Chapter 4 – Soft as cotton

Veronica worked harder. Her head bobbed. She moaned around him, the vibration desperate. Saliva slicked down her chin. Dirty, wet, messy. She pulled back and spat on the tip, then rubbed it across her lips. “Get hard for me, baby. I need you to fill my throat. Come on. You know you want to.”

She engulfed him again. Sucking with purpose. One hand cupped his balls. The other stroked the base.

Nothing.

Francis stared down at the woman on her knees. Her red lipstick smeared. Her eyes full of lust. A gorgeous woman doing everything right. However, his body refused to respond.

His jaw clenched. He yanked her head back by her hair. “Enough.”

“Huh? What’s wrong?” Veronica wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “I can try again. Let me put it deeper.”

“I said enough.” His voice turned cold. Hard. He stepped back, leaving her kneeling alone on the floor. “Leave.”

Veronica’s brow furrowed. “But Francis—”

“Grab your bag and get the fuck out.” He turned away from her. He couldn’t even look at the confusion in her eyes.

She didn’t argue. The click of her heels moved toward the door. The rustle of her bag. A moment of silence. Then the door slammed shut.

Francis sat on the bed. Elbows on his knees. Head hanging low. His soft cock rested uselessly between his legs. He rubbed his face with both hands.

Isabel’s face flashed in his mind. The way she tilted her head when she talked. The sound of her voice. The curve of her hips.

His cock twitched.

He looked down, eyes widening. He thought again about Isabel on her knees. Her lips parting. His length sliding deep.

Blood rushed south. The tip grew pink. Thickening.

“No fucking way,” he breathed. His heart hammered as the erection grew fuller. Harder than before. Standing tall and proud.

He thought of Veronica. Instantly, the stiffness faded. Shrinking back to limp nothing.

His stomach dropped. Cold clarity washed over him. Veronica, a woman who worshiped his body, left him soft. But the mere thought of Isabel made him hard as steel.

He gripped the sheets, knuckles white. His voice came out a whisper, laced with disbelief and dread.

Does he only get hard because of Isabel?

He grabbed his phone. Opened a p**n site. A woman with dark hair. Curvy. On her knees. Taking a thick cock down her throat. The sounds of gagging filled the room. Francis watched. Waited. His breathing stayed even. His pulse remained calm. His cock hung soft as wet rope between his legs.

A thought slipped in. Uninvited. Unwanted.

Isabel's hand brushing his crotch. That accidental touch. Her delicate fingers. The brief pressure. His body's instant betrayal.

Blood surged. His cock lifted. Hardened. Stood tall and throbbing in the span of three heartbeats.

"What the hell!" he yelled at his own erection. His voice bounced off the walls. He stared at his rigid length. A miracle with one name attached.

Isabel.

The next two days became an experiment in humiliation.

He called an escort agency. The best in the city. Asked for their most skilled woman. Money was no object. A tall brunette arrived. Lips like pillows. A dress that hid nothing. She dropped to her knees the moment the door closed.

"I hear you need special attention," she purred. Her fingers wrapped around his shaft. "Let me wake this big boy up."

She licked him. Sucked him. Slathered her spit from base to tip. "You taste so good, Mr. Hamilton. I want you to fuck my throat."

Nothing.

"Come on, baby. Get hard for me. I can take it. Slam it in deep. Use my mouth like your personal toy."

Her head bobbed. Her cheeks hollowed. She gagged herself on his limp flesh. Spit dripped down her chin. Her eyes watered.

Francis pushed her away. "Get out."

He tried another that night. A blonde this time. Same result. Soft as cotton. Dead as stone. She talked dirty. She used her tits. She used her ass. She used every trick in the book.

"Please, sir. Let me make this cock feel good. I want it so bad. I want you to explode in my mouth."

His body refused.

"Leave. The money's on the table."

Day two. Four more escorts. Four more failures. His mansion became a revolving door of beautiful women who left confused and rejected. His reputation be damned. He needed answers.

