by C. C. Piper
And if a judge did fault me, I was certain Lily would raise Bella once she’d recovered.
“Think of it like being a trophy wife. You aren’t paid to be married to a rich man, you just have access to his accounts.” The woman stood. “Think about it, Chrissy. This could solve all your problems.”
“Who is he? Is he a thug? I can’t be around drug dealers. That’s a hard no.”
“I can’t tell you who he is, although I can assure he is not a drug dealer, nor is he a drug user. I can’t give you many details at all, unless you’re serious. You’d have to come to my office, and sign a lot of non-disclosure paperwork. You’d have to keep most of the details secret.” She handed me an ivory card with a phone number on it. Otherwise, it was blank.
“What’s your name?”
“You can call me the Wish Maker.”
With that, the woman swept out of my apartment, leaving behind the scent of her rosemary perfume.
For the first time since I was seventeen, I woke up to the sun streaming in through my blinds. I had been getting up at dawn since I’d gotten guardianship of Bella. I swore and grabbed my phone. It was on silent, which was a stupid thing to do. What if I’d missed a call from the hospital? I didn’t have any missed calls, but I had a text from Lily that said Bella was doing okay.
I also had a voicemail from my evening job at the Blackstreet Diner.
Fabulous. Thanks to my “unexplained absence” last night, my employment was being terminated. Effective immediately.
I dropped the phone onto my bed.
There was a solution to my problems. A solution that could help Bella. A solution that could replace the income from my lost job.
Even if I hadn’t been fired, I couldn’t cover the cost of the transplant. After the admissions staff member left, the hospital social worker had come in. Along with setting us up with group therapy and counseling resources, she’d also delicately mentioned that Bella didn’t have insurance, and we’d have to pay for the transplant.
We got the message.
No money, no cure.
No matter how many jobs I got waiting tables, I’d never be able to cover that kind of cost.
Did I want to accept the Wish Maker’s offer? I didn’t seem to have a lot of options now. I could quit college, find another job. Work all day and night, and barely spend time with Bella while she was in the hospital.
Or I could call the Wish Maker.
What kind of name was that? Maybe it was supposed to make me feel like I was Cinderella, and she’d make my dreams come true. We all knew my life wasn’t that story. I couldn't wait for someone to rescue us. Bella’s teacher would do her best, but communities, especially those struggling like Bella’s school, couldn’t raise enough to cover a transplant. There were a few middle class families at the charter school, like Mary’s mother who brought the birthday cupcakes, but even they didn’t have a lot of disposable income.
I was going to have to figure this out. What if ignoring the Wish Maker was a death sentence for Bella?
When I thought about Bella, lying in the hospital with failing kidneys, the choice was easy.
I picked up my crappy flip phone and dialed. “May I speak to the Wish Maker?”
She answered the phone herself. “Chrissy. I’m glad to hear from you.”
“I’ll do it. I’ll sign up to be a companion to a rich man.”
She didn’t respond to the snark in my voice. “That’s wonderful to hear. We’ll send someone to pick you up. Come as you are. I’ll see you at my club in one hour.”
Exactly one hour later, I was standing inside the club she’d mentioned. I had no idea where I was. I’d ridden in a luxury car with windows tinted dark as we wove through the streets of downtown Los Angeles. The driver escorted me into what looked like a hotel. There was no name on the outside of the building.
I’d never seen a club like this, with light stucco and jasmine vines clinging to every surface.
The inside was dark and cool, with a rustic feel. I didn’t see the Wish Maker anywhere. I was met by a young woman whose name was Loren. She led me down a long hallway to a hotel suite.
She took me by the shoulders. “You’re gorgeous. Absolutely beautiful. I won’t have much to do, but I’m excited. Come on.”
After that, I let my mind wander while she led me to a steaming bath and washed my hair. She handed me a razor and told me to shave my legs. After I bathed, she dried my hair, and smoothed gel that smelled of peppermint through it until it shone. Then she curled it with a wand I’d seen on a commercial. She had me brush my teeth with whitening toothpaste. She gave me a facial with a cleanser, and massaged my head, neck and shoulders. I could have melted into a puddle of goo at that point. She plucked my eyebrows, which woke me up a little after the massage. She rubbed perfume over my wrists and applied makeup to my face.
“You have the best cheekbones,” she said while swiping blush over them.
She handed me a new set of matching bra and panties.
She pushed me into a chair, and tucked a plastic cape around my neck. “I’m only going to take off an inch, so don’t worry.”
“I’ve never had my hair cut professionally.” I’d always wanted to, but it seemed like a waste of money when I could do it myself. I’d always turned my head to the side and cut it with a pair of scissors I sharpened with foil. I cut Bella’s hair too, and I’d cut my mother’s back when she cared about her appearance at all.
“Really! Well, you’ve done a pretty good job.”
She combed and cut and combed and cut, and my hair looked and felt thicker.
“You’re all done. Girl, you could be on a runway somewhere. Look at you!”
I stood in front of a mirror in a set of silky underwear that probably cost more than my rent for the month. I did look different. Polished.
