Best of 2017

by Alexa Riley

  Every morning I leave one in its stead.

  A Belgian truffle, a tub of candyfloss, a selection of vintage cheese.

  Finally, on Friday morning, I leave her a bottle of wine.

  It’s an expensive one, thoroughly extravagant. Ridiculously extravagant.

  I write her a note along with it telling her to enjoy her weekend.

  It’s the craziest phenomenon, how this little gift exchange brightens my disposition.

  I’ve been excited when I walk in through the door at night, smiling as I set out her daily surprise on the kitchen island before leaving for work.

  So it’s no surprise that I’m feeling the disappointment now the weekend looms, knowing the house is about to turn cold again.

  My Friday morning is a ballache of client meetings, followed by an afternoon that proves to be a fucking pain in the ass to boot.

  Board meeting. My disgusting father nodding at me across the meeting room table.

  He accosts me as everyone leaves, insisting I stay behind as I stare pointedly at the clock on the far wall. I’m supposed to be meeting Mr Rand at his office in forty minutes for a Friday night celebratory social. I hate those at the best of times, but right now it feels pretty damn inviting.

  “What?” I snap. “I’ve got places to be.”

  His smile is sickening. “Yes, so do I. Auction, yes?”

  I stare blankly. “Auction?” And then it dawns. Claude’s seedy fucking new meat offering.

  My cock twitches instinctively at the thought of getting some fucking snatch, but I don’t care today. I don’t care at all.

  “Have you seen the lots?” my father asks, and his eyes sparkle with delight.

  It sickens me. I tell him so.

  “Get off your fucking high-horse, boy. We both know you’ll only last so long.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  He laughs. “Yes, we will. It’s at eight. Don’t be late.”

  I hate the way he has such little respect for my resolve.

  I hate the way he has such little respect for me.

  “A bit old for little girls aren’t you, old man?”

  “I do just fine, thanks for your concern.” He leans in close and it makes my skin crawl. “Nothing a few little blue pills can’t remedy. I can hook you up, if you like?”

  I shunt past him without the grace of a response, and my heart is thumping, hands so clammy I repulse myself.

  I wipe them down as I head to the car, and my breath is shallow, raspy.

  Panic.

  I’m on the edge of a fucking panic attack.

  It amuses me so much I stop to laugh.

  A fucking panic attack.

  I haven’t had a panic attack since Geoffrey Rogers smashed a cricket ball into my temple and I thought he’d smashed my skull in. I was twelve.

  It won’t ease off as I get into the car, not even after a minute of staring blankly through the windscreen and breathing in to seven out to eleven.

  I call Brenda, she answers in two rings.

  “Mr Henley?”

  I tell her I’ve changed my plans. Tell her to inform Mr Rand that we’ll have to reschedule.

  I give her no time to drill down into detail, just hang up and scroll through my weekly schedule.

  I’m marked out as busy for at least another ninety minutes, time enough to get home before rush hour.

  Which means…

  And I get it. I get the panic attack. I get the urgency of having to cancel Mr Rand’s silly fucking social.

  I’m officially losing my fucking mind as I put the car into reverse and get the fuck out of there.

  MELISSA

  I’M ABSOLUTELY CRAPPING myself knowing that tonight’s the night my fate will be decided.

  I’ve made preparations, spending a chunk of my latest wages on setting up life insurance and writing out one of those stupid standard legal templates to set up a will naming Dean as Joseph’s legal guardian should I…

  Well, just should I…

  I don’t want to think about that.

  Mr Henley has left me a bottle of wine, I choose to think about that instead.

  I wish it didn’t have to be this way. I wish I could leave him a note telling him that my name is Melissa Martin and I’ve loved him since I was fourteen.

  I wish I could tell him that it was my dream to be like him, and I’m sorry we had to meet this way, but to give me a chance, just one little chance to introduce myself.

  I wish I could tell him that being in his house is the greatest honour, and I’d give anything just to share breakfast with him, just once in person.