The last one, a fiery Latina with a tongue piercing and hunger in her eyes, straddled him on the couch. She ground against his thigh. Moaned in his ear. "I can feel you want me. Let me ride you until you scream my name."

His cock stayed limp.

"Get off."

That evening, Francis stood by the window. The city lights blinked below. He pressed Keith's number.

"Keith. Tell Dr. Isabel Dalton to come to the mansion."

"Sir?"

"Tell her it's urgent. Tell her I'm in pain. Whatever you need to say. Just get her here."

Keith paused. Then, "Yes, sir."

Francis waited in the living room. Dressed now. Dark pants. White shirt. His heart hammered faster than during any business deal. Sweat prickled his palms.

The door opened. Keith stepped aside. And there she was.

Isabel wore a simple blouse and skirt. Professional. Modest. It didn't matter. His cock already stirred at the sight of her.

"Mr. Hamilton." Her voice soft. Concerned. "Sir Keith said you're in pain. Are the antibiotics not working? The pain reliever should have—"

"My teeth are fine," Francis cut her off. His voice rougher than intended.

Isabel stopped. Confusion flickered across her face. Keith slipped out and closed the door behind him. The click echoed.

"Then why did you call me here?" Isabel asked. Her hands clasped in front of her. "If there's no medical issue, I don't understand—"

"Five years ago." Francis stepped closer. "I had a car accident. It paralyzed me from the neck down. Doctors said I'd never walk again."

She blinked but said nothing.

"Therapy got me back on my feet. But something else broke…" He stopped. Swallowed hard. The words tasted like rust. "I became impotent. Erectile dysfunction. The doctors had names for it. Drugs. Treatments. Nothing worked. For five years. Nothing."

Isabel's lips parted. Her gaze dropped, just for a second, to his waist. Then back up.

"But when I accidentally touched me…" Francis's voice cracked. "Rock fucking hard. First time in half a decade." He moved forward again. Two feet from her now. Close enough to smell her perfume. Something floral. Something that made his head spin. "That's why I called you here. You make my cock hard again. Only you."

Isabel stood very still. Her chest rose and fell with shallow breaths.

"I've tried other women." The confession poured out now. "Beautiful women. Skilled women. Women who did things with their mouths that would make a p**n star blush. Nothing." He grabbed the back of a chair. His knuckles whitened. "I watch p**n. Nothing. I think about other lovers. Nothing too. I try to force it. Hell no. Then I think about your hand on my crotch. One touch. Accidental. And I'm harder than I've ever been in my life."

Silence stretched between them.

"Now, for One hundred million dollars." Francis said the number flat. Direct. "I can transferred it to your account. If you can cure what medical science and high-priced escorts failed to fix."

Isabel's eyes widened, "Do you mean… have sex with you?"

"Yes."

Francis braced himself. He expected outrage. A slap across his face. Perhaps her storming out and threatening to report him. He deserved all of it.

Instead, Isabel smiled.

"Mr. Hamilton," she said, her tone shifting. "Are you open to visiting my other place of employment?"

His brow furrowed. "What?"

"A private club." She stepped closer.

Francis frowned and opened his mouth to ask more, but Isabel raised a hand, cutting him off with a gentle smile.

"Don't worry. The club is very private. No one will know you were there unless you want them to."

Keith had stepped forward when they left the mansion, his expression tight with concern. "Sir, I should accompany you."

Francis shook his head. "No. It's fine. Stay here." Keith nodded and stepped back.

The drive took two hours. The city fell away behind them. Buildings gave way to trees. Streetlights grew sparse. Then, tucked into a valley between two wooded hills, the club appeared.

A low structure of dark stone and tinted glass. No sign. No neon. Just a parking lot filled with sports cars that gleamed under soft floodlights. Lamborghinis. Ferraris. A Bugatti tucked in the corner as if it was nothing special.

Francis stepped out of the car and stared. "This place..."

"The Lair," Isabel said, locking her door.