The President and the Starlet: A Forbidden Romance

by Cassandra Dee

  But again, we keep our wealth mostly quiet. It’s all about the downlow for us. Our parents stayed right here, in this middle-class neighborhood, in a small house that felt like it might burst when there were nine people living in it. But now they wear the best clothes and belong to the best clubs. They don’t worry about retirement or medical bills, we’ve got them covered.

  And right now, all seven of us live on our own but that will change, too, once we find the right woman. We’ll build a big house for the entire family. It’s part of the master plan.

  That’s why we need one mother to one child. We need a woman who can handle us all. She needs to raise a single heir, keep our bellies full, and make sure our house is a home, warm and clean, a place where we can get away from the pressure of the outside world.

  And trust me, we’ve spent a long time looking for the right woman. When you’ve got resources up the wazoo, it makes sense to hire people, so we did. An international matchmaking outfit interviewed women from all over the world, from high-flying female CEOs to the local waitress, in the hopes of finding the right woman.

  But no one’s come close so far.

  There was a nurse named Amanda who was good. Good, not great. She was brunette and blue-eyed with nice, wide hips. She took both mine and Ford’s cocks at once, screaming her head off lustily. Damn, she was flexible and sopping wet all the time. But when I mentioned we had more brothers, she got weirded out, told me I was a freak. Red line right through her name, thanks very much.

  There was another woman who took five of us at once, and shit, but it was fucking fantastic. The blonde was a little skinny, but we figured we could fatten her up, she just needed more food. Until we saw the track marks on her arms. Yeah, she’d been canny, wearing big bracelets and a chunky watch, but we saw those pinpoints and realized the real reason why she was so skinny. Drugs. Hard core meth addict. Immediate red line again.

  Another contender was Harvard-educated. Erica was her name and she liked kinky sex. Toys and whips and chains were her thing, and the woman told the twins she was totally open to a gangbang with all seven brothers. All was looking well. But then she said she had to go back to Utah for an arranged marriage to her church elder. Fuck! So that’s why she was open to big love. Erica had been raised in the lifestyle, embracing the idea of multiples. But we weren’t her future, her family back home already had it all planned. Another disappointment.

  So yeah, we’ve come up empty despite trying. I suppose we’re a bunch of freaks, my brothers and me. We’ve fucked a lot of women, tried out a lot of pussy looking for the one.

  But we’re not giving up. She’s gotta be out there. After working like dogs to build this fortune, we’re not gonna see it squandered, divided a hundred ways between a hundred grandkids.

  Instead, there’ll be just one. The perfect woman. We share her. She bears us one child, and that child becomes the sole heir to our fortune.

  There are a lot of great women in the world. Gorgeous, accomplished, educated, sexy. We’ve met and fucked a bunch of them. But somehow, they haven’t been right. We’ve got very specific tastes. We like a woman with some curves. We like brunettes better than blondes, it’s just a thing.

  Plus, we need a woman who can cook, because we sure as hell love to eat. She needs to be motherly, yet okay with having only one child. And she needs to be able to take us all – together, separately, or in small groups. Oh yeah. Our desire to share a woman has to be something that turns her on, making her juice wetly. She can’t be too much of a feminist and she shouldn’t want to work full-time outside the home. Our home, our child, and our needs should come first. Hobbies are okay, but nothing too crazy.

  It’s a lot right?

  A fucking laundry list, for sure.

  But it’s what we need, full stop.

  So yeah, call us backwards. Call us strange. Call us perverted and weird. But we’re seven dudes with raging hard-ons, and there are some specific requirements.

  I’ve been sitting on the couch, mulling this over for so long that I literally jump when one of my brothers grunts a “Yo” in my direction.

  It’s Smith, Mr. Banker. Usually he’s stressed as hell, typing furiously at his phone, answering to this or that investor. Except today, that fucker’s grinning and relaxed, happy as a clam.

  “What up?” comes my grunt. “What’s goin’ on?”

  Smith doesn’t hold back. Oh yeah, around each other, we’re the basest of dogs, talking like truckers.

