by Avery Aster
“I love having a hotel next to our office,” Taddy confessed. Despite the high-rise’s holiday lights mounted on the windows, she could still see inside the rooms.
Truman Times Square took New York City union laborers two years to erect and stood at sixty stories. It was the tallest hotel in Manhattan. Room rates started in the thousands and had a one-year wait list. The property premiered as the world’s tenth most expensive hotel, according to Luxury TV. This year it had secured a spot on the Condé Nast Traveler Gold List and the AAA Five Diamond Award list. The best thing about the property proved to be the voyeuristic views, which her executives liberally took in.
Taddy continued to watch the guy in the bathroom with a razor to his scrotum. “That dude is a Big Daddy. Must be six foot three. God I love ‘em tall and beefy.” Her red acrylics used the zoom feature on the binoculars for a closer view.
“I can’t believe you two bitches do this at eight every morning,” Viveca Farnworth, aka Vive, exclaimed between Bloody Mary gulps. She rented office space from Taddy one flight up and owned Debauchery magazine. A few minutes ago, Vive came downstairs for her breakfast—vodka. Since the seventh grade, Vive had existed in their social circle. Known by many, Vive was a bestie to Taddy, Blake and their other friend Lex. It was the four of them forever.
“Watching others is the closest thing we have to a sex life.” Blake didn’t make any apologies for his frigid gay husband. “Taddy, at your nine o’clock on the fifty-ish floor, do you see what I see?”
She glanced over to catch a lank, hung lad jacking off, alone. “Poor business traveler, he’s by himself with no one to release ‘em. I should walk over there and bring him some freshly squeezed orange juice.” Taddy laughed. She preferred sex at sunrise where she found a man’s stamina stronger. “With extra pulp,” she added.
Vive let out a loud sigh. “Blake, can I borrow your peepers when you’re done?”
He ignored Vive’s requests. “Taddy, look at the sweet couple on the thirty-ish floor.”
She scanned down to where Blake pointed and stood in her Chanel pumps. “Ooh yeah, I’d so love to be her.” A dude gave his girl the ultimate female fantasy. “Why can’t I have a man who will wake up with me in bed and do that? I’m so jelly.”
“For fuck’s sake, let me see,” Vive griped.
Blake continued, “He’s massaging her toes while she drinks her coffee and reads the newspaper in bed.”
“Speaking of coffee, where the hell is the newbie with my espresso?” Taddy craved another caffeine shot. Her busy week was packed with wrinkle cream press launches and branding overpriced handbags. She needed to keep her energy on high octane.
Vive used to rely on diet pills to keep her going. However, with much hope and a lot of time spent in rehab, she’d quit her methamphetamine addiction. Blake preferred cock as his stimulant. Hard, hung, uncut, cut, imported or domestic—it didn’t matter. Like Vive’s speed balls, Blake wasn’t getting any dick either.
“Okay, kiddies, I best get upstairs. I have gossip to spread, editorials to write, celebs to expose.” Vive extended her goodbyes. Read by four million people weekly and covering all things salacious, Debauchery magazine came out in print and digital editions. A publication she’d founded and thrived on, it ruined people’s lives but made hers. “Next time I’ll bring my own binoculars. I have a gold pair the Metropolitan Opera gave me with their media kit.”
Blake nodded. “I’m off to kick some client butt.” In an attempt to not make the tented erection in his pants obvious, he placed a folder over his lap.
Taddy laughed.
He headed to the marketing division on the office’s other side. On his way out, Taddy’s new hire, Kelly, came in. She plopped some red fabric on Taddy’s desk followed by her next espresso shot.
“What’s this?” Taddy watched Kelly place a folder with the garment.
“A pashmina for your New Year’s Eve trip with Miss Easton.” Kelly beamed with brown-nosed reassurance. She’d secured her position at Brill, Inc., hence a place in New York City society.
“Cute, thank you,” Taddy complimented, accustomed to her employees’ generous gifts. Nevertheless, it in no way became old, in particular a red pashmina from Burberry.
New hires recruited from Taddy’s alma mater at Columbia gave her Hermes and found themselves promoted at once. Those from New York University favored presents from Bloomie’s—and often lost their way in middle management. Nevertheless, the NYC Fashion Technology graduates were the worst. They made the mistake of buying Taddy Pinkberry yogurt, and generally lasted less than a year.
