Buy Me

By: Cassandra Dee

So I stretched out, looking around. This place was okay. Sometimes we run satellite ops, off-shoots of the real deal to test a new market, see what we can catch elsewhere. Although we have the best recruiters, sometimes we staff a new set-up just to see what happens, maybe draw in some prime female flesh. And this particular hush-hush operation had popped up on the fly, with no real planning, just the goal, as always, to find the best, most beautiful women out there.

So no, the interior wasn’t anything to write home about. Sure, the lights were dim, but the set-up inside was bizarre, like it’d been designed by some funky nouveau interior designer. First, instead of having private booths, this place had a maze using plants, a series of bushes and hedges that came up to my chin, forming a labyrinth of sorts. I have to admit it was a cool idea because it gave the place a lush feel, like we were in a tropical garden instead of some no-name industrial complex. Plus, the vegetation definitely muzzled sounds, so the moans and cries of various women in heat, the grunts of alpha males spurting, were merely muffed cries, arousing as shit.

But yeah, other than the musical symphony, this place was just okay. I stared at the amber liquid in my hand, a shot of the good stuff, Maker’s Mark straight. But that’s the problem. It was just Maker’s, there was no Woodford Reserve, hell, the waitress had never even heard of Woodford Reserve, the words were completely foreign. So I shook my head, disgusted. What kind of bar only has one type of bourbon? A shitty ass bar, that’s what, I thought, throwing back the drink.

But the alcohol wasn’t my prime concern tonight. I was here to see whether or not the right type of girl was coming through, whether there was any potential to source females from this part of the country. Even though NYC is generally ripe pickings, still, if you’re on the wrong block you can be cold, whereas a place one mile up is hot. And what I’d seen so far hadn’t been promising. The first girl was ridiculous, too much plastic everywhere. I don’t know what’s with the ladies these days, but that female couldn’t have been more than nineteen and yet she’d had significant work done. Her chin and cheekbones protruded bumpily, you could practically see the stitches in her skin. Plus the perfectly circular, rubbery breasts were fuckin’ scary, like cones poking out. It was too fake and I wasn’t exactly shy telling her.

“Naw,” I grunted, leaning back in my chair.

But the blonde Barbie couldn’t be dissuaded. It’s something about my aura, maybe the expensive suit I have on, the polished shoes or the forty-thousand dollar watch on my wrist. Because despite the fact that I’d already dismissed her, Barbie wasn’t turned off at all. She flipped a perfectly straight sheaf of long, platinum hair over her shoulder and glanced at me coyly.

“You sure big guy?” she murmured, batting her lashes. “How about if I give you a little of this?” she cooed, pulling down one side of her top so that a huge gazonga popped out, giant and ghostly white under the lights.

But like I said before, this woman has had way too much work done, and unfortunately, it wasn’t done well. Even in the dim interior, I could make out the slight ridge of her implant, a line in her flesh marking where the breast tissue stopped and the saline began. So I shook my head again, disgusted.

“Naw, baby girl,” I grunted disinterestedly. “But you might want to get that looked at,” I added. “Shit like that’ll go bad on you in a few years, not the ten they say.”

The girl was obviously confused, she had no idea what I was talking about. Plus, I’m sure most dudes salivated at her titties, happy to get a mouthful of Double D. So the girl stuttered, her expression creasing into a bimbo-like look of confusion.

“I’m sorry, wha?” she asked, eyes almost crossing with bewilderment. “I’m sorry sir, what did you say?”

I sighed, feeling more exasperated than anything. The poor thing was like a bag of rocks, not two brain cells to rub together.

“Your tits,” I ground out, staring at that one big boobie pointedly. “Your implants are shitty and they’re gonna explode way before the expiration date. Go see a doctor,” I commanded.

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