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But this was a totally different experience. Other than Gilbert shuffling about in the small on-board galley, there was no one but me. Silence thick and comforting filled the small cabin, the soothing hum of the engine white noise in the background. And slowly, my eyelids began to drop. The last forty-eight hours of my life had been a mind-boggling whirl, including the decision to sell my body, the interview with Maria, all topped off with a tearful goodbye with Nana and Mattie. What was my little brother up to now? I was doing this for him more than anyone else, and I missed his giggles, his little boy laugh already.
So with a tired sigh, my head lolled on the seat and I dropped off, exhausted. What waited for me on the other side? I hardly knew … but for now, rest was most important.
CHAPTER THREE
Kane
Life is fucking boring. I was killing time before tonight’s auction and had decided to visit the Club’s bowling alley. But this was no regular bowling alley because as usual, it was staffed by fine looking women, blondes, brunettes and redheads. And per club custom, each of the ladies wore nothing but a big smile and a small thong, tottering about in high heels as they served drinks.
“More sir?” purred a blonde, leaning forwards while balancing a silver tray in her hand. Her jugs were good, yes, but not great. I like mine big, and this girl was no more than a C cup, although her tits were firm and round. But the blonde sure knew how to work it because as she leaned over, those huge sacks of cream rested on the silver tray, offered up like delicacies, tempting and beckoning.
But it wasn’t enough. I like my girls curvy, and this blonde wasn’t quite there.
“Naw, I’m good,” I grunted. “You?” I tossed out to my companion.
Robert shook his head as well.
“Nah,” he drawled. “Don’t wanna be hammered before the main event tonight, hear there’s gonna be a good one.”
I shrugged, only half-listening. There’s always rumors of an especially good one, and of course, all of the goods are always grade A at the Billionaires Club. We pay top dollar for scouts to scour the United States, to make sure that the most beautiful, succulent girls go up for auction on our stage. The scouts do a shit ton of pre-screening, physical, mental, emotional, legal, you name it. It’s like working for the FBI. Everyone’s got to jump through a billion hoops to get access here, and that includes the help.
But I was skeptical of these rumors of a “good one” because just last year, one of my brothers had been sorely disappointed. He’d punched through a girl’s hymen only to realize that a doctor had inserted a piece of plastic in its place. Literally when he pulled his dick out, there were bits of rubber clinging to the pole, except the doctor hadn’t bothered to pick pink or red, or something that might realistically resemble a hymen. That fucking doc had picked fluorescent green, like it was some sick clown joke.
And of course Les had gone ballistic. The girl who’d supposedly been a virgin was immediately escorted off premises, and the scout who found her fired summarily. But that wasn’t the end, hell no. The Club moves in subtle ways, and vengeance is best when you have no idea it’s coming.
Because that scout’s career was ruined. He never sourced another girl, in fact he was black-balled by all the casinos on the strip, couldn’t even get a job as a croupier if he wanted. So last I heard, the dude was living in Mexico somewhere, trying to sell plastic souvenirs to tourists, jangling keychains and other such shit.
But hey, that’s just life. Fuck with the Club and your life will be fucked. I had no sympathy for the loser, he rolled the dice and lost … as expected. After all, we’re a group of billionaires with unlimited resources, what’s one little guy in our way? It was almost like he wanted to be crushed, was begging for it, dying to be stamped into the concrete.
But all that’s over and tonight’s a new auction. I was going, for sure. It’s been a long time since I had a woman, and I was ready for some fresh pussy. It’s not that I can get it, oh no. Women fall flat on their face when Kane Caldwell’s around, practically pushing each other to get to me. I could be at Starbucks, at the gym, or just walking down the street, and women are practically catfighting, scrambling for access.
But lately, something’s been missing. Maybe it’s the fact that the ladies lately have been stick thin, with arms and legs like rubbery chickens. It’s gross the way females today do it. They eat nothing, trying to survive on sunlight and air, and as a result they look like scarecrows. Boobs shrivel, becoming droopy sacks, and their appendages are stringy and insect-like. And oh shit, those asses and pussies? I don’t mean to go ballistic, but I’m an ass man, I like big butts and I cannot lie. And lately there’s literally nothing there. What the hell? What happened to butt-injections and ass lifts? I thought this shit was the next thing with Kim Kardashian and all, but evidently on the Upper East Side, a certain set of overly-tanned blondes still think small is good.
