“I’ve got a new girl for you,” he tells me, and endorphins flood my body, making me lightheaded. “Her name’s Tricia. She comes highly recommended.”
“Got a pic?”
My phone pings with the text almost the moment I say the words and I buzz with contentment.
Stevenson always delivers, but this time he’s outdone himself. The woman is a decade younger than the last one he sent my way. Looks aren’t the reason I give him my requests, but it makes things easier.
“Lock her in,” I tell him after a single glance. “Same T and Cs, yeah?”
“Always. Safe word is ‘rose’ or two long blinks. She’s already signed off on your scripts.”
The scripts are a selection of scenes crafted to ensure I get what I need out of any encounter. Girls can pick whichever takes their fancy, giving them safe parameters. They know what’s going to happen in advance, avoiding any nasty surprises.
He sends me the bill a moment later and once it’s paid, I check the image again.
The bio says Tricia is twenty-five, which probably translates to early thirties. Her hair is dyed shocking pink, or her wig is, and her makeup is caked on thick.
My lingering sense of irritation disappears in an instant.
Since earning my ankle accessory, I’ve avoided girls at school. One more sink-falling-off-the-wall incident, and it could mean expulsion, royal or not. But it’s tough since I’m not able to trawl the pubs and clubs for easy targets.
I’m at the mercy of who Stevenson can send my way, and depending on the whims or abilities of someone else isn’t a situation I’m familiar with. It certainly isn’t a position I enjoy.
The withdrawal pains have been hitting hard, making me stupid.
Like today when Wilder made the girl cry in class and my brain stuttered to a standstill.
For seconds, all I could see was the sheen in her eyes, the way it gathered across the breadth of her eyelid, becoming full enough to find release, spilling from the inside corner and trickling down her cheek, the moisture smearing as she wiped it away with the back of her hand.
The next tear had fallen quicker, tracing the same trail as its predecessor, then venturing further, sneaking into the curve beside her nose. Her lips had curled, nostrils pinching as she struggled to hold back a deluge. Her lower lip had strained upward, forcing the upper into a pout.
As the drop found the corner of her mouth, her tongue licked it clean and I could taste it, taste the faint tang of salt and the wetness, the glistening wetness that showed ever more clearly on her plump pink cheek.
Her lips had parted, the lower one trembling as she sucked in a deep breath, pursing her mouth to exhale one long, controlled breath.
Then the moment was over as she turned away from me, facing forward, drying her face with a few swipes of her wrist.
I wouldn’t be able to pick her face from a lineup, but you could show me a gallery of every tear spilled, and I’d pick those two delectable teasers in a second. It makes me wonder what itwould be like to hold her down, to encourage those tears. To see the emotion crumple her face, to see how it twists as the sobs take a firmer grip.
How good would it be to date a girl like that? A girl who cries at the drop of a hat. Who could indulge my darkest fantasies without me resorting to force or insult.
But experience tells me it wouldn’t work.
Crying and being comforted by your boyfriend is one thing, being fucked by him while he actively tries to keep you squeezing out those tears, quite another.
And sex without the waterworks just leaves me empty. It makes me ache to think there are people everywhere hooking up and finding deep connections and I find… nothing.
My mind drifts back to the girl in class. A minute after Wilder’s insult, she’d been fine. Better than fine. She and her friend had been all radiant smiles and whispered asides. A change in emotions like the flick of a light switch.
Maybe I should get her name. Take her on a date.
Then I snort, dismissing the idea. Even if I were foolish enough to try, my conditions don’t allow for such frivolity.
And it doesn’t matter. Not now I’m anticipating the relief promised by Stevenson’s call.
A lovely lady is going to come to my room and sob herself to pieces in my bed. Later, she’ll leave with five grand in her account and as many loads of cum inside as I can manage in a two-hour window.
Not a scenario found in great works of literature, but I’m doing the best I can with what I’ve got.
