Valentines slave, p.1
Valentine's Slave, page 1
Valentine's Slave
Elizabeth Douitsis
Contents
Copyright
. Chapter
Trigger Warnings
1. Chapter 1
2. Chapter 2
3. Chapter 3
4. Chapter 4
5. Chapter 5
6. Chapter 6
7. Chapter 7
8. Chapter 8
9. Chapter 9
10. Chapter 10
11. Chapter 11
12. Chapter 12
13. Chapter 13
14. Chapter 14
15. Chapter 15
16. Chapter 16
Chapter
Chapter
Copyright © 2024 by Elizabeth Douitsis
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the author.
To request permission, contact info@elizabethdouitsis.com
The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.
ebook ISBN: 978-84-127013-4-0
Published by Good Goods Press
https://goodgoodspress.com
Cover Design by GetCovers
Editing by Courtney Umphress
To every girl that secretly—or not-so-secretly—wants to be tied up and tortured with pleasure.
Trigger Warnings
brief, non-graphic telling/mentions of violence & murder, including an infant
Talk of past relationship trauma, specifically concerning one-sided, selfish sex
a sexual contract including rough sex, bondage, spanking, toys, equipment & dirty talk
1
Valentino
It’s nearly Valentine’s Day, and I’ve secured my target. I’ve been stalking Ava Montgomery for the past seventy-two hours now, studying her, analyzing the desolation and innocence emanating from her lonely blue eyes, in contrast with the fight and the fuck-off demeaner of her black nails and ever-ready middle finger.
I had begun to doubt that I would find someone like Ava at all, with time running out, with my expectations so much higher. This year will be different since I refuse to merely bury myself in a random woman for a night of mediocre vanilla sex.
This time, it took much longer, days crawling slowly by as I scoured the city, hunting down someone just as dark as she was delectable, just as masochistic as she was wild. This year, I decided my ritual would reach new heights. I don’t ask for a lot, but I need to have this, and I will. I’ll have it all. I’ll have her.
It’s 11:09 p.m., and the moon shines faintly through the New York smog. Ava’s hair is illuminated by the light of the streetlamp, lush blond locks spilling out of her knitted woolen hat. Several strides bring me closer, and I watch her as she clutches her phone in a desperate kind of way, discomfort and shame flitting through those haunting eyes, eyes that I want to watch my reflection in while they fill with desire, with ecstasy.
She looks to be in her mid-twenties, which is quite a bit younger than I am, not that that bothers me. She’s wrapped up in a frayed black coat that keeps her warm while still showing off her curvy form. A thrill pumps through my core, and I study her for a few more seconds before moving in close, stepping behind her as if I’m casually waiting for the bus.
Glancing over her shoulder, I read her screen. She’s on a sugar daddy site, the thought of which makes me sick. She’s desperate, and I’ve seen evidence. Yesterday morning, she came into Cora’s Diner, her minimum-wage-paying workplace, with a bulging backpack and gym bag, her face looking hollow and frail. She had bags under her eyes and looked distressed. It was obvious that she’s barely making it and perhaps doesn’t even have a place to stay.
And yet, the sick part of me revels in that, the fact that she’ll be completely and utterly dependent, driven by her circumstances to cling to me with everything she’s got. She won’t be able to refuse even if she wants to, and now I know exactly how to proposition her.
She clicks through her sugar baby profile and opens her inbox to a message from a grey-haired man. She then hurriedly turns off her phone and slides it back into her pocket.
I get the sense that she doesn’t really want to sell her body to wrinkly old men for sex. And yet, she’ll sell it to me.
She must feel my gaze, and glancing behind her, Ava looks me up and down, eyes narrowing. If she senses something dark, she’s absolutely right, and I smirk at her. I don’t hide who I am. She turns away quickly and doesn’t look back as she cranes her neck to look down the dark street, straining to catch sight of the bus.
She doesn’t seem to recognize me from the several times I went to Cora’s, though I was careful not to sit in her section so I could observe her without her notice. She was too stressed to take in much around her, in any case. If the prey observed the lion just as carefully as the lion observed the prey, it might just escape. But not her, not from me.
Like every year, it’s a test of my limits. By December, I’m salivating. By January, I’m throbbing. By February, when the Valentine’s roses and chocolate come out, I’m nearly dying, but I never jump the gun, even if it kills me. I don’t give in to my own whims. I put them in their place until the time is right. And then, I conquer.
It’s 11:23 p.m. when the bus finally pulls up. Ava hasn’t looked at me again, but she can’t keep her hands off her phone. I’m sure that she’s reading messages from more sugar daddies, that she’s torn as much as she is sickened.
I follow her to the back of the bus, where she sits in the very last row. When I also sit in the last row, opposite her, she throws me a dirty glance, and I just give her another smile. She’s on her phone again, mascara-hooded eyelashes brushing her fair cheeks as she texts rapid-fire. She doesn’t have her bags with her today, and I wonder where she’s staying tonight. I had originally planned to find out exactly where she was going, but now my plan of action has taken a different turn.
