Gabe
“Oh, my lord. I’ve never seen such beautiful flowers.” Her hands flew to her slightly open mouth within seconds of opening the door.
The Southport florist had kept them in the refrigerator, and by now, condensation on the glass dripped down, risking an embarrassing water stain on the front of my slacks. I held the vase out far away from my body.
“Are these peonies?” She lifted the dripping vase out of my hands and backed up to admire the arrangement. She clasped her hands over her heart, and those beautiful blue eyes glistened under the overhead kitchen lights.
“No one has ever given me anything so beautiful. I don’t even…you’re the first man to ever give me flowers.”
No. Way. How?
“Beautiful flowers for a beautiful woman.” Those big blues looked up to me, shiny with tears, and I added a mental note to set up a regular flower delivery for her. “Come on. Don’t cry. I wouldn’t have brought them if I’d known you’d react like this.”
She air swatted her face and bent her head back to stare up at the ceiling, saying something about how I was going to ruin her mascara. I held the door open for her and watched her laugh at herself, fanning her face. She wore tight leather leggings, black boots, and a sweater.
“Do you want to grab a coat?” I asked as an afterthought.
“It’s not that cold, is it?”
“No, but it’ll be chilly on the boat, especially when we come back after dinner.”
“You have a boat?”
“Gotta have one to live on an island like this. I don’t want to be dependent on the ferry.”
“I suppose, if one has the money and the skill.”
“Skill?” I scoffed as I ushered her out. She held a sweatshirt coat over her arm. I made a mental note to buy her some new coats. At the very least, she needed a good waterproof option.
“I can’t drive a boat.”
“Ah, well, maybe I’ll teach you.”
We walked from her place to the marina gate. As we passed through, she fingered the sign hanging on the gate that declared the marina open only to boat owners.
“I feel like I’m going into a forbidden land.”
“You live ten feet away. This is your back yard.”
“Yeah, but I don’t have access.”
“Anyone can walk down here.” Not only that, but people did all the time. People loved to glimpse inside the yachts as much as they loved admiring the houses along the beach.
“Which one is yours?” We were strolling past a few of the larger million-dollar yachts. I hadn’t bought one of those. Overkill for what I needed.
I led her up to my Boston Whaler. “Right here.” Even though it wasn’t the biggest or most expensive, she gaped at it as if it was the biggest she’d ever seen. My twisted brain carried that idea into the bedroom, and I couldn’t hold back a smirk.
She raised an eyebrow in question.
“Nothing. I’m glad you like my boat.”
“She’s beautiful. What’s her name mean?”
“Bull? It’s something I thought up on the spur of the moment. For the bull market.” She didn’t seem to get it. “Probably a dull-witted idea. Madoff named his boat Bull.”
“Who’s Madoff?”
“A guy. Not the kind of guy to look up to, but in an article years ago, I read his boat's name, and I always liked it. So…” I focused my attention on the control board. “Anyway, I like this boat. She’s big enough to crush the waves for a smooth ride, and small enough to easily maneuver in the marina and through the channel in low tide. Those yachts are good when you’re actually going to be spending time at sea. They’re a bitch to maneuver in tight spaces.”
I started her up then quickly untied us. My plan for our date included a scenic boat ride down the inlet, then dinner at Smoke on the Water, a restaurant right on the river.
It was a clear evening, and the stars twinkled in the sky, as did all the lights in homes along the waterfront. No boats were out, and we were the lone light on the waterway.
“Want to steer?” I asked.
“Oh, no.” She hunkered down in the passenger seat, pulling the ridiculous sweatshirt coat around her shoulders. I slid off my Barbour jacket and handed it to her.
“Wear this. It’ll block the wind.”
“No, you need it. I’m fine.”
“I really don’t. Please take it.”
“Would you stop? I’m warm enough. I promise.”
She huddled, and her teeth chattered. Stubborn woman.
“You’re being ridiculous. Take my coat.”
“Then you’ll be cold.”
“I’m not wearing it anyway.” I pointedly moved my coat over to her chair.
Minutes passed, and my frustration level rose. But as we entered a narrower portion of the river, I slowed our speed, and the wind transitioned to a light breeze. Poppy’s grip on her flimsy jacket loosened as she became entranced in our view of golden lights reflecting off dark waters. As her shivers subsided, my muscles relaxed.
When we arrived and docked, Poppy dropped her sweatshirt jacket down in the hull of the boat, claiming she didn’t need it. I suspected she was aware the coat looked ridiculous with her outfit, so I didn’t argue, though my preference would have been she take it, since she didn’t appear amenable to taking an offered coat if needed.
