by Amy Brent
“Fuck… your pussy… is… so… fucking… tight…” Denny moaned, arching his back and thrusting out his hips to go in even deeper. His grunts and groans echoed off the metal stall and drifted out into the restroom. We both knew someone could come in at any moment, but neither of us cared. We were the only two people on earth as far as we were concerned. And we were having a fucking great time.
“Shit… I’m gonna… oh.. Denny… I’m… fuck... cumming…”
I gritted my teeth and moaned. Denny’s cock slamming into my cunt had ignited every nerve in my body. I felt my toes curl as the orgasms started coming in waves, one after another, my pussy gushing like Niagara Falls. The stall filled with the tangy scent of my juices. I was squirting, covering Denny’s cock and balls with my cum.
Denny grunted loudly, like a wild animal growling at the moon. He shoved his cock in as far as it would go and shot his load, filling me with his hot seed, the heat of it radiating throughout my body. I came again as he did, my body shuddering against him, the cries of pleasure escaping my lips despite my best efforts to be quiet.
A moment later, we were done.
We had fucked in a public restroom.
Guess I could mark that one off my list.
Denny cleaned off his cock and put himself back together, then gave me a long kiss and said he’d see me back at the table. I used half a roll of toilet paper to mop up the mess we’d made between my legs, then put my dress and panties back on and stepped out to wash my hands.
“That sounded like fun!” a breathy voice called from behind me. I was so startled I nearly drew the lipstick across my cheek. I turned around to see a pair of high heels beneath the door of the stall next to the one where Denny and I had just fucked.
“Oh shit,” I said. “I’m so sorry. We had no idea anyone else was here.”
“Don’t be sorry, dear,” she said, her voice echoing. “I rather enjoyed it. First time fucking in a restroom?”
I grinned because I had the feeling a kindred spirit was sitting on the toilet behind that stall door.
“Yes,” I said, gathering up my purse and moving toward the door.
“Well, sweetie, don’t let it be your last. He sounded like one hell of a ride.”
“I won’t,” I said with a grin. I was blushing like a teenager caught with her boyfriend hidden in the closet. “And he is.”
“Enjoy your dinner, sweetie.”
“Thanks. You, too.”
Wanna read Sammy and Andrea’s story?
Shhh…..don’t tell anyone but this one will need some secluded place, with your spouse if you want, toys, and of course, no panties. And….don’t forget the Kleenex.
Turn the page to experience the HOTNESS!
BOOK 3: DEEP INSIDE
When you’re a six-foot-six-inch, former football player with a nickname like Sammy the Sausage, most women run screaming when they see how that nickname was earned. Even though I’m also a Silicon Valley billionaire who doesn’t mind spreading the wealth around, I’m way more man than most women can take.
Then there’s Andrea, the former women’s college volleyball star and fitness model who stands nearly six-feet tall and looks like she’s been chiseled out of bronze. Gorgeous, with flaming red hair and a personality that walks the line between confident and abrasive.
She’s smoking hot, no denying, but I have a rule about not sleeping with women who looked like they could kick my ass in a fair fight. Then again, her body—and the things I imagine her doing with it—is what makes her so damn appealing.
Has Sammy the Sausage finally met his match? There was only one way to find out, and that was to just go all in – deep inside.
Chapter 1: Sammy Branniff
“You okay… baby? Sammy… ooh… okay… there he is… ooh... yes… you are… more than okay…”
The words left Carina’s sweet lips on gusts of hot breath, pushed from her lungs each time she lowered herself another inch down the shaft of my fat, foot-long cock. They didn’t call me Sammy the Sausage for nothing.
There probably wasn’t a woman on earth who could take my full length inside them. If there was, she either had to have an abnormally deep pussy or had been fucked so much she was just about worn out. Either way, I didn’t want to meet her, no pun intended.
I know, I know… it was a stupid thing to be thinking, especially while my monster cock was impaling one of the most beautiful women on the planet with one of the tightest, most talented pussies.
Carina Coracova was the Russian-born Star Attraction at Club Votre Desire—Club D—the high-end brothel secretly owned by me and my two best friends and business partners, Isaac Hanson and Denny Chambers.
Carina and me had gotten tight over the years (again, no pun intended) and she always saved her last appointment on Sunday night for me. That way, we could fuck our brains out, sleep like babies in my private suite, wake up tangled in each other’s arms and legs, fuck ourselves awake, take a shower, fuck some more, take another shower, and eat breakfast on the veranda before heading back to the city on Monday afternoon. And we’d usually fuck on the ride home.
And it only cost me twenty-five-grand for the privilege of having Carina share my bed and my limo. And brothers and sisters, I am here to testify… that was the best fucking money I spent all week. Okay, that pun was intended.
Hanging with Carina was always the highlight of my week. Hell, sometimes it was the only thing that got me through the week, looking forward to burying my nose in her juicy, pink twat or watching her big titties bounce around as she rode my cock like bucking bronc at a Texas rodeo.
