by Alexis Angel
The caddy moans, not in pain, but in delight.
Masochists, right?
But I don’t have time to deal with her saucy little kinks at the moment. I recognize the voice that spoiled my swing—I recognize it all too well.
“I can’t believe how fucking childish you are, Will.”
Sarah’s using the same fucking voice mom used on us when we were caught doing stupid shit as kids.
I fucking loathe that tone.
And she knows it.
Hell, she even looks like mom in her little pencil skirt and heels.
“Do you mind? You’re fucking up my golf game right now.”
“Tough shit, cupcake. You’re thirty-five, and you’re out here shooting golf balls off the ass of some hooker? Your retirement party is still going on inside, you know.”
“Actually, she’s my caddy.”
I bend down and give the caddy a little swat on the ass that makes her coo again.
“You. Stay put.”
“This your plan for the rest of the night, Will?”
I shrug, slinging my golf club over my shoulder, and staring out across the green.
“Mostly, yeah.”
“You should be going home to a wife, Will. A kid or two. Being a fucking adult. Not here with some naked broad, trying to shoot golf balls off her ass.”
“Would have succeeded if you hadn’t come up on me like some creepy fucking ninja.”
“Come on, Will. You’re still acting like you’re some twenty-two year old college student whose only goal in life is to get his dick wet and drink over-priced booze. You should be settling down. Finding a woman to love and have a family with.”
I groan. It’s a spiel I’ve heard from her before. Far too fucking often of late for my own liking.
“Love doesn’t exist, Sarah. The world isn’t some fucking fairy tale Jennifer Aniston movie. Guy doesn’t find girl and fall helpless in love. That’s not how the world works. Love is a joke without a punchline.”
Sarah shakes her head at me. If we were kids, I’d be ripping the heads off all her Barbie dolls tonight just for dragging this shit up.
“You can’t seriously believe that.”
“And why not?” I shrug and take another drink of my whiskey. “Who the fuck are you to lecture me on love? You order men from that creepy-ass dating website like you’re ordering a burger and fries at a drive-thru.”
She shifts in her stance, and I can see I’ve hit a nerve.
“MaleOrder.com is not a drive-through.”
“Yeah,” I chuckle. “I bet you take super-size portions with extra helpings of special sauce, too.”
Her lips twitch, and I know I got her good.
Will, one and Sarah, zero.
“Besides, what classy woman is going to want me? I’m not the guy you take home to mom and dad. The only women I‘d want to have kids with respect themselves too much to want me. I play better to the slut demographic, and you know it.”
“Hey!” the Caddyshack of strippers protests. I just give her another love tap with my club again. She giggles at the attention.
Sarah rolls her eyes. “But if you got married—”
“Marriage is a contract; one I’d rather not sign.”
Sarah’s lip curls in frustration. “Okay, hot shot. How about we try this a different way? A wager of sorts.”
“A wager? You don’t know the difference between a flush and a full house.”
There’s a smirk on Sarah’s lips that I don’t like. Not one fucking bit.
She goes to my golf bag and grabs a club of her own.
“If I can hit this ball off this woman’s ass and score a hole in one, then, you, my dear brother, will put yourself up on MaleOrder.com for purchase.”
I laugh. Not just a regular hey-that-was-a-good-joke kind of laugh.
No, this is the kind of laugh that comes from the stomach. A laugh that hurts so much I can feel my eyes begin to water. The last time I’d laughed so hard, I was fleeing forty horny sorority sisters with tassels around my dick and whipped cream over my nipples.
“Well, considering there’s no fucking way you can make that shot…Yeah, I’ll take that fucking bet.”
She takes my ball and tee from my hands. She looks confident. A little too confident.
We shake hands to seal the deal.
She doesn’t bother to kick off her heels. She just slips the ball and tee between the caddy’s firm ass cheeks and lines up her shot.
“Don’t fuck it up now,” I warn.