As someone who had perused all her photos, signed up for her VIP subscriber package, and eagerly paid $7.99 for each private posting, I possessed familiarity with her smoking curves. The sweater draped over her large breasts in a way that hid her gorgeous figure and cloaked her curvy ass. Even so, her almost cartoon-like oversized blue eyes and blonde hair attracted plenty of men’s stares as we were guided to the reserved table by the window. In my opinion, those blue eyes were as responsible as her breasts for a large portion of those fans. In fact, a great number of her photos were of her face or of her eyes. Her make-up tutorials often garnered as many likes as the photos of her tits.
After ordering, she gazed out over the inlet. “It’s beautiful here.”
“Yes, it is.” Without taking my eyes off the cover girl before me, I concurred. She bowed her head, bashful, as she comprehended my meaning.
“You know, I’m a big fan of yours.”
“You are?” she asked.
“I check your postings each night before I go to bed.”
“You do?”
“I do. I didn’t know much about OnlyFans before I met you. I had in my head—”
“Porn. You expected porn. Most men do.”
“Yeah, and maybe prostitution.”
“I think that’s more in Europe. Where it’s legal.”
I tapped my finger on the table, as understanding dawned that she was actually quite naive. She hadn’t done a full review of her marketplace.
“Yeah. But your photos surprised me.”
“Because I don’t do that?”
“You don’t even do nudes. I’ve been a VIP subscriber for months. How does that business model work? People really keep paying you a monthly fee for lingerie shots?”
“We call them boudoir shots.” She shifted in her seat, and as she did so, the sloping neck of her sweater drooped, exposing smooth skin and a hint of decolletage. Fully aware of where my attention fell, she teased me with a soft knowing smile.
“But I keep thinking you’re going to show your breasts. Or play with a vibrator or something.”
“Maybe that’s why you keep paying?” She ran an index finger over the rim of her water glass, and I considered her statement. Yes, I could see it. The expectation of more was inherent in her posts, and then over time, I could see strangers equating her as a friend. Business intrigued me, and I wanted to understand hers, even if it was a nontraditional one. So, I probed.
“Who is taking those photographs? Do you have a friend who follows you around?” I’d wondered that so many times. Especially the ones in her bedroom and of her in her lace and tantalizing thigh highs.
“It’s all me. I have three different stands. I set it up and mostly have it go on auto, then edit. The short videos, those are popular. It’s the Tik Tok world nowadays. Some of those short videos, like the ones of me doing my eyeliner and mascara or playing with different shades?”
I nodded. I’d watched every single one.
“Well, those bring in VIP accounts. And I’ll be honest. I’ve expected people to cancel in droves once they realized my more intimate paid for channel still didn’t get dirty, but no. I’d say about fifty percent of my new subscribers cancel after the first month. But I’ve been holding pretty steady on subscribers. Or, at least, I was. This past year has been brutal. I suspect as competition intensifies it’ll be harder to maintain my income.”
“You get it all from subscribers?”
“No. Tips add to subscriber income.” She paused. “Wait, do you tip me?”
Her tone indicated the idea of me tipping would offend her. I tipped her all the time, but I shook my head.
“Well, I make about five percent of my monthly income from tips. Another twenty percent from special requests.”
“What kind of special requests?” This was something I’d wondered about. As a VIP subscriber, I couldn’t see what other sick pervs were requesting of her. I only knew what I’d like to request.
“Oh, you know. Birthday requests.” She toddled her head back and forth, explaining with animation. “Special outfits while I sing happy birthday, writing some guy’s name on my belly with shaving cream. There’s one guy who pays me—and I am not kidding you—two hundred and fifty dollars to send him photos of my feet with my nails painted in his requested colors. Two hundred and fifty dollars! That pays for my pedicure, polish, and then some. Oh, and I don’t count this as income, but there’s an Amazon wish list I fill out, and people buy me shit. Strangest fucking thing.”
While I found it fascinating, I didn’t care for men from random computers writing her with requests. I recognized my cognitive thought process as being primitive, but I didn’t like it. Yes, everything she did was largely innocent…but I still didn’t like it.
“But once you get your restaurant going, you’ll probably stop, right?”
“Yeah…” She trailed off, thoughtful.
“Give me your updated restaurant pitch. I might want to invest.”
“Thad didn’t share it with you?” I hadn’t heard anything from that company.
“Nope. I want the pitch from the woman herself.”
“No.” She sucked on the tip of her thumb, and I could swear I felt it in my cock. “I’ve already relied on you too much. I wouldn’t feel comfortable with you being an investor, taking your money.”
“No one in this world makes it completely on their own. If you stop to study anyone’s path to success, at some point they leveraged a friend or at least a business connection. It’s how the world works.”