  But I don’t.

  I can’t.

  Because tonight Mr Henley will be seeing my face on some seedy auction screen. Tonight Mr Henley will be seeing my spread pussy and my sparkly heels, and listening to all the things I said to Claude last week.

  I’m just Mr Henley’s cleaner, and Mr Henley is a kind employer.

  I don’t want Mr Henley to be a kind employer, I want him to be the man who takes my virginity.

  And that’s why I can’t take the bottle of wine from him. It’s vintage. Expensive.

  It’s too much for a lowly little cleaner like me, and I don’t want to drink it without him.

  My note is simple this evening.

  Dear Mr Henley,

  You are too generous.

  Thank you, but please enjoy the bottle yourself.

  MM.

  I hug Brutus without even thinking about it as I prepare to leave and he stiffens but doesn’t growl at me. I slip him an extra fish treat and ask him to wish me luck.

  My Henley’s calendar shows some work social thing, but I want to get across the city in time to avoid rush hour.

  I want to cuddle my baby brother and forget my body is about to be bid on by a roomful of strangers.

  And then I shall wait for the verdict.

  Terrified.

  I close the door behind me and step into the cool twilight, bracing myself against the chill. The street is quiet and I smile as I realise I really have missed the rush hour.

  In half an hour I’ll be snuggling up with Joe on the sofa playing choo-choo trains as Dean puts the kettle on.

  The glow of headlights behind me makes a long shadow of my silhouette, and then they swing away onto a driveway. And I know. I just know.

  I stop.

  Wait.

  I dare to glance back over my shoulder in time to see Mr Henley step out of his Mercedes.

  I’m too far away to see him clearly, but I want so desperately to watch him make his way inside.

  I take a couple of small steps back towards his house, close enough that I see he swings the door open quickly, with an urgency that hitches my breath.

  This is risky. Too risky.

  I’ve resumed walking when I hear the thump of his front door for a second time.

  The hairs on my arms stand up, my throat tight and scratchy as I pick up my pace.

  Please don’t see me like this, please don’t.

  I stop dead as I hear him call after me.

  ALEXANDER

  SHE’S NOT HERE, but the alarm is still running through its activation cycle, so she’s close. Really fucking close.

  I just want to see her.

  I want to look her in the eye and thank her for her gifts.

  I want to tell her she’s doing a great job.

  I want to ask what her name is.

  I want to ask her her life story.

  I want to know her.

  The door slams behind me as I dash back into the street, and I know I’m acting like a crazy. I know I’m out of my fucking mind.

  And there she is, a tiny figure in stripy green walking away towards the underground.

  “Hey!” I shout, and I feel like such a fool. “Miss Moll…” Fuck. That’s not her fucking name.

  Fuck.

  What the fuck do I fucking shout?

  She stops.

  And I’m scrabbling for w
ords, pacing towards her without a fucking care for how deranged I look.

  What the fuck do I say?

  Hey, Miss fucking cleaner? Hey, MM. Come and say hi to your idiot fucking boss.

  I’m trying to find the right fucking words, trying to get this crazy fucking impulse under control and not appear like an absolute fucking crazy when she keeps on walking.

  She hears me and she keeps on walking.

  It fucking floors me.

  I stare in horror as some poor freaked-out little employee makes a dash for it, and I know I’m way out of line.

  So out of line I can’t do anything other than stumble back to my front door.

  Jesus Christ.

  My head spins.

  I’m a head case, a fucking lunatic.

  My fingers fumble with the door handle and I barge back through to safety on the other side.

  I head straight through to the kitchen to splash myself with cold water, and that’s when I see the bottle of wine still on the island.

  I tear into the note.

  Dear Mr Henley,

  You are too generous.

  Thank you, but please enjoy the bottle yourself.

  MM.

  I laugh a bitter laugh.

  Of course.

  She doesn’t want the wine.

