by Alexis Angel
Lucky for me, there’s no time (or brainpower) to dwell in what’s going to happen afterwards. Right now, the pleasure I’m feeling forces both the past and the future to the sidelines, and the present takes the spotlight.
“I think I’m… going to come... “ I manage to get out between hard breaths, every single muscle in my body tensing up as electricity pools inside of them.
“Cum, Becca… cum for me,” he whispers, and his words act on my body as if they were a spell; slight spasms take over my muscles and, as my fingernails dig into his back, my pussy tightens around his shaft like a vice. I feel a violent scream climbing up my throat but, moving fast, Mason places his hand on top of my mouth once more, muffling my scream.
My eyes are shut, and thunder and lightning have taken over my mind. There’s a storm inside of me, a storm of out-of-control ecstasy, and I can’t stop myself from screaming into Mason’s hand.
Even though I’m coming my brains out, Mason doesn’t stop thrusting. In fact, he goes even harder than before, his thighs slapping my ass so hard that, if anyone walks into the restroom anytime soon, there’s not going to be any doubt about what’s happening in one of the stalls.
Luckily, his cock starts to spasm harshly and, in a quick movement, Mason pulls it out. With his hands on my hips he forces me to turn around, and I don’t need further instructions; I go down to my knees and lean into him, parting my lips as I reach for his cock.
I curl my fingers around his shaft as I wrap my lips around it and, wasting no time, I start going up and down his cock. He places both his hands on my head, feeling the sway of my body, and finally succumbs to pleasure. A violent spasm takes over his cock and, in a heartbeat, he starts to gush his load into my mouth. His warm juices fill me up in no time, the saltiness of it coating my tongue and making my skin prickle. I keep on bobbing my head back and forth until my mouth is brimming with cum, and only then do I pull back, but still he keeps on cumming, thick strands of it hitting across my chest and covering my bare tits.
When the spasms finally die out, I peel my fingers off his cock and, looking into his eyes, I go up to my feet. Without saying a word, he leans into me and, using his tongue, scoops the few drops of cum that are dripping down from my lips onto my chin. He runs the tip of his tongue between my pursed lips and, then, taking his lips to my ear, whispers, “Swallow it all.” I obey without hesitation, his seed going down my throat in an instant.
“This was --”
“Amazing,” he completes, looking at me with a dazed smile on his lips.
“What happens now?” I ask him as I lean back against the wall, still trying to catch my breath. I know I shouldn’t be feeling like this, but I’m anxious for him to say that he wants to see me again. That he wants to tap my phone number into his cellphone’s keyboard, or maybe he'll agree to a date tomorrow… Right now, anything will work. Of course, that’s not what he says.
“Now? Now I have to go and meet another woman. She’s probably going to try to blackmail me with something and I’m mostly going to have to accept it. So, yeah, there’s that.” And, just like that, he crushes all my illusions.
I mean, what did he just say?
He recognizes my confusion.
“Why can’t you just say no to whatever she asks?” I ask, puzzled. “I mean, you’re a powerful man.”
He smiles ruefully.
“You don’t say no to Lorna Lowell,” is all he says before he leaves.
I’m frozen.
What. the. Fuck.
That name has no significance to you maybe right now hun, but this shit just started to get real.
Hold onto your tits, babe. It’s gonna be rough whatever he’s in store for.
Because I know Lorna Lowell.
She’s my mom.
166
Mason
Yeah, listen. If you're narrowing your eyes at me right now, Gorgeous, and shaking your head at me, I don't really blame you.
I'm fucking hating myself right now.
I mean, if I had just met that blonde girl at the bar a few hours earlier—what was her name again? Becca?—then none of this would've fucking happened. Hell, I probably would've taken her back to my place and kept fucking the shit out of her.
I mean, did you fucking see her? Did you ever see a more perfect woman in your fucking life? Those fucking tits? I felt them. They were so fucking firm. So ripe. Pert. Springy. I just loved feeling them.
That ass? You just want to fucking grab it and squeeze those ass cheeks like dough. Just suck on those legs, kiss that neck, slap that ass, lick those nipples, and pull that luxurious hair.
Fuck, just thinking about that girl is enough to make me fucking hard again.
But that's the last thing I want to do right now. Is be hard.
Not when Lorna is sitting across from me.
Fucking bitch from hell is what she is. The way her perfectly tailored pantsuit is put together, she's giving me a strange look.
"Mason, are you alright?" she asks with a voice dripping with fakeness. "Are you still...excited to see me?"
Fucking Christ. I'm about as excited to see her as I am of contracting fucking syphilis.
But there's nothing I can really do in this moment.
I fucked up. I don't deny that. I let my cock do my thinking for me, and I came on the set of a television news interview.
Millions of people got home from work and turned on the TV to see the interview with the King of Wall Street and potentially gain some insight into their investments for their retirement. Instead, they saw my huge monster cock destroy the interviewer's pussy. As an extra piece of icing on the cake, they then saw me cum like a fucking racehorse. Not just in the air, or on the woman, or anything that remotely resembles decent sex acts. No, I fucking came right at them. On the fucking camera.
