by Amy Brent
The early morning sun was filtering through the smoked glass in the French doors that led out to the second-floor balcony, bathing the room in a warm wash of light that would have been romantic if I hadn’t been alone.
I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and groaned as I got to my feet, then paused to stretch my arms toward the ceiling. My spine popped a little as I stretched, a faint reminder of my hard playing days on the MIT rugby team.
Or was it a reminder of last night; a sexual hangover that had my entire body in need of a good steam and hot shower. Jesus, I was just forty-years-old, but I reckoned that my years as a sexual Olympian were behind me now.
Too many nights of back room quickies and drunken missionary positions and easy fucking had taken their toll. That was just one advantage of being an eligible, well-hung, good-looking billionaire. Women offered themselves to me like desserts on a tray. I didn’t have to work for pussy anymore. It was just there. Always there. Mine for the taking. I didn’t have to work for it anymore. I’ll have you and you and you and…
Easy pussy had made me soft.
After last night’s gymnastics—and the promise of many more nights to come— maybe it was time to get back in real fucking shape.
I chuckled as I yawned.
Sometimes the shit my brain came up with just cracked me up.
I cocked my ear toward the master bathroom door and listened for a moment. A smile came to my face when I heard her… humming.
Yes, she was humming.
Happy people hum.
Satisfied women hum.
My cock twitched as if saying, “Go get her, you stupid fuck!”
“Patience, ET,” I said quietly, giving my balls a nice scratch as I padded across the heated carpet to the bathroom door. I pressed my ear to the door and listened for a moment.
She was humming a song I knew but couldn’t place. It made me smile. Fuck, everything this woman did made me smile. I quietly turned the handle, found it unlocked, then pushed the door open to reveal a sight that nearly took my breath away. I’d had a lot of beautiful, naked women in this bathroom, but none like her.
She was standing at the sink with a towel wrapped around her wet hair and nothing else. Her perfect body was dotted with little drops of water as if meticulously placed there by a great artist.
The large bathroom was still steamy from the shower. She was on her tiptoes, leaning in toward the mirror, brushing her lashes with mascara. Her big breasts hung heavy on her chest; so round and milky smooth, her nipples in the mirror, hard and pink from the steaming shower.
The muscles in her toned legs were tight. Her round ass was sticking out, facing me, open for business, baby. I couldn’t help but lick my lips at the sight of her pink twat and puckered little asshole.
“Good morning,” I sighed, moving in close behind her and sliding my hands around her waist. She leaned back into me and pressed her wet shoulder blades to my chest and put her arms around my neck. She turned her head so that I could press my lips to hers. We both had morning breath but neither of us cared.
My hands went immediately to her melon tits.
I squeezed her pink nipples until they turned dark red between my fingers.
She moaned at the sweet pain and wiggled her ass against me.
I bent my knees so my long cock could slide in between her legs.
I could feel the heat of her pussy on the top of my shaft as her lips molded over the shaft and the head of my cock slid across her clit.
I groaned in her ear as my hands slid down her flat stomach, across her shaved mound, my fingers meeting at her clit, rubbing gentle circles along the sides, feeling it harden between my fingertips, as I worked my hips back and forth.
She cooed at me in the mirror and pushed her round ass against me.
She told me to fuck her from behind while we watched in the mirror.
I smiled and dug my fingers into her hips.
I swear I heard my cock give a happy sigh.
What a great way to start the day…
Chapter 1: Isaac
The freelance writer Influencers Magazine sent to interview me for what they called their “Influencers of the Future Series” was a blonde named Stacey something or other who had legs up to here and a pair of tits that dared me to try to focus on anything but them.
She was dressed professionally in a pair of black slacks that hugged her long, thin frame, sensible shoes on what I figured would be exquisite feet (I’d sucked a toe or two in my time), and a short black jacket over a turquoise blouse that did little to hide the fact that she had a couple of world class double-D’s stuffed inside there.
Being the horn, computer nerd that I am, I quickly calculated in my mind how long it would take for me to have her completely out of her clothes and bent over my desk should the opportunity arise. Six-point-two seconds, top to bottom, with most of that time spent removing the industrial strength bra that was keeping her big melons in place.
I forced my eyes to remain on hers, although the allure of those tits was making it incredibly hard, like trying to look away from something you knew to be a miracle of nature.
My tongue slid across my dry lips without my brain telling it to.
My mouth filled with the taste of… what was that… milk?
Wow, sometimes my imagination amazed even me.
We were in my fifth-floor office at IDS, the tech company I had founded with my childhood pals, Denny and Sammy, almost fifteen years ago when we were all seniors at MIT.
I was the computer hacker/nerd.
Denny was the big personality/marketer.
And Sammy was the level-headed business guy.
It was the perfect combination of brains, bravado, and balls.
