Chapter One
Seven years later - Cyn
There’s a buzz, then a pop, and I squeal as one of the bulbs bordering my vanity mirror goes out.
“Damn,” I whisper, making a mental note to replace it. I lean back in and pucker my lips, sucking in my cheeks as I turn left, then right. I add another note to my mental list, tip my injector extra. “Dee, you outdid yourself this time.”
There are no more needle marks along the top of my upper lip. It looks just the right amount of puffy, slightly larger than my bottom lip, pouty and pink and hot as fuck. When I slick on a coat of nude gloss, I look exactly like what a man would call ‘effortlessly natural’.
Sure, buddy, my lip filler, fake lashes, whitened teeth, micro-needling, and laser therapy are ‘effortless’.
Not to mention my lotions, serums, contouring makeup, hours in the salon to get a clean balayage, and silky hair.
The hours in the gym, neoprene girdle to snatch my waist, vibrating plate, red-light therapy mask, press-on nails.
Honestly, I could go on for hours. Men are idiots.
I pull the tall, three-inch curlers off the top of my head.
I’ve spent the last two hours smoothing my body, softening myself like butter, and painting my face to look unpainted.
I look fucking perfect. I tuck one side of my brown hair behind my ear and admire how it fades from dark on top to ashy gray-blonde at the tips.
My phone buzzes, and I tap open the private app that lets me safely send and receive encrypted texts.
Edgewater, 9 PM, Mr. Graves. He wants braids and for you to fawn all over him.
Got it. Thanks, Trini
I stand and turn sideways, sucking in my stomach and running my hands over my hips.
My ass is an immaculate half circle under my flared pink yoga pants.
My BBL last year was an investment in myself and worth every penny.
My tits are still a small B-cup, and while I’ve been toying with the idea of implants, I don’t think I’m ready yet.
I’ve had no complaints about them from my clients.
The walls of my luxury condo suddenly light up.
The floor-to-ceiling windows face the city’s stadiums. I loosen my clenched jaw and take a few deep breaths.
Quickly grabbing the remote, I tap the button to close all my curtains, blocking my view of the skyline and the flowering fireworks that blossom over it whenever there’s an event there or the football team wins a big game.
I did not realize this would be an issue when I first toured the condo last year.
I don’t think about football. I don’t watch football. I certainly don’t follow the career of a certain running back who is safely ensconced with his team a state away from Washington.
Well, maybe I watch sometimes. And maybe I let myself search his name once or twice a year, just out of curiosity.
“Play upbeat pop music,” I order my smart machine, then I sit back down at my vanity and carefully part my hair into two long, loose fishtail braids.
For the next hour, I practice my blank but warm, even expressions.
Sweet stare with a twinkle in my eye. Smile, looking up through my lashes.
Bite gently on my bottom lip. Pout prettily.
?
The keycard is gold and extra heavy at this hotel. The fancier places always are. This keycard is for the penthouse only.
The receptionist smiles blandly at me and slides the key across the marble desk with one pointy red nail.
I smile so sweetly and wave my shiny, flesh-colored manicure so prettily that she can do nothing but grind that sugar between her teeth and twitch her pinched lips back at me.
Her eyes linger on my swinging hips as I turn away.
I know, lady, this ass has been genetically engineered to suck all the attention from the room.
I have on a clingy beige jersey dress. It sets off my golden tan. One leg has a slit halfway up my thigh, and the sleeves are so long I can curl my fingers around the edge. I look classy as fuck with my thick gold hoop earrings that catch the light of the crystal sconces.
The beep is subtle as I open the door and set my clutch down on the entryway table. If Mr. Graves had been able to see my face from any security cameras, he would have seen my pleasant, warm expression unchanged from the moment I entered the hotel lobby until now. I’m a professional.
“Cyndi, welcome.” His voice is gravelly and charming, and it rasps against my back like an exfoliating rag.
I’d rubbed cocoa butter over my entire body, smoothing it liberally over my soft tits and waxed mound.
I’d pushed a generous amount of CBD lube up my asshole and pussy as I did my fourth round of Kegels for the day.
“Mr. Graves, I’ve missed you,” I purr, stepping deeper into the suite's lounge area. The windows are tinted, dimming the nighttime light pollution. I can see all the way out to the islands across the choppy, black Puget Sound. I step out of my four-inch block platform heels and leave them neat and easily accessible for when it’s time to leave.
Mr. Graves sits in the center of the couch. The glass windows are behind him, making him a dark silhouette.
“Come here, darling,” he says, and because I’ve been visiting him monthly since I first started working for this particular agency, I know exactly what he wants.
Without heels, I’m just over five feet tall. Mr. Graves, not his real name, is a big boy with sturdy thighs and a hard barrel belly. I perch on his knee and curl into him, stroking his chest and nuzzling his neck. He’s got a five o’clock shadow that abrades my skin, but I ignore it.
“This is nice,” I whisper huskily. I roll my hips, my toes digging into the thick carpet. His hard thighs dig into my bottom. “It feels so good sitting on you. You’re so strong.”
He’s mid-fifties. A bit jowly. Iron-colored hair. Not handsome but not ugly. Solid. Dependable, I tell myself. I warm up.
He lays a hand on my hip, his fingers sliding down and into the dress’s slit. I moan throatily.
“Tell me what you want,” he orders firmly. His other hand comes up and strokes my cheek. Thank goodness for stripper-grade water-resistant primer.
“I want you to touch me. Oh, yes. Just like that,” I moan as his thumb inches higher, skimming the silken edge of my thong. “Nobody makes me feel like you do. I was waiting and waiting for you to call.”
