Step Inside

by Molly Hoffer

  STEP INSIDE

  Molly Hoffer

  KINDLE EDITION

  Copyright © 2015 Molly Hoffer

  UNLIMITED EROTICA

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover Design by Mayhem Cover Creations

  Formatting by Mayhem Cover Creations

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events described in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  To Brett. I'll always love you.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

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  CHAPTER ONE

  I’m writing this autobiography to relate the strange events that have turned my life upside down over the past decade. I never expected that a man could make such an impact on the course that I was sure my life would take because it was the one that almost all of the other girls in my class would take. I spent over a decade studying at their side at Trinity School on 39th Street in Manhattan, and from the stories that I heard from the friends I’ve kept up with, they all executed their plans with precision. After high school, they went to college, where they met a preppy boy from the City, whom they then dated and then lived with for half-a-decade, until they finally got married in a ceremony that cost at least a million to be respectable, and then had no more than two children together, while keeping an eye out on their investments, meanwhile vacationing and otherwise enjoying the good life. I had a nightmare about this life-plot at around the time I took the road less traveled. I remember it because I woke up in a cold sweat, horrified at the mundane repetitiveness and the inevitability of that “happy ending.”

  Anyway, let me start from the beginning. I confess to having been a “royal brat” of the most royal and the brattiest kind, like other girls might confess to having an addiction to shoes. In my case, the “royal” part was pretty accurate. I come from a family that has been at the top of the Forbes 500 list for half-a-century. I’m not using my real name in this book, to avoid a lawsuit from one of them, but let me just call myself Vanessa Szabo.

  When I was five, my family moved into what was at that moment the most expensive apartment in New York City from our mansion in Atlanta. A couple of my uncles also migrated at around the same time to be near the main offices of the conglomerate empire that my grandfather had built, so we owned a couple of floors in our skyscraper.

  We had the penthouse floor, and it was set up like a self-contained survivalist bunker, with everything we could’ve needed to keep away from the harsh realities of the world.

  Our gym room was larger than some of the private gym spaces in the City. For entertaining, we had an enormous bar, full of the priciest wines, and other spirits. Parties were held in the dining hall and adjacent dance hall, both with a wall-length view of the entire stretch of Central Park.

  Each room had screens that could be lowered from the ceiling that project visual images, so that the wall-length mirrors could be visible at other times. Because we were at the top of the building without any neighboring scrapers within-view, each window could be shade with the press of a button, but usually they were just kept open and unshaded to let in the sunlight or the starlight, depending on the time.

  We had our own beauty salon just for our family, with a full staff of attendants, a spa, a sauna, a massage parlor, and Jacuzzis in each of the half-dozen private bathrooms that were coupled with each of the rooms.

  When I was seven, a private tutor, Dr. Mick Nour, started tutoring me in the enormous library. We’d sit on the mahogany chairs, and would discuss my lessons. Dr. Nour had a huge budget for books, and brought a dozen new books to add to the library weekly, so that at the end of each year, he’d go through the collection to prune out those books that could be donated to charity to make room for the next year’s supply.

  To be fair to all, each member of the family also had a walk-in closet the size of an average Mall store, to make sure that we were stocked for every season, every occasion, and every location.

  In middle school, I insisted that if I had to take singing lessons, I had to get my very own recording studio, and daddy obliged me and spent a few million on the top-of-the-line recording and sound-mixing equipment, microphones, sound-proofing the walls, and even hired a music tutor that managed this studio and helped to produce my very own pop CD by the time I started high school. It wasn’t exactly successful, and I’m glad at that or I would’ve ended up as an ex-child-star, and that would’ve been too much drama to add on top of what ended up happening.

  I can say now that I was glad that my music career tanked, but back when it happened, it was devastating. When I was tired of pining for this failed dream, I concentrated on the drama of social climbing that was unraveling at Trinity. My teachers made it a point to call me by my last name, and my parents had made major donations to the school since I started there in first grade, so everybody knew that I was the richest kid at the school. It wasn’t exactly tough to make friends, and invitations to the best parties had been in my mailbox for years before I realized all that stuff was important. But, I set my eyes on the top echelons of the school’s hierarchy.

  Meg Bey was the most popular girl at Trinity. In all my years being in her classes, I’ve never seen her wearing the same outfit twice. Her hair was always perfectly blond. Everything from her eyelashes, to her shoes, to her designer bags was spotless and perfectly arranged. Even at the end of the day, as we filed out of the building, her hair was sparkly, untangled and as carefully styled as if she had stepped out of a cover-shoot.

  Over the years, I had the privilege of chatting with Meg during our music classes, and at the parties we both attended. But now, I insisted on having a huge ball at our penthouse, and invited Meg to it with the sole purpose of aligning with her to become her second-in-command at Trinity.