Usually, this was my favorite time of the week. Lying here with Carina wedging herself onto me. Usually it was. Tonight, for some reason, my head was totally somewhere else. Fortunately for me, my cock could perform very well on its own.
“When the blood rushes to Sammy’s sausage,” Carina liked to say, “the rest of him just hangs on for the ride.”
I don’t know why I was thinking about Isaac and Denny at that particular moment. I mean, Carina was doing her best to keep me occupied, squeezing her cunt muscles around my long schlong as she slowly slid up and down, but my mind kept wandering.
Maybe it was because Isaac and Denny didn’t come to Club D to hang out anymore, not since meeting “their soul mates” Amy Rossetti and Serena Diaz.
I couldn’t really blame them. Amy and Serena were drop-dead gorgeous, smoking hot, sexy as fuck, super smart, but Jeez Louise, Carina—and the other girls who serviced the wealthy members at Club D—were off the freakin’ charts.
Forget 10s. These girls were 15s and 20s!
Between us, me, Isaac and Denny were worth close to ten-billion dollars, thanks to Internet Data Systems (IDS), the online data storage company we started in college fifteen years ago. Isaac was the computer nerd who had the original idea, Denny was the marketing genius who sold it to the world, and I was the business brain who ran the show, which last year did revenues of almost six-billion dollars.
And just to think it all started out as something fun to do when we were too broke to chase pussy. Hell, we even named the company after ourselves. IDS really stood for Isaac, Denny, and Sammy, even though the rest of the world thought it stood for Internet Data Systems.
But sometimes, believe it or not, being a famous billionaire was about as much fun as being stalked by a serial killer.
Freakin’ paparazzi followed us everywhere we went.
TMZ hung out in the bushes to see which Victoria’s Secret model was leaving my house at 8 AM, or which porn star Denny was getting a blow job from in the pool (goddamn drones), or buying surveillance footage of Isaac cornholing his assistant in the elevator between floors.
Or I’d get shitfaced at a strip joint in Vegas and end up on Entertainment Tonight or the cover of Hustler with my ass hanging out and my monster cock in some chick’s mouth.
After a while, it got to where we were afraid to go outside. And staying inside wasn’t any fun, no matte
r how many girls you packed into the place. So, we decided we needed our own little private getaway and the idea for Club D was born.
We opened Club D—Club Votre Désire —a few years ago on a secluded estate in the mountains north of San Jose so we’d have a private place to unwind, drink, fuck beautiful women, and make fools of ourselves without worrying about TV cameras and photographers.
Then we decided to let our rich pals join if they were willing to cough up a cool million for charity every year for dues and pay outrageous fees for the pussy. Within a week, we had rich fuckers standing in line begging us to join.
Club D was legendary, mysterious, like Atlantis or Camelot. Lots of people heard about it, but only the select hundred or so members actually knew the place existed. And even they had no clue where it was. Club D was located on a hundred-fifty-year-old estate tucked in the mountains north of San Jose. The main house sat a quarter of a mile from the winding road that led up the mountain. And in the summer the house was barely visible through the thick rows of trees that lined the narrow drive.
There was a large stone and iron gate at the road that was always manned by armed guards that no one in their right mind would dare fuck with. Big old boys, mean looking sons of bitches, with big shoulders and thick necks, wearing black, tactical gear like our own private SWAT team.
They looked like a band of killer mercenaries from a Stallone movie, but, they were all former football buddies of mine who moonlighted as guards and security personnel. Those big lugs wouldn’t hurt a fly… unless I told them to.
The tight security was required to keep the public out and the members safe. When you had senators and congressmen and a vice president and other politicians and world leaders hanging around, the security had to be the best money could buy.
There were some weekends where we had the Secret Service, the FBI, MI6, and Interpol patrolling the grounds around the estate with attack dogs and automatic weapons. They weren’t allowed to come into the main house, but trust me, you knew they were always close by.
The manor house sat on fifty wooded acres and stood four stories tall. It had once been a grand hotel built by some rich fucker from New York in the late 1800s, with 55,000 square feet of indoor space, divided into 30 luxury suites on the top three floors. The bottom floor housed a 5-star restaurant, a huge bar/disco, a bunch of meeting rooms, and a giant banquet hall, which was the length and width of a football field.
Out back, there was a 10,000-square foot guest house with thirty or so double rooms for the employees who came to stay each weekend: waitresses, servers, bartenders, chefs, housekeeping, hostesses, admins, etc. The place was like a small, self-contained city. All you had to do was ask for it, and it could be found at Club Votre Désire.
We treated the place like a fortress because that’s exactly what it was: a fortress that housed the deepest, darkest secrets of some of the country’s most powerful people, myself included. I was not just an owner. I was an active participant.
“Sam… Sammy… oh… shit…”
“Huh?”
“Pay attention!” she ordered, digging her sharp fingernails into my hairy chest deep enough to hurt, but in a good way. She had impaled herself on the first five or six inches of my cock and that was as far inside her as I could get.
“Sorry,” I said, putting my hands on her tits and giving her long nipples a squeeze. She giggled and wiggled her ass against me.
