What Devin Knows

“Come on, handsome.” An older redhead, perhaps in her forties, whispers into my ear. “P—Please fuck me.”

In an off-the-shoulder glittery red evening gown and wearing sultry evening makeup, she’s drop-dead gorgeous. And I know what you’re thinking.

But there’s a few complications. First, she’s the boss’s wife, and he’s standing just across the ballroom during a company holiday party. Second, although he isn’t my boss, he heads the business of the woman I’m escorting. Third, I don’t work for free.

Let’s roll back the clock a bit. Once upon a time, I lived in a small town in a southern US state. Which one isn’t important. They’re mostly the same. Idyllic on the outside, but a hotbed of twisted residents bubbling in the shadows.

Right up front, I’m gonna confess something. Because of my good looks, folks said I was groomed from an early age. I’ve given up on challenging it. Frankly, it worked, I guess, and I’ve done pretty good so far.

What do I mean by grooming? Nothing extravagant. No rich guys taking me to the Bahamas. Well, not back then. It was simple. The usual. Older cousins of both sexes, bored, drunk, and high, just like me. Our parish priest, who had a unique answer to my burgeoning sexual curiosity. While he wasn’t very kind or talented, I learned that some folks really got off on rough sex. Never thought that was a thing. It is.

Oh, and I had the sweetest science teacher in high school who taught me much about how to be safe. Both he and his wife were great fun to be around. They were also the first ones to rent me out. On the other hand, I received part of the take and made enough for a car. I mean, it was used, but it ran well. A lot like me.

And I should clarify, by now I’m solidly nothing, and everything, when it comes to sexual orientation. Pansexual? I guess. Whatever. My dad was a traveling salesman. If you’ve got the cash and I think you’re worth my time, I’ll play. And a guy as tall and muscular as me, I’ll toy with you as hard and for as long as you can afford me.

Cold? Yeah, I suppose. On the other hand, it’s kept my life simple.

Which brings us back to that suddenly-not-so-boring party. In a cloud of extravagant French perfume, Mrs. Boss is moaning into my ear. And with booze much stronger than the free champagne wafting from her trembling lips, she’s rubbing that hot little frame against me.

While she’s got stunning green eyes and an impressive rack displayed in a swooping neckline, it’s math time. Only for the shock value. I’ve no intention of taking on a new client, no matter how gorgeous or loaded she is. But I run the numbers, anyway. Good practice.

Large company. Multinational. Publicly traded. You’d recognize the name. In platinum, not gold, settings, she’s covered in a lot of large, dangling diamonds.

“Two thousand dollars.” Then I glance at her hubby and chuckle. “Five for both of you.”

That’s all I say before turning, snatching another flute from a barely clad server, and walking away. Until that point, I’d doubted Mrs. Boss had a clue I fuck for a living. With the Christmas music, I’m unable to discern her slurred reply, but it starts with a loud gasp.

Boom. Problem solved.

Now, on to locate my actual client. She’s pretty enough and for the life of me, I can’t figure out why she has to pay for the likes of me. As I move through the swaying—and staggering, it’s getting late—crowd of partygoers, I check everywhere.

Then I find her.

Sitting on a small couch in a corner, she’s with another guy. Tears are tumbling down her cheeks. He’s red-faced and the color of his face deepens when he spots me. Ah, now I understand. I’m playing the pawn in a timeless game. With a grin, I tip my glass at him before wandering out the nearest open sliding door.

Once on a broad patio, I inhale all the chilly oxygen in the world before letting it hiss from my lips. Well, I’ve been paid in advance. After a salute to the stars, I chuckle before downing the rest of the bubbly. No limo ride home for me, though. Not the first nor the last time I’d ride the train in a tux.

And then the universe decides to have a little fun at Devin’s expense.

At the slow click-clack of high heels on tile, I turn expecting my newly reconciled client to tell me to leave. But as the blood red sequins of her dress glimmer, Mrs. Boss sashays—it’s more of a meandering stagger—closer.

“How much for the weekend?”