Submit to Me

3 - Aaron

Last night was one of the hottest and wildest nights I've ever had, so much so that I awoke this morning with a raging hard-on, still thinking about what those two girls did to each other under my command—how they pleasured me—how they pleasured each other—and how I loved every moment of having a threesome without another man in the room taking part in the sexual rendezvous.

Our session was only supposed to be for an hour, but it went on past that—like two hours after we were supposed to give up the room—especially after I learned who the other woman's name was—Chelsea.

Knowing the two girls' names felt more intimate and special to me—I've never been one not to know who I was fucking, or blowing me.

Since I spent more money on the girls than initially planned, I believed it was fair to have gotten more than the allotted time of only an hour.

Rico Suave's fault—not mine.

It's also Trent's fault for giving him the same heads-up as he did with me.

Even though his and my situations were different, the asshole still fucked with me to get me to bid more than what was necessary. The other guys in the room stopped early—Rico Suave continued it with the intention of not winning them—intending to make me squirm and enjoy the sight of what he knew he was doing to me—pissing me off.

He knew exactly what he was doing.

He knows I'm no billionaire—or even a millionaire.

I have money, sure, but I wouldn't consider myself a wealthy man. I make good money for a living, and I live comfortably. But I cherish the money I do have. And usually, I spend within reason. But last night, I felt I needed to make a point.

To him.

To my grandmother.

To my friends.

But mostly to myself.

However, the point I tried to make didn't make me feel any better.

I spent more money than I wanted to. For what? For a threesome, I could've easily found to have with willing participants without having to pay that kind of money.

However, which way I want to look at what I did and what I spent last night, at least I know my money went to a good cause.

That's the best way I can describe my actions for spending the amount I did—especially after making a promise to the person who means the most to me. Who took my sisters and me in and cared for us after my parents were killed in a helicopter crash over the Grand Canyon while on vacation when I was fifteen.

I think that's why I felt as guilty as I did last night while in the room with two hot, bisexual women, performing sexual acts with them—making them submit to me, and teaching them how to submit to each other, and the third person they'd like to invite to their bedroom.

Still, I feel fucking guilty.

And the guilt roaming through my mind, body, and soul was killing me.

More than I wanted to admit—to myself. And to the friends I know who'll ask me how the night went when we meet up later for drinks and to shoot the shit.

The thing is, this is me.

This is my life.

This is who I've always been.

And I enjoy the life I have chosen to live since high school.

Or have I?

That's the question I need to figure out—one of the few questions my grandmother asked me at lunch the day before.