’t hide my shaking fingers as I take it from her.

  MY ROOM IS INCREDIBLE, huge and cream and modern. The lighting is low and sensual, the bed the biggest I’ve ever seen.

  But I’m nervous. Too nervous to enjoy it.

  I pace back and forth in my stupid heels, sipping water from the complimentary bottle in the minibar.

  Forty minutes. Thirty-five.

  Twenty.

  Fifteen.

  I check my makeup. Reapply my pale pink lipstick and fluff up my hair.

  I check Dean’s phone is on silent and screen-locked. I check I have my crystals and fake ID in my clutch bag.

  I adjust my tits in the stupid lacy bra I wore for my video.

  Five minutes.

  Fuck.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  I turn off the lights on the way out.

  And I head up to the top floor.

  THE CORRIDOR IS EMPTY, the thick burgundy carpet soft under my heels as I head to the mahogany door at the far end.

  Suite twelve. Its gold lettering looks so regal.

  My belly is a twisted knot of butterflies.

  Moment of truth.

  I tap gently. Once, twice.

  And then I breathe.

  Please, God. Please, please.

  The door opens so slowly and I see the cream carpet first. I don’t even know I’m looking at the floor until I clock the freshly shined shoes, the tailored trousers.

  The shirt I pressed yesterday before I left. The tie I hung on the inside of the closet.

  He’s immaculate.

  Perfect.

  I look up at the face I’ve been dreaming of, and I have to check myself, squeezing the clutch bag in my hands as though this whole thing is going to vanish into a cloud of dust.

  His eyes are dark, his jaw tense as he steps aside to let me in.

  “Amy,” he says, and I can’t stop staring, not as I brush past him and step into the room, my eyes wide open and fixed on his.

  The door clicks shut.

  “Hi,” I say, and it sounds so lame.

  I drag my eyes away to take in the room, and it’s amazing. Everything is amazing. The lighting is low and warm, and there’s champagne in ice on the dresser. I don’t know what to do, so I do nothing, just balance on my stupid heels, shying away as he steps by so close.

  I’m gripped by this terrible impulse, this crazy urge to gabble it all out, the whole thing, tell him who I really am, and how much I wanted this. I want to… I really want to…

  “Champagne?” he asks, and I nod.

  “Please.”

  He pours me a glass and my fingers touch his for just a moment, just like they did when he offered me his cigarette packet all those years ago.

  There’s a weird lump in my throat I can’t swallow down, not even with a mouthful of champagne.

  He doesn’t take a glass for himself. He stands still and easy, his gaze piercing. Judging.

  I realise in that one shuddery moment that he doesn’t know me, and I know it’s crazy that somewhere deep down I felt like he would.

  His stare is cold and unfamiliar, his face stern and guarded.

  Dangerous.

  “I don’t enjoy small talk,” he tells me.

  I nod. “Sure.”

  “You specified you had no hard limits. Is that true?”

  My belly lurches. “Yes…”

  I sip my champagne and try to ignore the disappointment inside. The horrible little spark of disillusionment.

  I’m not the woman he left a thank you cookie for. I’m not the woman who ate muesli in his kitchen. I’m not the woman he chased down the street last night.

  I’m not even the schoolgirl he shared a cigarette with outside the school gates.

  I’m a prostitute.

  I’m a hooker who’s staring at the man she wants more than any other dream she’s ever had, staring him right in his cold eyes and wishing hers weren’t welling up.

  “Are you ok, Amy?” His question is demanding, his tone is brusque.

  “I’m fine, thanks.”

  I don’t sound fine and I know it, my voice is thick with stupid tears that threaten to spill, and my legs are all shaky and pathetic.

  “Do you want a moment?” He gestures to an armchair by the dresser.

  I perch myself in the seat with my knees together, cursing myself for how ridiculously wrong this is going.

  He looks unimpressed, reaching down into the minibar and pulling out a bottle of mineral water. He fills a tumbler and swaps it for the champagne in my hand.