She takes her swing. I hold my breath and watch that white ball soar across the sky toward the green. It hits it and rolls with purpose towards its destination. I pray that it just fucking stops there, but it doesn’t.
No, it slides right up to the edge of the hole with the last of its momentum and sits for a moment. I get ready to celebrate.
Not quite, little sis.
Then, the fucking thing tips right over the ledge and into the hole!
Christ. Mocked by a fucking golf ball.
Will, zero; Sarah, fucking infinity.
“Okay,” I level with her, “when the fuck did you turn into Tiger Woods?”
“You’re not the only golfer in the family, big brother.”
With shots like that, apparently fucking not.
I stand there speechless as Sarah grabs my caddy and my whiskey.
“Be sure to use that picture from the Christmas party last year. You looked really good in that Santa hat,” Sarah suggests, draping her arm around the caddy and taking off.
I toss my club onto the green and pull out my phone.
MaleOrder.com. Fuck’s sake.
Well, this will be an adventure, if nothing else.
Katrina
“No way, dude,” Beatrice groans, leaning over my balcony and looking down. “That’s just fucking creepy.”
“Stop being such a worrywart, Bea,” I reply, grabbing her by her bra straps and hauling her back up. “I’m on the twelfth floor. It’s not a big deal.”
“Kat, babe, you are one horny, sex-crazed stalker away from a full security breach,” Bea responds as she shakes her head and crosses her arms over her chest, showing off the tattoos of lilies and roses on her forearms. “Seriously, I bet a guy could just climb from balcony to balcony and be up here in, like, five minutes flat.”
I roll my eyes. Have you ever met someone who’s been studying something for all of two weeks and is suddenly an overnight expert on the subject? That’s my baby sister.
Bea started training as a security guard two weeks ago, and it’s been nonstop with this shit ever since.
“I just think there are more secure places in Chicago, is all,” Bea argues.
“Too late for that, babe.”
I turn to look at my freshly purchased penthouse with pride. “This place is mine—theoretical balcony climbing creepers and all.”
I can’t help but feel a fierce sense of achievement. This is everything I’ve been working so hard for.
While my friends were out partying and taking selfies on Friday nights, I was working with clients and following up on paperwork.
Sure, it didn’t leave a lot of time for things like dating, but who the fuck even cares about that? The whole time-wasting, hook-up scene is all about seeing and being seen, and I’ve never had time for that.
What I do have time for, right now, is enjoying the fruits of my hard labor—and hanging out with my baby sis, of course. I smile at her as I refill our glasses with some very expensive bubbly. I pluck a strawberry off the gourmet platter and offer it to Bea with a wink.
“Can I tempt you?”
“Consider me tempted!” Bea bites into the strawberry and moans in delight. “Oh my God. Amazing! Where did you get these?”
Bea’s a real foodie, so, of course, she wants to hone in on where I’m getting my delicacies these days.
“That deli just down the road. You know, the one that has that hot waiter?”
“The one
with the biceps like footballs?”
“That one. And the old guy behind the counter really knows his salami.”
“I’d like to try some salami.” Bea chuckled, sipping the bubbly and munching on a handful of biscuit and cheese.
“Time to break out the hard stuff.” I grin, pulling out a gorgeous bottle of whiskey as we sit down around my glass coffee table. Bea gasps.
“Where did you get that?”
“A gift from my new boss. His favorite, apparently, at like, two grand a bottle.”
“I know, jeez! I’ve been salivating over that stuff since I saw it. I still have that subscription to cocktails.”
Laughing, I crack the seal, pouring two not-so-cautious nips. Bea couldn’t decide if she was a foodie or a bodybuilder. I keep telling her it doesn’t work.
“The important thing, my dear Bea, is to enjoy the spoils. The spoils of war.”
“Not the spoils of love,” she snaps, rolling her eyes as she gulps the whiskey down.
