The Sadist's Series Season One (Love and Sex for Money) Read online

  The Sadist's Series Season One

  Love and Sex for Money

  Michael Meadows

  This book has been published by the Midnight Climax group.

  Dalia Daudelin | Michael Meadows

  Viivi James | Harley Harper

  Victoria Ward | Asia Marquis

  Midnight Climax Bundles

  Don't miss the SNEAK PREVIEWS for more romance and erotica at the end of this book!

  The Sadist's Proposition

  I didn't think it would be this hard. Part of my mind was thinking that maybe I should just go back and accept that staying with Travis is the best thing I can do for myself. it would hurt my pride, but at least I could have something to eat. I've had a single hot dog in the last two days.

  When I'd caught him with another woman, it had been the last straw. The last of many straws. When I had left, I thought it would be easy to find someplace to stay. I spent two hours at the mall, thinking. Thinking that it would be easier than this. But it had been too long that I'd put up with his bad behavior. Too many things that should've been bigger warning signs. I guess I felt like I deserved the way he was treating me.

  But I didn't deserve it. And that was why, no matter how much I wanted to, I wouldn't go back.

  The hunger must have been getting to me. Between the gnawing, insistent hunger and the headache that wouldn't go away, I didn't even notice him walk up. I had a tin can set beside me, and sometimes people put change into it. That was how I'd gotten the hot dog. The sound of clinking change would make me look up, and I'd mutter a 'thank you.'

  I didn't notice at first, because there wasn't a sound. Just, as slow as molasses, I realized blankly that there was a man who hadn't moved in a while standing just off to the side of me. I looked up at him with eyes so bleary that they still feature in my bad dreams.

  "Yes?"

  He looked almost bored by me, but he was looking straight at my face. As if he'd been staring.

  "Would you like something to eat?"

  I didn't trust him, not at first. I heard too many stories of girls on the street, getting picked up by some wanna-be Jack the Ripper, or thinking that a sandwich would get a girl into bed. I may have been desperate, but I still had standards. But I wanted him to be a good guy. I suppose, in a way, that's what I always hoped about men.

  I know I'd hoped that Travis would turn things around. I'd stayed for so long, and he never did. And yet, here was a man I'd never met, and I hoped beyond all hope again.

  I mumbled a 'yes,' so soft you almost wouldn't hear it. My eyes watered up and I started crying right there.

  The dam of feelings, about Travis, about my ruined clothes, about my hunger, broke. I wanted to seem strong, independent, as if I were untouchable somehow even under the grime and dirt. But the relief of having someone, even a stranger, offer to fix it was just too much.

  He took me by the shoulder and guided me to a car. It was expensive, even I could see. I wondered if he would expect a homeless girl to know, but I didn't say anything about it. I'd spent the last nineteen years of my life surrounded by people like this man.

  That's why it surprised me how starstruck I felt. He offered me a bottle of water that was sitting in the fridge he'd had installed. I had seen it in party limos before, but never a car like this one. That was when my resolve broke. I accepted it and drank it down thirstily, almost ravenous. I wanted anything I could get my hands on. I would have drank from a hose if I found one, and I would've done it shamelessly.

  I could feel the smile on his face. I didn't look at his face directly; I'd have gotten too embarrassed. That was when he started talking. I wasn't sure why he'd been doing this, and his talk only made things more confusing. In the back of my mind, I'd expected him to unzip his trousers at some point, or leer at me, or something. Maybe he'd tell me about the charity he worked for, or owned, or contributed to. The sinner or the saint, I figured. It had to be something like that.

  But instead he told me about his business. He talked about a deal he had been making, about a business partner that he didn't like. No names, never any names. He was talking to me like I was his therapist. I just sat there, my head ducked down and taking heavy swigs of water from a plastic bottle. I made nodding motions to show I was listening.

  I didn't know where we were going. I'd been in the area before, but the route was serpentine, as if the driver had been told to give us some time. I wondered if this was something that happened often and I just hadn't heard about it. Rich people picking folks up off the street and talking to them as some sort of free therapy. Daddy had never done it, I thought, not that I would have known if he had.

  My mysterious benefactor reached over and put his finger gently under my chin. I was surprised to realize that he hadn't spoken for a minute or more. I let him lift my face until our eyes met.

  "And you? What's your story?"

  I thought for a long time about how much to tell. Maybe tell the truth, but somehow I felt like that would be dangerous. I thought about lying, too. I'd decided to gloss over it, and I tried to put the words together in my head. It had been so long since I'd really spoken at all. Weeks, maybe months. Most of the time, I only needed one-word answers to questions that people didn't care about at all.

  "My boyfriend, I... he was cheating, and... I was dating this guy, and he..."

  The sentences all sounded wrong, and all the fear and anxiety that had been building up hit again like a wave. I sobbed, looking at the holes in my jeans.

  The man gently pulled my head into his chest. I could feel the powerful muscle that crisscrossed his chest against my matted hair and I cried against him. I don't know how long I cried, but when I finally dried my eyes, ready to move on again, we had stopped in the parking lot underneath a hotel.

