“Mr. Markham,” she repeated sweetly. “I have a gift for you.”
I was expecting her to do something vulgar like spread her legs and show me her pussy, or maybe get on her hands and knees and wiggle her bare ass. But instead, she reached below the chaise lounge and pulled out a manila folder. Oh fuck. I’ve been in business a long time and know what unmarked folders usually mean. Bad news.
Suddenly angry, I strode over to the blonde and ripped the folder out of her hands, not bothering to say anything as I tore it open.
Oh fuck, it was worse than I expected. I’d been expecting Lorena to do something outrageous, maybe slip some condoms into the envelope, or some nasty sex pics. But instead, she’d doubled down.
Somehow, she’d known that I hadn’t given up on Cleo, far from it, and was determined to find the redhead. So Lorena had done the worst possible thing. The photos inside … they were of Cleo, totally nude, her assets flying, on display for men to see.
There was one where she was dancing, wearing nothing but stripper heels, her hair whirling as she gyrated on a pole. She looked gorgeous as attested by the male faces in the background, practically drooling at her luscious body.
The other photos were even more explicit. Cleo squatting, nude, baring her cunt to some guy, and then backing up to shake her rump in his face. Then bending over and showing off her breasts, her nips perky and tight, that creamy flesh ready to be devoured. There were dollar bills everywhere on the stage, littering the floor, making my little girl rich.
What the fuck? How could Cleo have turned so dirty, so fast? She’d been a virgin when I took her, and it was unbelievable that a mere two weeks later, she was taking her clothes off for money, getting dollars for shaking her tits, wiggling that ass.
But it only got worse. As I flipped through the files, there were more and more photos, and they just got more explicit. The shots were blurry in some cases, but otherwise unmistakable. Cleo’s legs spread, her cunny stuffed full with a massive dildo on stage. Cleo bent over, her ass being violated by a toy mounted on a wall. Over and over again, cream trailing from her thighs, juices running from the holes of her body.
I closed the file slowly, unable to look anymore. My little girl was working it, probably making thousands by baring body. Why? What the fuck? There was no reason, I would have provided for her. Sure, we hadn’t talked about our living situation, college, anything, but I figured that it was just a matter of time. There was absolutely no reason for Cleo to be dancing, to put that beautiful body on display for cash.
But evidently, this was what she wanted, to move out and live her own life, and Lorena wanted to drive the point home. She’d urged me to move on, resume my playboy ways, hinting that Cleo had a “modeling career,” even offering me another woman. I hadn’t believed any of that shit until I saw these photos, and it was like a stake to the heart, chest pains literally making me double over in agony.
Fuck this. Resolutely, I stiffened my back. My heart hurt and my libido was crushed, shredded to smithereens but I was an alpha male and wouldn’t let emotion control me. Betrayal hurts, but I’d get over it.
“Marie,” I ground out, my voice gravelly. “Get up and bend over.”
The blonde giggled, shifting her curvaceous form so that she teetered in high heels, doubled over the couch. As an enticement, she reached behind to hold herself open, pulling her cheeks apart so that I could look into that deep pink channel.
It smelled different, it looked different, and it was going to feel different than my beautiful girl. Reaching into my desk drawer, I pulled out a black, twelve-inch dildo that Cleo and I had experimented with right before she left. I hadn’t cleaned it afterwards, taking it out to sniff sometimes when I was working, that aromatic pussy scent still heavy, embedded in the rubber, rubbing it against my cock as a tantalizing treat. But the best way to get over one girl is to get right back into the saddle with another, and I was going to fuck the memory of Cleo right out of my mind.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Drake
Did I fuck Marie the dog-walker? Surprisingly … no. I’d planned on giving it to her good, taking out my rage on the blonde’s unsuspecting body.
And she’d been all for it.
“Please mister,” she’d pleaded, spreading her legs, holding her pussy lips apart. I could see straight up that channel, the pink walls pulsing, creaming with lust already. “I need it bad, put that big toy in my cunt!”
