Auctioned To The Billionaire (Part One)

by Kelly Favor

  I hug him and tell him it’s going to be okay, but we both know it isn’t.

  A little while later, I’m alone in my room on my phone, trying to look for ways to make a lot of money in such a short time. I’ve looked into loans. There’s no way. I have too much debt already, and even my credit cards are close to maxed out.

  Eventually I google “Best Ways For A Woman To Make Money Quickly.”

  The first results are typical and mostly useless.

  Sell your photos, rent out your room, babysit, become a secret shopper…

  None of them will get me anywhere near the kind of windfall I need to save my father’s—and maybe my own—life.

  But then further down the page, I see this:

  “Thousands of Women are Being Internet Girlfriends for Money.”

  I read further, my eyes widening as I see what women are up to. Not just amateur porn and webcam stuff, but actual prostitution. And the ones who make the most money are those who give a so-called “girlfriend experience.” The article says that some women charge as much as three hundred dollars an hour for such services.

  I do the math in my mind. How much of this kind of “work” would I need to do to make enough money to make the first payment to the men my father owes money to?

  It would take me a month of full-time hours, at one of the top-end rates to make enough to cover half of what my dad owes.

  The futility of it all hits me, and I find myself sobbing, knowing that this can only end one way for me and my father. Horribly, with one of us or both of us getting hurt.

  I’m by turns enraged and then sad and scared for my father. My stupid, selfish, sweet, idiotic father who has never done the right thing except when it came to standing by me in the early days when Mom left.

  And those days count for a lot.

  Do they count for a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of blood, sweat and tears? Does his loyalty mean I should give up my life, my virginity, my sanity?

  Because, to make matters even worse, I’m still a virgin.

  As my tears dry, I go to a few of the websites mentioned on the article I read about women doing escorting for high-end clients.

  After looking through a few different options, all of them fairly disgusting, I happen upon one with a goofy name, GirlFundMe.

  The name makes me smile.

  And better yet, when I go on the site, it mentions setting your own price. You basically start a campaign and the people who belong to the site as members have the option to fund your campaign. If you ask for too much, you may get no takers.

  But at least I can try.

  I take a deep breath and start inputting the information. I don’t have to use my real name on the main campaign page which is public, only on the membership side of it. In fact, to become a member for women is free—only the men have to pay.

  Good, because I can’t afford to pay a single dime for anything right now.

  My hands are shaking, my heart racing as I fill out the intricate forms about my background and history. Some of this stuff is to make sure that I am not misrepresenting myself to their clients. Other parts of the questionnaire are so that whoever funds my campaign has the ability to look over my dossier and make sure he is content with finalizing the contract and handing over the money.

  When it asks my sexual history, I hesitate. It wants details, such as how many lifetime partners, how many partners in the last six months, any STDs, etc.

  I don’t want to admit the truth. If I say I’m a virgin, I worry that it might scare some men away. And I know that there are women who auction off their virginity, but the idea of doing that somehow skeeves me out even worse.

  The kind of man looking specifically to take my virginity seems even more repulsive to me than the kind of guy simply paying for sex.

  But to be fair, both kinds of guy are disturbing. The mere thought of handing myself over to some chubby older man with lots of money, a guy who I wouldn’t normally even look at…How will I get through this? I’m not a snob when it comes to men, but I have a hard time imagining myself kissing, let alone having sex with, a man who is physically unattractive to me.

  Still, that’s what I might have to do to save my father and myself.

  Can I really do this? I wonder as I finish compiling my background information, as well as uploading pictures for my profile, a picture of my driver’s license as proof of identity, writing a short essay and providing a one minute long video of myself explaining what I am looking for in a man, and then finally electronically signing off on the campaign.

  I hesitate for a long while before hitting the submit button.

  The chances of anyone being interested in this campaign are miniscule. I am asking for one hundred thousand dollars for a month of companionship. Based on my perusal of the other campaigns on the site, I am the third most expensive person in the entire catalog.

  Of the two more expensive options, one is a porn star and the other is a YouTube influencer with over five hundred thousand followers. Obviously, they each have a reason for believing they’re worth these extravagant prices.

  What’s my claim to fame?

  Nothing but my own hubris and the need for quick cash…

  Once I’ve hit the submit button, I lie down, close my eyes and pray. I pray to find a way through this, I pray that somehow I don’t have to lose my soul to pay this debt. But if I have to lower myself to save my dad’s life, I will.

  As crazy as it is, despite everything he’s put me through, I know he loves me and I know that I can never turn my back on him.

  Dermot

  Despite what I’d heard from happy customers of the site, GirlFundMe, I wasn’t entirely pleased with the selection I found online.

  I spent about two hours combing through candidates, including some of the more outrageous girls with price tags that didn’t seem warranted based on appearance (and the videos of the girls blabbing didn’t help matters any).

  All of the girls disappoint in one way or another.

  I walk to my bar and pour myself a drink. Since I’ve gotten home, I’ve got a half dozen text messages from willing partners. Women who I could have for free—hell, they’d probably pay for their own Uber rides if I didn’t want to send my driver.

