“Five hundred for the night?”
With a broad grin, I shake my head. “No.”
“What’s your deal?” She asks, poking me in the chest. “You’ve been showing up for weeks and never taking anyone home.”
Nice of her to be paying such close attention to my goings-on. “I don’t need a girl half my age to be babysitting me.”
“Five,” she repeats, sloppily grabbing me. She can’t even stand up straight. Her drunken sludge is similar to a mudslide. Not clean or neat. Read: not my type. “And the babysitter swallows.”
I almost spit, laughing in her face. “You’ve got some nerve. You seem to be missing a key point,” I calmly reply. “I don’t need to pay anyone to suck my dick. You would have to pay me, sweetheart. And frankly, by the looks of it, I’m out of your price range.”
Champagne taste on a beer budget.
Not even craft.
She lifts her hand to swat at my cheek, but I swiftly back away. “Not going home with me now, Bella.”
She gasps, shocked. “You know my name…”
“I’m not deaf, nor am I dumb,” I sternly reply, catching her off guard. “Just disciplined.”
I walk to the car and drive to my hotel where I will stay the night. I reserved it for two, but after Bella’s outburst, I doubt I return tomorrow. She’ll be lucky if I don’t call up Tilda and complain about the harassment. Not every Dominant who walks into the club wants to get their rocks off.
The subs have a choice, and so do I.
My hotel room is an upgrade, but not a suite. I order room service and take a quick shower before the food arrives. I watch the news while eating my medium-rare steak and scanning the latest on the dark web.
“What the fuck?” I mutter, setting down my fork and wiping my mouth. I pull the machine closer and reread the title of the ad—thinking my eyes must be messing with me. Rapist Wanted. I click the link and stroke my chin. “What the fuck are you thinking?”
I grab my phone and call my brother. “Hello! How is Azi—roner?”
“Did you see this ad on Gray Market?”
“You mean the twenty-something wanting to get alley ripped?”
“Yeah,” I say, reading the ad over again. “Any idea who she is?”
“Not a fucking clue,” Axel replies. “I can dig if you want me to. You going to do the deed for her, bro?”
I might.
But I don’t need to confirm that with Axel. He knows what a bad guy I am. “Nah, I got this,” I contend, looking up her profile. “Do you think she is serious?”
“In Northern Cali?” he quizzes. “Anything is possible.”
Scanning over her name—D4RK4NG3L—I snicker. “How is life on the farm?”
“Disgusting,” he groans. “I’m hiring some of the Ag boys from the high school to do this shit. I don’t know why we don’t sell the livestock, have an estate sale, and put this place on the auction block.”
I type away and casually mention, “Because we spent all of our childhood there.”
“And you’re a sentimental schmuck.”
“Don’t tell anyone,” I cackle, studying her profile and contemplating the best way to break into her account. “As I ponder violating this poor girl.”
“Softy rapist.”
“I will be keying your car for that one when I get home,” I joke, chuckling. “I’ll make sure the lines are nice and straight. You can have them filled with 24-karat gold paint.”
“Asshole.”
“Trust me. If Dad ends up selling the business off, you don’t want me to be anything but…” I suddenly stop as a feminine voice fills my ear with more than I needed to hear—my disgusting baby brother is getting his dick washed in her mouth while on the phone with me. “You enjoy the skank of the night. I am out. Bai, perv!”
“Later, J.”
I lean back and stare at D4RK4NG3L’s profile. It could be bait, but Gray is reasonably good about cross-checking. Still, it’s not worth the risk. “Who the fuck are you? And why are you so stupid?”
I send a text message to Wang. “Where is Theodore Dower’s son’s wedding at?”
“At their farm, about an hour out of San Francisco,” he quickly replies. “Why?”
“When is it?”
“Four weeks.”
“Send an RSVP,” I peck with determination. “J.A. Monroe will be in attendance.”
“Cool. So will Wendlin Rile. Champagne servers…”
“You. Are. So. Bad.”
I set down my phone and grab my laptop as I walk over to the bed. I click off the light and hit the link for the live feeds. I scan over the names until I find Christy.
The night will end up costing a pretty penny, but I won’t have to wake up with a random girl asking a thousand questions and hoping for more…
Because that will never come.
Unlike me—who is about to come several times—with Christy writhing naked on my screen. With obscene thoughts of my whip lashing skin, my hand fists around my dick.
3
Lazy Days
Echo
By late April, I expected my research to be completed.
It wasn’t, and I ended up writing The Paper on Women’s Fantasy of Sexual Assaults, an in-depth case study of giving up.
My professors loved it.
I adhered to the basic formulas; up to half or more of women’s sexual fantasies involved being taken in some form.
With the burden of guilt and shame during fantasy dub-con/non-con scenes placed on the male, the female is finally free to explore her sexuality. Few women wanted to admit it, let alone discuss the fantasy versus reality element.
Blah. Blah. Blah.
The paper was a disheartening personal let down, but I managed to get an A and planned to graduate with honors in May.
I was putting in extra hours at the shop, and soon, I was promoted to maintaining inventory, shipping, and receiving. I wasn’t responsible for stocking but ensuring the guys who did the stocking handled the bottles with care.
I was about to complete a Masters in Psych with a Bachelor in Gender Studies, and yet I was counting wine corks and printing shipping labels.
I slipped into a bit of a mental slump, but I needed the job, which paid remarkably well, to pay for the six years of college loans. Nonetheless, I was quickly approaching the point where I needed to determine whether or not going for my Doctorate was even worth it.
Another two years at the wine store, I—Dr. Abigail Maines—would end up managing the damn thing.
Selia was beyond busy, taking an apprenticeship at a physical therapy place, along with keeping a few clients that she did personal training for. All-in-all, life was good, and while I hadn’t forgotten about the ad, I didn’t fret over it.
As for the naughty little bit of words, I hadn’t gotten any stalkers—at least that I noticed—but plenty of anonymous-no-way-I’m-revealing-myself likes on the site and a few personal emails, mostly asking—“Are you serious?”
Immediately, those went to the trash.
If they had to ask, they didn’t have it in them to know.