Chapter 1

Michael

It’s funny, the things that my failed hookups just don’t seem to understand.

You’d think they’d figure it out eventually. Especially by the time I’m putting them in a fucking cab outside of my mansion and paying the driver to take them home.

I guess there are just some truths women don’t want to accept.

“Please, babe!” she begs. “Just give me one more chance! I can take it this time—I totally promise. I swear!”

“Look, sweetheart…”I gently disentangle her fingers from the collar of my button down and push her hands away. “It’s cute that you think you can handle it, but—”

“I can,” she insists. “I really, really can. It’s just…it’s so big, babe. Maybe if we tried with more lube or something…”

The driver gives me one of those looks in the rear view mirror. All I can do is shrug and slip him a couple of hundreds for the inevitable sob story he’s going to be hearing from this girl the whole way back to Long Island.

“You’re really not going to let me try to take it again?” she whimpers as I help her into the cab’s back seat.

“Don’t want to hurt you,” I tell her. Which is true.

I push the door shut. I don’t even bother watching the cab drive off.

What can I say? Some women just can’t handle big packages.

Unfortunately, this happens more often than I’d like to admit. They try to suck me off. They try all the angles, hoping that maybe, somehow, they’ll get my massive, fat cock inside them.

More often than not, the effort doesn’t amount to much. I usually settle for giving them a dozen orgasms or so before sending them on their way.

The one thing that really smarts is these failed experiences usually lead to a raging fucking boner. Like right now. If it presses up against my slacks any harder, I won’t only be in the market for a new woman; I’ll need a new pair of pants, too.

Porn it is, I guess. Better than giving myself the worst case of blue balls ever.

Walking back into my living room, I slump into the plush leather sofa and boot up my laptop. Propping it up on the ottoman, I reach down to finally free this bulge with one hand while navigating to a site with the other.

Let’s see…what am I in the mood for today?

Porn stars don’t usually hold much attraction for me—or else I’d be dating one. Call me old fashioned, but when a woman is mine, any other man who so much as looks at her is going to be picking his teeth up off the floor.

You have to hand it to them, though—these women can really take dick.

I hover over various video clips to see the preview, slowly stroking my cock as I go. Finding one of a beautiful blonde giving a blowjob, I press play and lean back.

It’s exactly what the doctor ordered. I’m instantly impressed with the way her head bobs on the screen. She’s taking this giant dick in as though it’s nothing more than a gherkin. Where do I find me one of these?

I’m rock hard now, totally in the moment, and I’m pacing myself with her movements. When she slows down, so do I. When she speeds up, my movements intensify. It’s the ultimate cock-tease, and before long, I’m tensing up and twitching uncontrollably.

As this bodacious babe gets covered, I reach my limit. I groan loudly and throw my head back as cum spills out all over my hand, happy to have my release.

Fuck, that feels good.

I sit there panting for a moment before wiping up my hot, sticky mess, using up damn near an entire box of Kleenex.

Relieved at no longer being pent-up, I’m about to close the browser when I notice a flashing ad on the sidebar.

I never pay attention to these because, let’s face it, first, I have no problem getting women, so I don’t need to sign up to fuck granny down the street. Second, I have the cock that every man dreams of, and I don’t need any special pills or toys.

This one, though, has my full attention.

GET THE WIFE OF YOUR DREAMS! CUSTOMIZE YOUR MAIL-ORDER BRIDE TODAY!

Mail-order bride? Hmm, I’ve never thought about going that route before.

Maybe I’m still in that post-orgasmic state or maybe I just want to believe that this shit isn’t a huge fucking scam.

Maybe I’m just a fucking romantic—or maybe I’m the exact opposite of one.

But a man can dream, can’t he?

This could work.

Sure, I’m widely known for my one-night stands, but it’s not like I do that on purpose.

My drive is the real thing. When a woman can take my cock, I’m insatiable. I can fuck for hours. Dusk to dawn is what I’m all about.

The problem is most women can’t handle what I have to offer. In turn, I can’t handle the fact that I tire them out after one fucking round.

They fall asleep, and I’m left to my own devices because it’s simply not enough. Being a doctor means I’m always under pressure, and I need that release. It’s not their fault, but I’m over these one-night stands and short-lived flings.

I have no aversions to marriage. On the contrary, I want a wife to come home to that I can bang after a grueling day. I want a family that I can play with outside and go on vacations with.

Time, however, presents the biggest burden. When you’re performing surgery after surgery, and you’re on call all the time, it leaves little room for finding Ms. Right.

A struggle I know all too fucking well. Hell, I can’t even find Ms. Right Now—I just sent the latest off in a cab for Christ’s sake. Add to that my ridiculously high standards.

It’s no wonder I’m still single.

Back to this mail-order bride ad. I click on it, and the ad brings me to a flashy website that looks like it should’ve went out with the Y2K era. I half expect the page to stop loading midway through like the porn of yesteryear.

Thank God for fiber optics.

Now I’m looking at a pretty lengthy survey attached to the order form. I start going through the questions one by one.

Hair color?

She’s gotta be a blonde, no doubt about it. Nothing gets my motor revving more. The longer, the better.

Eyes?

Blue, but not because I’m looking for a blonde-hair, blue-eyed bimbo. This woman’s gotta be intelligent.

Yeah, I want hot, passionate sex all over the place, but any woman worthy of being my wife has to be able to carry a conversation. That shit would get old, otherwise. An Ivy League education is preferred.

Figure?

Voluptuous, for sure. I want a large rack and a nice, round ass that I can grab and spank.

Sexual preference?

I check off virginal and adventurous, chuckling at the irony of those two options. I want someone who isn’t afraid to take it in all three holes, but I want to be the first to pop that sweet cherry.

I’m dreaming here, and I know it.

But what the hell, right?

Aim high, miss high. I’m hardly taking this shit seriously.

After going through the rest of the questions, which stop short of asking my blood type and burial plans, I have created the perfect wife.

I take a quick look at the price tag—one million dollars.

Well, Christ. It’s definitely a scam. But at the same time, a million bucks is barely a drop in the bucket when I’m looking at my bank account.

It’ll annoy my accountant, but next month, I’ll barely even notice.

And what can I say? I admire their fucking moxy.

Sold.

The phone rings as I click submit, placing my order for the woman of my dreams. Glancing at my caller ID, I see it’s the hospital.

“Kirkwood here,” I answer immediately.

“Michael, we need you to come in right away, it’s an emergency. Dr. Scola nicked a good portion of Ms. Medina’s intestines, and only you can fix it.”

“I’m on my way.”

This isn’t the first time I’ve had to cover for that prick.

Fuck.

I grab my lab coat, swinging it on over my blue dress shirt as the front door closes behind me. Hopping in my Lambo, I’m off to save yet another life.