We never fathomed that we were starting a multi-billion-dollar company way back then. It’s just how things worked out. I had a novel idea for a way to store data online and secure it from hackers. I wrote the code and built the site. Denny found our first customers. And Sammy somehow rolled it all into a formal business. He wrote the initial business plan that got us our first ten-million dollars in funding from a Silicon Valley venture capitalist over one long weekend while Denny and I were out partying.
It wasn’t easy. We struggled at first, then, slowly, things started picking up and the next thing we knew, our little company was going public and we were all billionaires. Yes. Billionaires. With a B.
Is this a great fucking country or what?
We even named the company after ourselves. IDS, Inc. stood for Isaac, Denny, and Sammy, even though the rest of the world thought it stood for Internet Data Systems, Incorporated.
Jesus, my mind wanders sometimes…
Where was I…
Oh yeah…
The hot blonde… uh… Stacey…
She was sitting in a chair in front of my desk with her long legs crossed at the knees and her back straight, probably to counterbalance the weight of her tits (I minored in physics).
She had an iPad resting on her thigh and tapped her long nails to the screen, taking notes as I answered her inane questions about the future of tech and this and that and blah, blah, blah.
I’d been interviewed hundreds of times over the years. Interviews bored the shit out of me, but Denny insisted that it was good for marketing and Sammy said it was good for business, so I plastered on a smile, worked up what little patience I could, and gave them the answers they expected to hear. Nothing earth-shattering, nothing controversial, nothing too revealing about our future plans. It was basically, “All is well because IDS is on the job for our thousands of big clients.”
End of story.
Yawn.
At least Stacey was smoking hot, unlike most tech writers, and if my potential-fuck-meter was not failing me, she was also giving me the eye from behind the fashionable black-rimmed glasses that she wore. She probably wore them because she thought they made her look smarter, not because she needed them to correct her vision.
Okay, I’m also a
bit of a cynic.
Sue me.
“So, you’re saying that the threat of a major hack is not a concern for you or your clients?” She was asking the question when I brought my focus back around to her voice rather than her tits.
“I’m saying that it is no more of a concern today than it was a year ago,” I said with a sigh that probably made me sound even more bored than I actually was. “Hackers are a constant threat. They always have been. They are like self-replicating cockroaches. You will never be able to stomp them all out because if you kill one, two more immediately take his place.”
She smiled at me. “Self-replicating cockroaches?”
I didn’t smile back because I wasn’t making a joke.
“The key is to make sure your systems and software are prepared and secure against whatever threat a hacker may bring. It’s all about preparedness and response. And if you are hacked, it then it becomes about how quickly you can deal with the hack, seal the hole, and repair the damage.”
I’d said those words in so many interviews now that they rolled off my tongue like the freakin’ Pledge of Allegiance. I thought about printing them out and just handing them to whoever was interviewing me to save myself a few gusts of breath.
Stacey tapped away on the iPad. When she looked up, I forced a smile and said, “That’s enough heavy shit. Ask me something fun.”
She gave me a wary look. “Something fun?”
I spread my hands and let my eyebrows go up. “Ask me something no one has ever asked me before.”
I was sitting behind my desk with the wall of tinted-glass behind me that looked out over the twenty-acre IDS campus. Located in the hills overlooking Silicon Valley, the campus looked more like a park than the headquarters of a billion-dollar tech company, with its meticulously-manicured lawns and hedges trimmed to resemble woodland creatures and buildings made of mirrored glass that blended rather than marred the landscape. I had personally conceived the layout and design of the campus and after three years of construction, we had opened the doors almost a year ago and consolidated most of our five hundred employees there.
“The campus is amazing,” she said, staring past me at the green and blue beyond the windows, searching for a question to ask that wasn’t on her prepared list. “I understand you designed it all yourself.”
“Ah, I just sketched it out,” I said with a dismissive wave. “Someone much smarter and more talented than me did the work.”
“You’re being modest,” she said coyly.
“Am I?” I picked up a thick rubber band that was on the desk and leaned back in the chair, rocking, stretching the rubber band between my fingers. I rolled it around my fingers, keeping my hands busy. I had the attention span of a gnat and the only thing that I had found to help me focus was to keep my hands busy so my mind could stay on point. Still, I couldn’t help but stare into the blue eyes staring at me from behind the pair of black-framed glasses, imagining doing things much more fun than this boring, fucking interview.
“I’ve been asked that question before,” I said, my voice taking on a daring tone in a last-ditch effort to make the conversation interesting. I glanced at my Apple watch. “Time’s running out, Stacey. Last chance to ask me something really interesting.”
She took off the glasses and set them on the desk, then turned off the iPad and slid it into the computer bag that was sitting at her feet. “All right then, Mr. Hanson, tell me about Votre Désire. Or what some call Club Desire or Club D.”