But disgusted, I’d tossed aside the dildo. I couldn’t bear to touch the blonde because of all the memories circulating in my head of a certain gorgeous redhead, ripe, willing, so tight that my pole got stiff just thinking about it. I didn’t want some random blonde chick wrapped around my cock, I just wanted Cleo’s sweet, tart pussy, in all ways, all places, creaming hard.
So I’d dismissed Marie curtly, kicking her out of the office before turning to my rolodex. Not caring that it was close to midnight, I’d called my private investigator and instructed him to get on it, to look for my little lost lamb. But as fate would have it, I beat him to the punch. The next evening, I’d been looking out the window of my chauffeured car in Manhattan when a taxi drove by, Cleo’s face smiling from the billboard up top. What the fuck? It’d only been two weeks! Doesn’t it take at least a month to buy advertising space, not to mention hire a photographer and schedule shoots?
But evidently Cleo was so beautiful that her new bosses had juiced the process. The Donkey Club, as the fucking joint was called, must have realized that she was a honeypot and had pasted her face on the ad, her eyes half-lidded, smoldering, while holding a finger up to her lips in a dirty shhh!
Holy fucking shit. Judging from the open mouths of other dudes looking at the ad it was fucking working, there’d be some very interested new patrons gracing the Donkey with their presence very soon. And it was bound to be bad. After all, any joint called the Donkey was going to be bottom of the barrel, seedy and unsanitary.
So I’d whipped out my cell and called off my client dinner, instead directing the driver to go straight to Cleo’s workplace. It was only eight, so the club obviously wasn’t packed, but I managed to slip in unnoticed, just another guy in a suit.
It was dark and disgusting. Sawdust rose in gusts off the floor and the space was a far cry from the velvet rope treatment of premiere gentlemen’s clubs. Instead, the counters were sticky, dudes in cowboy hats chewed on straw as they watched girls gyrate, and there was a live horse in the back that night for whatever reason.
But I saw what I’d come to see. There was my little redhead, shimmying on stage, her assets luscious and bouncy. Mr. Happy rose to attention at that one glimpse, watching raptly as she swung and shook, her pale creamy flesh almost incandescent in the low lights, a spattering of freckles barely visible just above her bosom. I watched, entranced, my heart in my throat. Cleo looked delicious, ripe and juicy, and I could barely breathe, I wanted to jerk her off that stage and smother her with kisses.
But another dude beat me to it. Some old farmer went up there waving dollar bills, and Cleo bent over, presumably to let him stuff the bills into her g-string. But instead the dude whisked her off her feet so that she came to rest in his lap, bouncing and laughing.
I couldn’t hear what she said but the old farmer slobbered over her shoulders and breasts, and Cleo threw her head back in mock ecstasy, reveling in the attention, loving the gentle tugs and nips. She managed to score even more money, the guy literally getting out his wallet and giving her all of its contents.
I stood, my back stiff, and began to make my way out of the club. As a businessman, I knew my logic was flawed. Cleo was a professional actress in many ways, she smiled and blew kisses to make money. But my heart was thundering, feeling betrayed and lost, torn apart by her shocking departure. I wanted my little girl to be mine only, and it killed me that she was giving it away to other men, selling herself, baring it all for others to see.
Shaking my head resolutely, I got back into the car.
&nbs
p; “Home,” I barked. I would forget the brat no matter what it took.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Cleo
Four years later …
I miss my stepdad. I think about my old life sometimes, and it makes me sad. It’s like when you’re all grown up, and you realize that your childhood is gone now, the sweetness, the purity, the innocence. Okay maybe I’d been none of those things, but definitely the two weeks I’d had with Drake had been amazing. Not just the sex, but his reassuring presence in me, surrounding me all the time.
Because things have really changed. I’m a working girl now, on stage every night, serving customers right and left. I don’t know how I got here exactly.
When I first came to New York, Lorena helped me find a really nice apartment.
