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It's his touch that has me easing myself into a little ball of warmth and light as he floods my pussy yet again.
He's quiet for a long time, and then he removes the binds from my wrists. I whimper as he pulls the gag away and I attempt to tuck my hands under my face. It hurts too much, and there's nothing I can do but lay my cheek down in the puddle of drool and cum.
I hear him walk away. I'm so disoriented I don't know where he's heading, I just know I need to get the last word in.
"I'm not a whore."
Four
I can't believethere's anything but dust left in my balls after this day, but when I come, it feels like I've just shot my entire spleen out of my prick and into the whore.
Baylee. I know her name now. I learned it from one of the other girls and then had to question my sanity when I saw it written on the sign on her door.
Taylor dated a guy named Jakxson last year. Sophie's friends with a Natyleigh. Not only is the whore named after a shit Irish cordial, she's got one of those 21st century American butchered names. I cannot escape her age.
Or her cunt. I feel desiccated when I finally pull out of her, but damn if my prick isn't acting like it's got another round left in it.
It doesn't. I'm thirty-eight years old. I'm worried my testicles are going to attempt to hide behind my prostate for the rest of the weekend.
Warm, lumpy slime dribbles out of Baylee's pussy and onto my foot, reminding me that she needs me. Yes, I came here to punish her for being a brat, but she still needs to be taken care of. I ease the silk tie off her wrists and remove the ball gag. I even feel a pang of guilt when she whimpers quietly. I know she was crying the whole time I plowed her, just like I know she came just as hard as I did. So I'm going to take care of her.
I feel my way toward the bathroom. Part of the rules for this weekend is the girls never see our faces, never learn our identities. It's not something I care about – Luke and I run a freight brokerage and have a bunch of extremely profitable but unexciting holdings, we're not exactly celebrities – but I respect the rules. There's nothing to guide me to the bathroom except my memory of the floorplan, and I stub my toe on the bedframe as Baylee says, "I'm not a whore."
I muffle my curses aimed at both her and the bed. Fucking brat. I want to throw myself onto the bed to make her lick my flaccid dick clean while I paddle her for the rest of her natural life, but I don't.
I'm an adult. One who's raised three kids to legal adulthood. And no matter how bratty they get – and they do, despite Luke's claims otherwise – they still have to be taken care of. I still tucked them in when they were throwing tantrums about bedtime. I still paid for their movie tickets when they pitched fits over curfews, I rarely saidtold you sowhen they suffered the consequences for their actions that I fully warned them about.
Unless the consequences were hilarious, of course.
I close the bathroom door behind me and turn the lights on to the dimmest setting so I don't blind myself. I clean myself up quickly, avoiding the mirror as much as I can when I catch a glimpse of the bags under my eyes and the sickly color of my skin. I'm in as good of shape as ever, and what gray I've had come in has done it in a flattering way. Taylor's friends greet me as DILF because they think I'm too old to get the joke. I don't think I was even in the states yet when MILF became a thing. I know I look good.
But right now, I look decrepit.
In the linen closet, there's a change of sheets and a basket filled with lotions, oils, and soothing gels, just like they told us there would be. We were told we could ring for service and bathe together while housekeeping changed linens if we preferred that, but I think I just need to swap out duvets, and there's a little pail for warm water and soap so I don't have to carry her in here.
This feels better now, I decide. It's been a weird day, even beyond the weirdness I knew I was getting into. I hadn't considered what it would be like to have five women chosen for me without my input. I never would have looked twice at a girl like Baylee, not when she’s barely more than a child, but I'll enjoy taking care of her now.
I tell myself that, and I truly believe it. I expect her to be dozing when I return. When she undoubtedly wakes when I touch the sensitive parts, I'm confident some soothing sounds from me will put her back out.
I turn the lights off, make my way to the bed even more carefully because now my hands are full, and set everything down on the nightstand. I dip a washcloth in the warm water, squeeze it as much as possible, and, ever the gentleman, brush it gently over Baylee's shoulders.
"Damn, dude, can you just call it a night already?"
I snap that wet towel right across her burning ass and bark out, "I don't give a fuck who you are or where you come from. The world doesn't give a fuck about that either. I get your life probably hasn't been that great for you to have ended up here when you should clearly be in school. And hard truth? It doesn't fucking matter. No matter how bad your situation is, the world is filled with people who have it worse than you. You're making more in exchange for a weekend of letting a bunch of men with too much money bareback you than most people in this country make in a year. So the world owes you exactly nothing.”
“Because it’s already given you everything,” she fights right back because she’s too defensive or immature or arrogant or stubborn, likely all of it. I’m sure she’s that brand of youthful petulant cynicism that mistakes improbable with impossible and just assumes that everyone who has money comes from money.
I inherited a struggling business, and I get that Baylee probably won’t even have that. But at around her age, I was getting disowned by my dad, who took my engagement to a woman five years older than me and pregnant with her third child — another man’s child — to be just another in a long string of acts of defiance. Without his help, I was forced to drop out of college before my last year to support a family of five on thirty thousand a year. Lindsay worked when she could once we were able to find care for Sophie, but what the doctors mostly wrote off as fatigue from too many kids too young turned out to be leukemia.
Her headstone hadn’t even been installed yet when I buried my father. Car accident. I’m fairly sure he expected us to reconcile because he’d never rewritten his will, and that damn logistics firm of his was a goddamn albatross around my neck until Luke’s big idea to merge our companies.
“Yes, I suppose the world did give me everything,” I tell her, not because I want her to think I was born on a mound of generational wealth but because it doesn’t matter. Despite losing both my parents and my wife by twenty-five, I did that bootstraps thing Americans love to talk about, and I’ve had an incredibly good life. “I owe you none of that except the fifty grand for this and the mil to buy the baby off you if I knock you up. I certainly don't owe you the stubbed toe I got on the way to the bathroom to get what I need to clean you up out here. So you can either calm your shit while I clean about seventeen layers of jizz from your cunt and rub some soothing cream on your ass, or you can stand for the next week until the bruising goes down. I honestly have no shits left to give at this point."
She breathes in, and it's a ragged sound, but I absolutely do not care if I just hurt her feelings. Nothing I said was out of line. After a very long moment, she whispers, oh so prettily, "Can you . . . can you just not call me a whore, please?"
The magic word. Sometimes it really is. Oh, I'm not going to stop calling her a whore, but I'll at least give her an explanation as I begin working the washcloth down her body.
"I don't mean it as an insult, Baylee. If you weren't such a brat, you'd be a valuable asset to me."