Kelly had graduated from a university Taddy had never heard of before. She seemed different.
Taddy had caught the twinkle in Kelly’s Kewpie-doll eyes the second she walked through her 42nd Street doors. At one p.m., she noticed Kelly didn’t “lunch” status quo. Brill girls ate vegan, juiced or pharmed prescription pills like they were Good & Plenty’s. Not Kelly—she actually took her hour lunch to eat at Burger Heaven. Kelly didn’t “ritty” methylphenidate, despite Brill girls regaling Kelly with tales that it would make her work faster and be more focused.
At press launch parties when Brill girls snorted coke, asserting it helped them breathe better from their botched nose jobs, Kelly declined party favors. When the Brill girls poured Grey Goose vodka down their throats, alleging it enabled better blowjobs without gagging, Kelly stuck to seltzer with lime.
Taddy offered Kelly a Coke Zero or Lipton Iced Tea.
Notably, Kelly didn’t consume caffeine either.
Brill girls showed off their waxed legs and air-brushed with self-tanner cleavage in Dior, Herve Leger and Pucci outfits at the office.
Kelly dressed modestly in Michael Kors, Calvin Klein and Donna Karan—American and wholesome.
No one at her media company could reckon Kelly’s agenda other than odd. The fashion division trash-talked Kelly, saying she hailed from another planet, Los Angeles perhaps. The beauty division ignored her, deeming Kelly invisible. And the lifestyle division thought she existed as a 1950s reincarnate. They possessed a love-hate relationship with Kelly from afar.
Taddy knew all along what made Kelly unique.
On the contrary, Taddy didn’t mind a little diversity. She employed Jewish girls, Catholics, Muslims and a few self-claimed Buddhists who barely understood yoga let alone much about eastern religion. Adding a Mormon girl to the mix intrigued her. So did the circumspect Kelly, who never carried clients’ garment samples out from the office—and therefore, she never stole a thing. And she could write press releases with no revisions. That was another anomaly.
Kelly’s morals made her endearing and different from the horny, ruthless pit bulls she normally encountered. And Kelly reported to work at dawn probably because she wasn’t wasted from the night before, able to press Taddy’s early-morning, midmorning and late-morning espresso shots.
But Taddy realized Kelly would have her shortcomings on some things, her social calendar being one of them. Painting the town red over the holiday didn’t appeal to Taddy, or any Manhattanite for that matter. Not one as temperature-dropping and crowd-drawing as New Year’s Eve. Staycations are so last year. My heart is set on St. Tropez. There, she could decompress poolside, topless, and always unknown.
Taddy held on to Kelly’s St. Tropez offering. “I plan on being topless throughout my entire holiday.” She wrapped the pashmina around her shoulders to show her gratitude. “This shall keep me snug on the plane ride. It’s always nippy in first class.”
“Naked?”
“Always.”
Kelly drew her clipboard to her tiny breasts. “Miss Brill, December’s temperature is cool in St. Tropez. Your file includes a weather report.”
She flipped the folder open. Cool wasn’t in the forecast—downright cold to freezing was what Mother flipping Nature ordered. Crap.
“Sit down, Kelly.” She pushed the Lalique-framed snapshot of her NFL football crush, Brayden Brooks playing at last
year’s Super Bowl, to her right. Her Lanvin-cuffed wrists swept her client’s lipstick project to her left.
Challenged to come up with anything more unique than Rose Petal, Sugar Plum and Earth Red for lip color names, she’d been rebranding SKUs for Baden Cosmetics. Taddy replaced their stickers with new labels, which included Double Penetration, Licked All Over and her personal favorite, Cunty Red. Clients hired her for one thing and one thing only, to get them press. Lip gloss called Sugar Plum wouldn’t secure an editor’s attention at HerSay magazine. But Cunty Red? Most definitely.
“What is it, Miss Brill?” Kelly pushed her unbleached chignon up and sat on the seat’s edge with a sharp inhale.
“We have a problem…a whopper to be exact.” Taddy heaved her breasts out. She loved scaring the flat-chested new hires with her knockers.