  “Well, I had my hand in a sweet cunt not too long ago, so that rocked,” he says, lowering himself into an armchair. The furniture creaks and strains, he’s so huge.

  “Big deal,” I say dismissively. “We all get pussy every day. What we need is to find our girl and get a baby in her belly. We’ve been looking for two years and it’s a lost cause. And, fuck, I’m not getting any younger.”

  Smith grunts, unconcerned.

  “Hugh Hefner just had a kid, and that asshole’s got one-foot in the grave. He’s seventy if a day. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  I shake my head. Hugh Hefner? How does that help us? I mean, I get it. My age isn’t the issue. But Hugh’s got a harem of girlfriends, five blondes lined up in a row. We’re looking for the opposite. We’re looking for one girl to take all seven of us.

  So yeah, completely different. Male / female ratio reversed. Gender stereotypes upended. Sometimes I think my brothers are on another planet. They should be mad worried, but instead, they’re casual, like it’s all gonna fall in place with no effort.

  “Yo,” I shake my head. “Naw, we’ve been looking two years. Starting to think this isn’t gonna happen.”

  Smith’s grin turns maniacal then.

  “No reason to get your panties in a scrunch bro. We found her. Or at least, we think we found her.”

  What the hell?

  Really?

  When did this happen?

  I lean forwards, eyes sharp.

  “You must be shitting me.”

  Smith shakes his head, leaning back relaxed, although there’s tension in that huge form.

  “Naw, no bullshit. It’s the girl next door. Literally, the girl next door. You remember little Macy Jones?”

  What? No. I don’t remember anyone living next door except a middle-aged couple.

  Smith laughs, reading my mind.

  “Yeah, the Jones next door have a daughter, and that’s who we want. She’s fresh, real fresh. Probably eighteen or so.”

  My brow furrows. That explains it. Smith and I are in our forties already, so Macy was probably born after I left for college. Shit, she’s so young. I frown then.

  “A teenager? What the fuck?”

  “She’s legal,” Smith drawls lazily. “No worries there.”

  I roll my eyes. This asshole is missing the point.

  “Hell yeah, she better be legal. But remember that little Miranda girl?”

  Smith squints his eyes, furrowing that brow.

  “No.”

  I shake my head, exasperated.

  “You’re the one who found her. You don’t remember? The nineteen year old chick?”

  Realization dawns on my brother’s face.

  “Oh yeah, that one. Sorry, slipped my mind. She was nineteen but acted about twelve. Sorry about that man, that was bad, yeah.”

  Because Miranda had been an adult physically, but her mental development was way behind. The girl had the maturity of a pre-teen, still caught up in doing her hair exactly like her friends, and going to all the right movies. It was crazy bad. Never again.

  “Yeah sorry,” apologizes my bro again. “But this chick is nothing like that. Macy’s different.”

  I raise an eyebrow.

  “How so?”

  But Smith’s never been one for talking. He shrugs those broad shoulders, a gleam in his eyes.

  “You’ll see,” is all he says. “You’ll see.”

  I shake my head. No doubt this is gonna be disastrous. We’ve been sourcing girls for
two years now, going through professional channels, screening them like the FBI. So what’s the likelihood that we’ve hit gold next door? About zero, and that’s the truth.

  But interestingly, Smith’s not done yet. This Macy girl must really be something for my bro to open up.

  He gets up to pour a glass of bourbon, and knocks one out for me too. This was a thing my dad always did and it’s still cool. I watch my brother take the silver tongs and grab perfect, square ice cubes. They make a satisfying clink hitting the glass, and then the beautiful amber liquid slides into the glass like a balm for the worst days.

  It’s old school, the bourbon ritual. Nowadays people like craft beer. All these micro-breweries are popping up with beer made of chocolate, fruit and nuts. Pass, thanks. Give me a simple glass of bourbon or whiskey any day.

  “Here,” Smith says.

  Grunting my gratitude, we both settle in. After a slow sip, my bro starts again.

