Buy Me

By: Cassandra Dee

The girl flushed then. But instead of being embarrassed or ashamed, instead she pulled the fabric lower so that both her breasts sprung out like enormous buoys.

“But how do you know?” she simpered. “Don’t you want to touch to make sure? You can be my doctor,” she breathed invitingly.

Again, some guys would have been all over this. Some guys would have welcomed the opportunity to motorboat his face between two huge bags of saline, enjoying the artificial bounceback. But not me, I like ‘em creamy and real, and this Barbie was all plastic. So disgusted, I reached into my wallet, pulling out a card.

“Here,” I said shortly. “Here’s the name of my secretary, call her for the name of a decent MD.”

The girl was on it immediately, scooping up the paper like she’d won a grand prize.

“Oh sure, and I can call you at this number too, right? This is where I can reach you,” she simpered, tantalizingly slipping the card between those gazongas, the breastflesh eating up the scrap. But I’d had enough of this shit. She could call my secretary as much as she wanted, but the blonde would never reach me, Mrs. Cohen knew exactly how to screen wannabes and hangers-on. So I merely shook my head and took another swig of my drink, clicking a button next to the chair.

“Handler,” I grunted, and immediately a woman appeared, middle-aged and severe, dressed all in black.

“Sir, may I help you?” she nodded courteously. “Is there something I can do?”

I nodded, expressionless.

“Get her out of here,” I said, indicating the blonde. “And make sure she sees a plastic surgeon. An accredited one,” I said meaningfully, “not some fake who pumps girls full of industrial silicone.”

The woman nodded, gesturing to the blonde.

“Of course, we’ll make sure Courtney is taken care of. Courtney,” she said with a stern glance, almost like she was talking to a child. “Let’s go Courtney, pull your dress up, it’s time to go.”

And Courtney was like a dumb doll, getting up unsteadily, manhandling her boobs awkwardly, the flesh slipping this way and that until they were stuffed back into her top.

“Oh sure, but what about Mr. …?” she asked, blue eyes wide, looking between the two of us. “Are we gonna get together again, big guy?”

I was so disgusted that I couldn’t reply. There was nothing appealing about this girl, both her body and mind were missing, she was a life-size mannequin. So I turned away silently, leaving the handler to take care of it.

“Maybe Courtney,” the woman cajoled. “But remember, it’s the clients choice, so let’s give him some privacy to decide,” she soothed, grabbing Courtney by the wrist as the girl teetered in her high heels, top heavy and ridiculous. “Let’s give Mr. White some privacy, shall we?” she asked again, this time pulling the blonde along behind her.

And Courtney was happy enough to leave, thinking that we’d be reunited later. But the handler knew exactly what I wanted because at the last moment, the woman turned and nodded again, still dragging her charge along.

“Would you like another one, sir?” she asked courteously. “I’m sorry this one didn’t work out, but we have a particularly abundant selection tonight.”

It’s funny. Any other club, and you would have thought she was referring to a drink, offering me another cocktail. But no, we were the Billionaires Club and I was here to check out the girls, to see if there was a viable pipeline that would sate my brothers back in Nevada. And so far, it’d been disappointing, a real let down. The girls tonight just hadn’t been with it, and Courtney was a prime example of everything that was wrong, the low IQ, the plastic body, the clueless personality. The Billionaires Club sources the highest quality material, not fake shit, not dumb shit, and not illegal shit. We want the best and are willing to pay for it, yet tonight’s selection had been overwhelmingly bad, the bottom of the barrel.

So I almost said no, I almost put the lid on it and left for the night. But something changed my mind. I’m not sure what it was, maybe it was the sound of a female moan from a couple booths away, or maybe it was the alcohol speaking. Shit, Maker’s Mark is still potent stuff and I’d had four or five shots by now, numbing myself to the pain.

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