  She doesn’t want to fucking know me.

  She’s just a woman doing her job, and I’m a fucking imbecile.

  An imbecile who’s too much of a fucking addict to think straight. This cold turkey is sending me fucking nuts.

  It has to stop. Right fucking now.

  I fire off an email to the New Start volunteers, telling them poor Ted can’t be there tonight.

  And then I call up Claude’s messages.

  It’s time to put a stop to this craziness.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  MELISSA

  WALKING AWAY from him breaks my heart.

  I feel it shatter into pieces, my belly churning as I rush down to the underground and away from there.

  I want nothing more than to change my mind, turn on my heel and batter his front door down, apologise for my rudeness and beg his forgiveness.

  But I can’t.

  Because in a couple of hours’ time he’ll be seeing my naked body on a screen somewhere, if he hasn’t seen it already.

  I’m all in, committed to staying the course, committed to whoever wins this auction tonight.

  Please God, let it be him who buys me.

  Please God, let him show mercy on his rude cleaner and let her keep her job.

  My cuddles with Joseph soothe my heart enough to breathe through the panic.

  Dean makes me a coffee and joins us on the living room floor, resting his head on my shoulder without words, knowing just as well as I do that my fate is about to be decided somewhere across the city.

  I’m glad he’s my best friend, my constant in this craziness.

  We put Joseph to bed together after dinner, and I slump down exhausted on the sofa, beyond hope that my mastermind plan is going to work out well. I snuggle up to Dean and he puts his arm around my shoulders. There’s a difference in him, an acceptance. I guess he’s as exhausted as I am.

  And that’s when he says it, just a whisper in the darkness.

  “I get it,” he says. “I get why you’re doing it. You’ve been through so much, lost so much.”

  “I’m scared,” I admit, and he sighs.

  “If it’s not him, you get out of there, fuck the money.”

  I nod, but I know it’s not going to be that simple. There’s no way it will be that simple. You don’t just walk away from crap like this, not from people like this.

  “Would you do it,” I ask, “for twenty grand?”

  His breath is on my hair. “Henley?”

  I nod, and feel him smile.

  “Hell, Lissa, I’d probably do Henley for free.”

  ALEXANDER

  I’M CONTEMPLATING Candice or maybe Elena. Maybe even that perfect little slut Britney Jane if she’s available.

  It doesn’t really matter, I just need to pound my cock into some tight little pussy and wrap my fingers around her throat.

  I’ve got a backlog of messages from Claude, some new girls, some older offerings whose exclusivity agreements have expired. None of them interest me in the slightest.

  I sigh and check out the auction listings. Five pieces of hot new pussy ready to go to the highest bidder.

  A pretty dark-haired girl with blue eyes, nice, but literally every single fucking box has a tick in it.

  A chubby little redhead with a cute smile, she’s a definite maybe, but the app tells me there have been ten pre-interest bids on her already, and she won’t do anal. Fuck that.

  A natural blonde with ridiculously unnatural tits. No. Definitely not.

  A girl who’s going for the sexy librarian look but failing miserably. She’s no fucking librarian. No fucking way.

  And the final listing. The hot piece of the evening. A certified virgin with hundred grand reserve, Jesus Christ.

  I click on the link and up comes her image.

  It stops my fucking heart.

  She’s young, maybe early twenties, big pretty eyes staring up at the camera. She’s in pink underwear that doesn’t fit very well, a soft innocence on her face that belies her surroundings.

  Her light blonde hair is cut in a jagged style, her body petite and pale.

  Like Debbie Harry.

  She looks like a young Debbie Harry.

  My cock twitches and I’m smiling.

  I’m a teenager again, jerking myself crazy over the tatty posters on my bedroom wall. Fuck knows how many times I’ve come thinking about fucking that woman. I’ve still got the posters somewhere, folded up in a storage box for prosperity.

  And here she is, a good enough replica that my cock’s already pulsing.

