The Billionaire's Match

'You will meet your Aaron Warner today. I’m sure of it.'

The message on my phone screen signified one thing. Chinwe just started reading a novel - a romance novel to be precise - and the male character who currently had her panties in a twist was Aaron Warner.

I rolled my eyes as I replied to her text, telling her to focus on her modeling shoot before dropping my phone in my bag and redirecting my focus back to the mirror. Yes, I know. You probably think I’m boring and a killjoy. But I’d like you to pause for a quick proper introduction before you continue on your judging spree.

One. I don’t give two fucks about what you think. Don’t hate me, it’s nothing personal. It’s just a habit that gradually grew on me after having to pay my bills ever since my parents died in my first year at the University.

Nobody cared to help me and the ones who did wanted something in return. Not even Uncle Pere, my father’s twin brother who was the closest relative I had before I lost my parents. I can still remember how confused I was when I realized that he’d blocked my number on WhatsApp. This was someone who didn’t hesitate to buy me things when my parents were alive, so why then did he refuse to lend me some money after my parents were no longer there when I needed his assistance the most? Everyone deserted me and I was left to fend for myself alone.

I hope you now understand why I said I don’t give a fuck about what you think about me. That’s because even though you didn’t desert me, you weren’t also there when I needed help.

Two. I am a stripper.

Yup, those uncultured people who dance half-naked on poles in an attempt to seduce people.

The kind of people your parents would have a heart attack if they ever found out you had any form of relationship with. They’d even end up disowning you if they got to find out that you had any form of relationship with me in particular as I am a special kind of stripper. The tease.

My job is just as the name implies. I teased people with sultry dances, touches, and whispers and the reason I’m very popular in this club i because, unlike the other teases, I don’t let people touch me. You look but you don’t ever touch. And what drives people more than not having to touch?

Men and women leave my private sessions half-crazed and willing to fuck anything they see that minute which gives my boss so much joy because that meant he would be getting a lot of customers in his sex club. It’s not like it’s easy to not let them touch me especially when I’m aroused myself from trying to stimulate them. The reason I don’t let them touch me is simple. My clients disgust me. Every person paying almost a million naira to let me tease them and not even touch me is processed to my brain as the most foolish person on this earth and even being close to them makes every nerve in my skin crawl.

So if you’re reading this and you’ve ever booked a private session with me and you were wondering why I didn’t let you touch me even after you could smell my arousal? Here’s your answer.

Three. I don’t believe in love.

I think you should expect this if you’re smart. Only a foolish person would expect a stripper to believe in love. I’ve dealt with all sorts of men. Married men. Men with kids who may be even older than you. Men whose wives would swear on their life that their husbands were currently in their workplace and still won’t believe it even if you show them a video of them salivating at the sight of my bare ass. Men who promised to use their wives or kids as sacrifices to fund my lifestyle as long as I agreed to be their girlfriend.

Can’t judge me anymore? I thought as much.

I also want to apologize if I sound rude, I’m just feeling a little bit emotional. I’m quitting my stripping career today and as much as I hate to admit it, I’ll miss the kind of cash I earned here. I was able to buy expensive clothes, hair, and gadgets and even furnish the house I shared with Chinwe in a year. But I can’t be a stripper forever. I need a job. A job where I would wear cute official outfits instead of being half-naked. A job where I would strut into the office with my head high instead of wearing a mask to shield my identity. A job where I wouldn’t have to endure tortuous moments of pleasuring someone and fighting away their hands when they try to touch me. A real respectful job.

My phone rings, interrupting me from my conversation with the non-existent ghosts in my changing room. I take a glance at the screen and I can’t hold back the groan that leaves my lips. Mrs. Temitope. The personal secretary to the manager of this club and a certified bitch. I think about ignoring the call but then I remember that her office is a stone’s throw away from here and she would come marching here immediately. I pick up my phone and swipe the screen, accepting the call.

“You have a private session”. Typical Temitope. No hello. No good morning, Tarila. No 'how are you doing?'; just straight to dishing out orders and I always maintain the energy.

“I’m quitting today”. I’m not here to work. I’m here to pack my things and she knows it.

“The customers insisted on you”.

I nearly choke on my spit at the mention of customers. I’ve never performed with multiple men before. What if they all try to make advances on me?

“How many are these customers if I may ask?”

“Four”.

