Trillionaire Boys' Club: The Producer

by Aubrey Parker

  The voice makes me literally jump. My pulse stops, then triples speed. I almost slip on the wet tiles and tumble onto my ass. It takes planting a palm on the shower’s glass walls to keep me from tipping.

  Cole is sitting on a wire-frame chair in the middle of the bathroom, legs crossed, looking right at me.

  “What the fuck?” I shout.

  I scramble to cover myself, but this isn’t like being caught changing. I’m in a goddamn shower. All I’ve got to hide my nakedness is a washcloth, and even that’s across the large enclosure. I try in vain to cover myself; I turn and show him my bare, wet ass; I end up in a quarter crouch with one arm horizontal across my breasts and my left hand covering my vag.

  Cole is watching all of this, impassive. The glass walls of the shower must be coated in anti-fog, because there’s nothing obscuring his view. Even the water hasn’t spattered the glass between us. The shower is too large, the heads all too far away.

  “Do you fucking mind?”

  “No, not at all,” Cole says, still watching me. It’s not a lecherous look. His attention on me is so matter-of-fact I might as well be hanging my coat in a cloakroom.

  “Turn around! What the fuck is the matter with you?”

  “I prefer to look people in the eye when I talk to them,” he says, plucking at his jeans.

  I’m so trapped. I can’t cover myself with a towel because they’re outside the shower door, two feet from where he’s sitting. I can’t even open the door to get one, because I’d have to move one of my concealing hands to grab the handle. I feel like an animal on display. I can only stand here naked, and squirm.

  “Get the fuck out!”

  “I’d rather discuss the project. You missed our appointment yesterday, and this might be the only time we have to talk for a few days.”

  That makes me wonder if this was all somehow a setup. Is that possible? Is he trying to punish me for missing the Tuesday appointment he fantasized was still on the books?

  I wish I had something to throw at him. “I’m not discussing anything with you!”

  “What’s wrong, Alyssa?”

  Jesus fucking Christ. He’s not just an asshole; he’s a sociopath. Cole is either a great actor or honestly doesn’t see anything wrong with this. He’s watching me placidly enough that, despite the situation, I’m starting to wonder if I’m the one who’s reacting inappropriately.

  I have to get out of here. Nudity or not, I can’t just stay and let him gawk.

  I go for the door, leaving the water running. Luckily it swings out as well as in; I’m able to shoulder it open without exposing myself. I try to grab the towel the same way, but it’s on a hook. I have to raise my hand to lift it off, and that gives Cole a flash of my tits — which he zeros in on, lust finally peeking out of his strange shell.

  I drag the towel around me. I start punching at him, but that shakes my grip on the towel and it hits the tiles. For a second he sees everything, and his gaze moves to appreciate it. I catch sight of his crotch — not, I assure myself, because part of me is interested in whether I arouse him — and he’s stiff.

  His jeans aren’t loose, and what’s inside is larger than I expected. I can see length and girth.

  “My eyes are up here,” he says.

  I get the towel back around me, my hair dripping like an unwrung mop. I glare at Cole. He’s tapping his temple, somehow managing to accuse me of staring without ironically laughing. Sociopath indeed.

  I kick at his chair, both of my hands in a death grip on the towel. I have to do something. I spit words, each one followed by a period.

  “Get. The. Fuck. Out!”

  Cole, impossibly, rolls his eyes. He finally stands, but doesn’t move. Instead, he takes a long look at my body. His nonchalance is disappearing. He no longer seems businesslike.

  Now he looks almost hungry.

  “See? This is exactly the problem. This is why I think I have to produce Ross’s project, whenever he nails down the details of exactly what he wants it to be.”

  “Get out, Cole!”

  “What he’s thinking really could change the world. And isn’t this a perfect example of why it needs changing?”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” I’m so keyed up I can barely stay upright. My heart must be beating two hundred times a minute. My face feels red, full of throbbing blood. I’m dizzy.

  I want to slap him and cower and run. My nighttime fantasies mingle with my fury. Like a traitor, my brain keeps giving me snippets from those dreams of revenge: of punishing Cole by taking my pleasure, fighting while fucking him senseless.

