“Oh,” she breathes out so quietly it’s almost an escaping thought. Her face remains impassive. Is she impressed or disgusted by the blatant display of wealth disguised as a complex palette? She looks down into the glass of ruby liquid with a newfound appreciation, or flagrant disdain; I can’t read her yet, but soon I’ll be able to tell her every mood by her expressions and subtle mannerisms. Sensing she may beuncomfortable, I drag the conversation back to something important to both of us. Her.
“Trys mentioned you had questions about the contract, and details not covered in the interview. Why don’t you lead with anything that’s on your mind, Bri?”
She returns the glass to the damask linen, her tongue swiping at a tiny drop still lingering on her lip. It’s more than seductive; it’s intoxicating. And I’ll bet she doesn’t even know.
“Why does the contract repeatedly refer to the ‘receiving party’? Why not use the term applicant, or candidate, or employee?”
This has been raised in a roundabout way before. I’ve never bothered to explain the reasoning behind the wording in the contract. If potential receiving parties are so eager to understand the term, they can seek and pay for their own legal representation to explain the nuances of the contract. Sabrina, though, seems to share a genuine interest. The term offends her. Interesting. “Receiving party is commonly used in contracts and should highlight the clear process between the two entities. The term applicant I find derisive. Supermarkets have applicants for cashier positions. And candidate?” I continue, my fingers reflexively adjusting the starched linen napkin draped over my groin, “is a political term. Employee is inaccurate because no one is under my employ… yet. Receiving party, it is.” My words seem to satisfy her curiosity; she nods, her soft waves moving around her biceps as she moves.
“I thought it meantreceiving you,” she adds, a little embarrassed. Her bottom lip disappears between her teeth once more and fuck me, she’s right. The successful applicant, candidate, whatever fucking label gets slapped onto the position, they will receive me. Hard, and often. “That’s the beauty of perspective, Ms. Broe. It can be a different take on something from different viewing angles.”
“Right.” She nods again, her onyx waves swaying like a shimmery curtain. “The salary breakdown was something I was after clarity on too, if you don’t mind. I asked Trystan earlier, and he said you would be more than happy to explain it to me now.”
Oh, I bet he did. Crafty fucker. No one explains the tawdry nature of a Mercer better than a Mercer themselves. “The contract is for one year, as you know. The remuneration is one million dollars. Broken down to $2500 per day for 360 days of the year. Five days of the year attract a higher rate of $20,000. Those days are Thanksgiving, Christmas Day, New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day, and my birthday, which is February 29th. Yes, I was born on a leap year. If the specific calendar year has no extra day, then the 28th would be the required day. On those…” I say, hesitating as I scour my brain for the right word. I don't want to scare her off, but it needs to convey the gravity of what she’s about to step into. “On those difficult days, your presence isn’t an option; it’s required and non-negotiable. I am more than aware that these are days meant to be spent celebrating with family, so if for whatever reason you can’t commit to spending them with me, then this meeting can cease right now.”
“I can spend all 365 days with you; it’s not a problem.”
“I don’t need every single day, Sabrina. I expect a typical working week less your time at grooming appointments and five specialized days. Should you get to the end of the contract, you will have one million dollars in your account. Payment is made in monthly increments and begins after a stipulated grace period.”
“That is more than fine,” she adds, just as the servers enter with our entrees. Duck confit for her, scampi and sea urchin for me. “This all looks delicious,” she says, wide-eyed and appreciative. I can’t recall the last time I saw a look of genuineappreciation on anyone. Respect, fear, apathy, sure. Appreciation?
“Let’s discuss your sexual history and proclivities,” I mention as if we’re talking about the data reach of a blog post.
“Sure. What would you like to know?” she replies.
Everything, for starters. “Your information stated four sexual partners. Forgive me if I sound flippant, but for a woman as beautiful and intelligent as you, it strikes me as odd. Can you elaborate?”
She finishes her bite of duck and blots her lips with the napkin. “Four sexual partners is accurate. If you’re talking penetrative vaginal sex. I had a couple of encounters in college, and a somewhat steady boyfriend afterwards. My last sexual partner was months ago. I ended that relationship as soon as I discovered it was based on a lie. Did you want me to go into further detail?”
My head shakes while I chew my food, the flavor of the scampi bold and rich on my tongue. “I just want to ensure you are experienced, that nothing we may do might shock you or be confronting. That’s all, no need to worry.” My smile should assuage any concern she may have regarding my request for clarity. Four partners for a gorgeous twenty-four-year-old could be accurate, I guess. I’d had four partners before I’d even graduated from high school. I’m a numbers man for business only. If anyone asked me to guess the number of sexual conquests, it would be in the generous hundreds. “I trust you have the skills necessary to keep me satisfied, regardless of your limited experience.” It’s forward and brazen, suggestive. It will also prompt a reaction in her that will speak to my doubts like a Vegas neon sign.
“I know my way around a cock, Mr. Mercer. Yours is no different from the other four, let me assure you. It might be attached to someone whose net worth is of stratosphericproportions, but last time I checked, poor guys come just like rich ones do.”
My gaze is unwavering, as is hers. Time will tell if she measures up to the exacting standards I require for repeated satiation. That will be the interval between the clearing of the entrée plates and the serving of the main course. Yes, she will be the out of sequence dessert on the end of my straining dick.
“Are you attracted to me, Mr. Mercer?”
Christ, woman, don’t blur this like one of your charcoal drawings. The contract is explicit in its clarity. “Whether or not I am attracted to you is irrelevant. This is a contract. A business contract. Don’t confuse that with any hint of romance or relationship. This is sex, yes, but in mechanics only. Donotfall in love. That will only add an extra layer of complication we can do without.”
Her blinks increase in synchronicity with her amped-up pulse, perhaps?
“One further question, if I may.”
The tone and the iteration in which she has her last words hanging in the air between us indicate she doesn’t give a single fuck if I mind or not. Well now, has Ms. Broe got a feisty side? “Of course,” I smile back, intrigued.
“The area around the vagina and anus must be kept in a hair free state, and the repetitive statements in the contract deferring to your satisfaction at the expense of the receiving party,” she says, the words like the bitter tang of acid, “make me wonder whether you can satisfy a woman. Is that why you have to pay for sex?”
All the air whooshes out of me like chimney bellows. How much wine has she had? “To answer in order, Sabrina. I request a hair-free area because it keeps expectations clear and direct. My thin strip of hair can differ greatly from someone else’s, and the last thing I want to deal with when eating pussy is tocompete with a beard fuller than my own.” My hand swept over my jaw, past the trimmed stubble I favor to hide a jawline I’m not one hundred percent happy with.
“It seems we are circling back to perception again.”
Facial hair is permitted as long as it’s kept trim and neat, although a Mercer could potentially get away with a scraggly Crusoe-esque beard. Who would object? Michael Mercer? Patriarch Magnus? Sabrina stares back at me with irises like icicles, the stem of her wine glass clasped between finger and thumb as she rotates it just so. “And the satisfaction of the receiving party is superfluous to my own. I’m the one paying for services rendered, after all.”
Her chin lifts, and she peers at me down the length of her elegant nose. Not repulsed, but intrigued. That makes two of us.
“I’ll be assessing your oral skills the moment the plates are cleared away.”
“Here?” she asks, her tone rising. One manicured brow arching toward her hairline.