I downloaded the video after it went viral. By the time I'm done groaning, you can't really see any more. Just a wall of translucent white. It literally feels like someone just came on your eyes and you went fucking blind.
"Mason?" Lorna asks again, "What's going on?"
"Nothing," I reply back tersely.
She bristles at my brush off. Well, fuck her. She's been bristling her whole life at me.
You think I'm being unfair? You think she deserves a chance, or something?
Let me tell you a bit about this woman.
If people ever really do call me the King of Wall Street to themselves, then they probably call her the Bitch Who'll Fuck You Over.
Her claim to fame is that her father was wealthy. Jonathan Lowell was a famous Wall Street lawyer. He had one of the most respected law practices, managing a small law firm that had a better reputation than Sullivan & Cromwell and Quinn Price. His company was built around solid bedrock principles of trust and conservative advice.
The man loved his family. He had one daughter and a wife. But life didn't love him back. Some time ago, he lost his wife to cancer. So he devoted all his attention on his daughter. But instead of realizing how wonderful her father was, all that attention did was make her a vain, vile, spiteful, selfish cunt of a woman. Her father gave her the best schooling that his money could buy. She repaid him by running off and getting married to the son of his business rival.
He was able to make peace with that, but she divorced him a year later when he found out she was cheating on him.
I don't know the exact details of Lorna's life aside from that, but I do know that I respected her father. As a friend.
And it broke my fucking heart to see her cause her father to age so fast. He was worried about her, sure. But it was like she took a special liking to causing him trouble.
The worst came when she got together with a few of his partners and they bought out his practice. It's a practice called a leveraged buyout. With Jonathan's company, the partners took over, and forced Jonathan out. They paid him maybe $10 million dollars—a fucking pittance when held against the fact that he started and kept that company together his entire
life.
Then, with Jonathan Lowell forced out, the ethics at his law firm just went out the window. It wasn't about respect anymore. It was about making a fast buck. They started taking on more than just securities litigation. They started defending drug pushers and hit men.
Lorna wasn't a lawyer; at heart she was a fucking shark.
Her father, who had three loves of his life—his wife, his company, and his daughter—now saw that his wife had passed away, his company was taken from him and dragged through the mud, and his daughter had betrayed him.
He died the next year. I remember he passed away a sad and lonely old man.
And so when Kane Price went public several years ago Lorna personally used her monies that she made off her father's company and took a large stake in my bank.
She got a large enough seat that according to the Kane Price company bylaws, I had to give her a fucking seat on my Board of Directors.
And that's when she started going from a pain in the ass to a fucking menace.
I'm fucking 37 years old. I took my company public at the age of 34. I never thought that the culmination of my greatest achievement would mean having to deal with a conniving bitch like Lorna.
"You need my support at this moment, Mason," she says to me now, crossing and uncrossing her legs as she sits across from me in my office. "You can't afford to keep me at arm's length."
Fuck her. When she uncrosses her legs, its not sexy. It's just fucking gross. Like I want to fucking throw up. All over her.
Bitch would probably be turned on by it though.
"I can't believe that you're here offering your help to me right now," I tell her, eyeing her offer.
On paper, it's not a bad deal. Lorna comes on board in a new role as Chief Counsel to the CEO and advises on all investment matters. But she also invests several hundred million of her own money into new products that we're launching. The presence of some outside capital then goes along and stabilizes the fucking shareholders because they start thinking that the company is now being run and managed by people who don't go around waving their dick around on camera.
The Board of Directors is made comfortable because they can rest easy that Lorna will keep me in check. And clients see a safer company to park their cash and they invest in our products and we all make lots of money.
It's all about inspiring confidence that we know what the fuck we're doing. Confidence from shareholders, the clients, and the employees. Even if we have no fucking clue which way to go, we always have to project that air of confidence. That's the number one rule of Wall Street, Gorgeous. When in doubt, never say you need help or ask for fucking directions. On Wall Street, it makes you less of a fucking man.
"So you get the higher profile and your face in the newspapers out of this deal?" I ask Lorna, eyeing her reaction. "In private I don't have to fucking look at you, right?"
She's holding her emotions in pretty good check, because she doesn't flinch at my obvious hatred.
"Well, I'll have a higher profile, dear, that's for sure," she says. "But I think you'll probably have to see me quite a bit more."
"You can do this role by simply emailing me and talking on the phone, you know," I tell her. "It's just for show basically. You're not really going to be setting any policy at this company."
Don't tell me to calm the fuck down, okay?
You're going to say no need to create all this anger on both sides. Just give her what she wants, take her money, and be done with it, right?
But no, Gorgeous.
I want you to understand just one thing.
There is no way in hell I'm letting my company go the way of what she did to her father's company.
None.
"If you really want to have a say as to whether or not I set any policy here, Mason, then you'll do what I say," Lorna says and I see her fangs come out. "Because otherwise I'll go to the Board and tell them that when I tried to help with this proposal you shot me down. Maybe even made a pass at me. And then you'll really be unfit to lead."
