CHAPTER 1

(Disclaimer: This is purely a work of fiction.)

LACY

I walk down the building with my head up high, even higher when everyone pauses to let me walk through. Their eyes shift to me, and the murmurs start.

“Is that Madame X?”

“Fuck, she's hot.”

“Oh my— I've never seen her before.”

“How do you know she's the one?”

“Can't you see the scar on her right thigh?”

That one makes me grit my teeth. I know that it's what they've all used to tag me. The ghastly ‘X’ scar on my mid thigh. Years ago when I joined this...business, a client went a little crazy when I was tied down, and used a pocket knife security should have snuffed out to mark me with the first letter of his name.

Xander Root.

I would never forget him. But when I tell people that, they think it’s because of the scar he gave me. No—I’ve gotten quite used to it. It hurt like a bitch at the time and the scar is really ugly to look at, but it changed my life for the better, after all.

I was 19 then, now I’m 24. Yet, no man has fucked me the way he did. And for someone who fucks at least once a day, that’s disappointing, really. I’m not looking for a repeat with him, ew no. But is it only the dangerous kinky men who know how to fuck a woman good?

I love to bring pleasure. I’m the best at what I do. It’s why I left my former place and built my own place underground the streets of Storey County.

It’s why my watch is beeping right now as it gives me a reminder that I’m 7 minutes late for my appointment. I smirk. I like to let them wait a little.

I usually meet them hot and bothered. Though, I’ve started regretting this. Because hot and bothered means they’re too wound up to think about anything but their own pleasure.

I’ve gotten used to cumming around my fingers after a scene, but it’s fucking frustrating.

Anyway. I could spend a day talking about selfish men, but that’d be no fun. So, let me tell you about fun.

‘S & S’ is a club strategically built in the slums of Storey County, Nevada —yes. There are slums over here, too. I like to tell myself it’s underground because it’s extremely hard to find. Which is why my drivers go to the client’s homes, drive them here, and drive them back. Prostitution is mostly legal at this part of the country, so it was my best bet.

I have about 100+ in clientele. About 50+ drivers, and about 40+ staff who love to do what I love to do. Fuck and be fucked.

Everyone talks about the club, but not everyone can get in. As you can already imagine, only the top 1% of the US go here. Or perhaps we could include the less wealthy. The ones who would use their lifetime savings to buy a week ticket.

I’m proud of it; not only has it made me privy to information and secrets of these people, it has made them fear me and shut their mouths forever.

One thing you should know about Politicians. They like to fuck, but don’t know how to. Oh yes, another thing, they’re fucking draining the country’s money.

But well, the people who are trying to stop that are doing their part. I do mine by donating to any Charity Foundation I stumble upon. Anything deeper than that is my specialty.

I can’t change the world, but I can make a man cum.

I snort at that thought. I need a man to fuck me hard and rough and make me cum at least thrice. Bonus if he makes me squirt.

Thoughts like these make me wonder where life went wrong. My mother gave birth to me and left me at an Orphanage home. I never got adopted. The Matron would gush about how pretty I was, but whenever those married couples came in, the wives would look at me and frown.

“Her eyes. There’s something about her eyes.”

When I turned 16, one of them slapped me for staring at her son for too long. I did stare. He was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen. But it’s not like I could do anything about the way he was looking at me.

“No. Not this one. She looks like a whore.”

The Matron stopped introducing me to parents, then. I like to tell myself it was for my sake, but when I grew older I realised she just didn’t want news getting around that there was a whore in her Orphanage home.

So what did I do when I ran from that place at 17? I became one. I had to sleep with a few guys to get them to help me with a fake ID, before looking for a popular Illegal Prostitute ring in the suburbs then.

It was fun. Asides a few men who hurt me, it was so much fun. Until well...the incident. Everyone thought I’d end it. Stop working there, but I didn’t. And that’s what made me popular. Not my full boobs or curves and soft ass, no. The scar on my thigh.

When the fame got too much, the owner of the place —Mr. Lauren advised me to stop working, for fear that the authorities would find out about the place.

So I left with all the money and tips I had made, and started my own business in the slums because it was all I could afford. 4 years later, Mr. Laurent’s place has been shut down and S&S is the new Haven.

Tonight, I’m dressed in a blue lacy piece underneath my pink silk jacket that stops just at the start of my scar. There’s no makeup on my face, no. The client requested heavily that I came as natural as possible. I couldn’t say no. Not after they paid a hefty 4 million dollars for one night with me. Two men. They weren’t Politicians, weren’t known Billionaires.

I had no idea how they had that kind of money to throw around, but I wasn’t complaining, in fact, I was soaked.

Ignoring the whispers, I tighten the mask on my face and walk into the room, pushing a gold door open. Only my personal clients got to see my real face.

It's only when the door shuts with a click, and I register my entry time that I turn to the room. A thick smell of cum and sweat hits my nose as my eyes adjust to the scene before me.

The two men have gotten comfortable. One of them is sprawled out on the red leather couch, dark coffee eyes on mine as his hand works his cock. His large, veiny cock.

Fuck, that would hurt so good.

I feel heady as I break away from his gaze, to the one who's seated on the wooden chair I love to get tied to. His misty green eyes meet mine, sharp and sure, but that isn't what makes me gasp.

My hand goes to the remote the size of a cover attached to my jacket. Our way of protecting our staff. One click would cause at least 2 security guards to stumble in here.

But I shift my hand away as arousal pools in my stomach, sliding down my thighs.

Because between his legs is a third guy, naked and on his pretty pink knees, long lashes fluttering as he sucks Green's cock.

I stagger and swallow. “You’re nine minutes late, Madame," Coffee says. But I can't look away from the man on his knees. He doesn’t spare me a glance, focused on pleasing his master.

“I—” I clear my throat, chin up. I’m in charge here. “The offer said two men, not three.”

Though, fuck knows I'm not complaining.