“Don’t worry, Daddy’s going to pay for it,” she reassured me. We’d signed a lease for five thousand a month. But after two months in the rental, Lorena canceled my lease and put me into a shared apartment with five other dancers. It was awful -- some of the girls were crackheads, smoking whenever they were off duty, stoned and dazed all the time. Not to mention that the place was a fucking sty, cockroaches and mice scrabbling at night.
But Lorena was adamant.
“You can’t live off Daddy’s money forever,” she admonished. “You’re eighteen now and Drake won’t support you forever. The rent here’s only $900, you can afford it by working hard at the Donkey Club.”
And it was true. I made about $500 a night dancing, all cash, so covering my rent wasn’t an issue. It was more the knowledge that Drake didn’t care anymore. I felt like a ghost now. He never called, he never visited, was too busy with his new girl … and the baby on the way. I was bitter, and the tang in my mouth sour and hurtful. It was so painful to think that our connection was completely forgotten, that I was a piece of trash, used and discarded already. The agony made me throw myself into work, trying to forget.
And so I danced with a frenzy. The customers at the Donkey Club had never seen a girl hustle so hard, baring everything, breaking down all walls. I held nothing back, pushing all the boundaries, working every night, showing everything, holding nothing back. I can’t say I’m proud of it, but I wanted to be the best, even if it was just being the best in a seedy strip club.
And my efforts paid off. Since I first set foot in the Donkey Club four years ago, I’ve seen my star rise. Okay, maybe I’m not a world famous model, but I am a world famous erotic actress and dancer. The Club uses my face in its advertisements so you can see my visage whiz by on the tops of taxi cabs, the sides of buses, and even a small billboard in Times Square, pointing the way to the Donkey Club.
Plus, I’ve been able to build an on-line empire. Men log-on to watch me do all sorts of things, and wow, the subscription service turns a pretty penny. Guys pay fifty bucks a month to chat on the computer, to watch me dance on camera, to live out their fantasies with a girl they’ll never meet in person. There are t-shirts, dolls, branded sex toys, and even a rubber mold of my pussy, can you believe it? The business is called “CleoWorld,” and other strippers are asking to join now, to be profiled on my site. Why not? I might as well keep the smut bucks rolling in.
And so I’ve become phenomenally wealthy from my business ventures, my empire sprawling and diverse, a stable of girls under the CleoWorld umbrella. It’s surreal. At age twenty-two, I’ve become a CEO. Sure, I started out as an exotic dancer and entertainer, but the peon climbed her way up the ladder to be the lady in charge, built on the back of a lot of hard work with a dash of luck. I’ve hired an assistant and a web guy to maintain my various websites, an accountant, a lawyer, a banker, a real team of professionals.
By the way, speaking about lawyers and bankers. The other day word on the street was that the girlie mag Hustler was filing for bankruptcy. My attorney called me, pitching the deal.
“Cleo,” said Stuart, “CleoWorld might be the right entity to pick up this asset. If it’s in Chapter Eleven, why not? It’s going to go at a fire-sale value, and you’re savvy enough, smart enough, with the deep pockets to turn it around.”
I sighed.
“Stuart, you know I can’t make decisions without any data or back-up. Get me some analyses and we’ll take a look at the deal. Hustler might be too far gone for any possibility of resuscitation. If their customer base has already scattered, we’d have to win them back and that would discount the purchase price.”
I could tell Stewie was impressed by my analysis. Who says you have to go to college to have real smarts? I’d been scrappy and worked my ass off and it had made me into a millionaire many times over.
“Alright, I’ll get Ben started on the valuation,” replied my attorney, referring to my investment banker. “But get ready for the auction to go hard and fast soon. This property isn’t going to stay on the block long.”
I paused for a moment. I wished Drake was here to help me do this analysis. As the CEO of News Enterprises, he’d know exactly how to guide me, how to evaluate a potential acquisition. But those days were gone now, and I scolded myself mentally. I hadn’t seen Daddy in four years! It was no use, and I clamped down internally, willing myself to shoulder on.
