Plaything at the Royal Wedding: An MFMM Royal Romance

by Lana Hartley

  Lola’s one of the strippers here at the Expose, but she’s not my favorite. In fact, I really could care less about her, but she’s hot and can suck cock fairly well, so I’ll take her.

  We’re currently in one of the bathroom stalls at the club. You might be grossed out, thinking that it sounds pretty nasty to get a blowjob in a dirty club bathroom, but when I say I fork out a decent wad of cash to be a member of the elite third floor VIP section, you better fucking believe it’s clean as shit in here.

  I mean, Lola can fucking lick the floor if she wants to, but for now I prefer her to keep licking my huge, hard cock.

  My cock is tough to swallow, but only in the best way. I’m twelve thick inches of throbbing, pulsing man flesh, and I don’t fucking care who knows it. In fact, I’m damn well proud of how long I am, and I’m happy to bury my cock into any pussy worth digging.

  I’m also tall, standing at six foot four inches with a strong, chiseled jawline that makes every girl cream her panties.

  I’m the dark and brooding type, too, but I have a charismatic charm that lures all manner of sexy women into my arms.

  I never miss a day at the gym, so if you’re ready to touch a sculpted eight-pack, I’ve got them right here waiting for you under my shirt. There’s none that can compare to me and I’m not bragging, it’s just the way it is.

  Let’s just say I’m handsome, the full package, just like a fucking movie star—or a porn star if you’re more into that.

  You fucking love that, don’t you? I bet you’re fucking soaking wet now just thinking about my rock-hard body and me.

  Well, right now, I’m naked from the waist down as my pants sit in a heap around my ankles. Lola is fucking working her magic on me and has the best tongue action of any girl in the club—but even though she’s hot, she’s not the hottest by far.

  I mean, she’s okay and all, but I’m just not that into blonde chicks at the moment. I’d rather have a brunette or jet-black haired girl who knows how to hold her own—a true fucking New Yorker just like me.

  But Lola can give award-winning blowjobs, and I’m happy to be receiving one from her right now. I pull her up slightly. She’s naked except for a pink lacy thong currently going right up her ass crack like fucking dental floss.

  I push her thong down because I want a good look at both of her sexy holes.

  “I’m getting ready to come,” I growl at her, but I want to fuck her first.

  You probably think what kind of asshole fucks a stripper in a sex club bathroom, but I really don’t give a fuck about what you or anyone else thinks about me. I’m a goddamn multi-billionaire and I can do whatever the fuck I want.

  I pull out of Lola’s mouth and she wipes my pre-cum from her lips, gazing up at me with a mischievous smirk.

  “Get on your hands and knees,” I order her.

  She does as she’s told because she has no fucking choice—I’m in charge here. Lola gets on all fours, and I lean down and fuck her pussy doggy-style. I grip her hips as I plow in and out, thrusting harder and faster to conquer my addiction, which is in the form of an orgasm.

  Am I a sex addict? Who fucking cares? What fucking business is it of yours?

  Right when I feel the exploding sensation of my climax begin to hit me, I pull out again and finish off with my hand. I’m not allowed to come inside of any of the strippers. If they tell on me, I’m as good as kicked out of the best club in the city.

  I grab Lola to whip her back around. I want to come on her busty chest. I aim and take fire, shooting my hot load all over her huge tits, mostly hitting my mark.

  It turns out that my target is a little off balance, though, because some of my cum sloshes and shoots directly onto a guy’s shoe in the stall beside us.

  It’s a total accident, but the dude groans with frustration and annoyance.

  “What the fuck?” he yells, and I hear him open up his stall door.

  The next sound I hear is his intrusive banging on the door to the stall where I’m currently defiling Lola.

  “Someone’s in here,” I say casually, and smirk at Lola like this is some fucking game I love.

  The guy knows damn well I’m in here.

  Lola responds by rolling her eyes and quickly dressing herself back in her work uniform, which just so happens to be a sexy as fuck romper-type black dress.