The bus is crowded, and I immediately notice when a shady-looking man in a ratty coat, clutching a garbage bag in his hands, traipses up the stairs towards the back of the bus. He’s looking straight at Ava, seemingly entranced by her, walking towards her as if he’s a zombie going in for his next meal.
She doesn’t see him until it’s nearly too late, her face buried in her phone. I’ll teach her how to be alert of her surroundings, how to break her phone addiction. But this time, I step in.
In a heartbeat, I’m on my feet, about to step between Ava and the wandering-eye homeless man. My movement finally wakes Ava from her social media–induced haze, and she lets out a small gasp as her entire body tightens.
“Get the fuck away from me,” she spits at the man, and something tells me this isn’t their first run-in. Did Ava sleep on the street? I’m ready to beat this guy’s face into the ground until he’s nothing but purple pulp.
His eyes jump between her and me. His eyes look bloodshot and high.
“Now, you know the rules,” he says to her, his voice like burnt gravel.
Ava stares him down, gaze scorching as she clutches her bag closer to her chest. “Get lost.” Her voice is almost a whisper, but it packs a punch. The homeless man takes another glance at me, and so do some of the other people on the bus. Finally, he backs off and walks back down the stairs.
Ava turns on me next.
“I don’t need your help,” she snaps.
I fight the wicked smile playing at my lips.
You certainly do, and you will accept it.
But instead, I just give her a silent nod and turn back to my seat.
The rest of the bus riders go back to minding their own business, and I keep my gaze in front of me, all the while noticing in my peripheral vision that Ava glances at me every few seconds. Her lips can lie, but those crystal-blue eyes can’t.
I don’t look at her again until the bus arrives at her stop, and she gets up with something like hesitancy, glancing at her phone as she walks down the stairs to the door. I watch her perky little ass all the way there, and then I smirk.
Until next time, my dirty little Valentine.
2
Ava
Is thirty too old to be a sugar baby? The word still freaks me out— thirty, I mean, not so much sugar baby because how much worse could things really get?
I thought Shawn and I would get engaged when I turned thirty, that we’d be planning for the future, for kids and a house in Brooklyn. But nope, the fucker decided to cheat on me with a nineteen-year-old, and when I confronted him about it, he tried to make it my fault, and then jumped the gun and kicked me out. I got hardcore depressed, like Oli Sykes, the frontman of Bring Me The Horizon, when his first wife cheated on him, and he wrote the song ‘in the dark’. I had a meltdown and lost my job, and now, to be honest, I’m struggling to stay off the streets.
But back to SugarDaddy.com. I have five responses, and I have to say yes to one of them. I guess to these old guys, thirty is still young—young enough, at least. I might have put on some weight from all the emotional eating with the stress of the breakup and work and my living situation, but I’ve got a nice face, I think. Shawn always told me I had a doll’s face, though I felt like he wished I were his sex doll.
I try to stay still on this futon couch so it won’t creak as I scan my inbox. I already read the first message last night while I was waiting for the bus. It was from a guy named Al with gelled-
It’s nearly 6 a.m., and I’m still half-asleep on Janelle’s couch. She’s one of the nicer girls at work, and she said I could stay at her place for a few nights. I brought my stuff over the day before yesterday, but I need to find my next move, get a deal settled so I won’t be continually bouncing. I’ve been working at Cora’s for the last two months, trying to get myself back on my feet, but I’m living off savings, and money’s disappearing fast.
Life in New York is expensive, and maybe I should just leave, but where would I even go? Besides, I can’t leave Mom, whose Alzheimer’s is taking a turn for the worse. She’s not just putting her oranges in her dishwasher anymore, she’s forgetting which people are dead and which people are alive.
I also can’t bear the thought of being so far away from Hailey, the best friend I’ve ever had, as well as sister, and her son, Malcolm, who’s turning ten soon. Despite being her kid, he’s like my little mini, begging me to take him to hard rock shows ever since I got him into Billy Talent last year. Hailey would kill me if she found out what deep shit I’ve gotten myself into without asking her for help. I just don’t want to be a burden on her. She has it hard enough, barely making it trying to get her hairdressing business off the ground, taking care of Malcolm, and now Mom as well. Plus, her place is barely big enough for her and Malcolm. I can’t live with her. But I will update her on things, soon.
Focus, Ava, I tell myself, turning back to SugarDaddy.com. There’s a guy named Scott who looks to be the youngest of the group, maybe late fifties. He’s got grey-flecked brown hair and blue eyes, but there’s something unsettling about him. Is it just me, or does every guy on this site seem like a serial killer just waiting to prey on innocent female flesh? Or maybe I’ve just watched too many horror movies. I was hoping for a ninety-something in a wheelchair.
I reply to a guy named Ted, since at least he has a nice name, like Ted from How I Met Your Mother, though he looks like he could be Ted’s grandpa. Holy shit, he’s eighty-eight. But that also probably means he can’t get it up, and he must have cash. Maybe I’ll meet him for coffee or at least do a phone call to negotiate a deal. I also reply to Willy, a runner-up at seventy-nine years old.