  Do I really need to pay a girl?

  Okay, so there’s a loose cannon out there screwing around with me. It’s bad, but maybe I’m overreacting. I take a long pull of whiskey and grimace as the burn hits my throat.

  You don’t need to do this.

  Just meet a new girl. You don’t need a goddamn ironclad contract to sleep with a woman. Never have and never will. This is one rotten apple, one crazy that found her way into the mix, but don’t overreact.

  Don’t be silly and become one of those rich guys who only deals with people you can pay off. Down that road lies madness.

  I stare at the amber liquid in my drink.

  I sigh. This is so crazy I almost laugh out loud. Paying for sex?

  Really? Is that really what I was considering?

  Fuck, no. I won’t ever pay for sex, not even if this crazy lunatic threatens to upload every dirty act I’ve ever committed since I first got laid.

  And then I hear a loud ding from my computer. I set an alert to let me know if any new campaigns came in on GirlFundMe.

  I should go and cancel my membership, I decide, crossing back to my desk and sitting down. The alert says ONE NEW CAMPAIGN. CLICK TO VIEW.

  I hesitate.

  Just cancel the stupid membership already. This new girl won’t be any different than the others. You’ve already looked through dozens and dozens of women, to no avail.

  But curiosity finally gets the better of me and I click to view the new submission.

  The moment her profile pops up, I get a jolt of electricity, a surge of excitement that’s like a thunderbolt.

  I need to fuck her.

  At the same time, I see the listed price for her campaign: one hundred thousand dollars. She’s got
nerve, that’s for sure. A hundred thousand is a drop in the bucket for me. I can spend that the way some men would buy a stick of gum.

  But that doesn’t mean I will spend it—the product still needs to be worth the price.

  I never get ripped off. Never.

  Then my eyes return to her pics.

  Christ, she’s sexy. Curvy, with full pouty lips, a mysterious little smirk on her face in nearly every picture, like she’s got a secret she’s just waiting to tell me and only me.

  My cock is hard already. Stiff, engorged, straining in my boxer briefs as if I haven’t been laid in years.

  Calm down, I remind myself. You don’t think straight when you’re being led by your dick.

  I begin reading her campaign details. It’s well written, so well written that I wonder if she paid someone to do it for her. It’s funny, quirky, but relatable. The kind of thing that usually takes years of training to write. I know personally how hard it is to find talented copywriters, and yet this girl apparently does it with ease.

  Her reasons for using the service are vague, however, and that raises a red flag. She’s not the typical girl I’ve been finding on here, that’s for sure. She lacks the glamour, she doesn’t look fake, she’s not one of those IG girls with huge lips and plastic tits (or sometimes even a plastic ass nowadays).

  So, what gives?

  Why is she really on this site, auctioning off her body and soul for an amount of money that in the scheme of things, is nothing compared to what she could get just by marrying rich?

  There must be something very wrong with this girl, I decide.

  And then I click on her short video.

  She’s just holding her own camera, selfie style, looking into it, flushed cheeks, clearly embarrassed. “Hey,” she says, smiling and then her eyelashes bat like she’s flirting, but it’s totally natural, not forced at all. “So, this is awkward. Ummm…I am not sure what to say, exactly. I suppose this is just to prove I’m real? I am. I’m a real girl. A real person…and…” she looks up, bites her lower lip, adjusts her position.

  I can see her cleavage for a brief moment as she bends forward, those luscious orbs heavy, round and full. Her skin is pale, but soft and delicate looking. “And I suppose I just hope I can meet someone nice, someone who wants to spend time together and have a real experience. I can’t be too picky, I suppose. This isn’t Tinder or eHarmony.” She flashes another embarrassed grin and then her cheeks flush more. “Not that I’ve ever even used those sites. Because, the truth is, I haven’t. I’m an ordinary girl looking for something and someone extraordinary. God, that’s so cheesy. Well, hope to hear from you. Bye.”

  The screen freezes on that shot of her, waving, looking huddled in on herself, insecure and innocent and sexy as fuck. All at once.

  My cell phone dings and I glance at it. One of my real girls has sent me a picture. I pull it up and see that she’s wearing nothing but a thong, her perfect ass extended back, thrust towards me. Giving a look over her shoulder, a come-hither look with fuck me eyes.

  I could have her at my place in under an hour, screw her until she cries mercy, and send her home before dawn. No fuss, no muss.

  But then I remember the encrypted mail with all of the pictures and video. This girl could be the villain in question, messing with my head. Doubtful, but still possible. If I’m going to spend time with anyone, she has to be someone completely new.

  And crazily enough, I don’t even feel a shred of desire for the half-naked girl (who just happens to be a very successful television actress) who sent me the sexy pic.

  I want the other girl—the one charging a ridiculous amount of money on that ridiculous website. The one who made my dick feel like hot steel, ready to impale her, spread those luscious thick thighs and fuck her until she forgets her own name.

  I need to lick her pussy, put my cock between her plump lips and come all over her sweet little tongue.

  Damn it. I click the Fund button before I can think better of it.

