by Jamie Knight
The very image of more multiple-choice questions should have sent me screaming and running away from the application. Ordinarily it might have. But by focusing my will and remembering the million-dollar prize, I had the entire thing completed in ten minutes flat. I didn’t mention that I had a kid, but they also didn’t ask about that, either.
I told myself it didn’t really matter, because there was no way they were going to pick me, anyway.
Chapter Two - Adam
The view from the health club was beautiful. The white capped mountains were still visible in the pale blue glow of the light pollution against a background of the starry black sky. There were many views like it in Seattle, but that one was mine. At least at that moment.
It was never overcrowded, but a $200,000 per year membership fee ensured that. The private health club had become appointment only ever since COVID-19 had struck. Every member got their own run of the cutting-edge equipment. And an army of staff was deployed with masks, gloves and spray bottles of specially formulated cleaner to wipe everything down for the next user.
I always tried to leave them something. Such as a clip of bills under the treadmill that I must have ‘forgotten.’ Occasionally, I would be surprised by the reappearance of the cash the next time I checked in. The custom made, monogrammed shamrock money clips clearly marked them as mine.
Slowly, I got into the zone. The thump of my feet on the treadmill matched almost exactly the drums beats on my earbuds and the thumping of my heart. Things can really fall into sync when you’re focused enough, especially if you are willing to take the risk of not being ‘normal.’
The greatest accomplishment of my life, in my own tally of things, was that I was never in the strictest sense normal. Even my mother described me as an ‘odd duck’ by the time I was ten. Even the circumstances of my arrival, the only child of a nominally Catholic single mother, fit clearly in the abnormal column. Nurture had very little to do with it, anyway.
Ours was the kind of happy town where people would sit out on the front porch with frosty lemonade on a hot day and converse with passersby. Everybody knew everybody else, and their business, for generations running. Skeletons were displayed out on the yard as opposed to hidden in the closet. No one was safe from an entertainment’s worth of judgement.
Instead of becoming embittered about this fact of life, or oppressed by it, I decided to give them all something worth talking about. Rather than running with the herds of kids seen about the town, playing football or roving on their bikes in search of the perfect flavor of ice cream, I was more of a loner. It was a point of pride rather than shame.
My conspicuous absence at Sunday Mass was the first point of conflict between myself and traditional society. As it would be a scandal to have gentlemen turn up at my mother’s door, a deputation of the parish’s most upstanding lady members came to redress the issue.
“Adam wasn’t at church today,” I had heard Mrs. Walpole say, as though announcing a tragic death.
“That’s true,” my mother answered. “He preferred to stay home and read.”
“And you approve of this?” Mrs. Brown injected.
“It makes little difference to me either way. Though he does seem to know the Bible better than even Father Drone.”
I was known locally as ‘the little heathen’ as long as I remained in the town, a moniker that took some years to top.
I never thought much about my proclivities. They seemed as natural to me as my height or hair color. Most people think that BDSM is about violence or at least pain, and that could well be true for some. There were a lot of fetishes that required significant amounts of pain, which was perfectly fine if that was what both parties wanted.
It was about getting pleasure from hurting someone. It was a mutual erotic behavior, involving people who get off on hurting people who want to be hurt.
For me, it was about having complete control over those who wanted to be controlled, who got a thrill out of being entirely under the power of another whom they trusted not to actually harm them. The distinction between ‘hurt’ and ‘harm’ was extremely important for people like me.
The ads were running everywhere. My online show was getting coverage in traditional media. It was a coup if there ever was one. But I had a history of doing the impossible. The only way to know the limits of the possible is to go past them. It was the secret of my success, as they say.
I was skeptical at first. The studio had come to me rather than the other way around. Basically, their number crunchers had realized I would draw ratings by name alone and my kinks had been an open secret for years, which gave the whole thing a whiff of sex and scandal. A whiff turned into a stench when it came down to the actual format and promotion.
Still, I went with it. The studio tried to pay me, but I turned them down flat. The last thing I needed was more money. It wasn’t even the sex that was the seller. I liked sex quite a bit and wasn’t about to turn my nose up at it, but to be honest, I did quite alright on my own and didn’t need the show to get me women.
The clincher was when the producers allowed me to pay the one million in prize money from my personal account. The CEO, one of my good buddies, agreed to match any donations I made to a charity of my choice. It was likely to upset the shareholders to no end, even with the positive press that would have come had they bothered to promote it in the adverts.
The onus was put on the sex and money aspects. Not that I didn’t understand it. I had learned quite a lot about effective promotion while building my publishing empire from the ground up.
I couldn’t get home fast enough. The workout was a necessity for my sanity, but there was still a lot of work to do before I could rest my weary head. I did my best to doze in the back of the limo.
Once I was in my large, marble tile shower, the water cascaded down like a warm blanket, washing away the work and worry of the day in preparation to pile on more. Life was a cycle more than a straight line. The trick was plotting the pattern so that you knew when a curve was coming along the way.
