Auctioned To The Billionaire (Part One) by Kelly Favor
Dermot
I open the encrypted email and stare at the contents.
Pictures. Videos. A lot of them.
I take a deep breath and let it out.
At first, I wonder how this could have happened. My security is top-notch. Nobody could have just broken into my home and set up cameras. And yet, they did.
Which means that someone I trusted enough to let into my home has been recording my bedroom activities.
There are a lot of women, some of them very famous women, contained in these files. I scan through the contents of the email, looking for clues to who might have done this. And what it is they want from me now.
Money? It’s always money.
“Fuck,” I mutter, realizing how deep this shit has gotten, and how quickly.
For a brief instant, I consider the possibility that a business rival has done this. I’ve made a lot of enemies in New York real estate. Perhaps someone from my former company, which fell into ruins when I left and took most of their business with me.
But no.
It only takes me a few more moments to realize that this is the work of someone I’m intimately acquainted with. A rival company would have just released the videos and damaged my reputation.
And more to the point, it’s a question of access. The only people who have even been to my home, let alone my bedroom, are the women I bed.
I don’t have friends.
I don’t have casual dinners at my pad.
I don’t even have family or business partners over. So, barring a break-in, which is quite impossible with the security detail we have in the building, it’s got to be an inside job.
One of my many female “friends” is the villain here. As I lean back, scrolling through more and more pictures, more videos, I consider who it could be.
Unfortunately, it’s not a simple answer.
As one of the wealthiest men on the planet, and one of the most sought-after bachelors in the city of New York, I have been swimming in beautiful ladies for the last five years. Longer, if you factor in my early days when I was still building my fortune and reputation.
Even then, it was never difficult for me to meet and seduce a woman.
The defining trait of my existence is my attraction to, and affinity for, beautiful women. Ironically, the other defining trait I possess is that I have never been able to commit to a single woman.
Not even for a week.
I’ve also never led anyone on, though. I have always been up front about the way I do intimacy. Which is to say—I don’t.
Or, let’s just say that the intimacy remains on the physical level. I show them a good time, we have some fun, and then we go our separate ways. There are no long talks, no cuddle sessions, no meaningful gazes are exchanged, no flowery texts are written nor responded to.
Sure, there are women that I see more than once, but never have I allowed any of them to get the impression that we are an item.
And since the tabloids and internet trolls began following me around, it’s become common knowledge that I operate in this fashion. If a woman accepts a date with me, she accepts everything that comes with it.
Amazing sex, wonderful meals, expensive wine, the best means of travel, opulent hotel rooms and mansions…and the freedom to then go off and live your life as if none of it ever happened.
That’s how I do things.
There are very good reasons why I live this way, and those reasons can never change.
I will never change.
And that’s why it’s extremely disconcerting to have received this batch of files from the unknown sender.
Because these files indicate that somehow, someone slipped through and contaminated the entire system.
Almost any woman I’ve bedded or taken to my home is now suspect.
And it’s not just a simple process of elimination. I could assume that whoever has been spying on me is one of the women that doesn’t appear in these files. But that would be a huge mistake. A very smart lady—and whoever did this is clearly intelligent—would know that including herself amidst the other victims would make it more difficult for me to figure out the culprit.
I close the screen and rub my eyes, taking a long, deep breath and recalibrating my emotions.
I know that eventually I will figure out who did this to me.
I will remove all the traitorous devices in my home. Already, I’m texting the head of my security team and letting them know that a crew has to be brought in to sweep my home and even my office.
Just to be sure.
But right now, I cannot take any chances. I cannot contact any woman whom I’ve been seeing in recent years. Not even someone from the distant past.
Not to mention, any previous conquest is now a potential victim, caught on camera, on video, having sex with me. And the next time I speak to them, I will feel like I need to tell them the truth about their situation. I will need to warn them that they have been caught on tape.
As it is, I may need to do that, soon, with all of the women involved.
A complete PR nightmare for all involved…
So, for the near future, I have to stay far away from the tangled, messy female population of New York City.
I will need to go elsewhere for my fix.
I sigh, get up from my desk and walk to the window. Looking out at the city, I consider what to do next.
I’ve been burned.
Even the mere thought of dealing with a random woman who could turn crazy and make trouble, has my stomach in knots.
Yet, I also must continue to feed my hunger for sex. Sex is the one release that has never failed to calm me, to soothe the wild beast, to quiet the demons that torture me when I am not focused on work.
I have to fuck.
I need my women the same way I need air to breathe and water to drink.
What is the answer?
How can I make sure my needs are satisfied without risking everything I’ve built?
And then the answer comes to me. I return to my desk, open up my web browser, and pull up a search.
I recall the name of a very reputable web-based service that was recently discussed at a heavy drinking dinner with some of my wealthy clients.
At the time, I remember thinking how silly and pathetic it was for a man to purchase a woman’s services. To pay good money, sign contracts, non-disclosures, set terms, and treat sex like it’s just another service, like getting your house cleaned.
But now I am seeing it all in a different light.
I remember the name of the company and type it into my browser.
A moment later, the web page loads.
I start to fill out the form. It has begun.
Haisley
“I’m in some trouble.”
He says the words casually, but there’s nothing lighthearted about the threat behind his chatter.
I look up from the meal I’m cooking in our tiny apartment kitchen. Dad is grabbing a beer from the fridge and opening it.
“What kind of trouble?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady. Already, my heart is pounding. The ground beef is burning and I stir it, as the smoke accumulates.
“Just a little something from last week.” Dad takes a sip of beer and scratches his chin, his eyes shifting away from me when I look at him.
“You told me you were done gambling. You were going to meetings.”