The Wish Maker breezed into the room. “You are truly exquisite. And I do not use that word freely.” She handed me a robe. “Put that on.” She pointed at a desk in the corner of the room. “Sit. We’re going to go over the terms of your contract with us. Think of it as a job, just like any other. There are rules. The most important rule is that you never speak of the club to anyone besides Richard.” She guided me through several papers, mostly non-disclosure agreements. I signed my name to all of them.
“One last thing. Are you on birth control?”
“Yes.” I’d started taking the pill a year ago when my period was causing extreme cramps. It had been hard to work through them.
“Excellent. As part of the terms of your contract here, you’ll need a birth control shot. Continue taking your pills for seven days. We have a nurse here who’ll do a quick blood test, and then give you the shot if everything’s okay. For your next doctor appointment, we’ll cover the cost.”
I knew I’d need birth control, but hearing it stated so openly was a wakeup call. Very soon I was going to be having sex with a stranger.
This was step one of my new life. I hoped I could handle it.
4
Richard
The aqua water in my pool sparkled. I’d read somewhere, years ago, that the sight of water was calming. Today, as I listened to my mother rant, it wasn’t working. The glistening water was not making me calmer.
Though if my mother was involved, nothing short of an elephant tranquilizer was likely to calm me. I loved my mother. But I had very little tolerance for her antics.
My mother was a world-class complainer. She was in the Bahamas, at our family villa in Nassau, but even there she wasn’t satisfied.
My father bought our villa, Sunset Breeze, when I was born. My mother had named it Sunset Breeze because the interior was all white, with gold and yellow accents. As a child, I’d celebrated every birthday there, as well as two weeks every summer and every Christmas. I hadn’t been allowed to touch much of anything, so I stayed on the porch or on the beach.
When we were there, my father was truly off work. He’d play board games, and make homemade lemonad
e. He taught me to swim there, to sail and to ride a bike. He taught me to surf there.
I hadn’t been back since my father had died.
I tasted the salt in the air. I lifted my gaze to the ocean. “Mother.”
She paused in her tirade.
“Did you need something?” I asked, trying not to sound as irritated as I felt.
“Yes. I need renovations on this villa.” She gave a hearty sigh. “The bathroom is completely unacceptable. The tile clashes with the countertop. The tile is arctic white, and the counter is cream.”
“I’ll send some contractors over as soon as they’re available. But once they’re there, you cannot interfere.”
“Richard, this is serious. I’m sending you photos right now.”
Her last few words were slurred. She was already drunk, and it wasn’t even that late at night, not in the Caribbean. She was an alcoholic. And everyone looked the other way. Even my father had, to my great frustration.
My mother had no concept of what was serious. How could she care about mismatched tile so soon after she’d lost my father? I knew the answer. She never loved my father. So moving on hadn’t been difficult for her, not at all.
It hadn’t been that easy for me. Some days I didn’t think I’d ever move on.
Last time she’d demanded a renovation project, she’d hassled the workers so much they’d walked away from the job. My father had been good at smoothing things over.
I would not be doing any smoothing over, not for her. If the contractors showed up, they’d be paid, whether or not she was happy with their work, and she’d be the one to deal with unfinished work.
“Mother, I’ve got to go.”
I deleted the photos of the villa bathroom as soon as they arrived. I didn’t have the energy to placate my mother right now. The contractors would have to do it for me, God help them. I took a sip of whiskey. It didn’t help. Maybe I should watch my own drinking, given that my mother relied on alcohol to function in her everyday life.
Maybe I would, one day. But today was not that day.
Even with the whiskey and the calming sounds of the ocean, my stomach was tight. It wasn’t often that I was apprehensive. I liked a battle; I relished it. I enjoyed confrontation. I didn’t shy away from hard conversations — I dove in, and dealt with whatever issue. Losing a contract, arguing with an adversary, negotiating with a partner. I could do all of those things.
When it came to my mother, I avoided.
Which is also what I had been doing with dating.
Until now.
The first woman would be here in two hours.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been in my pool. I stripped off my clothes and dove in. I cut through the water, pushing myself lap after lap. But the concrete rectangle of the pool wasn’t enough; it was too small, too restrictive.
I needed open water. I needed waves.
I’d spent a year searching for the perfect house on the beach. In the LA area, that wasn’t easy to find, but I was unwilling to stay in the city. I’d found this renovated beach house, promising myself that I’d swim in the ocean every day.
I hadn’t kept that promise.
I lived on the ocean, and I never swam in it. Somewhere in the house, I had a surfboard. But I hadn’t kept it waxed after my father died. I’d left it to deteriorate, just like I had my personal life.
I grabbed a pair of swim trunks from my closet and pulled them on. I walked out, barefoot, no hat, no sunscreen, no bottle of water.
All that stuff was unnecessary. I wanted to feel the ocean.
I waded into the sea, and dove into a wave.
I swam for an hour, until my anger with my mother faded, and my apprehension about the upcoming meeting with the submissive lessened as well. My muscles ached, but my head was clear.
