Chapter 5: The First Customer
The five thousand dollars was a brick of crisp hundreds on his nightstand, neatly banded. Vince stared at it. The money didn’t feel real. It felt like evidence. The penthouse, the silent woman named Margo, the way she’d used his body with the detached efficiency of someone operating premium machinery—it had all happened behind a thick pane of glass. He’d performed. He’d come, buried deep inside a stranger while she moaned about her ex-husband’s shortcomings. He’d showered in her marble ensuite, dressed, taken the cash, and ridden the elevator down in a silent car that smelled of her perfume.
Now, back in his own cluttered apartment, the reality was a cold sweat drying on his spine.
Alex was in the living room, feet up on the cleared coffee table, scrolling through her phone. She didn’t look up. “How’d it go?”
“You know how it went,” he said, his voice flat.
She finally glanced at him, a flick of green eyes. “I know the logistics. I don’t know the review. Was she satisfied?”
“She booked me again for next week.”
A slow smile. “See? Told you. You’re a natural.” She returned to her phone. “We’ll need to get you a separate bank account. Something your mom won’t notice. And better condoms. The ones you have are shit.”
He walked over to the window, looking out at the familiar, grimy view of the opposing brick wall. “She didn’t want to use one.”
That got Alex’s attention. She put the phone down. “What?”
“Margo. She said she was sterile. Demanded it raw.” He turned to face Alex. The memory was a hot, slippery knot in his gut. “Said that was part of what she was paying for.”
Alex stared at him for a long moment, then shrugged. “Her risk. Not yours. Just get tested regularly. I’ll schedule it.” She said it like she was reminding him to get an oil change. “The premium is probably higher for that, anyway. I’ll adjust the rate.”
He wanted to scream. He wanted to throw the brick of money out the window. Instead, he felt the familiar, dull throb returning, a Pavlovian response to the clinical discussion of his own anatomy. “This is insane.”
“No,” Alex corrected, standing and stretching. She was wearing one of his old band t-shirts and nothing else. The hem brushed her thighs. “Insane was you writing manuals for sink installs and jerking off alone six times a day because the grocery store cashier smiled at you. This is logical. This is supply meeting a very specific, very lucrative demand.” She walked to him, her hips swaying. She plucked the banded cash from his nightstand, thumbing through it with a practiced ease. “This is freedom, Vince. You just have to get over the fact that it feels like hell.”
She peeled off five hundreds, tucked them into the pocket of her—his—t-shirt, and handed the rest back to him. “Manager’s fee.”
He took the money. It felt heavy. “What’s next?”
“Next,” she said, leaning in and kissing him, her tongue darting into his mouth, “is you don’t get to brood. You have another appointment tomorrow afternoon. A double. Sisters.”
He pulled back. “Sisters?”
“They’re friends of Liza’s. They heard. They’re curious.” She trailed a finger down his chest, over his stomach, hooking into the waistband of his jeans. He was already hard. “Consider it market research. Different demographics. Now,” she whispered, her hand closing around the bulge, squeezing with precise pressure, “I need to inspect the merchandise. Make sure Margo didn’t wear it out.”
The sisters were not what he’d imagined. Not giggling twins, but a stark study in contrasts. The apartment was in a newer, sterile building downtown, all white walls and IKEA furniture. Chloe, the older one, maybe thirty, had a severe, intellectual beauty—sharp cheekbones, black-framed glasses, her dark hair in a tight bun. She wore a tailored trousers and a crisp white blouse, unbuttoned one too many. She looked like a librarian who’d decided to break bad.
Jenna, the younger, was all softness and pastels. Blonde curls framed a round, perpetually surprised face. She wore a pink sweater dress that clung to her generous hips. She couldn’t meet his eyes, her gaze bouncing from the floor to her sister and back.
“Alexandra explained the… situation,” Chloe said, her voice cool, analytical. She didn’t gesture for him to sit. “We require discretion, obviously.”
“Obviously,” Vince echoed, his mouth dry. He stood near the door, a specimen under a microscope.
“My sister is recently out of a long-term relationship. She needs a confidence boost. Something uncomplicated.” Chloe removed her glasses, setting them on a glass coffee table. The act felt deliberate, a scientist removing a barrier. “I am here to facilitate. And to observe.”
Jenna finally looked at him, her blue eyes wide. “He’s… leaner than I thought.”
“Physical aesthetics are variable. The primary function is what matters,” Chloe stated, as if discussing a appliance. “Jenna, you’ll go first. The bedroom. Now.”
There was no seduction, no warm-up. It was a directive. Jenna, with a little nervous intake of breath, turned and walked down a short hallway. Vince followed, feeling Chloe’s gaze on his back like a physical touch.
The bedroom was as impersonal as the living room. A queen-size bed with a gray duvet. Jenna stood beside it, already pulling the pink sweater dress over her head. She wore simple white cotton underwear. Her body was lush, full breasts with large, pale areolas, a soft stomach, strong thighs. She was beautiful in a way that felt real, untouched by the harshness of the city.
“Alex said… you don’t need… you’re always ready,” Jenna stammered, sliding her underwear down.
He nodded, unable to speak. He undressed quickly, his erection bobbing, fully erect as predicted. Her eyes locked onto it, a mix of fear and fascination.
“Lie down,” he said, the words coming out rougher than he intended. He was slipping into the role, the performer. It was easier than thinking.
She obeyed, settling back on the bed, spreading her legs. She was already wet, her folds glistening. He knelt on the floor at the edge of the bed, hooking her legs over his shoulders. He didn’t kiss her. He didn’t fondle her. He aligned himself and pushed forward.