There was a near plague of silk amongst the rich. I had seen it enough times to know. Silk shirts, silk sheets, silk robes. For the life of me, I’d never understand how the corpses of worms became such a popular fabric. Give me fleece any day of the week.
Wrapped snugly in a high thread count robe made of what else but silk, I opened a bottle of Guinness and headed towards my home office, the very seat of my power, from where I ran my entire empire.
Pushing the button for the automatic blinds, I basked in the cool moonlight as I booted up the custom-built PC tailored for the work I had to do. I used to have a second machine for video games and the like, but an opportunity to use it didn’t come up nearly as often.
A dear friend had gifted me with a first edition of As I Lay Dying by none other than the mighty William Faulkner and that was it. The little bit of free time I had was thereafter dedicated to literature. My freshly built library numbered nearly 1,200 titles, mostly esoteric, all in print, every last one of which I had read from cover to cover at least once.
Digital print may have made up a major part of my business, but I was still an anarchist in some ways. The majority of my similarly extensive record collection was on vinyl.
Likewise, I was really sticking to my guns when it came to what was in the contract for the show. I knew enough about how executives and producers worked not to give them any more control than was absolutely necessary. I wasn’t trying to keep the power for myself so much as preventing the show becoming what it easily could if I were to give the dragons in suits free reign.
One of the points on which I absolutely insisted was picking the contestants myself. My criteria was based on a combination of genuine need and potential sexual chemistry. I strongly preferred the million dollars to go to someone who really needed it as opposed to, for example, a trust fund baby looking to add to their family fortune.
The second factor was harder to judge. There was only so much on
e can tell from a photograph and a write up, no matter how thorough. It was part of the reason for the three-step process. Again, at my insistence, the applications were little more than a preliminary round.
The screen above the treadmill ran one impossibly pretty face after another. They were all glamor shots obviously done by professional photographers and write ups meant to appeal to who they thought I was based on my public image.
All of sudden, one of them caught my eye.
The image struck like a bolt from mighty Thor. The crystalline eyes. The healthy glow. The unpretentious, natural expression. She was beautiful.
I scrolled down so fast the mouse nearly broke. The write-up was different if nothing else. Much of the points of interest were at least similar to mine. For the first time since the whole thing began, I felt the faint pang of true hope.
Try as I might, I couldn’t get her out of my mind. Every time I would falter, my mind breaking out of the self-imposed fugue state of turning data, focusing only long enough to process before saving or moving on, there she was. Smiling awkwardly in what could only be a selfie, the amateurishness of the photo adding to her appeal rather than detracting from it.
My natural rebellion extended to my own brain, and I kept finding myself going to the full body photo, also a selfie, taking in as much of her body as I could see or infer. My cock joined the sedition, getting quite hard.
My hands started to move and I grabbed it with the right one as though the left one had become possessed. I wouldn’t go that far. I was attracted. But I didn’t know enough to sexualize. I would need to know her before eroticism could enter the equation.
Dropping the task, I switched the screen to my player, pulled up “Travel in Woods” and took back control, forcing my mind first to go blank and then to my inner realm, a mountain valley I had conceived to be as pleasant and calming as possible. I remained there until I was calm enough to sleep.
Chapter Three - Morgan
It was worse than usual. Not for a lack of choice, but rather the sheer abundance. None of which were particularly pleasant. It was like being able to choose the weapon to administer the thousand cuts by which you die.
Biting the proverbial bullet, I dove in headfirst, trying to distance myself from the questions being asked. My imagination danced in the distance with possible visions of what life as a millionaire might be like, swinging from austere saving to investment options, in which there would be no wild extravagant fantasies of sending sprees.
I was engaging in a sort of chess with myself to see how far a million dollars could really go. I could write a book about it when all the money was gone, thereby earning even more. Probably lasting a good deal longer. My curiosity satiated, my more logical mind settled in for the long haul. I knew myself well enough to recognize the difference.
It was really quite good timing. I had just finished the last of the series of soul prodding by marketeers trying to get in touch with the modern female psyche, as well as deep into the modern female body, when I got an alert. A new message waited patiently in my inbox. To my surprise, it was from Adam himself, letting me know I had been chosen to be on the show.
I had expected, and logic dictated, that the job of reviewing applications and responding to those who made the cut would fall to a functionary. A producer in the first case and more than likely an intern in the latter. But fuck logic, let strange reality reign!
“I made it!” I rejoiced, as soon as the door was open.
“Made it!” Freya echoed from her nursery down the hall.
“Good hearing,” Astrid noted.
“You have no idea,” I said, rolling my eyes.
“Made what?” Astrid inquired. “Did you finally crack the mysteries of lemon meringue pie?”
“Nope, still working on that one. I did, however, get accepted to be on Who Wants to Lock Down a Billionaire. The first round, anyway.”
“That’s amazing!” Astrid said, launching at me in one of her infamous attack hugs.
“Thanks,” I wheezed.
