The Willing
Authors: JJ Moreau
THE WILLING
By JJ Moreau
THE WILLING TEXT © 2013 JJ MOREAU
COVER ART © JJ MOREAU
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
WARNING
This erotic work of fiction contains strong language, explicit sex scenes including bondage, oral and anal sex, humiliation and elements of domination and submission.
All characters are 18+.
Contents
Chapter one
The problem was that I had taken the loan out that very morning. If not for my day job, Ms. High Heels at the bank wouldn't have let me walk out with that much money unless I wore a ski mask and dropped in waving a .44. As it stood, she had even shaken my hand and walked me to the door, all smiles and congratulations. Stupid me, I went to sign the deed within the hour. On the plus side, I now had an apartment with a breath-taking view of the city, in a part of town I'd been coveting for nearly two years.
On the not-so-plus-side, my salary had been drastically reduced—to zero—and my feet were too swollen to fit into Carrie's spiky heels. "What if I went barefoot?" I wondered aloud as the wind whipped through the driver's open window, laying waste to my painstakingly arranged 'do.
Michelle's lips curved up at the corners. "I think that might be too ethnic for this crowd, but you're welcome to give a shot… as long as I can be around to snap a pic of Madam's face when you stroll in looking like Esmeralda." The click of her compact made me think of that .44 again.
I gritted my teeth as the taxi slid to a stop and crammed my feet into silver pumps that had evidently been designed with one purpose and one purpose only: torture.
We exited together, Michelle and I, and took a moment to tug our miniskirts down a couple of inches before they took temptation completely out of the equation.
"You've got lipstick on your chin," I told Michelle, trying to get some of my own back. "That's what you get from kissing girls."
"Bite me," she shot back, her frozen, rosy smile never slipping.
I slid my bare arm through Michelle's as we made our way into the hotel lobby. Heads turned to watch us go by. A few men peeked over their newspapers, not nearly as surreptitious as they thought they were. I wondered, not for the first time, if they judged or wanted us. And then I didn't wander anything at all because Madam Madrigal was standing by the reception desk, tapping her fingernails.
"You're late," was her opening volley. We did the obligatory air kiss nonsense I'd always thought of as a little foolish and she drew back a step to examine us with a critical eye.
I knew why I always got paired with Michelle; Madam said the contrast between our skin tones was arresting, but it didn't take a genius to see that Michelle hooked the big spenders while I made nice with small-time bankers who didn't tip very well. Honestly, I was lucky I even got that much attention, considering my red-clad companion. There was no competing with nearly six feet of former runway model, not when her eyes were silver-grey and her hair long and auburn and shiny. Michelle didn't have a single blemish on her porcelain-pale body. I'd seen her naked often enough to know that for a fact. Hating her would've been easy—and also quite possibly fatal.
"Have you been crying?" Madam asked, thumping my feet back on the ground. "Your eyes look swollen."
"Didn't get much sleep last night," I lied.
The answer didn't seem to satisfy her, but she pursed her thin lips, swept the long end of her pashmina over one shoulder and sighed. "Come along. You're the last ones. Late, as usual."
Michelle tried to catch my eye as we followed Madam into the elevator, but I pinched her wrist with fake nails and she gave up the sport. Sure, she might have been genuinely worried for me. We'd both started working for Madam Madrigal around the same time and we were in the habit of looking out for each other, but if Michelle asked me what was wrong, I was afraid I might do something stupid, like tell her. There would be no holding back the waterworks then.
The elevator doors dinged melodiously as they opened and a disembodied, recorded voice announced that we had reached the Presidential Suite. Almost immediately, a flood of music and laughter filled the silver cabin. The party inside the suite was already in full swing, champagne flowing and girls like Michelle and I dancing to some vague remix of a track I only half recognized. Boisterous revelry was nothing unusual. Honestly, I was a little surprised the men were still wearing their jackets and neck ties.
We must be losing our touch
.
Madam turned to us: ""In the corner, with the ivory cane, that's Milan Delgado. Over by the wet bar, you'll find Cecil Holland. Oliver Shepherd is the only guest who's even later than you two, so keep an eye out for him." It was customary for Madam to give us a quick rundown of the big prizes in the room, but as I'd never been able to net a high-paying client, I knew the spiel was really meant for Michelle.
I only perked up at the last name. "Did you say Shepherd?"
Madam Madrigal arched a brow. "Oh good, she's awake. You look like you just had a flash of genius, Jo, do share with the class."
My cheeks felt hot, as they often did when I became the focus of Madam's forked tongue. "Nothing. Sorry." I didn't know how to be honest; it was just a niggling feeling in the pit of my stomach. I chose to attribute it to the day I'd had and not the ominous sound of a familiar name. "I just... I didn't know there was a third."
"Last minute addition," Madam said smugly. "His business partner made the arrangements. Work the room, ladies. And for god's sake, don't slouch."
This was the thing about Madam Madrigal: she ran her business with an iron fist, but she was only one part entrepreneur to two parts godmother. She couldn't help cosset us a little. I guess it was that protective, tough-love streak that had made me like her in the first place.
"Try Delgado first?" I murmured to Michelle as she helped herself to a champagne flute. I knew she needed the liquid courage, but it never failed to make me antsy to see her drinking on the job.
Michelle gave an assenting murmur and I began steering us through the thicket of scantily-clad girls and red-faced clients to where the man in question was seated.
"Hey, are you okay?" Michelle asked.