  I should mention that I had never turned blond, despite an urge to join those fabulous ranks. I was chronically brunet, with thick, slightly curly hair that I constantly fought to restrain. I always wore the latest and most expensive fashions from the latest catwalk collections to make up for my round, dimpled face, and my over-0 body size. In contrast, Meg’s weight was pretty much always at just above 0, and she maintained it by rigorous daily ballet and gymnastic classes.

  The ball I threw was the event of the season. I hired two celebrities to add some sparkle, Uma Thurman and Orlando Bloom, who were willing to make an appearance before a couple hundred teenage Manhattan girls for $50,000 and goodie bags full of a pre-release laptop, jewelry, and top-of-the-line beauty creams. Everybody that I invited also got one of these guests, so I guess I bought my friends, and it guaranteed a loyalty that otherwise would’ve taken years of chatting and manipulation.

  I was watching Meg all night, waiting until she got to the front of the line
to chat with Bloom, and then stepped away from him, blushing scarlet. She was glancing back at him, and battering her eyelashes, as she attempted to look busy with picking up a plate of snacks that a server was preparing for her. I walked up, as if also trying to get some snacks.

  “I’ll have the shrimp, and Cesar salad,” I said, after glancing at Meg’s plate.

  “I love shrimp,” Meg replied, as I glanced up at her. “Great party. How did you get Bloom?! Do you know him?!”

  “Yea. We met before… at the premier to Pirates of the Caribbean…” I said, carefully censoring out the monetary exchange.

  “The last party I went to at your place was more like my parties, but you’re taking it to the next level with this one!” Meg said, still blushing, but working on focusing on what I was saying.

  “Thanks!” I said, also blushing a bit. A lot of planning went into that moment, but I had to play it cool and make it look as if she was trying to become friends with me.

  “Oh my god! Did you see what Dan’s wearing!?” Meg said, because her eyes had focused on the contrast between Dan’s polo shirt and Bloom’s hip and stylish black and grey outfit. “You should just kick him out. Your invitation said, it’s a formal-dress event.”

  “Yea, totally!” I said, “Thanks for noticing it.”

  I went over to Dan, and said, “Hey, my party planner is bitching at me that there can’t be anybody who’s under-dressed at this party because they have a contract with Bloom’s people. Is it ok if you go, I’m sorry she made me ask you…”

  “Oh… Yea… Sure…” Dan said, confused, and pretty sure that I wasn’t kicking him out on a party planner’s orders. But, he clearly didn’t want to enter a screaming match with me where I’d explain exactly why I was kicking him out of my party, so he just left.

  I returned to Meg, and we had a long chat about all the people she hated at school. When she found me receptive to her bitching tirades, she decided that I was worthy to join her confidence, and she let me in on some of her schemes. Apparently, to stay at the top of the ladder at Trinity, there were a lot of people you had to push down below you. It all started looking normal after a while, as if we were just cleaning up the school to make it a better place for the richest and prettiest among us.

  Meg introduced me to some secretive nightclubs that were by-invitation only, housed in rooftop or basement rooms at the edge of regular public clubs, with parties for members-only. We frequented a dozen different clubs and there were annual dues to pay for each club, questionnaires, and personal interviews to pass to get in. My last name cancelled out my age, just like Meg’s social status.

  The boys and men we were clubbing with were the richest, hottest, smartest, and drunkest in New York. I had dates and crushes before that point, but getting close became irresistible. Meg pushed me towards promiscuity, and we made bets on our ability to get attention from the most picky men in our vicinity.

  A couple of years flew by, and suddenly I was at the start of my senior year of high school. Meg and I went on the biggest shopping spree of our lives before classes started. We had to ask our chauffeur to carry the bags for us.

  “I need it!” I whined to my dad to get my allowance multiplied by a thousand.

  “Why would you need that much clothing? You’ll toss it away by next season,” he objected sternly.

  “You just don’t understand! I’ll look like a total slob!” I was crying. Meg taught me the dry-eyed crying technique, where I’d cringe and make sob-like noises, without the unpleasantness of producing actual tears with an onion or other dramatic methods.

  “You won’t look like a slob. The maid can iron your dresses and you can wear one twice occasionally…”

  “Twice!? Are you serious! Oh my god! You want me to commit social suicide!?”

  “Calm down! Nobody wants you to commit any kind of suicide!”

  “You do! You all do!” I discovered that the more outrageous my accusations were, the more troubled dad became about my wellbeing, and the more he opened his wallet for me.

  “All right, all right,” he replied after massaging his forehead and reflecting for a few moments, “you can spend as much as you want. It’s not like we’re poor.” He had taken the time to calculate the expense against his own daily expenses in mortgages, business expenses, and for his own play cars and boats, and decided that exiting that conversation was more efficient than reasoning me out of my caprices.