So it hasn’t all been rainbows and unicorns. I miss my Daddy … but I’ve become my own woman, with my own life.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Drake
As the chairman of News Enterprises, it’s my business to be aware of all the goings-on in the publishing industry. The news of Hustler’s demise was surprising, but not altogether unexpected. A traditional glossy just can’t get the same advertising dollars as before, not when they’re competing with a range of on-line sites, advertising live feeds, and worst of all, ever more start-up publications, all hoping to get a slice of the adult content industry.
And News Enterprises is a conglomerate overseeing a number of diverse publications ranging from business newspapers like World One, World Global and World Catch to smutty pubs like Yawker and Cumming. So we know what’s happening in all facets of the industry and had some space in our adult content line-up. Oh yeah, Yawker and Cumming outsell our other pubs three-to-one, porn and sex are real attention grabbers, the mark-up huge coupled with low production costs.
And we’ve got our finger on the pulse of the trade. Take for example, my number two. Lewis was in my office last week discussing Hustler’s impending bankruptcy auction. That’s right, they were selling off the magazine like an animal at market, finding a bidder through good old fashioned cattle calling.
“Drake, this could be a great opportunity to pick up a distressed asset,” he said. “Our finance guys have combed through the numbers and there’s hidden value there.”
“How so?” I remarked.
“Evidently, the magazine’s got a strong subscriber base of men in the 30-55 demographic, exactly who we want to hit. There’s some fat in staffing but that’s easy to cut after a potential acquisition.”
It was true, the 30-55 male demographic was highly sought after by advertisers and perhaps we could do some cross-marketing, grabbing eyeballs for our other male-oriented publications. Even if we kept Hustler going for only a year or two, that might be enough to steer customers to other trade glossies, acting as tastemaker and big brother in one.
I grunted.
“Alright, get me some numbers and we’ll attend the auction,” I said. It was a strategic decision more than anything. Even if we had no intention of seriously bidding for Hustler, it was good to press the flesh, scope out the competition, show your face when all the other players in town were at the races.
But admittedly, I had an ulterior motive. Would Cleo be there? It sounds crazy, but it was a real possibility. I’ve followed my little step all these years, watching her from afar, tracking her every move while reminding myself again and again that she was no longer interested, that she’d run off without any notice for a career on stage, leaving me with nothing.
And somehow my little step has morphed from run-of-the-mill stripper int
o adult entertainment magnate. I’d been stunned watching the transformation. First up had been the branded sex toys. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised, after all she was an erotic dancer and guys would buy that shit up. So when she made her first million selling CleoWorld latex pussies, I’d had a good chuckle, throwing the catalogue onto my desk with a snort. Okay, I admit, I ordered one as well, using it in my shower in the mornings, dreaming of my luscious girl.
But the empire-building continued. She started a magazine, and then a website, doing live cam work, and judging from the number of subscribers, was making quite the pretty penny. One million subscribers paying fifty bucks a month … that’s fifty million per month. Can you believe it? Fifty million per month. My little girl hit the big time, albeit in an x-rated industry, but success is success, don’t let people talk you down.
So yeah, Cleo is a big-time player in this field now and Hustler is right up her alley. She’d know how to turn it around, how to find new advertisers, how to beef up the content to appeal to new subscribers. She’d be at the auction for sure … and I’d be waiting.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Cleo
The bankruptcy auction was packed. I strode into the conference room, accompanied by my lawyer and my banker. All eyes were on me because most of the people in the room were old white guys and I was the only young, appetizing female in the bunch.
Not to mention I’d done myself up to look like a porn star that day. Sure I could have gone in wearing a boring business suit but might as well let these guys see what they’d come to see. I wore a long red dress, clingy with a deep vee, with sparkly red heels, my hair swept into an updo. Totally inappropriate for a business meeting, but competition beware … I was dead serious about getting Hustler.
The Billionaire's Kitten: A Fake Marriage Romance Page 71