“You wanna think or you wanna fuck?” she asked, stopping the motion of her hips long enough to give me a steely look. “Choose. I get paid either way.”
“I wanna fuck,” I said with a smile. “Please?”
“That’s better,” she said with a sigh. She tried to lower herself onto another inch, but I was already at her cervix and she was stretching to accommodate me. My cock wasn’t just long. It was girthy, with a head as round as a golf ball and a shaft hard as a lead pipe.
Denny had dubbed me “Sammy the Sausage” in high school, when the sight of my schlong caused every guy in the football locker room to point and stare. Sure, I displayed the damn thing proudly, walking from the showers, swinging it side to side, letting it dangle half way down my thighs. Coach Battle looked at me once and told me to put the damn thing away before I killed someone with it.
Isaac called me “The Hammer” because he said I could drive spikes into railroad ties when my cock was hard. It didn’t bother me that my best friends had given my cock a nickname. Hell, me, Isaac and Denny had gangbanged a lot of girls and had seen each other naked plenty of time. And they were no slouches when it came to big cocks, but they had little wieners compared to my kielbasa. They always insisted on going first because they said I’d stretch a pussy out so much they couldn’t get traction.
“Hey, are you with me?” Carina dug her nails in again until I yelped.
“Fuck, yes, stop that,” I said, grabbing her by the waist as she pommeled up and down on the end of my cock.
“What… are… you… thinking… about?” she asked, leaning her head down until our noses were an inch apart. “You’re… a million… miles… away…”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes… you are.”
“For Pete sake, Carina, just shuddup and fuck me.”
“You will pay for that one,” she said, pressing her teeth into her lower lip until her eyes went dreamy. “Later…”
I wanted to deny it, maybe blame it on all the booze I’d drank since Friday night or the pot I’d smoked, but she was right. My cock was happy sliding in and out of Carina’s tight pink box, but my brain was a thousand miles away.
If I told you what I was thinking about you’d probably call me a pussy and then I’d have to kill you, so I won’t say.
Not yet.
Focus, Sammy.
Bring this baby home.
I cupped Carina’s bouncing tits in my palms and gave them a squeeze between my fingers. She closed her eyes and moaned, happy that I was finally taking part. Her hips moved back and forth, then up and down, impaling herself on my moist meat until the head slammed her inner wall, then back out and in again.
Carina was amazing. She should have been for five-thousand dollars an hour, making hers one of the most expensive pussies on the planet.
And well worth every penny.
Millionaires and billionaires came from around the world to spend time with Carina, because there was no other woman like her. It would be hard to understand unless you were a dude, but when you were fucking Carina you knew you were fucking the best, kind of like driving a $1.3M Venom GT Spyder or a $1.8M Lambo Centenaro, both of which I had in my underground garage back in San Jose.
That was the allure of Club D: rich fuckers like me could experience things they never could experience anywhere else, no matter how much money they had in the back. You could fill a suite in Vegas with a hundred hot girls and they wouldn’t come close to the girls at Club D. There were lots of hot girls in the world, but very few like Carina and the girls who made Club D the special place that it was.
Mega-millionaires and billionaires gladly ponied up a million dollar a year just to become a member of Club D. And that was just the dues. Everything else, the food, the booze, the pussy, the rooms, the service, was extra, automatically charged to their Black American Express or sucked right out of their bank accounts if they were afraid their wives would find out.
Since me and my boys didn’t need the money, every penny that came in the doors went right back out to our charitable trust. In the three years that Club D had been open, we had raised twenty-three-point-two-million dollars that had been disbursed to a variety of worthy causes around the country.
As Denny liked to say, “Man, that’s a lot of pussy.”
Every employee at Club D except for Mr. Lemon, the director, and the security force, was a smoking hot babe, from the hostesses to the waitresses to the bartenders to the chefs to the maids, all beautiful women, every one drop-dead gorgeous. And the most gorgeous of all were the women wh
o kept the members happy and coming back for more: the Escorts and the Specialists.
An Escort would take you upstairs and fuck and suck your brains out until you begged them to stop. A Specialist, like Carina, could show you things and do things to you that you could only imagine in your wildest dreams. That’s what made them special. And very expensive.
I’d seen Carina take on five guys at once; one in her cunt, one in her ass, one in her mouth, and one in each hand. And somehow—somehow—she made all five guys come at once like a fucking cum sprinkler. I know, it sounds gross as fuck and the mess she made was just that, but it was downright fascinating to watch. Carina simply smiled and licked the cum from her lips and wiped her sticky hands down her breasts and did the math in her head.
She pocketed a cool $170,000 for her trouble, I mean, if she’d had pockets.
You want the breakdown?
Fine, here it is: one cock in each hand: $10,000 x 2 = $20,000… one cock in her mouth: $25,000… one cock in her pussy: $50,000… one cock in her ass: $75,000.
Do you need a calculator to add that up?
I know, amazing, huh.
She would later tell me it was the easiest hundred-seventy grand she’d ever made. And she got to keep every penny. See, Club D makes money from what we call “dues and booze”.