  That budget was enough to stun even the shopkeepers on 5th Avenue, who were used to millionaire budgets, and were taken aback by a billionaire-sized wallet in the arms of an eighteen-year-old.

  “Eww, why are you buying that blouse with diamonds in it?!” Meg asked when we were getting to their end of our spree. She had an expanded budget too, but it didn’t come near mine.

  I shrugged and grabbed a couple of items I noticed Meg scan the price tag on and then dismiss. I handed them to the clerk together with the pile of my outfits.

  Meg frowned, clearly thinking that I was teasing her.

  After the clerk rang them up and bagged them, I handed that bag to Meg, “It’s for you, a new-school-year gifts.”

  “Ah, I see, sweet,” Meg said grabbing the bag, and checking the items.

  She didn’t give me a gift in return, as usual, and all was forgiven.

  Then, we went back to my place and changed into our workout, tight, sporty outfits. We both wore bra tops and gym shorts with a low waistline. There were moments during our regular exercise sessions, when I looked over at Meg’s tight muscles and perky breasts and was curious if I might have started out simply interested in social status, and stuck it out with Meg because I was secretly attracted to her. But, Meg was as straight as a girl can be, and I was too self-conscious to ever initiate an experiment in that direction. If ever a girl could’ve made any straight girl curious, it was Meg.

  So, anyway, after an hour of cardio-vascular hopping around, I was at the edge of my physical abilities, and Meg as usual was sweat-free. She was used to exercising for six hours a-day on weekends, so it was just a light workout for her to stretch her muscles. Every time we’d exercise, she acted like my weight-trainer.

  “Come on! Up, and up, and up! One, two, one, two! And push harder! And row! And row!”

  It was intimidating, but it did start building my six-pack, and made me more acceptable in Meg’s eyes as her bestie.

  We shared the sauna to cool our nerves and calm our muscles for the party. We wrapped our bodies in huge five-foot long towels that covered up our blooming private parts.

  “Are you gonna bring Greg to the party tonight?” I asked. Meg was lightly dating Greg, while also playing the field with a dozen other casual male friends.

  “I think it’s sooo over with Greg,” Meg shook her head.

  “Over, why?”

  “We finally did it, and let me tell you, it didn’t last long enough for me to get wet.”

  “Just in and out.”

  “Yea, just a two-time swing.”

  “You should buy him a cock ring.”

  “I’m just not invested enough in all of that to make the effort.”

  “Yea, I wouldn’t want to go through the explanation.”

  “Who are you with now, I can’t keep track.”

  “I’m doing the rectangle setup.”

  “Juggling three of them on a Friday, Saturday, Sunday rotation?”

  “Yea, I lost a forth when I tried to double-book them on Friday.”

  “So, who’s gonna be at the party tonight?”

  “Jim’s the only one with membership at the Flying Trend Club.”

  “Good thinking.”

  The timer rang, announcing the end of their fifteen-minute sauna cycle. Afterwards, we both took showers in the shower rooms next to the gym. Thankfully, they didn’t provide a line-of-sight between stalls, or Meg would’ve wondered why I was blushing when we were in there together.

  Each shower had an adjacent changing room. I picked out a short, red d
ress in advance for the party and I nervously patted off every drop of water of my skin, trying to avoid leaving a water stain on the new purchase. If I left a drop on my back, I would’ve heard about it from Meg for weeks. My breasts were not getting toned down like my stomach, and it seemed as if they were still growing even that late in my developmental cycle. They were at least size C at that point, and they stood up as if I filled them with silicone. I scanned my smooth legs and arms for any possible imperfections, and gave them a pass.

  We got to the party half-an-hour after it started to avoid the awkward moments before a room fills up, when you’re left chatting with the losers that come in early to find equally desperate people to socialize with.

  Jim was waiting for me at the front when I came in. He was four years older, and was starting his last year at NYU. He had red hair, and was in a pretty good shape, a fact that I appreciated at that particular moment, as I thought about my own fitness program. He had pursued me like a puppy because there were pretty much no other high school girls at that club, and he was smitten both by my age and by the grandeur of my family’s name. He was barely accepted into the club, as his parents were middle-class, and he was only a college student. He got in partially because he claimed to be “dating” me and partially because he had started a small technology business in college that had got him a small column in the New Yorker.

  He begged me to let him kiss me on our first date, and he kept begging me for the few weeks that he managed to keep me interested. That was the night he pushed me to the edge.

  Jim leaned in and kissed my cheek as I came in, grinning, and almost jumping with joy at seeing us arrive relatively early. At an earlier party, I arrived three hours late, and he was dutifully waiting in that same spot, staring at every entrant with anticipation.

  After starting off with a peck on the cheek, he dared to advance lower towards my lips, and he was surprised that I let him smooch me on them. At that point of my dating life, I was pretty tired of French kissing, all that tongue and saliva. I really preferred when men migrated to lower climates with their lips.