Unable to put it off any longer, I headed inside. I showered. I shaved. I put on cologne, the kind the stylist had chosen for me. Wanting to set a formal tone with the potential submissive, I put on a suit.
I wanted her to understand immediately that this was not a date. This was not a relationship. It was a transaction, with agreed upon terms. There would be no negotiations.
The first candidate would be here shortly.
I hoped she wanted this too. The woman didn’t have to be a true submissive, but I needed her to want to be here, whether it was for money or other reasons. I needed this to work. Travis had been right, in his crude way, when he said I needed to get laid — I was tightly wound.
I craved intimacy with a woman. Not just sex, but companionship. And I would never admit it, not even to him, but I was lonely.
At thirty-two years old, I saw all my peers dating, getting married, or even just enjoying one-night stands. None of those options had worked for me. What I wanted in a woman proved to be elusive. But now I had a rare opportunity to get what I needed.
The night before, I had read articles on dominance and submission. I didn’t want a script — the interactions had to feel natural. But I also needed the submissive to be aware of what might happen, which meant I needed a plan.
There was a large chance that she’d never been exposed to any of these ideas before. She was a virgin, and I wasn’t sure how innocent she would be.
I’d have to teach her what I wanted. And most likely, I’d be teaching her about submission as well. The thought of a virgin naked for me, untouched by another man, doing exactly as I said with no arguments, was intoxicating.
Instructing her in how to follow my command was a daunting prospect, but a thrilling one.
Researching the dynamic at this point in my life felt distinctly unsexy, but highly necessary. But I never walked into a boardroom without a plan. This should be no different. As I read, I had made mental notes on what was crucial to me, and what wasn’t. I didn’t need her to call me sir, or master. My name in a respectful tone would be fine. I studied all the typical aspects: rewards, punishments, collars, contracts, role playing, servitude. Assuming any of the candidates were acceptable, I would have to introduce the more demanding aspects later on. An inexperienced woman would be overwhelmed by so much information at once.
I was realistic. A perfect outcome would not be immediate. I’d have to train her and condition her.
I would have to emphasize that the bells and whistles so many dominants wanted weren’t vital to me. I wanted one thing beyond her virginity, and that one thing was non-negotiable:
Her complete and utter obedience.
5
Chrissy
As we drove into Santa Monica, I caught a glimpse of the ocean through the rows of palm trees.
I’d been to the ocean a few months ago, on a rare day off. I’d taken Bella to the public beach. We’d rolled up our bath towels, and I’d found a shovel and a bucket on sale at the dollar store. We didn’t have big umbrellas or wagons, but I froze some water bottles and packed a lunch in school lunch box. We’d spent hours making sand castles.
It would have been easier to stay in the apartment that day, but I’d dragged myself out.
It was a good memory. One that I was grateful I’d made with her. What if that was the last time she ever saw the ocean?
No; I couldn't think like that. I’d never make it through what promised to be months of treatment for her illness if I expected the worst. Bella deserved more than that; she deserved for me to hold it together. Despite my self-lecture, my eyes burned with tears. I sucked in a few quick breaths. I wasn't going to be crying when I walked into this mansion.
I brushed my hands back and forth over the creamy leather seats in the car. I’d never been in a luxury vehicle. The kids I’d grown up with had parents who drove small compact cars with cracked windows, or older model mini-vans with ripped leather seats, if they had cars at all.
We never had. Lily and I had both taken the city bus all of our lives.
Now I was in a luxury vehicle. I only knew what it was because I’d seen a show on the BBC about a wealthy family who owned a B
entley. Now I was riding in one with an actual driver, who was paid to drive so that rich people didn’t have to.
I’d have enjoyed riding in the car more if I wasn’t so worried about Bella. She’d have gotten a kick out of the car too. We could have pretended we were ladies on the way to an afternoon tea. I swallowed hard.
I missed Bella. And on top of her illness, I was missing work. That was another worry. What if this arrangement didn’t work out? I’d already been fired from Blackstreet Diner. What if I lost the Sweet Lime Café too? My boss liked me, but he needed his servers to actually be there.
I placed my cell phone on the seat next to me so I would see if anyone called, and attempted to adjust my dress. I had never worn anything like this dress before. The Wish Maker had given it to me, and helped me slip into it, zipping it up and helping me adjust the fit. It was snug, and hugged the few curves that I had. It was held up with spaghetti straps and covered in black sequins.
Instead of my usual ponytail, Loren had styled my hair so that it was loose with soft curls that brushed against my shoulders. That’s what she said Richard liked.
His name was Richard, he was a billionaire, and that’s about all I knew about the man I was going to allow inside my body and my mind. Because that’s what it felt like by agreeing to submit to him — that I’d be giving up my mind as well as my virginity.
Those were the two requirements. Give him my virginity, and do exactly as he said. I’d also live in his home, and receive a monthly stipend in exchange for submitting to him.
The first monthly stipend was so large it would cover the cost of Bella’s transplant. I had survived a lot in my life. Surely I could make it one month. And if he had darker desires, then I could deal with that too. More than one of my mother’s boyfriends had hit me. I had navigated physical abuse as a kid.