  My suspicions were raised immediately, but I was sent in with the driver. I followed behind him, as he walked through a maze of underground halls to an elevator. I stepped inside after him. The fellow was small -- shorter than me, slight, and a bit effeminate. Though he was at least a year or two older than me, he looked for all the world like a boy.

  "You'll be getting a shower, then, and we'll do something about your hair and clothes."

  The way he said it was... unexpected, to say the least. As if I didn't have a say in the matter, almost. And yet, at the same time, it was with the same easy confidence that it was what I would want that I'd heard so many times before, from Travis, from my father, that I didn't know whether to be nostalgic or angry.

  The elevator continued up, and up. It was an express, I could tell. But then it opened to an expansive room, itself splitting off in several directions: the penthouse, I realized.

  The driver took me to the bathroom and told me, plainly, to take off my clothing. The way he said it left little room for argument or hesitation -- I peeled my grimy clothes away from my body and held them in my arms.

  "You can just drop them, I'll have someone come by to collect them when we're finished here."

  I could feel my eyes widening. I wasn't going to just stand there, completely uncovered, in front of some man whose name I didn't even know! Indeed, working for a man whose name I didn't even know! And then he blinked in annoyance and I found myself moving mechanically again to obey.

  He produced a tape measure and wrapped it around my body in a dozen ways, each one more invasive than the last. Then he sat me down on the toilet and inspected my hair.

  Out of a drawer came a pair of hair trimming shears. It all seemed awfully contrived, I suppose, that they'd have so much of this set up. But I decided to play along and see where everything would go
. He cut around my hair, chopping away at years of growth and leaving a horrible mess of different lengths. I almost wished I couldn't have seen myself.

  Then he stepped back again and took a long look at me, judging and weighing his choices before stepping back in and trimming here and there. I couldn't see myself, since his body was between my eyes and the mirror, until at long last he stepped away and looked again, with that same measuring expression.

  I looked like a lesbian, frankly! Or one of those punk-rock girls who were so popular back when I was in high school.

  "Here," he finally said, handing me a towel and gesturing toward the enormous shower. "Get cleaned up. Some clothes will be brought in for you. I'll be waiting in the foyer to take you back down to Mr. Stone."

  And then I was alone. Alone with my new hair, old clothes, and a tub larger than most cars. I turned the water on, letting it run hot. When I stepped in, I could feel it scalding me, searing out the pain and fear. Shampooing was a dream -- it had been so long since I had run my fingers through my hair. I couldn't imagine enjoying my hair short, and yet now it seemed almost preternaturally pleasant.

  I came out feeling fresh, newer than I had in more than a year. A dress was on the counter top. It did not escape my notice that my clothing was nowhere to be found.

  The dress was black and a hair longer than short. It fit easily and comfortably, without constricting or confining, yet clinging in all the right places. How they had found one like it in twenty minutes was a mystery I would never be able to solve.

  The small, boyish driver rose to his feet when I entered the main room.

  "Very good," he said, with the voice of a man admiring his work.

  I followed behind him as he entered the express elevator once more. He reached into a bag and produced a pair of shoes, with tall spike heels.

  "I took a guess at the size, but it should be fine."

  I slipped them on, wobbling for a moment before remembering the feeling of walking on heels. The driver gave me a questioning look, then nodded.

  When we returned to the car, we found my employer -- 'Mr Stone,' the driver had called him -- tapping away at his phone. When he heard my shoes on the concrete floors, he looked up. His eyes widened just slightly, seeing my transformation from ragamuffin back to my old self. It surprised me to recall that once I had taken such pride in my appearance, after so long. But he guarded his surprise well.

  "I imagine you'll have worked up quite an appetite, young lady."

  "Very much, thank you." It was odd to hear my voice coming out, sounding almost steady. I wondered if it was the clothing, or the cleanness, or the fantasy of the entire situation, or some bizarre combination of the three.

  He smiled at me, almost seeming proud of the transformation himself. He opened the door as the small man walked around to the other side of the vehicle. I slid across the bench seat, and my mysterious benefactor slid in behind me.

  "I'm sorry, where are my manners? All this time, and we haven't been properly introduced." He rubbed his hand on his jacket, as if to remove some sort of invisible grime. "I'm Jake Stone. And you are... ?"

  "Jen. Jennifer. Smith." I took his hand gingerly and he placed his lips against my hand.

  "A pleasure."

  The car purred gently to life and we started to drive the circuitous streets once more. Along with the changes outside, I found myself feeling different inside. I considered the man before me. His hair was blond, but slight greying around the temples showed his age in a way that his face did not. He had an easy manner to him; the way his hands moved when he talked spoke of a sort of animated indolence, as if he thought it was very important to have some movement, but the bare minimum was sufficient.

  As I thought back to his talk earlier, I realized that this extended to every aspect of his person -- he said only what needed saying to convey his complete idea, and nothing more.

  I flashed a smile at him, then suddenly realized the state my teeth must be in. He laughed, a deep throaty sound that was difficult to describe.

  "Well, Jen-Jennifer Smith. We're almost there. Are you ready?"

  I nodded, feeling very conscious of my lips that pursed just slightly after realizing the sorry state of my mouth.