He tugs on my braid and rubs his face into my hair. A rumbly groan vibrates from his chest and into me. It is pleasant. I spread my knee wider for him, letting out soft, needy little cries as his fingers play at my panties.
“You smell good. Doesn’t your boyfriend take care of you?”
“No! He doesn’t make me feel all wet inside like you do.
I’m aching for you. But I know you work so hard, and you’re busy, and so many people depend on you.
I’m always so grateful that you make time for me.
I think about you— oh! I think about your hands on me every time he touches me.
But it’s not the same!” I let my voice drag into a needy whine.
His breath is coming heavier. I toy with the buttons of his shirt, teasing my way lower, lower, toward the erection that is straining against my hip. “Please, take it out. Let me see it.”
He grunts and shifts under me, whipping his hands over to free his cock. When it springs out, and he moves back to stroking my pussy, this time going under my panties to slide through my soft flesh, I gasp in delight and grab the waving protuberance.
“Please, oh, please, Mr. Graves, can I suck it? It’s so big and perfect, oh, and so hard—” I moan, sighing when he glides a finger inside me.
His touch is slow, so slow. Too slow. As if I’m a delicate bird and he doesn’t want to hurt me.
His finger slides in and out, his knuckle barely brushing my clitoris.
My instincts are to grind down against his palm and force him to finger me harder, deeper.
But I swallow that urge and whimper with feigned pleasure as I jerk off his average-sized cock.
“I want to feel your wet pussy on my dick,” he mutters, pulling up on my dress and nuzzling down against my titties.
“Let me help you,” I say, moving carefully away from his probing fingers and bobbing cock.
I stand and pull my dress over my head, dropping it onto the floor in a puddle.
His eyes are on my well-moisturized tits, so I make sure to shake them a bit as I thumb down my panties and drop them.
All my movements are lazier than natural and languid.
I turn, feet shoulder-width apart, and bend at the waist so he can see the glimmer of my lubed holes.
Tiny bleached pink asshole above the greased-up swollen folds of my cunt.
Not a hair in sight. I jiggle my cheeks and look back at him.
“Any hole you want. But I really, really want to taste you first. Please?” I draw out the last word in a horny question, blinking my long lashes at him and pouting.
“Fuck me, you’re fucking perfect. Blow me, baby, hurry,” he groans, leaning back and spreading his knees wide.
I giggle and smile broadly, as if happy to get my way.
Then I spin and drop down before him. The itch of the carpet pile is easy to ignore.
So is any uncomfortable stretch at the corners of my mouth.
I swallow him down. I moan loudly and slurp, drooling as if I’m a cartoon character and a steaming steak were just set before me.
I glug and suck; I pinch my lips around his head and twist. I use full shoulder motions to jack him off and roll his balls in my palm.
I fake it so hard my pussy starts to tingle and believe this is real.
“Goddamn, fuck, slow down, whoa, whoa!”
“Sorry,” I rasp, blinking up at him and rubbing his cockhead against my cheek. “You taste so good. I swear, I could cum from sucking it!”
“I’m about to blow. I need to fuck you. Bend over the arm.” He slaps my ass when I stand, and I put a bounce in my step as he shucks off his clothes. I’m spread wide as he stands behind me, naked, a condom in his hand.
“Come on, I need you!” I reach back to spread my cheeks.
He’s still, then he asks, his suddenly serious voice bringing too much reality to the situation, “How much to fuck your cunt bare? To cum inside you?”
My back tenses, but just for a fraction of a second. I know how to de-escalate. I learned that skill all too young.
I giggle. He doesn’t need to know how religiously I take the pill.
I don’t break character as I swivel to look at him, still writhing.
“Mr. Graves! All your cum, inside my tight pussy? You’re too virile.
Too masculine. Your seed would take root after just one time, I bet.
You’d get me pregnant with just one cheeky little sperm.
” I drop my gaze carefully to the gold ring on his finger.
How many kids does he have with his wife?
Are they my age? “I couldn’t do that to you! ”
He grunts grumpily, but a moment later he’s ripping the condom wrapper open and shoving his covered cock inside me with a firm lunge.
He holds still, his hands too gentle on my hips.
He glides softly in and out, letting my tight walls massage him.
I squeeze my eyes, fighting the urge to push back, rock hard on him: anything but this easy glide.
“Be quiet, Gracie baby, don’t let your mom hear. She’ll be so jealous of you. Smile.”
I bite at the inside of my cheeks, forcing small moans out to hurry Mr. Graves up. I had hoped I might orgasm. It happens sometimes. Definitely not every time, but occasionally. Never when that disgusting voice shows up in my traitorous brain.
It’s been months since this happened last. I was so sure I had pushed those memories down, stomped them into compact piles of trash, and locked them up deep down the tunnels of my brain.
I clench my jaw and open my eyes wide, drying up any moisture that tries to spill over.
The contact lens I use on my left eye slides askew, and I blink rapidly to get it back in place.
I have never cried for past me. I pretend that little Gracyn never existed. It’s the only way to get through each day.
Mr. Graves has been pumping at me the whole time. I clench down when I feel his cock swell.
“Oh! I’m coming! I’m coming!” I wail out, arching my back and whimpering. I make sure to Kegel his spasming cock and twitch my ass as if I’m caught up in the throes of orgasm.
Two hours later, I toe my platform shoes on and grab my clutch. Mr. Graves is snoring loudly in the center of the hotel bed. I close the door quietly behind me and check my bank balance on my phone once I’m in the hall.
$10,000 has been deposited in my account through a third-party vendor.
“Happy twenty-fifth birthday to me,” I whisper, making a mental note to buy a cupcake at the market in the morning.