She sipped her wine, clearly mulling over the idea. I thought we were in for an entertaining debate, but she twisted the tables and asked, “So, tell me about your business and this whole leave of absence from your firm. Any updates?”
I explained in detail the ins and the outs of my life in limbo. She paid rapt attention.
“You can’t wait to go back, can you?”
“No, I can’t. I’m doing some work here, but it’s not the same. I miss the energy of people working on my floor. My assistant right outside my office. Conversations at the elevator. More than that, I miss the city in a way I didn’t think possible. Still can’t sleep. It’s too fucking quiet.”
“So, it’s the city you miss?”
A lone boat, probably a fisherman headed out for a nightly trawl, headed out, the green and white lights twinkling over the Cape Fear as it passed. A bird squawked in the distance.
“It’s the energy. I miss the energy. There’s no energy out here. So, I guess you could say I miss both. My office. Trading buzz. Not having to deal with the garbage cans. Do you know the guy who takes my garbage refuses to put my garbage cans back in that little shed and I have to do it myself?” She giggled. I smiled. My frustration flowed out. “I miss people. People in and out and around me. I miss going out at night, any time of night, three a.m., and seeing other people. A few nights ago, I couldn’t sleep, and I went out on my deck at three a.m. Do you know what I saw?”
“The moon?”
“Exactly. Waves, sand, the moon. I’m sure I would’ve seen sand crabs if I’d walked out onto the empty beach. Empty being the key word. No. One. Anywhere. No light on. Nothing. Deathly quiet. I never gave much thought to the phrase deathly quiet. Now it has new meaning. It’s. Killing. Me.”
She giggled, and we gazed at each other. If it wasn’t for her, I’d probably be considering abandoning this escape plan. But I found her entertaining. And all that energy I claimed to miss would be there when I returned.
She’d pulled her blonde curls up into a bun when we’d boarded the boat, and now a few ringlets framed her face. The candlelight highlighted her long, slender neck. Sitting there, I fantasized trailing kisses down the delicate pale skin, all the way to her tempting breasts. Even though her black sweater covered her, I’d memorized her curves during my nightly perusal of her tempting photos. My absolute favorite shots were of her tiny tank tops that skimmed just below her nipples, and sometimes showed the edge of the dark rim. God, the woman had a gorgeous rack. I tipped bigtime on those photos. A less than intelligent move, given the last thing I wanted was for her to post more of those shots for other pervs to see.
If she would allow me to be her only customer, she could keep her OnlyFans account income, and it would be a win-win. I’d still get to see her photos, whenever she had a chance to take some, and she’d still have an additional income stream while she kicked off her restaurant business. I pondered how to approach the solution again while she slipped off to the ladies’ room. Her stubborn refusal to wear my coat came to mind. She’d never go for it. Besides, like she told me, the site wasn’t set up that way—to provide exclusivity.
The more time I spent with her, the more I hated that site. It was one thing to click on PornHub, or to even meet hired talent at a party. Those women felt one-dimensional. Entertainment.
Poppy was no longer mere entertainment. I wanted her in my three-dimensional world, my real life, and I didn’t want any part of her to remain in that one-dimensional world where some part of her was hired. But if she wouldn’t accept my help…
On the ride back, she stood in front of me and, under my guidance, took hold of the shiny silver wheel. The boat swerved left then right as she overcompensated time and again. Her belly laughs cut through the chilly night air. Her soft curves pressed against my front, and I settled into her warmth.
As our date drew to a close and we walked side by side along the marina, I prepared mentally for our goodnight kiss. On that first night, she shocked me with a door in the face. Now, as her fingers slid into mine, I felt grateful she forced me to take it slow. If she’d let me in that first night, I might have written her off as a conquest. Kept her in my one-dimensional entertainment framework.
Standing on her doorstep, I ran a thumb across her bottom lip and tilted her head up to meet mine. I tasted her, soft and slow. I had an urge to press her up against the wall and grind into her, but knowing I was the first guy to bring her flowers, the desire to show her how she deserved to be treated won out. I took a step back and held on to the railing as my breathing evened out and my dick protested my decision.
“Would you like to come in?” She opened the door and placed her hand on the knob, offering.
“More than you know. But I want to treat you right.”
“Treat me? Because of Ben?”
“Because you deserve it. You are worthy.” I pressed my lips against hers once more, breathed in her soft flowery scent, and forced myself off her porch. A headiness filled me, that feeling one got when you’d done something right. Maybe she wouldn’t accept my investment, but I had other ways of helping her and building her up. I planned to give Poppy a taste of life dating Gabriel Chesterton.