I toss a chocolate-covered strawberry at her, and it bounces off her shoulder and plops onto the mushroom fabric of my designer lounge. I want to gasp, but instead I just burst out laughing.
“There goes five grand!” I announce. I’m laughing so hard, I can’t keep my lying-down position and hold my whiskey at the same time, so I sit up and sip it. “Oh, jeez, this is hard stuff.”
“Yes! Let’s talk about hard stuff!”
I give Bea the look.
“I have limited interest in that kind of hard stuff. In my experience, it’s not that hard.”
She snorts. “Maybe because you scare the fuck out of them,” she adds and bites another strawberry.
Drips of dark chocolate shower over my new lounge. Being rich is proving rather stressful.
I sigh, refilling both Bea’s and my own glass while munching a strawberry over a sip of whiskey.
“Is it my fault that I know what I want?”
“Yes,” Bea answers, looking at me very seriously in the face.
I start giggling at her sage expression, and she giggles, too; but it’s actually not funny. My few short-term boyfriends could not cope with me, and that’s an understatement.
After initially chasing me, they found my breathy demands far too…masculine, apparently. Or perhaps a woman who knows how to get wet and wants to tell her man how to best use his equipment is always seen as a threat to the fragile male ego.
It’s not something I care about anymore.
“Alright, look,” Bea starts as she places her glass on the table and pulls her phone out. “Let’s just have a browse, shall we?”
“Let me guess…you found a shopping website for occupied businesswomen like myself.”
“Yes, actually!” Bea cackles like Grandma. She lumbers around the table and throws an arm around me, pulling me close so we can both look at the tiny screen.
She knows my troubles, of course. Many drunken, chocolate-fueled nights were spent talking about my exes and their failures.
I can’t see the screen, it’s too blurry. I shove my whiskey-soaked sister aside and pull the laptop over.
“Put it in there so I can see.”
“If that’s how you talk to men, I can see the issue.”
“What!?” I exclaim, pounding the lounge with a fist and spilling my whiskey again. “I’m not going to lay quietly and demurely on the mattress and giggle politely as he gets over his fucking Madonna complex! So I know how I want to be fucked. Is that a crime?”
Bea doesn’t answer. She just positions the screen a little closer for me.
“Just check out the man candy, babe, then tell me you don’t want it.”
I sit up, sipping the whiskey again. There are some nice men. Very nice.
I allow myself to engage in the giggling with Bea, letting her lift my mood, thinking about all the good things about having a man. But, still.
To get those good things—if he even had them—you have to make time. Time I so do not have.
It’s a simple matter of weighing potential gain against loss. And, I know exactly what I get back if I put in the time and effort into my career. Love is a risky business, and I don’t take risks like those.
We leave the laptop open as Bea gets up and heads for the door.
“Got training again first thing in the morning.” She sighs. “Now remember, this is a secure building, but you never know—”
“Bea.”
“Yeah?”
“Get out.” I grin. She pulls me over for a quick hug and heads out.
I wander back in, slowly closing the door and moving through my big empty rooms. There’s something sensual about knowing you’re alone, in silence and in luxury. There’s absolutely nothing to hide.
I head into my bedroom, slip off my clothes, and toss them at the end of the bed. I pull out my gorgeous new nightie, glowing pink with lace scrolled across the top. The fabric’s luxurious as I draw it over my skin.
The walk back to the lounge is more than sensual. It isn’t just the air stroking me—it’s the delicious soft, shiny fabric, too.
Something stirs deep inside me.
I make a point of sliding against the lounge as I sit down in front of the laptop again, reaching for the champagne. I take a sip, picking up a dark strawberry.
It’s all so sensual, and suddenly, I’ve got that longing. Not in my heart, but right between my legs. It’s an ache that burns.
I finish my strawberry and scroll down the screen.
This is ridiculous. Men for sale? It must be a scam.
This is a stupid amount of money.
