Praise (Salacious Players’ Club)

Emerson

Why is she giving me that look? The Bettie Page lookalike with blunt black bangs and quite lovely curves is kneeling on the floor next to my desk, and she’s…pouting. Her ruby red lips are pursed, and she’s just gazing up at me as I drink my coffee. Everything that she should not be doing.

This is a cry for attention, which makes sense, considering my attention is exactly what brought her here in the first place. I’m literally paying her to earn a soft pat on the head or a little affirmation—earn being the operative word. So far, this girl has done nothing but patronize me with all the fucking theatrics, and I’m about two seconds away from tossing her out the door. Literally.

If you want my attention, you have to earn it first. Behave. Do as I say. Otherwise, stay silent. That’s not me being a dick, that’s literally the scene we’re playing, but this girl isn’t playing by the rules. She knew exactly what she was signing up for when she took this job.

“Stare at the floor,” I command without looking at her.

There’s a disgruntled sounding huff that escapes her lips before she turns her gaze down to the floor. I sure hope she’s not interested in being a brat because that is definitely not my style, and it said so quite clearly in the application.

The next three hours of her shift are practically insufferable, but I’m a gentleman, so I let her stay. She brings me my lunch, rests her opulent tits on my thighs when I kick my feet up during a boring conference call, and even earns a good stroke of her cheek when she manages to be completely silent while I write out an email.

But she’s growing restless, and I can tell. Out of the corner of my gaze, I catch her pouting again, and I glance down to see her roll her eyes. That’s it. Reaching down, I grab her jaw in my hand and turn her to face me. Her eyes go wide—she’s nervous.

“Did you just roll your eyes at me?” I ask through gritted teeth.

“No, Sir,” she murmurs, and I catch a hint of excitement hidden under the delicate tremble in her voice. Yep, she’s definitely a brat.

If punishment was my thing, she’d have earned it by this point, but even I know punishment is exactly what she wants. So instead of laying her over my lap or making her suck my dick for her blatant disrespect, I say, “Stand up. Gather your things. Have a good day.”

“But—’

“Goodbye, Rita.”

Turning away from her, I focus on my computer, dismissing her entirely.

With a scoff, she marches away, slips on her shoes, grabs her coat, and slams the door as she leaves. The moment she’s gone, I dial Garrett’s number.

“Let me guess. You didn’t like her,” he says by way of greeting.

“She just kept pouting. Do men really like girls who pout so much?”

Garrett laughs on the other end of the line. “We don’t like what most men like, remember? It makes my job hard, sure, but I’m just trying to find you the right girl, Emerson.”

“Apologize to Rita for me, and never send her back to my house.”

“You got it.”

The line is silent for a moment as I look over the emails from Maggie on the new app update from the developers.

“That’s not true, you know,” I mumble as I scroll through her messages. I can hear the white noise in the background, which means Garrett is in the car.

“What’s not true?” he replies after a moment.

“When you said we don’t like what most men like. I think our tastes are very much in line with the majority. We’re just unique in that we’re not afraid to pursue them.”

“We aren’t afraid to pursue them in a healthy way.”

“Exactly.”

“I’ll send a new girl for you tomorrow,” he says after a moment.

“Don’t bother.”

He lets out an exasperated sigh. “Are you sure? You seem stressed. We’ve got the club opening next week and investors to please and the state breathing down our necks.”

It’s true—I am stressed. On top of everything Garrett just mentioned, my son has not returned my phone calls in four months. But the idea of meeting a new pouty sub only stresses me out more.

“I don’t think you even know what you want,” he says absently, and I glance at my phone on speaker.

“I thought I did. These girls want praise, but they don’t want to earn it.”

“Negative attention is still attention,” he replies.

“And you know I don’t like brats.”

“I know, Emerson. But you’re going to have to give someone a chance to impress you before you toss them out. Let me send you another one tomorrow. There are plenty of girls willing to do whatever you want.”

“Maybe next week. Keep the application open.”

“You got it.”

After hanging up with Garrett, I sift through the pile of letters on my desk. It’s mostly junk, but there’s a handwritten envelope that grabs my attention. Cutting it open, I find a check. It’s for two thousand dollars from a name I don’t recognize. In the memo portion of the check it says, Security Deposit for Apartment 623.

It takes me a minute to realize this is Beau’s address. Or at least it was. I had no idea he even moved, let alone had the security deposit sent back to me. Didn’t he move in with that girlfriend of his?

The one he never even let me meet because he was too ashamed of me, I think grimly.

This could be good. If he needs the money back, he’ll have to come to me to get it. Picking up my phone, I type out a quick text, trying not to sound as desperate as I feel.

Your landlord sent me your security deposit. I’ll hold on to it for you. Come over whenever you need it.

Naturally, there’s no answer. The entire screen of texts are all outgoing without responses. I have confirmation from his mother that he’s at least alive and doing okay, so I can sleep at night. I just wish he’d talk to me again. Too bad disappointment seems to be the theme of my week.