I shot her a smile, canting my head back as if flirting. "Absolutely," I beamed. Just afraid I was about end up on the streets—and oh yeah, I was pretty sure one of our clients was a sociopath.
Milan Delgado was already surrounded by three blondes, two of whom I recognized as the Gregson sisters—blond, athletic twins, almost impossible to compete with. Even so, he beamed to see us approach. Michelle introduced us as she slid down to the ottoman at his feet.
"So many beautiful ladies," laughed Delgado. "I think I am so very fortunate tonight."
From what I knew of Delgado Enterprises, he was often fortunate—as rumor and the evening news had it, he'd dodged two IRS probes and an ethics violation charge for improper testing by the cosmetic branch of his sprawling empire just last year. I read the papers and I watched the news, but when I was here at his feet, I was just another part of the scenery. No one wanted my opinion. I kept my mouth shut.
Michelle was so much better at this than me; she knew how to endear herself to clients, either playing the ditz or the wide-eyed innocent in need of guidance, whatever worked best. Tonight, it was the sultry temptress routine. Her fingers rested lazily on my knee and I could see where this was going.
Namely, south.
My stomach flipped as I extricated my leg from Michelle's lackadaisical caress. Delgado didn't seem to notice, too caught up in a story about his own corporate prowess to sense the subtle shift. Michelle laughed in all the right places—apparently there was a joke in Delgado's meandering tale—and then pretended to notice a diamond ring gracing the fingers of one of the Gregson twins. I watched her hands seize the blonde's; I wasn't the only one. Delgado's lips twitched into a smile. "You like diamonds? I have diamonds."
One thing I'd learned in this job was that there were few pastimes a wealthy man enjoyed more than vaunting his own wealth. Michelle played his type like a fiddle, her big eyes perfect for not-so-honest wonderment. Me, I sat idly by and watched like a spectator. Michelle's champagne glass had wound up in my hands, somehow, so I sat there in my Friday best, with a fake smile plastered to my lips and my shoes killing me, until I realized two things: one, I was going to have to find a way to make more money if I wanted to keep my freshly-bought apartment, and two, I had actually been fired today.
Here I was, in a room with men who could probably fit my entire fifth-floor flat into their master bedroom, who thought nothing of spending the equivalent of what I made in a week on a suit, trying to smile and not look hungry.
I felt sick to the stomach. "Please excuse me," I said to Delgado and his coterie of fawning admirers. He didn't acknowledge me, so neither could they. For once I didn't mind being part of the backdrop if it meant I could vanish into the woodwork.
I made my way to the bar in a wide arc, avoiding Madam's gaze and trying fervently to avoid getting roped into a slow dance with one of the other party guests. They were the usual fare: both middle-aged and young, mostly brokers or lobbyists or both, the kind of men who told each other they liked fast cars and fast women, and didn't think twice about spending exorbitant sums on either all for the sake of status. A healthy taste for hedonism and self-indulgence was a must at these parties, particularly once the strip poker games picked up speed.
I poured myself a glass of sparkling water. I didn't trust the carafes; some of the girls had horror stories to tell about spiked drinks and waking up with bruises on their hips. Just because I earned a paycheck dressing up like it didn't actually mean I was easy. Not often, at least.
My standards would have to be lowered, though. Needs must and all that. I glanced over to my right where Cecil Holland was entertaining another man with feats of corporate glory. All I knew about him was what I'd been able to pull off the Internet. Former dot com billionaire, he'd transitioned into military contracts when he turned thirty, then more or less withdrew from public life. I imagined him as a Blue Beard type, with wives hidden in every tower of his palatial estate, but given the arm he had slung over his companion's backrest, I wondered if
husbands
and not
wives
would've been more accurate.
Still, I had to give it a shot. Maybe I'd get lucky. I wet my lips one last time, set down the crystal flute, and was just about ready to approach my would-be prize when I heard the elevator doors glide open.
Later I would wonder why I even bothered to turn my head. One more second and I could've avoided collision altogether, got away scot-free.
I didn't, though. I was still staring awkwardly as a well-dressed pair entered the foyer: she, decked in a white fitted pantsuit, was raven-haired and narrow in the hips, the very picture of a modern businesswoman. He, on the other hand, wore a tux to great distinction but was in desperate need of a shave. They both seemed fresh off the pages of a high fashion catalog. I wasn't surprised to see Madam Madrigal make a beeline for the elevator as she rushed to greet them.
Maybe it was the day I'd been having, but it took me a moment to realize I was gawking at them. The woman's eyes met mine first. She smiled and said something to her companion. I hadn't been able to see his face when he walked in, he'd been so enthralled with his good-looking—wife? Girlfriend? I didn't know what to call her; women didn't often show up at these things, not unless they were hired. Madam Madrigal followed their gaze to me and I understood this wasn't competition.
This was work.
Oliver Shepherd
, I thought, heart suddenly lodged in my throat. Which meant the woman on his arm could only be Evangeline Emerson, of the aptly-named Emerson Industries.
The very man I'd been hoping to avoid had just locked eyes with me.
It was too late to make my escape, so I sauntered over on blistering feet and tried to wear hospitality on my sleeve. "Hello," I said, grinning. "I'm Jocelyn."
Ms. Emerson held out a hand, her fingernails shiny with a flawless French manicure. Her very dark eyes were painted with a thin line of kohl, not enough to broaden her gaze but tactfully applied to give her face an almost feline mien. "Evangeline," she greeted, smiling without teeth. "And this is Oliver."