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Sapphire followed me into a room that smelt like a department store perfume counter.
Stroking the hanging lace and silky items, she looked amazed. “There’s not much fabric, is there?”
“That’s the idea.” I selected a baby-blue corset and a lacy thong and held it against her. “This should fit.”
Biting her lip again, she took the corset from my hand. “It’s kind of tiny, isn’t it?”
“What size feet?”
“I’m a six.”
I found a pair of spiky heels, and from a drawer, I selected white fishnet stockings. “These will work.” I handed them to her.
She fumbled about then froze.
“Why are you doing this?” I asked.
Biting her lip again, she played with her fingers. “I need the money.”
“That’s why everyone comes here, but is there a reason you need the money?”
“For my dad.”
“Is he sick or something?”
“Kinda. He lost his job, and we’re about to be kicked out of our flat.” Her eyes glistened with the makings of tears.
Yep, life sucked.
“So, how do you know about this place?”
“A few girls from college knew of someone who did it. She got like half a million pounds for a week with a guy. He took her to Mallorca. She got a whole new wardrobe, too. I think she might have even married him.” She smiled as though she were talking about what happened when someone completed a college degree and not them having sex with someone old enough to be their grandfather.
“There aren’t too many marriages from this. That’s a rare experience here.” I refused to gloss over the reality of what took place after the girls landed themselves a buyer.
At first, I had. Rey made me fill the girls with hype about how their lives would change for the better. I’d become more direct and even brutally honest. I’d taken a few too many calls from girls following their experience at My Cherry.
Some were even in therapy. That left a shit taste in my mouth. One had to be tough to do this kind of thing, and Sapphire was way too fragile for my liking.
“How much do you think I could make?” she asked.
Sapphire was skinny and didn’t boast the curves some guys preferred, but then, they had all kinds of tastes. Some preferred flat chests. Those were borderline pedos, like Peyton, who got rid of me when my tits grew too large. That was why I’d become a stickler for proof of age. I would not stand by and let underage girls slip in on my watch.
There were also those vanloads of girls. Some that couldn’t speak English. I no longer saw those and even wondered if they were still happening on my nights off. I supposed I’d asked too many questions about the girls that looked underage.
“Bidding normally starts at around ten thousand pounds.”
She knitted her fingers. “That would help, I guess.”
“Have you kissed a boy or had one touch you?”
I had a sudden urge to protect her. My mother had recently accused me of becoming soft after I’d given a beggar money. She’d lectured me on how he only had himself to blame. I had tried telling her that maybe, through no fault of his own, he’d lost his way. She grumbled something about me becoming weak, and that people would take advantage of me.
Maybe she had a point, because suddenly, I wanted to write a cheque and hand it over to Sapphire so she could live a normal life and help her dad.
“I’ve had a few boys kiss me. But…” She shrugged. “I’m not that interested in sex.” She looked ashamed, as though it were only natural that girls were horny and ready to fuck whoever, whenever.
Until Drake, I hadn’t really felt like fucking anyone.
