I was on the prowl.
But I had already been caught.
In San Francisco.
So when the guy I was set up with asked me what kind of wine I’d like, I only thought about how WineBar would order for me. How if he didn’t approve, he’d order something else.
And where did that leave me?
Thinking about his cock inside of me.
I thought about the time he made me crawl on the floor. I crawled over to him and he took his pants off. Then he held me by the hair and fucked my face.
Afterwards, he tied my wrists to my ankles and made me curl up into a little ball.
He took off his belt and spanked me with it.
I came. Over and over.
And I realized that I could try and fly as far as I wanted, but I’d never run away from WineBar.
That Tiffany bracelet with the infinity logo? He had bought it for me.
It was time to go back.
That night, after dinner, I didn’t go back to the boring dude’s apartment.
I went to JFK.
Let whatever fate had stored for us have its way with me.
Katherine & Alexander
One
Alexander
“What is this bullshit?”
“The Bradford.”
“I know it’s the damn Bradford. But what the hell are we doing here?”
I glance at the building in front of us again, take another swig of the whisky bottle I’m holding, and wipe my lips with the back of my hand.
“So?” I ask, not impressed by their choice of venue.
Sure, The Bradford is nice and all, but this is my fucking birthday. These guys should be dragging my ass to the sleaziest strip club in town, not to some upscale Manhattan building.
I mean, come the fuck on! We’re three young men making money hand over fist with every concert we do, and there are thousands of willing fans in Manhattan alone. Why am I not making out with the hottest model in a one-hundred mile radius while keeping the groupies at bay with a fucking sword?
“It’s your birthday, man,” Mike tells me, looking at Chris and grinning suspiciously. They’re both as drunk as a goldfish in a vodka bowl (nothing new there), and there’s something about the way they’re eyeing me that I simply don’t like.
“I know it’s my birthday. What I don’t know is what the hell we’re doing here,” I repeat, waving my whisky bottle at the Bradford. “I see no girls, and I see no liquor. Your idea of a good time is a fucking twisted one, that much I can tell you.”
“No faith in us, huh?” Chris asks dramatically.
“None.”