  “Sex really does control us,” he says, and at first I’m sure my mind is hearing him wrong — confused by my own tumultuous thoughts. But then Cole continues. “Deep down we’re animals, driven by the desire to reproduce. Men want to have sex with women. Women want to have sex with men. But we’ve created social constructs to prevent it, always dealing in shame and denial. Porn should be as mainstream as movies. Prostitution should be considered therapy.”

  I don’t know what to say. I’m still here in my towel, dripping wet. The door is right there. So why haven’t I gone for it?

  In one smooth, deft motion, Cole rips the towel from my grip. I’m suddenly naked in front of him, kissed with liquid, my soaked hair making waterfalls down my shoulders. This time, my hands don’t move to cover me. I stand there, paralyzed, devoured by his eyes.

  “I want to fuck you, Alyssa. And you want to fuck me.”

  “I … I don’t.”

  But I’m still here. My nipples are hard, my pussy moistening as his blunt words soak into me. I find myself thrilled, against all logic, to stand here so exposed. I hatefully love the way he looks at me. I’m shamefully aroused by my nudity, with Cole’s predatory gaze upon me.

  “Of course you do. Last night, you kept trying to unzip me. You were lifting your dress as I laid you in bed. You showed me your tits. You played with your nipples. You put your hand inside your panties and told me to watch them work. You were shameless. The very picture of a slut.”

  “How dare you—”

  Cole grabs his shirt by the bottom, arms crossed, and pulls it up over his head. His torso is perfect — testament to his well-known life of discipline, of taking risks and living on the edge.

  “It’s not an insult, Alyssa. That’s my point. All women are sluts. All men are man-whores. We want to put our cocks in all of you, and you want all the cocks inside your pussies. It’s biological. This is who we are. As human beings, this is our nature.”

  He reaches for his waist. A thrill runs up my spine. I should end this, but his words are hypnotic. He makes me believe. He makes me want to believe.

  So I watch him. I stand in front of him, uncovered, and watch him lower his jeans. His legs are like pillars. His cock is thick and long, its rigor like iron. He takes it in his hand and strokes it. My pussy begs for my own hand, but I can’t quite do that. Not here. Not now.

  Not yet.

  “We’re two adults who want to fuck like animals, Alyssa. So I’m going to fuck you, and you’re going to love it.”

  “I … I can’t …”

  I’m no longer precisely rational. I hate Cole, but want him, too. A strange thing to realize, but it makes sense in this moment. Our bodies crave each other. Why should arbitrary emotions get in our way?

  “Suck my cock,” he says, still stroking, eyeing me like prey.

  I’m going to run. Leave the room as fast as I can.

  I’m better than this. I’m smarter than this.

  Cole is the worst kind of bad, the worst kind of wrong for me. He’s already abused me in mind and emotion. So why would I let him use me like a toy? Why would I let him order me around?

  Why are my legs bending? Why am I kneeling on the tiles, my knees atop my discarded towel?

  I take his cock in my hand. It’s hard like stone.

  “No,” Cole says. “Like this.”

  And he kneels too, coming down beside
me. He lays me on my back, rearranging the towel as a cushion, using his jeans as a pillow. Then he turns the other way as he straddles me. His cock hangs above my mouth. His face dives between my legs.

  It takes no time.

  I scream with my first orgasm, emotions warring around me like a swarm. His tongue lingers on my clit just long enough, then moves down the length of my slit, letting my sensitive bud catch its breath while aftershocks rattle my body. Then he moves slowly back up, his upside-down tongue working my wet pussy, nose tickling my freshly showered asshole.

  Almost right away I’m on the edge again, and the hunger I feel boiling inside makes me raise up to swallow his cock. I stroke it, wet with my saliva. I take it all in, as far as I can. I want all of him. I want to overwhelm him the way he’s overwhelming me.

  I cup his balls. I lick them up and down. I return to his cock and let it fill me.