“Do we?” Kelly asked in terror. Taddy assumed not from her boss’s breasts, for those she knew Kelly admired because she always stared at them fondly. Her dismay was for the word “problem” that came from Taddy’s mouth.
“First, thank you for the gift. It’s in red, my favorite color.” She loved this pashmina. She owned five at home identical to this one.
“I read in the company handbook you are to be branded in red at all times.”
“Red is the color for intensity—I am a deep person, Kelly.”
“I see, Miss Brill.”
“Red enables people to make quick decisions, a motto I live by.” She tapped her acrylics on the Horchow mirrored desktop. “It also embodies strength and power. Two traits I strive for. Understand?”
“Yes ma’am.” Kelly made a noise. She swallowed hard—twice.
“I’m going to make you my new executive personal assistant. You’ll get a ten percent raise and a company credit card with a wardrobe allowance.”
“Yeah!”
“Calm down.” Taddy had planned to promote her anyway.
“Thank you, Miss Brill. I’m so excited. I can’t wait to tell my parents—oh boy.” She collapsed into the high-backed chair, eyes beaming.
“We must do something about your name.”
“My name?” She paused. “It’s Kelly—Kelly Ivy Kailyn Izatt.”
Taddy made an extra effort not to roll her eyes. She hated to make anyone think their birth name was not unique or that they weren’t special, or above all, that they were just another Kelly. “We have three Kellys on salary—Kelly Barnes, Kel Michaels and Kelbie something-or-another.” Taddy had reached the conclusion that Kelbie pissed while standing although he dressed from the waist down in a skirt. He strutted better in high heels than Brill girls. Kelbie came from Atlanta. His paycheck Taddy signed each week was addressed to a “Kelly Brian Green”.
“What about using my middle name?”
“Ivy makes me itch.” She scowled.
“What do you suggest we do then, Miss Brill?”
“Your initials are K.I.K.I. Use those.” She was keen on having an assistant named Kiki.
“Kiki’s different.” Her executive assistant’s face lit up. Taddy Brill’s new executive assistant, Kiki, was created.
“So is that all, Miss Brill?” Shoulders raised, she went to stand.
“No—”
Kiki stayed seated. “Oh…”
“I can’t go to St. Tropez with Lex.”
“Was it my weather report?” She reached for the folder on Taddy’s desk.
“I love the heat.” I love my tits. She loved showing off her tits in the heat.
“Lex and you want to go somewhere warmer, I take it?”
“Hotter. Much hotter.” Without notice, she glided her hands over her décolletage and tugged at her Carine Gilson bra straps. The lingerie purchase was a suggestion from Lex. While shopping in Paris, her friend urged her that if she wore the best foundation garments she’d be less intent on taking them off all the time. Nothing was better for her breasts than Carine Gilson. Regardless, the desire to go topless burned inside her.
Her assistant coughed. “May I be personal with you for a minute, Miss Brill?” Kiki turned her face away in possible fear she’d be flashed at her boss’s self-groping.
“Of course.” Taddy hoped this would be good. She loved when Brill girls dished on themselves. Lonely at the top, Taddy was no longer included in chatter at the water-cooler.
“My friend DJ Dejon spins at several parties in Europe this time of year—”
“Don’t take this the wrong way.” Fighting the urge to laugh, she bit down on her lower lip and sat back in her chair. She always tried to demonstrate a high opinion of her girls. “How does a native from Provo, Utah, have a DJ friend named Dejon who spins in Europe?”
“We’re friends online through a chat room, ma’am.”
“Aah, makes sense.” God bless cyber introductions.
“Anyways.” Kiki pulled out a flyer from her paper stack. It listed DJ Dejon’s tour dates.
To Taddy’s surprise, he trotted the globe. “Wow.”
“New Year’s Eve, Dejon is spinning in Algarve, Portugal.”
She leaned closer. “And?” An open tube of Cunty Red glossed her left nipple. This gave her ideas for other color cosmetic names. Taddy jotted down in her notebook MelonLicious and Utah Virgin.
“Dejon posted Algarve in his online chat room as the hottest place this winter—both temperature- and scene-wise.” She flashed her small white teeth, scoring huge with this season’s tip.
“Love it. Book it. Thank you, Kiki, darling.” She reached for her cell and texted Lex the change in plans. Kiki chatted on about DJ Dejon’s music while Taddy received an immediate reply from Lex. It read, “Make the reservation under our code names”.