  "Very good."

  We pulled up. Borgia. I almost couldn't believe it. The place had only just opened when I had left, but it had been the talk of the town. The rumors had been that it had a two, three year waiting list. He saw the look in my eyes. Even after all my effort to keep a poker face before, I couldn't hide my surprise.

  Mr. Stone laughed again, through sealed lips.

  "So this is the gesture it takes to get a rise out of you? I'll have to remember that."

  He guided me through the door. There were people waiting, a crowd as thick as you could imagine, and I distinctly heard the waiter say 'I can't promise anything, but we've got at least a two hour wait for lunch if one of our reservations doesn't show up.'

  Which is why I was more than a little bit surprised when we walked right up to the counter, and the Maître d' looked up and smiled. "Mr Stone! If you'd called, I'm sure we could have arranged something to be ready for you. I'm sure we can fit you in somewhere, if you give us a moment."

  And true to his word, he returned a moment later, a beaming grin on his face that he tried unsuccessfully to hide as the satisfaction of any job well done. "If you'll just follow me this way, sir and madam?"

  I followed last, as he guided us to a table that bore no signs of having been pushed there only a moment before. He picked up the menus from the table and set one down in front of each of us.

  I opened mine hesitantly. I saw no prices marked for anything, but I guessed from the descriptions and the decor that nothing in the place was less than fifty dollars a plate. I looked at my host with wide eyes.

  "I don't think I can--"

  Mr. Stone reached across the table and placed one thick, lightly-calloused hand on mine. "Don't worry about it, Jen. Just order what you'd like."

  I did. Twenty minutes later, a steak thicker than my wrist was set down in front of me. I was cutting off a bit, listening to Jake Stone talk about his ex-wife and his daughter who I almost reminded him of, when I saw him.

  Travis, I was certain. The months had been kinder to him than to me, but there was no mistaking it. Mr. Stone must have caught my expression, because he turned and followed my eyes.

  "So. That's him, then," he said. It wasn't a question, but I nodded. I kept my eyes down and tried to finish cutting the bite, but my hands were shaking. I didn't see my date raise his hand and signal a waiter over.

  "Could you call Ken over for me?" There was a beat, barely a pause, and then he spoke a little bit louder, a laugh caught in his throat. "Oh, it's nothing for you to be worried about, don't look like that!"

  "Ah, yes sir."

  I followed him with my eyes, watched him walking across the restaurant to a man in what looked like Armani, who perked immediately up when the waiter spoke to him. He strode over in a way that avoided looking hurried while making Olympic runners look slow.

  "Mr. Stone! We're so glad you could make it! Thom tells me you wanted to see me, what can we do for you?"

  "Ken, I see you're doing a great job keeping the place running; there's just one issue." He pointed with a bent finger. "The long-haired fellow, there. Are we letting that sort in nowadays?"

  "Is there a problem, sir?"

  "I don't know, is there?" I was amazed Ken hadn't reached to loosen his tie, he looked so hot under the collar.

  "Ah, no sir. I'll have it taken care of."

  I watched Ken gather up a pair of burly men in t-shirts out of the kitchen and walk towards the foyer. I could hear Travis's voice, just barely, through the murmor across the room. His voice held the tone of confused indignation he'd practiced for so long. I was afraid that somehow, he'd know it was me, but without ever looking in my way he gave the three of them a horrified, indignant look, and then he turned on his heel. The short young
thing with the fake tits that he'd been sleeping with in our bed followed him out, hurrying not to be left behind.

  I realized that I could still see myself there, even after everything that had happened. If he asked me back, I knew, he only had to sound sincere and I would come back. And yet I felt relieved that he was gone now. Between the satisfaction and relief, and my ravenous hunger, I had never had such a meal before.

  I was guided back to the waiting car, which purred to life as we walked over to it. When we sat, Mr. Stone set his eyes on me once more, this time with a serious shade to them.

  "Jen, I take it you don't have any place to stay, is that right?"

  "No, sir."

  "I can offer you a small place in the hotel, free of charge, if you'd like."

  "If... ?"

  "I want to be clear, here, Jennifer. You won't have to pay for the room, but neither will I be uncompensated. Of course, you're in no state to go back out there in these clothes, if you refused. I'd be willing to see you off with whatever clothing you'd like, if you don't find my offer worth your time." He adjusted his posture, and then shifted back to the way he'd been before. "I'm not looking to force you, after all."

  "You're not looking to force me... ?"

  "Jennifer, a man in my position, particularly an unmarried man, can't exactly go out and pick up a different woman every night. It's hardly appropriate, after all. I don't have time for a relationship. And I have certain... appetites. That make it difficult for me to trust women who would seek me out for my money. Am I clear?"

  "So you want me to be your... whore?"

  "Much more than that, Jen, but you're not completely off the mark. I understand if you'd like to stop this discussion now, and I'll have Julio get you some clothing, from wherever you'd like. He could even accompany you while you shop for your own clothing if you're more comfortable with that. But I don't have the time or the patience to sugar coat your position."

  "Do I have time to think about it?"

  "Not much, we'll be arriving fairly soon."