  “Open up, asshole!” the guy yells as he continues to bang on the door.

  I want to say the same fucking thing to him. Open wide, fucker, I’ve got more where that came from.

  I jump into my pants and begin to button my shirt, taking my sweet-ass time. After a moment or two, I burst open the door, beaming proudly.

  “I’m sorry, sir, can I help you with something? You seem very upset,” I respond with cheerful condescension.

  “Yeah, you fucking got cum on my shoe. This is fucking disgusting!” The guy points to his foot.

  I place a hand on my hip and point to the shoe. “You know, I hear that works fantastically well as shoe polish,” I offer as a suggestion.

  “Fuck you!” he roars.

  The man is tall and slender—gangly, actually—and reminds me of that fucking cartoon character Gumby, although he’s not quite as green. He has a full head of light brown hair and he’s wearing an ugly-ass beige suit with an even ghastlier yellow tie.

  Meanwhile, I zip my pants back up, really fucking slowly, as though it’s an afterthought or some shit, but I want to make this fucker even more uncomfortable than he already is.

  Lola scurries between us, embarrassed and escaping in a huff.

  “Hey, buddy, I can’t help what happened to your shoe. I’ll aim better next time.” I wink at him and try to move past.

  “How dare you speak to me like this!” the guy yells, but I can tell he’s all bark with no fucking bite.

  “Excuse me?” I spin around, now I’m growing angry. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

  “Don’t you know who I am?” the guy shouts, a vein in his forehead bulging.

  I actually have no fucking clue who this douchebag is, and I frankly don’t care either.

  “No, do you not know who I am?” I raise the stakes and yell back at him.

  In reality, I’m a pretty fucking big deal as the owner and CEO of Lone Wolfe Pictures, one of the biggest production companies in all of Hollywood, even though I spend at least half my time in New York.

  This guy should know that, right? Well, I sure as fuck think so.

  The guy apparently doesn’t want to wait for me to give him an explanation because I see his fist coming at me in the next instant—only my reflexes and training in boxing give me the upper hand, like literally.

  I block his punch and land a clean blow on his face, knocking the motherfucker backwards on his ass.

  Owen

  I flick the lighter on and burn the end of my Cuban.

  I need this smoke like nothing else.

  The blaze matches that of my own soul.

  I light a cigar inside of my brand new red Aventador in the club’s parking lot. I draw in a deep breath of the glorious tobacco as it fills my lungs and calms me down.

  I might be fucking over the line here, but I don’t want you guys to see me this way. I bounced from the club in a hurry, before blame could be cast on me.

  I’m not one for negative press or limelight, and I’ll always bolt in a quick fucking minute if it means I can get myself out of trouble.

  Right before I press the button to turn on my car’s ignition, a well-dressed man approaches the car. I have no choice but to greet him because my window is rolled down because of my cigar.

  “I don’t give out change to people on the street.” I smirk at the guy with arrogant flare, even though I can tell by the way he’s dressed that’s probably not why he’s standing next to my car window.

  “Excuse me?” the man asks in confusion.

  I shake my head; apparently it’s going right past the fucking idiot’s brain. “Nothing,” I say. “Are you w
ith the club?” I ask.

  “Yes, sir.” The man nods.

  “I can’t find my Gold Card,” I say, referring to my membership to the sex club on the third floor of the strip club.

  I lost it somewhere in the tussle with the man in the bathroom.

  “Sir, your membership is going to be suspended,” the man says apologetically.

  “What?” I shout. “I need to speak to Jay. He’s the manager. Go and fetch him,” I demand with a snap of my fingers.

  “Mr. Wolfe, I’m afraid there’s nothing that Jay can do at the moment to help you,” the man sighs, as if he’s used to dealing with jerks like me all the time and he has some sort of higher than normal patience threshold.

  “Go and fucking get him,” I demand with more force this time.

  The man rolls his eyes and sighs again.