“Oh, no, I didn’t mean it that way,” Astrid said, releasing me from her clutches. “I’m not shocked that you were chosen. It’s just that it happened so fast. There had to be a ton of applicants and you just zipped right up to the response line right away!”
“I know, I was just teasing. And yes, it is pretty amazing. Even the potential for a million dollars is almost too much to bear. It could even be fun. He is certainly easy on the eyes.”
“Have you given any thought to the, you know, spanky-spanky?”
“Astrid!” I objected, blushing furiously.
My face felt like it approximately resembled the hue of a tomato.
“Well, it is a factor. A pretty big one, from what I hear online. Though, mind you, I have also heard that 5G is deadly online, so take that into account. I just mean, could you, you know, be into that?”
“I-I could be. I mean, I’m curious. From what I understand, there are lots of different ways to do it. There are some I think I might even like.”
“And you might even fall in love with him,” Astrid said dreamily.
“Oh, stop it,” I said, half-heartedly feigning amusement.
Still, the last thing I needed was another rousing ranting of “One Day My Prince Will Come,” Astrid’s favorite song, aside from an intense Dutch folk song that always made me shudder.
“Hey, stranger things have happened, peanut. Just look at the platypus.”
I couldn’t really argue with her logic, so I instead tried to use the method of distraction to keep from having to tell her she might be right.
“I made cookies,” I said, making her look at my other hand while I hid the quarter up my sleeve, metaphorically speaking.
“Chocolate chip?” Astrid enthused.
“Is there any other kind?” I inquired.
“Sure, lots, but it’s still thoughtful.”
The baby fetched and the table laid, we happy three sat down to a scandalous pre-dinner round of milk and cookies.
“So, when do you go down?” Astrid asked, going in for another dunk.
“Tomorrow morning.”
“I’ll be here, Captain,” Astrid barked, with a sturdy salute.
“I haven’t even asked yet.”
“As if you have to.”
Her laughter was not in vain. It really was somewhat silly. There was never a time in our lives when I had needed Astrid and she hadn’t been there. She was like the sister I’d never had. If we were apex twins born on the same day and time in the same town.
“What about your job?”
“I can afford to take the day off. My boss loves me,” Astrid said.
“Must be nice,” I said whimsically.
“No, you don’t understand. My boss actually loves me. Handwritten poetry. Flower deliveries. He would probably ask me to marry him if it wouldn’t be bigamy.”
“And you have, of course, told him you aren’t interested, in no uncertain terms,” I said, sarcasm clear.
“I did, actually. Everything short of pouring cold water over his head. Something very difficult to do through a computer screen. He is relentless. I could quit and he would probably take as a sign of devotion. Our company technically has a rule against intra-office dating. Not that he gives a fig, of course. Delusions of grandeur are one of the many, many advantages to a position of Master of the Universe. I mean, what is he going to do? Report on himself?”
“A fig?” I asked, the word sticking out in my mind like Boy George at the philharmonic.
“It’s kind of like a plum,” Astrid explained.
“I know, but I’ve never heard you sound so British,” I said.
“It’s a tactic I picked up to keep from swearing.”
“Very clever.”
“I do my best,” she said with genuine humility.
“Fig!” Freya parroted, clearly liking the sound of the word.
“It is fun, isn’t it little one?” Astrid asked.
�
��Fig, fig, fig, fig,” Freya sang, clearly with no idea what the word actually meant. Though I was always glad to help build her vocabulary.
***
As promised, Astrid was there right on time for the appointment and was clearly identified by her knock, which resembled an agitated woodpecker. It always managed to alert Freya to her presence as well.
“Astrid!” I heard Freya call from down the hall.
“You are expected,” I said, opening the door to reveal Astrid herself darkening our door.
“Well, I should bloody well think so.”
“I shall go and fetch your charge,” I said, getting into the spirit of the thing.
Freya started bouncing in my arms as I carried her to Astrid, making it clear I had chosen well in the babysitter department. Not that I doubted it for a moment.
“Knock ‘em dead,” Astrid said, giving me a kiss on the cheek for luck.
“Let’s lower our expectations a bit, yeah?”
“Never. I’m the bright-eyed optimist, you’re the world-bitten cynic. It’s kind of our thing.”
“Fair enough.”
The show sent a car. Not a taxi as I had been expecting, but an actual car. A late model Cadillac that looked as though it could have had bullet-proof windows.
But these still weren’t as impenetrable as the driver’s stare, augmented for civilians by a snazzy pair of Alexander McQueen shades. His hunter green Israeli Defense Force T-shirt spoke volumes.
When we arrived, the building looked like the villain’s lair in a fantasy movie. A gleaming tower of black crystal, reaching to the sky, the top floor was obscured by gathering clouds. I only hoped there would be an elevator.
“You’re on time!” a perky assistant noted.
“The driver is very good.”
“Former advanced driving and tactics instructor, but you didn’t hear it from me,” the assistant said, tapping the side of her nose.