But then it hits me. Like, so what? Why am I making tons of money if I’m not going to enjoy myself?
I grin to myself. I keep scrolling until one face actually turns that ache between my legs into a sharp pain.
Pretty-faced and tousled but nicely tamed hair. Ticks all the right boxes.
He calls himself Will, and suddenly I hear Bea in my mind: Where there’s a Will, there’s a way.
There’s definitely a Will.
There’s something about his eyes.
Fierce. Like a wolf. A hungry wolf.
“Will,” I whisper, thinking how awesome it would be to give this man instructions on how to do me right. “You look like the kind of man who knows how to treat a lady right.”
I’m already fantasizing about those lips on my clit.
I barely know what I’m doing as I make the clicks. I’m swimming in whiskey, champagne, and in my own hot, sweet scent.
Maybe it’s a bad idea.
Maybe it’s a total fucking disaster.
And definitely, absolutely I’m way too drunk to care.
He’s hot, he’s sexy, he’s got the most gorgeous eyes I’ve ever seen…
And as soon as I enter my bank info, he’s mine.
“Good night, Will.” I giggle to myself as I curl up on the lounge.
William
My eyes peel open after passing out on the couch in my living room, chest bare and a fresh bottle of whiskey cradled against my cheek. Normally, if a noise wakes me up at this hour of morning, it’s the slurping sound of lips around my cock.
But I didn’t wind up bringing anyone home last night, and these aren’t blowjob noises—they’re knocks.
I run my fingers through my messy hair, groaning as I head for the door. I can’t remember ordering delivery—pizza, strippers, or otherwise. So, tired as I am, I’m curious to see what the fuck’s going on.
I’ve had to blink a couple of times to be sure I’m seeing right once I open the door.
Three women are standing on my doorstep, their arms crossed authoritatively. They’re all taller than I am, which is saying something, since I’m easily 6’4”.
“Ladies,” I greet them, with a charming smile and a nod in each of their directions. They’re not exactly my type, but being polite never hurt anyone. “How can I help you?”
The middle broad—the smallest of the three, so help me—gives me the
kind of fee fi fo fum smile that gives the impression she skipped dinner and I’m about to be her midnight snack.
“Mr. Ambrose, is it?” she asks. “We’re here to inform you that you’ve been…purchased.”
The way she says it has me feeling more like a toy than a person. But then I remember the MaleOrder.com bullshit…and I recall how that’s exactly what I am right now.
“By all means.” I make a gesture to welcome them inside.
The smaller of the three walks in first, followed by her fellow Amazon warriors. I swear, each one of them could tell me they knew Wonder Woman and I’d believe them. One of them even looks like she could make Superman her bitch.
“Isn’t it a little late in the night?” I ask, scratching the back of my head. I’m still waking up. “Couldn’t you grab me in the morning or something?”
“No, we couldn’t, Mr. Ambrose. You see, we have a strict twenty-four-hour delivery guarantee policy. And we don’t disappoint our clients.”
“Oh, well, do I get to know who’s purchased me?”
I’m just hoping it isn’t someone like Betty White. Unless it was Betty White.
A man has standards, naturally.
“No, you don’t.”
She gives me that look again, and I just smile and nod.
Damn, they’re intimidating. It’s kind of hot.
“Well, nothing wrong with a little mystery,” I reason.
“Indeed,” the small-ish one agrees.
The two larger ones walk around my place while the smaller one takes in more of my physique.
I can’t blame her.
I have the body of Adonis. Hell, Adonis himself probably would’ve wished he looked this good.
I grab the neck of my whiskey bottle and take a drink while the smaller one steps toward me.
I wonder now if this is where they tell me they’re the ones who bought me and that they’re literally going to eat me alive.
“Your pants. Remove them.”
An eyebrow raises in curiosity, and I fight back the urge to laugh. Her tone and her look tell me she isn’t playing around.
“No dinner and movie, first?”
