Besides, you know what they say about a man’s thumbs, right? Well, Vaughn Asher has incredible thumbs. And large feet. They say that too.
Yes, doing filthy things to his six-foot-two frame has been my idea of Dirty Heaven for almost three years now. I’d like to say I’ve said everything imaginable about him, but that’s not true. I never run out of ideas. It’s like my brain only exists to compose a one-hundred-and-forty-character sentence that will turn him red.
That’s my fantasy. That’s my fairy tale. Vaughn Asher doing things to me that can only be said in a hashtag.
Chapter Two
#ThanksForTheFuck
“I’M afraid you’re going to have to leave,” I tell the dark-haired beauty crawling towards me on the floor of my suite.
Her mouth drops open and she stops crawling, but my attention is on her hair. It’s dragging across the floor and picking up dust. I need to speak to the maids about the dust.
“What?” she asks, as she goes from crawling to kneeling. That has got to hurt her knees. Pressing against tile like that. “Did I do something wrong?”
She’s almost perfect. Almost being the key word. She’s very tall and thin, the physique of a model, really. Willowy is the word to describe her. All arms and legs. Small breasts, but they are nice enough. As is her ass. She’s obedient. But—
“I can change, whatever it is. I can change.”
I sigh. I hate having to dismiss the girls. It bothers me when I have to spell it out. I always tell them before we start, this is nothing but sex. But they only hear what they want to hear. Something akin to This is more than sex, I want you by my side forever? Maybe. I’m not sure. Whatever they hear, it’s not, Thanks for the good time, now get the hell out, because that’s what my mind is saying.
“You can keep your job here at the resort. In fact, I’ll still pop in for yoga every now and then, if that’s OK.”
“Just tell me what I did. I’ll fix it.”
“I’ll include a bonus in your next check if it dulls the sting.”
“I didn’t tell anyone about you, Master.”
“I know. You did everything right.” They never just take the money and leave. Ever. They never make it easy for me.
“Then why? Can’t I ask why? Don’t I deserve an explanation?” She’s on her feet now, walking towards me.
I put up a hand and she stops. “I don’t like you. It’s that simple.” I stand up and walk towards her so she can’t take control. Her doe eyes look up at me, pleading. But my decision has been made. I’m done. I cup her face and stare down at her. “You’re simply not perfect. And that’s all there is to it. Your imperfections are glaring. It was nice fucking you. Good luck and goodbye.”
Chapter Three
#NotPrinceCharming
I SCAN the guests as they pull up to the resort valet. Most are family. We have a huge family. I have seven aunts and uncles on my father’s side alone. And my mother is a twin and has two older sisters. Every one of them has at least three children.
Sending that girl away this morning is still a flicker of irritation in the back of my mind. She has no room to complain. They never have any room to complain when I dismiss them. But they always do.
Some of them want the fame, I suppose. As if I’d ever take one of my submissive playthings out in public as my girlfriend. I laugh at that as I watch my family pour out of the limos down below. These silly girls and their fantasies. I’ve had so many of them over the years and not one ever made it to an event on my arm. You’d think they’d pick up on that, but they don’t. They always assume they are the first for some reason. The Prince Charming complex, maybe. I’m their savior. They all think money is the answer, but money is the devil. Money is the problem. Money is never enough.
It takes them a while to realize this, but they all realize it eventually. This last one I’m not so sure about. One night was all it was ever meant to be. She must’ve been craving it. That slave-master relationship. Either that or she’s been in one before, because she was ready and willing to do everything I commanded.
I feel sorry for her, but when I’m done, I’m done. And she was never my type anyway, she was just here. She was a shrug. An afterthought. A side dish. She never came close to girlfriend material.
No. The subs are never girlfriend material. They are toys. And maybe all the women I date are toys, to some extent. But none of the women I date publicly get their asses spanked red or their hair pulled as I fuck them from behind.
I crave the dirty, but only in private.
My thumb rubs circles over my brow as I desperately try to ease the tension from having to spell it out for her. Why can’t they just stick to the agreement? Why do they always have to stick around afterward, forcing me to humiliate them further in the stark glare of morning daylight?