I had become a master at keeping my expression as blank as a sheet of paper. That skill served me well when she mentioned the name of the ultra-private club that Denny, Sammy, and I had founded for super rich guys like us who wanted to mingle with super hot women without any strings or worry about public embarrassment. The extent of that mingling was up to the member and the girl, but suffice it to say, most members would pay a small fortune to fuck an otherwise unobtainable woman who looked like a Victoria’s Secret supermodel, and the women who worked at Club D as “escorts” would go all the way if the price was right.
Fuck 10’s.
These girls were 20’s.
Some of them were even off the charts.
I shook my head like I was disappointed at her sad efforts to ask an original question and gave her a look that said the interview was over. “I’m sorry,” I said, putting my hands on the desk, ready to push myself out of the chair and show her the door. “I don’t think I’m familiar with… what was it… Club Desire?”
“Yes. Actually…” She reached into her purse and brought out a business card. She set the card on the desk and used one long finger to slide it toward me. The card was expensive looking, glossy and black, with the words “Votre Désire” and a phone number embossed in gold on the front. I recognized the card immediately, though I tried not to show it. It was a card given to beautiful women who might be a good match for the club. We employed hostesses, waitresses, bartenders, dancers, and escorts; the latter being those who would fuck a member’s brains out for two-thousand dollars a pop and leave them begging to spend more.
And trust me, it was money well-spent. Me, Denny, or Sammy were typically a new girl’s first customer to make sure she was a good fit for Club D. We called it “Quality Control”. If we didn’t think the pussy was worth two-grand a pop, we made her a waitress or a dancer, although some girls passed with flying colors based solely on what they could do with their mouths or other body parts.
We called them “Specialists” because that’s what they were: special.
I know, it was a tough job, but someone had to do it.
I picked up the card and stared at it for a moment, examining both sides, though I knew there would be nothing on the back. The cards were sparsely passed out by one person and one person alone: Club D manager and concierge, Monte Lemon—or as we called him: Mr. Lemon, because we thought it sounded cool. Monte was Sammy’s uncle, a former maître d at a high-class restaurant in New York City. He also ran strip clubs for John Gotti back in the day, which gave him the perfect mix of class and attitude. Monte was in charge of recruiting girls for the club and a fucking master of discretion. I knew he didn’t mention my association with the club. And I doubted he gave her the card. Monte was too sharp to give a reporter a card, no matter how fantastic her tits were.
No, she had gotten the card from someone else, someone who’d passed it on with the whisper about what went on there. Clearly, she was on a fishing expedition, hoping to snag the big one and have me verify the long-whispered rumor that Club D actually existed and was the brainchild of yours truly and his merry band of billionaire brothers.
“Votre Désire…” I said thoughtfully. I glanced at her over the top of the card. “Is that French?”
“Yes, it’s French,” she said, one eyebrow arching as she tried to detect the lie that was firmly sealed behind my lips. “It means your desire or whatever you desire.”
“Interesting,” I said with a slow nod. I knew what the name meant. I thought the name was stupid when we came up with it, but Denny liked the sound of it and he was fucking a French girl at the time, so, yeah… Votre Désire… Your Desire. I should have kept the card, but I didn’t want to raise her suspicions any higher. I set the card on the desk and slid it back her way.
I asked, “Am I supposed to know something about this… what did you call it… club what?”
“Club Desire,” she said, taking the card from my fingers and slipping it into the side pocket of the computer bag. “Club D, for short. Are you telling me that you know nothing about the place?”
“What say we play a little game,” I said, leaning forward to plant my elbows on the desk. I spread out my hands and smiled. “Why don’t you tell me what you think you know about this Club D place and I’ll either confirm or deny it if I can.”
“Are you saying Club D actually exists?” she asked, a hint of urgency in her voice. I could see the spark in her blue eyes at the anticipation of a nice, dirty story that would
get her a byline in the magazine or on the website. I could hear her breath quicken. I knew that her heart was beating a little faster behind those giant melons. Her pink tongue darted across her lips. She squirmed in the chair as if it were getting hot beneath her, even though I expected the heat was coming from within her cunt and not from the chair.
Silly, I know, but I started picturing her naked.
Leaning back in the chair with her legs spread.
Roughly massaging her tits.
Rolling her finger over her clit.
Waiting for me to come around the desk and make her mine.
My cock started to chub up a little.
I lowered my voice and gave her a little smile. “Tell me what you think you know. I’ll confirm or deny honestly. But it has to be off the record.”
“Off the record?” The smile faded from her lips as quickly as it came. She muttered, searching for words. “But… I thought…”
I held up my hands to shush her. “Do you want the truth, or not?”
“I do, but...”
“Then tell me what you think you know.” I sat back with my fingers laced across my stomach, giving her a look that told her there was no negotiation. She might get confirmation of her suspicions, but wouldn’t be able to tell a soul without my lawyer ripping her a new one the size of Texas.