“What?!” My shriek is so loud, I’m sure people on the dancefloor heard it. “I can’t perform before four men”.

She sighs and mutters something like 'dumb bitch' under her breath before she continues. “You’re not attending to the four. They booked a private session for their friend. It’s his birthday present”.

It’s no shock to me that out of the many billion things on this mother earth, the only befitting birthday present that is thought of is a ten-minute session with a stripper. I’ve seen the worst scenarios. Last month a man who had just one more week to live walked in there and said a private session with me was his dying wish.

“I told the boss I wouldn’t be working today and he agreed. I’m not doing any private sessions”. I insisted.

“Well after the amount they paid, the boss changed his mind”.

The fact that they’d accepted payment meant that it was settled. There’s nothing I would say right now that would change their mind. I glanced at my already packed bags hanging by the wall and I shut my eyes briefly in exhaustion. It’s really all about money to these people. I’m about to hang up when she adds.

“They added a detailed description “.

Someone adding a description to the kind of teasing they want is new so I stay quiet and listen.

“He’s a virgin who feels sex is overrated. You’re to prove to him that ignorance is bliss”.

“How old is this man?”

“Thirty.”

“And he’s a virgin?”

“I know you would be surprised that they are still cultured people in the world, Tarila”. I can’t help myself. I bark out a laugh at her hypocritical sarcasm. She’s one to talk about being cultured. Someone who has been fucked by almost all the men in this club, including the bartenders.

She clears her throat, probably realizing the reason behind my laughter. “Be there in the next ten seconds. He’s already waiting for you”.

“And Tarila," she adds just as I’m about to hang up, "there’s a tip of two hundred thousand for you if you can satisfy their request”.

I am a woman on a mission.

A mission to eat and leave no crumbs.

The more I think all I can do with that tip of four hundred thousand, the faster my feet move to the room. I tighten my grip on my trench coat which shields the deadly costume I have under it immediately I get to the door.

Hassan's big body is posed in front of the door as usual. He’s the bodyguard who ensures that no one tries to touch me. Just a push on the button attached to my costume to alert him and he’ll rush in and throw the person out.

He tips his head at me and a small smile hits my lips when I catch him release a breath as he stares at my face. I know what exactly triggered that reaction. Anyone would be out of breath after seeing my smoky make-up which accentuated my eyes, making them look more alluring than usual.

I winked at him as he opened the door for me to go in. It’s my turn to release a deep breath once I’m greeted with the familiar sight of the private room. My office. I fix my mask, making sure my eyes, nose, and mouth are the only things in view before I sashay in and the door goes shut behind me.

The room is quiet, too quiet that it makes the sound of my heartbeat more audible than the low thumping of the music playing in the hall.

I walk right to the middle of the room and then lift my head. My mind goes back to Mrs. Temitope’s description of the client immediately my eyes settle on the sight of the man seated on the couch before me and I inwardly scoff in belief.

The only way the gorgeous man in this room with me is a virgin is if he’s been living in a cave. I mean, what woman on earth wouldn’t want to do him after seeing that athletic body sheathed in a black polo, black cargo pants and black sneakers? The stubble adorning his sculpted face made the description even harder to believe. This man was the pictorial representation of eye candy.

There was something else prominent about him.

Money. It was apparent that he had a lot of money.

He looks like it, smells like it and with how those long legs are slightly spread out from his body and the way his hands are casually resting on his thighs, it was clear that he also sat like it.

The look on his face makes it even harder for me to stop staring at him. His eyes narrowed like something just unravelled before him and all of a sudden, I wanted to know what he was thinking. I wanted to know what was running through that mind of his. I want to know him.

Immediately that statement leaves my subconscious, I inwardly slap myself back to reality. What was I doing? When did I start caring about any man seated in this room? They are all the same. Fools.

But he’s different. He’s a virgin. He was dragged here by his friends.

As long as he’s here. He’s the same as them. I shot back at my subconscious before I prepped myself to get to action.

I cleared my throat and moved to the corner where the mix player was to turn on the sensual playlist I usually used to work before I switched the lights from white to blue and then moved back to stand before him.

My heart is racing like I’m in a horror movie, but I force myself to maintain eye contact as I let my trench coat fall revealing my costume. I watch his eyes move from my face to my red see-through bra which exposes my pierced nipple down to my smooth belly. It rested there for a heartbeat before they moved down to my skimpy short skirt which stopped on my thigh, skimming down to my legs and when they finally moved back to my face, the look in his eyes changed to something I couldn’t decipher which frustrated me.