  “Fine.” He spins around and leaves.

  I notice that he’s tall and a little stocky and wears a large black leather jacket. He’s probably one of Jay’s little fucking minions, I think bitterly.

  I take another drag on the cigar as I wait for Jay to come outside, which to my surprise he actually does. Jay is probably in his mid-sixties and has greying hair, probably from having to run this club all these years. He’s also dressed in a business suit and, like always, has professional poise.

  “What is it, Owen?” he says, leaning in to talk to me through the open car window.

  “What the fuck is going on? Why is my membership suspended?” I wail like the spoiled fucking child I am.

  Jay takes a deep breath, gearing up to explain himself. “The board already knows about your little run-in with Inspector French,” Jay says.

  “What? Who the fuck is Inspector French?” I demand. “More importantly, how does the board even fucking know what happened? It was only like five fucking minutes ago!” I shout, vaguely owning up to the fact that something actually did take place, and that it may or may not have been slightly sketchy.

  “That leads me to my next point,” Jay says, and leans against the car, still looking down at me in the seat. “Inspector French is the man we just hired in charge of grading the club. He’s kind of fucking important, Owen.”

  “Oh,” I say, feeling the shock sink in—but I’m still unconvinced that my actions warrant a suspension. “I still don’t understand what this shit has to do with me,” I state firmly.

  “Owen, you fucking punched the guy. There have to be consequences,” Jay states patiently.

  “He was trying to get a rise out of me!” I try and defend myself, but I can tell it’s going to be no fucking use.

  These assholes aren’t going to back down.

  “Obviously, the Inspector went to the board and told them immediately what happened. He’s shocked and told us that you came on his fucking shoe. Is that true Owen?” Jay shakes his head in disgust. “If it is, that’s fucking gross as shit, man.”

  “That’s beside the point,” I continue to argue, skirting around and dodging Jay’s question. “I’m a goddamn paying customer; I have my rights.”

  “This isn’t a fucking court Owen.” Jay gives me a chagrined look. “The board says your actions are disruptive and worthy of the offense. My hands are tied,” he admits.

  I pound the steering wheel in frustration, then look back at Jay as an idea comes to me. “Let me talk to the board,” I request.

  “Sorry, man. No can do,” Jay denies firmly.

  “Why the hell not?” I growl, desperation filling me to the core.

  “They don’t speak directly to the customers,” Jay admits. “That’s where I come in, as a liaison of sorts.”

  “That’s fucking made up bullshit!” I yell.

  “I can’t help you, Owen,” Jay says and walks away, apologetically telling me I should go home and get some sleep.

  I watch in fury as he walks back into the club and out of sight. I stub out my cigar and speed off.

  You remember that I said I only live a few blocks away, right? Yeah, I could walk to the club, but I just got this fucking new car and I want to drive it around for the hell of it. So sue me.

  Did I mention I live right here in the city that never sleeps? My ride home isn’t long, but I’m pissed enough to drive a hundred miles; although right now, I just pull up to my ritzy and luxurious apartment building.

  I step out of the car, tossing the keys to the valet man who appears to be a lanky young guy, wearing a red bellhop outfit with gold trim.

  I give him a slight nod in thanks and give him a hefty tip before walking towards the building to the lobby inside.

  “Good evening, sir,” our elderly doorman greets me with a twinkle in his eye.

  “Hey, George.” I give him a wink and a smile.

  George Worthington is the glue that holds this building together, and I can’t imagine a world where I don’t see his shining face waiting for me to come home each night.

  “Thank you, George,” I say and walk past him as he holds the door open for me.

  I’m immediately hit with the refreshing coolness of air conditioning as I leave the damp, humid summer night behind me.

  Good fucking riddance, as far as I’m concerned.

  I pound the elevator button to the forty-ninth floor where my penthouse apartment overlooks Central Park. On the way up, a terrible thought comes rushing into my head, and I know I’m not going to fucking sleep a wink tonight.