If I can just land a ‘real’ job, then I can sign a lease, and everything will be better. I worked in advertising for years, and my last job was amazing, blogging for a travel agency. I haven’t gotten any callbacks, though, and I’ve been desperately trying to keep my own little blog alive to make some cash that way, but with all the stress of life and just trying to survive, I don’t have time to put out content and do affiliate marketing, and I’m getting desperate. Besides, a blog has to be about something, and I’m not sure exactly what. I know I need a niche, but I have no idea what to specialize in.
Last week things hit an all-time low. When I couldn’t find a place to stay, rather than use up my hard-earned savings on money-sucking motels, I ended up wandering the streets for half the night, looking for a shelter before finally taking a breather in a bus shelter. That was when a creepy guy who smelled like piss and smoke slithered over and claimed it as his territory, then reached out to grab my hand and told me he’d be willing to share, for a price. I hightailed it out of there and hardly slept the entire night.
What shitty luck, running into the very same creepy hobo on the bus just days later. The other guy, who looked like Jason Momoa but fiercer, a hulk with long black hair and a beard, who’d been waiting for the bus behind me, seemed to think he had to step in and protect me or something. But I don’t need protection from anyone. I’m a grown-ass woman, and I can take care of myself. The guy was a character—he seemed interested, the way he gazed at me so intently with fire in his eyes. Was he interested or something? But he didn’t make a move, and obviously neither did I. I’m not exactly in the dating game right now.
It’s 6:30 a.m. when I finally get out of bed and drag myself to the bathroom to throw on some makeup.
The day passes in a blur. At lunchtime, a mother spills her coffee, and it nearly gets on her toddler, which makes everyone at the table freak out. I hardly catch my breath until finally it’s 4 p.m., and I’m free, free to hunt for a room so that I don’t overstay my welcome or end up on the street again. I open my messages on the sugar daddy site, hoping to fit in an interview tonight. Whatever I do, I have to act fast.
There’s a new message from a guy named Marco. I don’t recognize him from this morning. He’s a stranger, and he looks equally old. Yep, seventy-two. But the message has nothing to do with pleasantries or asking about the weather. No, it’s direct and to the point.
Marco: My nephew would like to offer you $50,000 to spend Valentine’s Day week with him. He’s not a daddy, and he isn’t looking for a baby, but he’s incredibly attracted to you. If you are interested, you may call or text him this evening at the below number. He is a good man. Please at least hear him out.
Who the hell is Marco, and more importantly, who is his nephew who’s so attracted to me? My heart is thudding faster, as if this is the beginning of some cliche romance movie, and I grab my phone, add the nephew’s number, and search for him on WhatsApp. When I find him, I click on his profile picture, and my eyes turn to saucers.
Marco’s nephew, the ‘good man’, Valentino Rossi, is no one other than the studly hulk who tried to protect me on the bus last night. I have no idea how his uncle so conveniently happened to be on the same sugar daddy site that I’m using, but he apparently wants to buy me for Valentine’s Day week.
This sounds like messed-up shit, and while I’d had high hopes of being a vanilla sugar baby who was more like an ego boost than a prostitute, I’d had a feeling that wasn’t going to cut it. I was going to have to sell my body if I wanted to survive. But would I really do it?
Biting the bullet, I call Hailey up and share the news. She knew that things were rough since I lost my job and started working at Cora’s. Obviously, I don’t have a place since I’d been living at Shawn’s for the last year. But I didn’t tell her how bad things were, that I was near rock bottom.
“Ava, sweetheart, why the fuck didn’t you tell me something before getting on a sugar daddy site?” Her voice is shocked over the phone. I have my laptop open at a café, and I’m brainstorming for blog ideas. I already job hunted until my head split open. Calling Hailey was supposed to be my break, but it’s not exactly pleasant.
“Chill, Hails, I’m figuring it out,” I say.
“You know you can stay with Malcolm and me, right?” she asks. “You could crash at Mom’s place. Why would you sleep on strangers’ couches?”
Mom lives in the tiniest one-bedroom apartment, and she’s very particular about her space.
“I’m a big girl, Hailey. I can take care of myself. The reason I’m telling you all this now is because I’ve received a strange and lucrative proposition.”
“Please don’t tell me you’re an official sugar baby,” she says.
“Not exactly.” Valentino is about a thousand times better looking than any of the daddies. He’s better looking than most guys in general with that tall, broad frame of solid muscle. “One of the daddies has a nephew, a young, hot-looking guy who may be interested.”
“In a sugar baby?” Hailey asks.
“Not exactly, but it’s a week-long deal. I don’t have all the details, but I’m going to meet him for coffee. I’ll let you know how it goes later.”
“Ava. Do not go anywhere with him alone,” she warns. “Make sure you get photos of his driver’s license, get his address, get everything.”
Hailey can freak out, but she can also be no-nonsense when the situation requires. That’s why she’s so good at emergencies.
“Will do.”
“How much is he offering to pay you for a week?”
I hesitate. “Fifty grand.”
I practically hear her eyeballs jump out of their sockets.
“Holy shit, what does he hope to do with you for that price? A hooker would be cheaper.”