  I want all of him. I want it deep. I’ve never taken a man all the way, but right now it suddenly seems vital. So I wrap my arms around Cole’s ass and suck him deeper, and the pressure makes him moan, bear down with his weight, and slide his shaft into my mouth.

  I fight a gag reflex. It doesn’t matter. I need him. I want his come. I crave his pleasure.

  “Ride me,” he says, coming up from between my legs.

  I don’t want him to stop. I haven’t come again yet, but I’m inches away. And I don’t want to stop what I’m doing. I never want his cock to leave my mouth. Never ever.

  But he rolls over and pulls me above him, and a second later I’m sliding my sopping pussy down the length of his monster cock.

  He fills me like no man ever has. I think I might burst as he reaches up to rub my tits, pushing into me. I start to move. And the orgasm I nearly had a second ago is close again.

  I grind my mound against the base of his cock. The feeling builds. The torrent hits me and I come again, screaming Cole’s name.

  My pussy grips him, making him groan and echo my thrusts. He grabs my sides and slams his cock inside me. I’m lightheaded. I can barely breathe.

  Cole fucks me faster. Faster.

  He pushes me away. His cock slips out and then he’s rubbing it, standing up beside me.

  “I’m going to come in your mouth.”

  I shake my head.

  “You want it,” Cole says. “You want it and now you’re going to take it.”

  And he’s right. I do want it.

  I hate that I want it, but I do … and right now my brain isn’t in charge.

  I return his cock to my mouth. All the way. I lick. I jerk. I pump his dick with lips and fist. Then he calls out like a war cry and I feel him fill my mouth, his final thrusts trailing away as I lick him dry.

  He stands when we’re done, pulls on his pants but not his shirt. Then he looks down at me, on my knees with my pussy still hungry. The look is strange, as if he doesn’t expect me to be there despite what we’ve done. Or as if there’s something I’m missing, and failed to understand.

  “The clothes are in the back of the closet,” he says, pointing. “Hurry, or you’ll be late.”

  “But …” I’m not sure where that protest is supposed to end, but it leaves my mouth anyway. Reality is returning. I’m sure regret will follow.

  I know Cole is about to say something snide. He finally got me, and now the game between us is over — with me the loser. But instead he says, “Make time for me tomorrow at two.”

  Does he really think he’s still my client? With me having just swallowed his load, with my pussy juices still painting his cock? I can’t even imagine it. I take my career seriously, and never mix it with pleasure.

  Still I manage to say, “For the Anthony Ross project, to change the world?”

  “No,” Cole says, looking at me like I’m a fool. “Because of all the women I’ve ever known, you need to be fucked in the ass most.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  COLE

  I’M REALLY SUGGESTIBLE, AND NOW I’ve got Anthony’s rhetoric running around inside my head. New ideas always bug me until I can try or assimilate them. Sometimes I’ll read an article about rock climbing and decide on the spot that I’m going to learn how, tossing everything else aside. Or I’ll hear about some new film marketplace and drop my entire schedule to figure it out and see if it’s worth distributing to. Being so suggestible has resulted in more than one unfinished project, but in this case it’s different.

  The more I think about it, the more I wonder if Anthony’s right. If his sounds-like-hype plan (because the man is known for hype) might actually change the world.

  Regardless, the idea unlocked Alyssa’s legs, and that makes it a good thing.

  I can’t stop thinking about her. I have sex with a lot of women, but somehow Alyssa is different. Maybe it’s like Ben said: I want an impossible challenge. There were times when I wondered if she had a pussy — and if she ever made use of it if she did.

  She’s hot as hell, sexy like a really attractive cactus. Of course I wanted to fuck her. But who knew what thorns would be waiting?

  Well, she definitely has a pussy. It’s tight like a fist, with a sexy little strip of hair. I could have spent all day going down on her. I want to camp out between her legs and eat Alyssa like a peach. Her pussy lips are smooth and soft like fine silk. She got so wet I about drowned when she came the first time. Her stomach was flat; her tits were perfect small C’s. She yelled my name when I made her come with my cock, and didn’t think twice about sucking me dry.