  If I’m banned from the club right now, I’m going to miss my “date” with Crystal Caspen, the prestigious five-star stripper that I’ve always wanted, but who’s always fucking booked up.

  I punch the elevator door as I exit into my hallway, seething with the realization that I’m going to have to give up my coveted spot with her this month. I need to think of a plan, and fucking fast.

  Owen

  The air is crisp as morning always is.

  I ride into work in the limousine as usual.

  All I can think about is her, my missed opportunity.

  The next morning, I’m still reeling from my unfair, bullshit ban from the Expose and I’m trying to brainstorm a way to weasel my way back into my favorite spot on earth.

  I click on the lights to my corner office with the window overlooking the Hudson River in Lower Manhattan. I sink down at my desk and sigh, getting lost in the view.

  “Uh, sir?”

  I look up to see my secretary Melissa staring at me. She’s in her early fifties, the best in the fucking business. There’s not a schedule out there that Melissa can’t tame. There’s not an asshole she’s too scared to send away.

  She’s my ultimate go-to person, and I’m the envy of the entertainment world because of her.

  “Melissa?” I stare up at her, wondering how she fucking got in here so fast because I just sat down.

  “Sorry, I followed you in here,” she says, adjusting her grey suit.

  “Oh, that’s okay.” I wave my hand dismissively and glance around my desk, although I have no fucking clue what I’m looking for.

  “You have a meeting with the director on the Miller project set for noon, and then you have a table reading with the producers on the upcoming action/adventure flick at one. Do you want me to push one of those back and one forward, so you have some additional wiggle room to get to both on time?”

  Melissa eyes me expectantly through her big, green eyes. She has sandy blonde hair, which she’s wearing in a ponytail. She has nice curves but she’s out of my desired comfort range for age on a woman.

  Not that I’m saying I’d never want to fuck a cougar because I’d fucking jump at the chance, I just don’t want to fuck anything up with Melissa because she’s indispensable.

  “Uh,” I stammer, feeling fuzzy inside.

  “Owen, are you okay?” Melissa has concern etching on her face.

  “Me? Yeah…um, I’m fine.” I smile and clear my throat.

  “Okay,” she says, but I can tell I’m not really selling her on that fact. “You just seem a little disoriented, that
’s all,” she adds.

  I square my shoulders. “I won’t be participating in any pitches or meetings today,” I say firmly. “You need to do it in my place,” I direct her, knowing full well she’s capable and trustworthy. This isn’t the first time I’m asking her to do something like this.

  “Okay, whatever you need, sir.” She casts me a slight bow and begins to walk away back to her own desk outside of my office door.

  “Hey, Melissa?” I call out before she leaves completely.

  She turns back around. “Yes, sir?”

  “Will you fetch the intern and tell her to bring me my morning coffee? Make sure she doesn’t fuck it up this time.”

  “Yes, Owen, of course.” Melissa gives me a smile and spins on her heel to leave.

  Melissa is used to my bossy undertones, and she takes it all in stride like water rolling off a duck’s back. She knows exactly how I like my fucking coffee, too, with two splashes of cream and no sugar.

  I just hope the intern will learn how to get it fucking right. How hard is it to mess up coffee? Maybe at that point I’ll take the time to learn her name—although that’s doubtful, because the interns never last around here.

  They say I’m a hard boss.

  But I expect perfection that’s all. Nothing less, nothing more.

  I dial my best friend Victor and leave it on speaker.

  “Hey, man.”

  “Hey,” Victor says.

  “What’s going on?” I ask, feeling like venting my problems to my number-one wingman.

  “I just got to work,” Victor comments.

  Victor is a director for my films who lives a sleepy life out in the Greenwich suburbs of Connecticut with his wife and twin five-year-old daughters named Belle and Allie.

  He’s not considered a billionaire, or even a millionaire, but he does pretty fucking well for himself while his wife manages the kids at home, baking and toting them around in her brand new Cadillac Escalade.