Using an alias proved vital when Taddy traveled with Lex. Lex Easton was a famed rock-n-roll star’s daughter turned fashion designer. Taddy had experienced her all-too-public lifestyle as teenagers. Since she was also in the spotlight, she found herself booked at the St. Regis and Exhale Bliss Spa under the code name Red.
In Monte Carlo, she booked under Marie Red, in London Lady Red, in Las Vegas Lucky Red and so on. OK! magazine and In Touch Weekly sure as hell didn’t need to know about her anal bleaching business. She preferred to remain behind the scenes and let the reporters focus on her clients. Not her. However, for some reason, Taddy always found herself front and center of attention.
“Kiki, you’ll see in my personal folder, my travel policy on making reservations under the name Red.” She smiled. “Tell me about Algarve. The tidbit I’ve heard is Portuguese footballer João Moutinho lives there.”
“So…”
“João plays for the F.C. Porto team.”
“Sooo.” Kiki was clueless.
“A drop-dead delicious European version to my va-jay-jay-idol Brayden Brooks.” She turned the picture frame to face Kiki. “If I can’t have Brayden this holiday, I might be able to have João.” Taddy wondered if Kiki’s DJ cyber buddy knew João.
“I better get to my desk and get started on these reservations, Miss Brill.” She excused herself.
Au revoir, South of France. Olá, Portugal.
Taddy was delighted to learn that Kiki’s on-again, off-again cyber relationship with DJ Dejon had progressed from chat rooms to web videos. Dejon had facilitated securing Taddy and Lex the presidential suite at the city’s five-star hotel.
They were booked under Senhora Red.
Elated, Taddy gifted Kiki with a bonus—an appointment with Dr. Hugo Fassenbender to get her breasts augmented. New cleavage proved the least she could do. Although Taddy’s came from Mother Nature, she identified with a girl’s desire to have a power set, especially since she’d learned Kiki had wanted a pair. She often referred Dr. Fassenbender at her leisure.
Aside from being the best breast doctor in town, Dr. Fassenbender hailed from Berlin. His patients raved about the precision of his surgical incisions, which rarely scarred. According to the salesgirls at Bergdorf Goodman who sold him his leather accessories, he was also a Dom in the BDSM community.
She hoped Hugo would help put Kiki in touch with her sexuality. Maybe tying the Utah virgin up and giving her a good whipping would be asking for the kitchen sink, but new breasts? Those her black American Express card made doable.
With Taddy’s and Lex’s schedules booked, seat assignments ticketed and hotel reservations made, everything was confirmed jet-set-fabulous for New Year’s Eve in Algarve.
Until Lex’s mother Birdie Easton did her usual.
Chapter Three
Banging Birdie
December 21
Upper East Side, New York, NY
Getting laid ranked high on Taddy’s New Year’s resolutions. She also wished for a tighter ass, but that was farther down on her agenda. The solution for both was found in another hot man, not her cosmetic surgeon, Dr. Fassenbender, but Gilad Oseary, owner of Gilad’s Pilates Studio. Burnt out on lip-gloss marketing for the day, she treated Lex and Vive to an early evening workout. Blake had declined, saying gays didn’t do Pilates. Taddy, however, was determined not to gain an ounce over the holidays.
Gilad, you are flippin’ sexy. His arms flexed thicker than his legs. Gilad’s legs stood more solid than his sculpted chest. And his chest sported a T-shirt two sizes too tight for his body. It revealed his muscular pecs. In his mid-twenties, Gilad had emigrated from somewhere in the Middle East. Fluent in French, he claimed to be Persian, perhaps from Iran. Wherever he came from, his militant style to push clients’ bodies from flab to fab was orgasmic. Or at least Taddy thought so.
“Ladies, let’s pull into our lower body and focus.” With no shame, Gilad directed his view between Taddy’s legs.
I need sex. Please, Gilad. You’re making love to me with your demands and those eyes staring right through my body…
“Good girl, Taddy.” He grinned as if reading her mind. She arched her heel and slipped it into the strap.
“Like this?”
“Ahuh.” He nodded.
“And this?” She split her legs wide.
His jaw dropped.