  I can’t get Alyssa Galloway out of my head. I was hard half an hour after she left, her expression hard to read. I threw more Anthony rhetoric at her as she dressed, but it’s hard to say if she bought it. Society really shits on women when it comes to sex. I’m allowed to be horny and admit to always wanting to fuck girls, but I could tell Alyssa shut down immediately, unwilling to ever tell anyone she fucked — or especially wanted to fuck — me.

  Shame shuts them down. And now with all this in my mind, I have to wonder: what’s being lost to all that shame? What are people failing to become, just because the world’s supposed-to’s about sex have them bound and gagged?

  It bleeds away as I go about my day, but even while immersing myself in other matters I feel this strong need to keep checking in. It feels like a delicate balance. I know Alyssa has wanted me for a while, but she can’t admit it, probably even now. Right up until the moment I pulled her towel away, she tried to believe that hate for me was her only emotion.

  What will she think if I call her now? Will my attention embarrass her further or improve her mood?

  This matters, because I meant what I said. All of the things I said.

  One: I really do want to fuck Alyssa’s ass.

  Two: Alyssa really does need a good fucking, regularly, in whatever hole she can get it.

  And Three: I really do need her help, professionally — with or without the Ross project, which I’m still not sure I want to tackle.

  Those three things don’t seem like they’d go together, but that’s the problem. Why can’t we fuck and work? Why can’t Alyssa be a dirty, dirty slut and one of the best professional publicists in the business? And why can’t I be a scoundrel and brilliant?

  I wasn’t lying when I said that my manners over breakfast were “very much me.” They are. I’m different in public than I am in private, different depending on the day and mood. Isn’t everyone? Shouldn’t we have the freedom to be? And if we could be free from expectations, how much better would the world be?

  The fact that there’s any question of sex meshing with business — that anyone thinks the mere comparison of one to the other is funny or disgusting — is a symptom of a big global problem.

  I need more heads on this. I can’t think it through myself. So I send Nathan Turner a message, raising the issue. That’s why the Syndicate is forming in the first place, right? To share minds and resources for common goals? Nathan’s already primed on Anthony’s idea. I think Ashton Moran and maybe Caspian Whit
e are as well. Maybe it’s time we talk it all out. Maybe it’s time we put our heads together — for that, the issue with Daniel’s Eros board, and this mysterious Alexa Mathis.

  Little else gets done. My mind, now that I’ve rationalized sexual freedom for most of the morning, presents me with the most scintillating images and ideas.

  I imagine Alyssa — now all dressed up and buttoned down, being her best professional working girl — arriving at her appointment with my come still on her lips.

  I imagine Alyssa in the modest skirt I gave her, commando because I claimed (untruthfully) not to have any panties on hand. Thanks to the length of the skirt, she’s in no danger of flashing anyone, but I imagine her bare state prickling at her mind. I imagine her thinking of me. I imagine her trying to believe what I said — hoping she’ll look back on our encounter with rapture rather than guilt.

  I imagine her taking my next appointment’s purpose to heart.

  I’d bet one of my billions that she hasn’t so much as had her asshole touched by a man. But I like to think the idea excited her. I picture her in the bath tonight, washing well, trying things out with a finger or a toy. Just to see what all the butt-sex hullabaloo is about, socially wrong or not.

  I can’t call her, but surely I can send a text. They’re nonthreatening and can be answered at leisure. Nobody has to worry about tone of voice or tripping over themselves in a text.

  Keeping it light, I start with, Did you hear from Jenna? Is her father okay?

  It takes Alyssa over an hour to respond. I don’t accomplish anything during that hour, even though my desk is piled with work. I keep watching the phone for the tiny dots that will tell me she’s typing. It takes forever, and my mind is thick with theories: Did my innocuous little question manage to offend her, as if there’s more behind my words? Will she decide it’s now too weird and not reply at all?

  But the reply comes simply enough: He had a mild heart attack. He’s fine and probably going home Friday.

  I’m not sure what to say next, so I go with I’m glad. I don’t know the guy, but I suppose I’m pleased. Jenna seems like a good girl, and the truth is the Syndicate owes her a lot — indirectly and off the books, of course.