She was incredibly tight. A soft, gasping “oh” escaped her as he filled her. He set a steady, deep rhythm, watching her face. Her eyes were squeezed shut, then fluttered open. Her plump lips parted. Her hands came up, fluttering, before settling on her own breasts, kneading them absently.
“You can… you can go faster,” she whispered.
He obliged, driving into her with more force. The bedframe knocked a soft, rhythmic tattoo against the wall. Jenna began to moan, a high, sweet sound that seemed to surprise her. Her hips lifted to meet him. “Yes… like that… God, it’s so deep…”
He felt her climax building, her internal muscles beginning a frantic, fluttering squeeze. He pounded into her, the slapping sounds of their union wet and loud in the quiet room. When she came, she did so silently, her whole body seizing, her back arching off the bed, her mouth a perfect ‘O’ of stunned pleasure.
He kept moving, through her tremors, until she pushed weakly at his chest. “Stop… too much…”
He pulled out. She lay panting, slick covering her inner thighs. He was still painfully hard.
A shadow fell across the bed. Chloe stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame. She had removed her blouse and trousers. She wore only a black lace bra and matching panties. Her body was all tight planes and sharp angles. “Satisfactory?” she asked her sister.
Jenna, dazed, just nodded.
“Good.” Chloe’s eyes shifted to Vince. “My turn. But not here. The living room. On the floor.”
She turned and walked away. Vince followed, his cock aching, dripping with her sister’s arousal.
Chloe had spread a cream-colored area rug in the center of the living room. She stood waiting, her arms crossed under her small, high breasts. “I don’t require tenderness. I require efficacy. You will take me from behind. Hard and fast. I have a conference call in forty minutes.”
Vince felt a strange, cold anger mix with his arousal. He moved behind her, pushing her panties to the side. She was leaner, tighter than Jenna, and dry. He spat into his hand, slicking himself, then positioned the head at her entrance.
“Now,” she commanded.
He shoved into her in one brutal thrust. She inhaled sharply, a hiss of air through clenched teeth. Her back was rigid. He gripped her narrow hips and set a pounding, relentless pace, fucking her with a driving force that drove her forward with each impact. Her cunt was a tight, unforgiving sheath.
“Is this… what you wanted?” he grunted, the words spilling out fueled by a week of helplessness.
“Less talking. More force,” she snapped, but her voice wavered. He felt a subtle slickness beginning. He reached around her, his hand sliding over the flat plane of her stomach, down into the thatch of dark hair, finding her clit. It was a hard little bead. He pressed and circled, his fingers working in counterpoint to the brutal slam of his hips.
Her composure cracked. A low groan escaped her. Her head dropped. “Don’t… don’t stop that.”
He didn’t. He fucked her harder, his fingers a relentless tease on her clit. Her body began to shake. The cool, analytical facade shattered into ragged, desperate breaths. “Fuck… fuck…” she chanted, her hands splayed on the rug. Her climax, when it hit, was violent and silent. Her whole body locked, her cunt clamping down on him in a series of intense, milking spasms. He kept moving, fucking her through it, until with a final, deep grind, he let his own release go, flooding into her with a guttural shout.
He collapsed back onto his heels, spent. Chloe stayed on all fours for a moment, head hanging, before swiftly pulling herself up. She didn’t look at him. She walked to a hallway closet, pulled out a fresh towel, and tossed it at him. It hit his chest.
“Clean yourself. The bathroom is there.” Her voice was steady again, the tremor gone. “Payment is on the entryway table. Let yourselves out.”
She disappeared into what he assumed was a home office, closing the door firmly. Vince cleaned up, dressed in a haze. In the entryway, two envelopes sat on a small table. One thick, one thin. The thick one had his name. The thin one, he knew, was for Alex.
Jenna emerged from the bedroom, dressed, her face flushed. She gave him a small, shy smile. “Thank you,” she murmured, before slipping out the front door, leaving him alone.
He opened his envelope. Another five thousand. This time, it felt less like evidence and more like a verdict.
When he returned home, Alex was on the couch, sketching in a notebook. She glanced up. “The sisters. Report.”
“The older one… Chloe. She’s your next recruitment target, isn’t she?” Vince said, dropping the money onto the coffee table. He felt hollowed out, scraped clean.
Alex’s smile was all teeth. “Sharp boy. She’s a corporate lawyer. Her network is… valuable. Rich, bored, particular women.” She closed her notebook. “She called me ten minutes ago. She has three colleagues already interested. One wants a weekend at a lodge in Vermont. All expenses paid, plus twenty grand.”
Vince sat down heavily. The numbers were too big. They transformed his affliction from a curse into a corporation. “I can’t…”
“You can,” she interrupted, her voice losing its playful edge. It was pure steel. “You will. This is the pivot, Vince. No more random hookups. We’re building a client list. Exclusive. High-end. You’re not a gigolo. You’re a specialist.”
She came over, knelt in front of him, and unzipped his jeans. He was, predictably, half-hard just from the conversation. She took him in her mouth, not to arouse, but to claim, her tongue tracing the veins. He groaned, his head falling back.
She released him with a pop. “Your condition isn’t a disability. It’s equity. And I’m your majority shareholder.” She stood, wiping her mouth. “Now, go shower. We’re going out to dinner. Somewhere nice. You need to look the part.”
As he stood under the scalding water, he tried to feel the horror, the degradation. It was there, a bitter sediment at the bottom of his soul. But floating on top was something new, something far more terrifying: a dreadful, burgeoning pride. He was good at this. Unnaturally, lucratively good. The money on the table was proof. The future, a gilded cage of his own making, was clicking shut, and a deeply corrupted part of him was leaning back against the bars, getting comfortable.