  “Well,” he drawls, letting the liquor burn, “Name’s Macy. Just finished freshman year of college but hates it. Loves to cook. Wants to publish a cookbook, so she invited Matt and the twins over to taste test for her. You can imagine how that went. They ate her food for sure. Then they sucked her tits for dessert.”

  Shit. Goddamn. What a start.

  My eyebrows zoom off my forehead.

  “And?”

  Smith shrugs.

  “She loved it, what can I say? And get this. Trent was in on it too. He shows up at the “taste test” and the four of them suck at her tits like hungry dogs.”

  Damn.

  This is one special girl.

  My interest’s piqued, for sure.

  But Smith’s got more to share.

  “So yeah. And then the next day, Ford hurt himself working on that heap-of-shit bike. The girl runs out in some tiny t-shirt and her panties, playing Florence Nightingale. Gets blood all over herself. And then these assholes convince her to take a shower. In front of them. Nude and steamy. Damn,” Smith continues, eyes faraway. “Wish I’d been there. Matt says she put on a helluva show, coming like a champ under the water. Real squirter, he says.”

  I tally the count in my mind. That’s Matt, Tim, Will, Trent and Ford. Okay, five out of seven. Doing well.

  “What about you?” comes my rumble. “You get a taste yet?”

  Smith nods slowly.

  “I’m a lucky man, dude. After the shower, she comes floating down the stairs in only Tim’s t-shirt, and lets me pet her sweet, wet cunt while we talk. In front of everyone.”

  Hot damn. I’m hard just hearing all of this. Adjusting my cock, a long, slow breath escapes.

  “Well, shit. I’ve gotta to meet this Macy Jones then.”

  Scrunching my brow, I try to think back. But nada. I don’t remember this little girl next door. Maybe my mom told me the neighbor had a baby, but fuck, I was a little bastard then, maybe twenty-three or twenty-four at the time, dabbling with working girls. Why would I care about some neighbor’s baby?

  Now, though? I care. I care so much that my dick is stretching out from its slumber. I banged the stewardess on my flight from the city, but that was hours ago, a brief interlude in the Mile High Club.

  And this is completely different. This woman could be the mother of our child, the answer to our hopes. My cock knows how important this is.

  Smith’s still in his reverie though.

  “You should see the girlie,” he says. Shit, his boner’s growing as well, long and thick under his pants. “Long, curly hair. Big, brown eyes. Full breasts, luscious mouth. Small waist but thick around the midsection and even thicker in the rump. She’s a dream.”

  I groan.

  “Stop, man,” I say, putting up a hand. “Unless you want to watch me jack off right here and now.”

  Smith shrugs.

  “Do whatever you want,” he says. “Whip that shit out. But I’m telling you, you might want to save that load. Macy’s responsive and sexy, but also shy. Slutty but subservient. Smart as whip, and a good cook too. Fucking perfect for us.”

  Holy mother of god. How can one woman be all these things? Sexy but shy? Slutty but subservient? A goddess in the kitchen? She’s a mass of different adjectives, yet every piece perfect, complementing one another.

  “Goddamn,” I grunt. “Fuck.”

  “You won’t be let down,” my bro answers, giving me a knowing grin. “You’ll see. Because Mom’s invited the Joneses over for dinner tonight, so you’ll meet her soon enough. Just don’t blow it.”

  I know what he’s saying. With the seven of us there, all eyes on the sweet brunette, what girl could handle it? It’s more like she’d crack from the pressure, or even worse, run screaming when she realizes what we want.

  So I brace myself. Dinner will be the first real test. Seven men and one woman. But there’s no sense in getting carried away. Because we have an eighteen year-old nymphet on our hands, but what are the chances that she’s ready? To have a baby? To take up with seven men? And seven brothers, no less.

  Probably less than zero. Experience has made me wary. So downing my drink in one gulp, I stand, rising to full height in the tiny living room.