  Haisley

  I somehow manage to drift off to sleep, despite the butterflies I was feeling after posting my campaign on GirlFundMe.

  But then I wake up, disoriented, thirsty, and I grab for my bottle of water and gulp some of it down. I check the time on my cell phone.

  It’s after three in the morning.

  Also…I have an alert from GirlFundMe.

  It says, You Have Correspondence Waiting!

  I click on it, blinking and trying desperately to wake myself up so I can focus. I know that I can’t already have interest for my campaign. After all, there are so many beautiful girls on the site, and I made my campaign so expensive that the chances of anyone being interested are less than zero.

  What kind of correspondence do I have? Probably some kind of welcome message or alert about my profile needing more detail.

  The app opens and brings me to my account inbox.

  I have a big splashy piece of mail that says YOU HAVE BEEN FULLY FUNDED! CONGRATULATIONS!

  I gasp.

  This is crazy. There must be something wrong.

  Maybe it’s a weird hoax, a scam or something?

  I look at the next message waiting for me in my inbox. It’s from NashD, and the subject line says: Hello.

  I click on the message to open it, and inside it simply says, We need to discuss timing ASAP.

  That’s it.

  I go to my campaign page, which is now listed as closed to offers. Reason: Campaign Fully Funded.

  I suddenly feel nauseous and light headed. I get up and stumble to the bathroom. I sink to knees in front of the toilet, feel my gorge rising, my stomach contracting painfully.

  I’m going to be sick, and I hate puking.

  I hate the loss of control, I hate the feeling, I hate all of it.

  Slowly, the nausea subsides.

  I manage to regain some control of myself, although I’m shaking and my mouth tastes metallic and bitter. I get up after I can be sure I’m not going to vomit after all, then I brush my teeth and wash my face.

  My eyes look haunted.

  This can’t be real. What the hell was I thinking? I can’t believe I just went and signed up for this crazy service without even giving it any real thought.

  I’m incredibly irresponsible to have done it, and now what? Now I’ve gone and sold myself off to some weird stranger. He could be anyone. He could be a serial killer for all I know.

  But it doesn’t matter, because he paid the money so now he owns me. I can’t back out without paying a steep penalty, unless I have a medical reason backed by a physician or other extenuating circumstances. The site states clearly it can and will sue for damages if I try and back out of my contract after its been agreed to and signed off by both parties.

  The last thing I can afford is to owe even more money.

  I feel the panic starting to rise again, and I can’t get enough air. I walk back to my bedroom, and finally it hits me. I need to speak to this phantom menace, this stranger who now seemingly is in control of my life.

  I hit respond on the app and write a reply to NashD’s message.

  Hi there. Is there any way for us to talk a bit over Skype or Facetime? Thanks. Looking forward to speaking.

  I assume there will be a bit of lag-time before I get a response, but then I see a blue dot flash and next to it, a new message.

  Don’t see the point, is all it says.

  Don’t see the point? What the fuck? I start replying, and now I’m getting angry as well as frightened. I quickly type my reply.

  The point is I have never seen or spoken to you. It would be nice to at least get a glimpse and have a chat before we arrange to spend a month together.

  I hit send.

  A new reply comes back, even faster if possible.

  You don’t make the rules here. I paid for you, remember? That means we do it my way.

  I scowl. Great. It’s clear the guy is a complete and utter jerk, which is probably why he needs to spend so muc
h money to buy a woman in the first place.

  What do we do now? I write.

  And then comes his reply. I’ve booked a plane for you. Tomorrow morning at 8 am. Details to follow.

  I’m fuming now. I can’t just leave tomorrow morning. None of this is how I pictured it to be. First of all, I never in a million years thought that anyone would actually fund my campaign. It was something I did in a moment of panic, just to feel like I was at least trying to find a way out of my problem.

  As I sit here alone in my tiny room, in my recently broken into apartment, where my degenerate gambler father snores on the couch, I feel like I’ve hit rock bottom in my life.

  I’m stunned by how quick the descent, how rapidly I fell to this point.

  I’ve become a prostitute, and now my life is not my own. I have to get out of this. I consider ways of breaking my leg so that I have a true reason to pull out of this deal without being sued into oblivion…

  And then I get an alert.

  Sighing, I open the correspondence that’s come in from the GirlFundMe site.

  Dear Haisley,

  Congratulations on having successfully funded your campaign! As required, your funder has provided us with their personal information. Below, you will find the details for your records.

  The first payment is on its way! And the rest will fund after both you and your funder complete the agreed upon time share, after which both parties must also agree that the campaign has been conducted in good faith and meeting all terms and conditions as set forth by GFM and Parties, LLC.

  Below this legalese is the information stating the real name, age, and address of the man who has bought me, for a month, for one hundred thousand dollars.

  The name is Dermot Nash, he’s 27 years old and lives in Manhattan.

  I feel like the name sounds familiar. Dermot Nash. Where have I heard that before? I pull up Google and type the name into the search engine.

  I want to at least find a picture of this weirdo and see how bad it’s going to be for me. Please, God, I think, just don’t let him be totally hideous. Please allow him to at least be presentable, tolerable. Please.