Read Online Weak for Him by Lyra Parish - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lyra Parish
Tags: Erótica, Romance, Contemporary, Sex, sexy, Love Story, alpha male, virgin, steamy contemporary romance, angst romance, alpha female, virgin and millionaire
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to bore me to death. I never knew there were so
many forks and spoons, or that there were proper ways to eat
spaghetti, sip wine, or cut steak. Sitting up straight and making
sure to act like a lady were top on my scold list along with
learning to speak only unless spoken to. No swearing, biting nails,
or making ugly faces. Act interested in what the clients have to
say. Men do not like women who act like barbarians, my coach said after I ate fried chicken.
Barbarians? She would die in
Texas, where everything was bigger and the trivial things didn't
matter. Where we walked around with barbecue sauce on our T-shirts
because it was easier than changing, and being barefoot was
natural. Texas, where the sun always shone, and where everyone
worked hard until their dainty hands had calluses.
Coach demanded practice in
four-inch high heels, taught me to laugh genuinely at stupid jokes,
and flirt with my eyes. Twice a day, exercise was required, cardio
in the morning and afternoon with weight lifting every other day. I
essentially attended princess training. Where the hell was my
prince?
The contract stated I would have a
dedicated week of training, but I didn't expect mannerism school. I
expected to watch porn, learn how to give hand jobs, blow jobs, and
to pop my ass out when I walked. My views on being a call girl were
steadily changing.
Lori laughed when I told her that.
Her response was, "The Elite are classy individuals, Jennifer. Not
whores that are picked up on the side of I-10. You have to make the
men feel important. It's easy, really. Our clients act like
gentlemen, and they do nice things to make a girl feel special. I
have a great time with my Number One, you know, the man I'm most
compatible with out of all the clients," Lori said.
I loved her. She was my saving
grace. Although I kept my deep secrets to myself—more specifically
the ones about Mr. Felton—she knew most things about me, and I her.
She was no Abbie, but was the closest alternative, and would be
returning from a business trip the next day. Until then, I would be
alone in the lion's den.
After I strutted my way through
hell, also known as Jennifer's mannerism training, I was given a
manual with dating guidelines for The Elite.
Trust between client and employee
must not be broken.
Never kiss on the lips because
it's too intimate.
No blow jobs, hand jobs, or any
sort of sexual acts on the first date.
All dating curfews must be
followed.
And the list continued with more
No's than Yes's. Of course, the fine print stated that if agreed
upon beforehand or if the price was right, some of the No's could
become Yes's. Each case would be reviewed and approved on an
individual basis. Along with the guidelines, we were given specific
to-do's such as checking our email each day. Most correspondence
from Mr. Felton arrived that way. Nothing personal like a phone
call, or a text, but rather a group message sent to every girl.
Tomorrow would be the night that I met one of my
matches.
The email clearly stated the
instructions:
The limo will arrive at eight. All
girls will be escorted to the corporate office's convention center,
which will be setup for the client meet and greet.
Below was a reminder of how
everyone was matched:
Both client and employee must take
the match survey to see if they have fully compatible
personalities.
The client must decide if he is
attracted to his matches, and then a bid is placed.
The highest bidder is granted
access to the employee. Documents will be signed between both
parties, creating a legally binding contract.
Lori would be back in the
morning.
She would help calm my nerves
before the big night.
***
The group of women lined up
against the walls. We were handed specific numbers and were
instructed to place them over our left breast. Before sticking on
my number, I peeked. Lucky number thirteen.
The doorway at the end of the
hallway opened.
Mr. Felton.
He was dressed in a navy blue
fitted suit
many forks and spoons, or that there were proper ways to eat
spaghetti, sip wine, or cut steak. Sitting up straight and making
sure to act like a lady were top on my scold list along with
learning to speak only unless spoken to. No swearing, biting nails,
or making ugly faces. Act interested in what the clients have to
say. Men do not like women who act like barbarians, my coach said after I ate fried chicken.
Barbarians? She would die in
Texas, where everything was bigger and the trivial things didn't
matter. Where we walked around with barbecue sauce on our T-shirts
because it was easier than changing, and being barefoot was
natural. Texas, where the sun always shone, and where everyone
worked hard until their dainty hands had calluses.
Coach demanded practice in
four-inch high heels, taught me to laugh genuinely at stupid jokes,
and flirt with my eyes. Twice a day, exercise was required, cardio
in the morning and afternoon with weight lifting every other day. I
essentially attended princess training. Where the hell was my
prince?
The contract stated I would have a
dedicated week of training, but I didn't expect mannerism school. I
expected to watch porn, learn how to give hand jobs, blow jobs, and
to pop my ass out when I walked. My views on being a call girl were
steadily changing.
Lori laughed when I told her that.
Her response was, "The Elite are classy individuals, Jennifer. Not
whores that are picked up on the side of I-10. You have to make the
men feel important. It's easy, really. Our clients act like
gentlemen, and they do nice things to make a girl feel special. I
have a great time with my Number One, you know, the man I'm most
compatible with out of all the clients," Lori said.
I loved her. She was my saving
grace. Although I kept my deep secrets to myself—more specifically
the ones about Mr. Felton—she knew most things about me, and I her.
She was no Abbie, but was the closest alternative, and would be
returning from a business trip the next day. Until then, I would be
alone in the lion's den.
After I strutted my way through
hell, also known as Jennifer's mannerism training, I was given a
manual with dating guidelines for The Elite.
Trust between client and employee
must not be broken.
Never kiss on the lips because
it's too intimate.
No blow jobs, hand jobs, or any
sort of sexual acts on the first date.
All dating curfews must be
followed.
And the list continued with more
No's than Yes's. Of course, the fine print stated that if agreed
upon beforehand or if the price was right, some of the No's could
become Yes's. Each case would be reviewed and approved on an
individual basis. Along with the guidelines, we were given specific
to-do's such as checking our email each day. Most correspondence
from Mr. Felton arrived that way. Nothing personal like a phone
call, or a text, but rather a group message sent to every girl.
Tomorrow would be the night that I met one of my
matches.
The email clearly stated the
instructions:
The limo will arrive at eight. All
girls will be escorted to the corporate office's convention center,
which will be setup for the client meet and greet.
Below was a reminder of how
everyone was matched:
Both client and employee must take
the match survey to see if they have fully compatible
personalities.
The client must decide if he is
attracted to his matches, and then a bid is placed.
The highest bidder is granted
access to the employee. Documents will be signed between both
parties, creating a legally binding contract.
Lori would be back in the
morning.
She would help calm my nerves
before the big night.
***
The group of women lined up
against the walls. We were handed specific numbers and were
instructed to place them over our left breast. Before sticking on
my number, I peeked. Lucky number thirteen.
The doorway at the end of the
hallway opened.
Mr. Felton.
He was dressed in a navy blue
fitted suit
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