  I need this. I really fucking need this, virgin or not.

  I call Claude and he answers after a single ring.

  “I was wondering when you’d grace me with your voice,” he laughs.

  I’m not in the mood for jokes.

  “I want the virgin,” I tell him. “How much? I’ll get it transferred.”

  He ums and ahhs, acting like he’s in a real fucking corner. “No can do, I’ve got pre-interest. A lot of pre-interest.”

  “Fuck the pre-interest,” I snap. “Just give me a fucking price, don’t be a prick.”

  “Bidding starts at eight,” he says. “I’ll see you there.”

  I haven’t got time to argue before the cunt hangs up. I curse the fuck out of him and then I check my watch.

  Twenty fucking minutes to get to fucking Chelsea.

  I grab my fucking coat.

  I PULL into Claude’s bastard saleroom car park, piling out of the car with a haste that revolts me.

  A doorman lets me in when I rap on the front entrance, then locks up behind me.

  “Mr Henley, sir.”

  I wave him away and pace on through to the back.

  Everyone is already assembled, at least fifteen men from my social circle with their crappy bidding cards in the air for the librarian girl. Fifty grand she’s going for.

  They are welcome to her.

  I ease myself into the back of the room, hoping that nobody gives me a second glance, but old man Kennedy, one of the senior players at the House of Lords, clocks me in the corner of his vision. A nudge to his associate and a smile in my direction, and the whole room is alive with whispers.

  My father turns his head, and the grin on his face makes me sick to the stomach.

  He heads in my direction and I bristle when he clamps a hand on my shoulder.

  “Good call, boy, I knew you’d make it. You here for the librarian, nice piece of pussy, isn’t she?”

  “I’m not here for the librarian,” I sneer, and his eyes light up.

  “Of course, Blondie, yes.” He tips his head. “You’ll be going up against your old man, Alexander. I’ve got my
eye on that one.”

  The idea makes me seethe. “Back off,” I hiss. “I get first choice, remember?”

  He shakes his head. “Not this time, boy. Not when there’s a pretty pink hymen on offer.” He laughs and slaps my back. “May the best man win.”

  There’s no best about it. I try to shrug off the disgust as he heads back through the crowd.

  I’m about to walk away on principle, fuck this whole fucking spectacle, but the hammer comes down at sixty-five grand on the brunette, and the next lot flashes up on screen.

  Amy.

  Twenty-one.

  Virgin.

  No limits.

  I have to look twice at the screen to make sure, but it’s right, Claude confirms it in his summary.

  No limits, not a single one.

  My throat is bone dry as they play her intro video, and I know the girl shouldn’t be here, she’s too innocent, much too innocent. The nervous sparkle in her eyes, her shy smile.

  I can barely look, but I can’t turn away.

  She’s absolutely fucking beautiful.

  She tells the camera she has no limits, none at all. She tells the camera she’s a virgin. She tells the camera she wants this.

  Claude zooms right in on her untouched pussy like the seedy cunt that he is, and she’s perfectly imperfect, her pussy lips puffy and uneven. Her tits aren’t perfect either, natural and fleshy with tight little pink nipples.

  There’s an intimacy about her that makes me uncomfortable as I watch her play with herself on screen, as though she’s staring right into me, right through me.

  I have to swallow a weird lump in my throat as she wraps her fingers around her throat and tells Claude that’s what she likes, and I nearly come in my fucking pants, right then and there in this disgusting fucking place with these disgusting fucking people.

  The bidding starts before I’ve even regained my fucking clarity.

  One hundred grand.

  One twenty.

  One two five.

  My father comes in at one fifty.

  I head him off at two hundred grand, my eyes meeting his and hoping my stare burns him to fucking death.

  He nods. Two twenty.

  Two fucking fifty, I say.

  Another bidder, some idiot who can’t see what’s going down here. Two sixty.

  Three hundred grand, my father says. And let that be a fucking end to it.