  “See ya,” I grunt, heading up to my childhood room. There are charts to pore over, and more money to be made. Might as well take my mind off the female because frankly, the chances of Macy being the one are slim. So I’m not gonna get carried away. Sure, it’ll be great to get a look. But more likely, the teen girl isn’t gonna be able to handle us once she realizes the full scope of what we want … or so I think.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Macy

  Biting my lip, I peer into the closet. Nerves make my hands jittery, and I glance around wide-eyed. Because this is going to be so awkward. We’re going to the Morgans’ house for dinner tonight, but the parents have no idea what’s going on between the boys and me. So they’ll be oblivious, chatting like nothing’s wrong, smiling and making nice.

  But something tells me the Morgan sons aren’t going to let me off easily. I doubt they’ll be on their best behavior, because what is best behavior for them? Just a quick swipe under my dress, nothing more? A mere tap to my asshole, instead of a full-on rub?

  Shaking my head, my insides liquefy again. Oh god, oh god. What to do? I want things to be perfect, yet at the same time, everything feels crazy out of control.

  But clothes. Right, clothes. At least I can control what I wear. My fingers grab a purple wrap dress, and I smooth it on. Okay, during high school graduation, it was a little loose, but now the fabric hugs every curve. Oh shit, oh shit! I can’t go to a family dinner with my boobs popping out of the deep V, it’s completely inappropriate. So grabbing a blazer, I hastily cover myself. Okay, that’s better. It doesn’t exactly match, but at least I’m decent and ready for a family dinner.

  Twisting and turning before the mirror, my reflection stares back at me. It’s okay that I’m a little plump. I’m a chef, after all, and cooking and eating food is what makes me more authentic than some of the skinny ladies on TV who never eat what they serve. Or worse yet, they eat it then barf it up when no one’s looking. Yep, that happens, believe it or not. There’s a little bowl hidden where the camera can’t see so they can spit out what’s in their mouth.

  But no, that’ll never be me. If the Morgan boys appreciate my curves, then I’m gonna live it up. Even if they don’t stick around after this summer stint, I’m not ready to go back to my old self. There’s a new Macy, ready to break out.

  “Ready honey?” my mom voice calls up the stairs.

  I sigh, coming down slowly.

  “Yep, ready,” is my mutter.

  As usual Marsha is perfect down to the tiniest detail. Her brown bob gleams, nails done to a shine. By contrast, my curls are wild and riotous, surrounding my face in a halo. Whereas my mom’s wearing a face full of make-up, lashes like big, black spiders, I just have on subtle lip gloss and concealer.

  Marsha looks at me critically then.

  “No need to we
ar that jacket,” she says. “It doesn’t match honey, and you know how the Morgans are. So stylish all the time. Maybe you could make a good impression on the boys, they might be able to get you a job somewhere.”

  I almost choke. A job is the least of my worries right now, especially when it comes to my neighbors.

  But I nod numbly.

  “It’s a little cold,” I murmur. “Maybe I’ll take off the jacket when we’re inside.”

  Marsha turns away.

  “Suit yourself,” is her careless reply. “Jim? You ready? I don’t want to be late.”

  And carefully, we pick our way across the yard and onto the Morgan’s property. Going in the back door, Maddy Morgan is slaving by herself in the kitchen.

  “Hi there,” she says breathlessly, pounding something with a pestle. Holy cow! Is Maddy making her own pesto with fresh basil? My respect for the woman skyrockets.

  “Oh hello Maddy,” coos my mom. “How’s it going?”

  Immediately I rush over.

  “Can I help?” I ask, looking down at the stone bowl. Sure enough, the citrusy scent of fresh basil rises to my nostrils, mouth watering hungrily.

  But Maddy shakes her head, shooing us with fluttery hands.

  “No, no, you’re the guests. Go ahead and say hello to Ted, he’s waiting for you folks in the living room. Besides, I’ve been cooking for a full house for years, it’s nothing new,” she says with a smile.

  I nod, and the three of us head out to the common area. Unfortunately, Mr. Morgan is in a sad state. He’s in a wheelchair by the table, the left side of his mouth pulled down and immobile. In fact, it looks like his whole left side is impaired, and my mother scurries over to his side, hugging him and gushing over how sorry she is that he’s been so sick.

  My father salutes him. “Hell of a hit to your golf game, hey Ted?”

  Mr. Morgan waves his right hand dismissively.