For the first time in my entire life, I wished I was capable of reading minds. I needed to know what was running through that beautiful head of his.

I continued my display, refusing to let his reaction kill my vibe. There was a whopping sum of two hundred thousand naira to gain here.

I seductively swivel around the chair, letting him see the remaining part of my bare ass cheeks that the skirt couldn’t cover, before proceeding to sit on the chair. Goosebumps scattered across my skin as I started my slow sensual dance, grinding on the chair and moving in sync with the beat. I was turned on, way turned on than I’d ever been in my entire life.

My hands streamed up my thigh and moved to rub my hardened nipples through my bra. A sigh escaped me as the sensation from my movement on my nipple and his eyes on me made something wanton crash into my core.

I pinch my nipples before letting my hands fall to my thighs. I don’t stop whining on the seat as I part my legs slowly to give him a clear view of my bare, neatly-shaven pussy.

A ball of pride drops in my chest when I see him shift in his seat. Finally a reaction from him! I’d gotten to him. The euphoria of that reaction kicked an idea into my mind. I think it will be nice to have some little fun on my last day working here and punishing him for keeping me in the dark was the perfect way to do that.

My fingers make a long lazy trail from my thigh to my core and when they settle on it, I start caressing it. Slowly at first before I increase the intensity of my movement.

Fuck.

I’ve never done this before. My usual routine with my past clients was simple. Part my legs to give a view of my pussy and once I was sure they were lust crazed, I crawl to them and give them a lap dance while giving their crotch faint caresses.

This was my first time playing with myself.

My other hand moves back to caress my nipple while I keep rubbing on my clit. My moan blends with the sound of Doja’s cat Street and as much as I wanted to see his reaction to me touching myself, the power to open my eyes had been crushed by the impending pleasure streaming through my nerves. I was going to cum hard. My head tips back on its own accord and my eyes clench hard as I feel a powerful orgasm rising through the waves of pleasure.

I’m unable to keep quiet. My moans are now louder than before and my movements are frantic. I need to cum and I’m about to. Just five more rubs to go. Five. Four. Three....

My hand leaves my pussy with force, pulling my orgasm to an abrupt halt, and when my eyes fly open to find out why, a gasp leaves my lips. The man is no longer on the sofa but now on his haunches before me, an inch away from my pussy with my hands in his grip preventing any further action for me.

“What are you doing?” My voice is hoarse and unrecognizable. “No touching”. I said as I tried to wiggle my hand out of his grip but to no avail.

And then he does something that also makes me collapse from my chair. He wraps his mouth around the finger I’d been using to touch myself and I’m struggling against the urge to drop to my knees before him to beg him to fuck me as he licks me off my finger. A light moan leaves my lips as I watch his eyes roll back in ecstasy as he sucked my finger like it was some lollipop. He finally releases it and I almost cry at the loss.

I’m not sure how much I can bear. Everything is clearer now he’s closer to me. His rich brown skin glowed under the lights. His distracting eyes. And his full lips I want nothing but to kiss forever.

“Stay calm sweetheart”. The British accent hits my core and I feel another pool of arousal drop to the seat. I’m one inch away from begging him to release my hand so I can bring myself to orgasm but I maintain my hard-girl demeanor by trying to wrestle my hand out of his grip.

“Let my hand go before I call security”.

A smirk touches his lips and it makes my heart slows down a beat. “No, sweetheart, you won’t”.

“We could do this the easy way”. His hand finally leaves mine and drops to rub my thighs, leaving goosebumps on everywhere part of my skin and then I feel it before I see his hand move, a sharp slap on my clit that makes me yelp. “Or the hard way”.

Fuck, I don’t even know what he wants us to do but I already want us to do it the hard way.

Something is wrong with me.

“What are you doing? This is against the rules”

Shut the fuck up, Tarila. We both know you want this even more than he does.

“I’m bored”. He shrugs. “I want us to play a game”.

The confusion of his sentence distracts me from settling on his insulting remark about being bored. He’s not supposed to be bored when I just spend minutes dancing and pleasuring myself.

“A game?”

“Yes”. He nods before his tongue wets his lips on a long trail making my breath falter. Did this man take a course on sexiness or what?

“What kind of game?”

“Getting even”.