Fake Daddy To Be

With a rueful shake of my head, I leave his apartment, closing the door softly behind me. Then I rush out of his apartment and totter my way to the subway, doing the walk of shame. Oh well, I don’t care. There are a lot worse things to see in NYC.

Fortunately, I’m just in time for the train and as it pulls away from the station, I reminisce on last night’s magic. Chan was dominating, rough, tough, hard, and all male. He was far too addictive, and I tell myself that disappearing without a trace was the right thing to do. Again, we clearly live in two different worlds, and those two worlds aren’t meant to mix. If his friends and family knew I was just some poor hussy from the street, I’d embarrass him.

I get off at my stop and rush home. I know Ava is still asleep because the apartment’s utterly still. Thank god, because this is not the time for questions. The clock on the stove tells me I have time for a cup of coffee but nothing else before I have to head out again.

Quickly, I scoop a few spoons of coffee into the filter and start the Mr. Coffee machine that I got as a Christmas gift from my parents. Then, I make my way to the bathroom to scrub off my make-up and jump in the shower. Flicking on the light, I expect to see a drag queen who’s just gotten off a three-day bender, but instead, my make-up looks okay. It’s rubbed off in most parts, instead of smearing, and I merely look like a girl who’s been well-loved.

Thoroughly fucked would be a better way to put it.

Smiling to myself, I step into the shower. I’m sore and achy in some parts, but it’s a good reminder of Chan, not bad. But this is not the time to dwell on every single naughty detail. Instead, I zoom the loofah over my skin, quickly rinse, and step out onto the bathmat. Then I throw on a t-shirt with Pleasanton High spelled out in block letters across the front. I pull on my favorite pair of worn jeans, slip my feet into sneakers, and grab my tote bag that I use instead of a traditional purse. It has a pocket inside for my wallet and it doubles as a grocery bag, which is useful in a city always on the go. I rush through the door and out onto the street.

The subway wait is monotonous but it’s fine. I hop out at my destination and practically run to the building where my new maid job is located. It’s not until I reach the huge limestone structure that I realize two things: 1) I never drank my cup of coffee, and 2) this colossus looks weirdly familiar. Then again, maybe all my jobs are blurring in my mind. They design skyscrapers all the same these days, so I shrug. It must be deja vu.

The concierge calls up to let my employer know I’m here and directs me to a private elevator. Wow, fancy. As I get into the lift, I try to snap myself out of it. This is not the time to be reminiscing about last night, even if I spent delightful hours in the arms of a commanding alpha male. This is the moment to focus on my job, so that I can pay my bills and stay in New York.

But then, the elevator dings and the doors whoosh open. Hmm, this hallway looks somewhat familiar too, but I kick myself. What’s so special about a hallway? The walls are white and the carpeting is a deep green, which is standard enough. I walk up to only door in the long corridor and knock. At least I’m on time.

But then the massive slab opens and the breath whooshes out of my chest because it’s Chan! He looks absolutely gorgeous in a black t-shirt and jeans, only he’s looking at me like he’s ready to spank me and devour me at once.

“Hi Trixie,” he says in a low, sensuous growl. “Funny to see you again. Ready to get started?”

Wait, I’m cleaning his apartment? Oh. My. God.

5

Channing

* * *

I toss in my sleep, my mind drifting. She’s giggling in my ear, those big breasts pressed against my chest. I lift her leg and as expected, she’s wet and ready for me. I ease myself into that pink channel, tight and snug, and she moans deliciously, squeezing me into delirium.

But then, my eyes pop open because Trixie’s not here. The room is dark and utterly still save for my agitated breathing. I’m as hard as steel under the covers, but alas, there’s no sweet, curvy female ready to satisfy my desires. What the hell? Where is she?

Like a madman, I throw off the covers and stomp into the living room, but of course, she’s gone. The woman didn’t even leave a note. The only evidence that she was ever here is the black strapless bra under my couch, as well as a pair of balled up panties stuck in the seam between the sofa cushions. I raise the lace to my nose, inhaling her sweet scent. God damn it. I should have asked her for her real name but I’m stuck with the name “Trixie.” Trixie, my ass. You might as well call me Santa Claus.