  “Amy, I’m going to ask you a question, and I need you to answer me honestly.” He rests on the arm of the chair opposite and his tone is so curt.

  Oh shit.

  I nod, gulp down some water.

  “Do you want to call this off? The door is right there, one chance only.” He tips his head to the exit, and I feel myself pale.

  “No!” I insist. “No, that’s not what I want. Please. I’m just…”

  “A virgin who’s sold her first time to a stranger, yes.”

  His words hurt, a wash of indignation at the thought he assumes I’m so cheap. But why wouldn’t he?

  “That isn’t… it…” I say. “I, um… I want this.”

  He smiles for just a second. “Amy, darling, you don’t know what this is, I can assure you.”

  I’m losing him. I can feel my dreams unravelling and slipping away. And I can’t let them. I can’t let that happen.

  I get to my feet, relieved to find my legs toughen up enough to hold me steady. I pace straight up to him, close enough that the gorgeous scent I know so well hits me in the temples, and I keep my eyes dead on his as I pluck the champagne flute from his fingers and raise it to my mouth.

  He nods, ever so slightly.

  I’m close enough to see the fine lines around his eyes. The faint shadow of stubble on his jaw. The tiny birthmark on his right cheek.

  “I have no hard limits,” I say. “I didn’t lie.”

  He stares right through me. “Is that so?”

  “Yes. I’ll do anything you want.”

  “Anything I want?” His eyes are cold, and it hurts, but I’m excited. A flicker between my thighs that wants to throw myself on the floor at his feet and beg him to take me. Beg him to do it all, every dirty thing he’s ever dreamed of.

  “Anything,” I whisper.

  “Fine,” he says. “Then let’s do anything I want.”

  He takes the glass from my fingers and the clutch bag from my shoulder. He places them both on the dresser and takes me by the hand.
<
br />   My fingers clasp his as he pulls me through to the bathroom and flicks on the light.

  It’s a harsh contrast to the softness of the bedroom, my eyes blink as I adjust.

  His hand pulls from mine and lands on my shoulder, firm as he demands I drop to my knees.

  He points to a spot at the side of the toilet, and I shuffle along until he positions himself before me, his hand on my head.

  “Anything, Amy, are you sure?”

  “Positive,” I tell him.

  He unbuckles his belt and steps closer, and my heart jumps. He takes out his cock, and it’s bigger than I expected, much bigger than I pictured. He’s already hard, the head of him swollen dark.

  He takes a handful of hair and tips my head back, but my eyes are still on his cock, watching his hand move back and forth.

  Transfixed.

  I’m transfixed.

  I want to touch him so bad but I’m scared. Scared I’ll do it wrong.

  “Look at me,” he says, and I do. I do look at him, staring up into eyes that show no emotion whatsoever, even though my heart is spilling out through mine. “I’m going to piss in your mouth and you’re going to swallow every drop, do you understand me?”

  My poor heart hammers. “Yes.”

  I clench my thighs, and even though this isn’t what I planned, isn’t for a second what I dreamed of, I still want this. I still want him. Still want everything.

  “I understand,” I say.

  “Open your mouth. Nice and wide.”

  I open my mouth nice and wide. Position myself right under his cock, my tongue out and waiting, my eyes on his, even though I’m so scared I could be sick, even though my nerves are jangling and my clit is going crazy between my legs.

  I whimper as he presses the head of his cock to my bottom lip, but I don’t pull away, not even for a heartbeat.

  I take a breath, and grip his thighs to keep me steady.

  “If you spill a single drop I’m going to make you lick it from the floor.”

  I stick my tongue out further ready to catch the flow.

  “Are you ready?”

  I nod, just a tiny tip of the head.

  “Drink it all down like a good girl.”

  I keep my eyes on his.

  I’m ready. I’m really ready. My fingers squeeze his thighs, my eyes wide open. Do it. Just do it.

  “Very good,” he says.