I just stare at her. I'm not fucking surprised at this.
"Fine," I tell her. "You fucking win. We'll do it your way."
Lorna smiles. "There's one last condition that isn't on the contractual paperwork yet, dear," she tells me and I see her eyes twinkle evilly as I look at her.
"What's that?" I ask, wondering if this is what it was all leading up to.
"Sure, my profile will be high enough to get appointed to the Chief Counsel position," she says to me. "But I want just one more title in addition to that."
"What title do you want?" I ask her, rolling my eyes. "Last I checked, Wall Street banks didn't have a title for Chief Bitch Officer."
Lorna smiles at me sweetly and gets up off her chair, walking toward me. "No, silly, that's not the title I want," she says as she walks around my desk to stand inches in front of me. "I want my other title to be Mrs. Mason Kane."
Holy fucking shit.
She can't be serious.
But her eyes tell me she's deadly fucking serious.
"That's right Mason," she says to me. "In order for me to rescue you out of your latest trouble, I'm going to have to be your wife."
Fuck my life.
Actually, Lorna is already doing that. She's fucking me up the ass with a barbed wire dildo.
And there's nothing I can do about it right now.
167
Becca
Ok, listen. I realize that I shouldn't complain about my childhood. On the surface, I had everything—nice gated condo, new luxury cars, a butler, gourmet meals, piano lessons, private school, a math tutor—typical things that kids take for granted when they grow up with money. But before you get all judgmental and think I'm just another spoiled-rotten 21-year-old, you should know that I didn't have it all. There were voids.
I didn't grow up with a father, and my mother, well… let’s just say that she went through men faster than kids go through a bag of Halloween candy. She was actually my stepmother because my biological mother died in childbirth. And then my Dad married her before he apparently left. That left Lorna taking care of me and she had a new flavor of man every year, and sometimes even quicker than that—I think the record was two weeks, and believe me, there have been more flavors than I can count. I stopped keeping score.
She fucked them over each and every time.
Like Duke, a master dive instructor from Fiji—or was it Tahiti?—whose skin felt almost leathery from being in saltwater a good majority of his life. Mom managed to pick him up on one of her so-called "work" events although I doubt much work was happening, and while I admit he wasn't terribly bad on the eyes, his personality was lacking—maybe all that saltwater pickled his brain—and it quickly became apparent that he couldn't handle the pace of city life.
Then there was Ben, the epitome of big city living. He was a Wall Street guy with a penchant for talking above everyone in a room—literally, his voice drowned out anything around it as if he was perpetually screaming. He could never get off of his phone either.
I swear, we'd be eating and he'd take the call with a mouth full of food. He'd be talking and I'd watch in disgust as bits of ravioli, or buttery flakes of crab leg meat—or whatever it was that we were eating—dangled from his lips. He's the kind of guy you'd find "manspreading" on a crowded subway, where men feel like they can spread their legs wide open and take two seats instead of one. Like they were born to do it. What did mom ever see in that guy? What did she see in any of them really?
They were like playthings for her. For her, the thrill was in the hunt, and once she had them … and got what she needed from them … I'd watch as that spark slowly faded from her eyes. It was all so predictable. Needless to say, she got bored easily. You could always tell when she started to get bored with a guy—her heels got flatter and the hemline of her dresses grew longer.
I guess none of that matters, except to say that when it comes to my mom, I've always felt invisible. She was too busy chasing me
n to do the things that normal mothers do, like go to their kids' school functions, or pack a lunch with one of those cute little hand-written notes on a napkin that say something like, "Have a great day, sweetie, Love, Mom."
Honestly, that's the last thing my mom would ever do. But whatever, I'm sure you're bored to tears hearing about all of this, so I'll spare you.
I walk up the steps leading to my mother's townhouse. The front door is red—the "perfect accent" she calls it. I fumble through the pockets of my purse and realize that I must've left my keys back at the office by mistake, so I take a deep breath and I knock.
I instantly hear the click of my mother's heels against the fancy hardwood floor of the foyer. By the rapid sound of her steps, she seems to be in one of her moods that can only be described as a hyper Chihuahua. Did you know that Chihuahuas are one of the most vicious dogs on the planet? You're laughing, but it's true. They may be small and full of nervous energy, but they've got a whole lot of bite. That sort of sums up my mother. While she's petite—and men always want to pet her—she has enough energy to fill a room, or scare the shit out of it.
"It's about time," she says, opening the door and looking at me with her hands on her hips. Her eyes are judging me from all angles. She's wearing a black dress with a particularly short hemline and I wonder what new man she's chasing.
"It's nice to see you too mom," I say. See? I told you. There's no warmth from that woman. Ever.
"Don't give me that look, Becca. Dinner is scheduled for 7, and you're late."
I look at my watch. I'm literally late by three minutes. Honestly, it's such a negligible difference that it's not worth arguing with her about, and she wouldn't care to hear about how busy I was at Kane Price, so I drop it and try to lighten the mood.
