Main On Your Knees; Hard On; Deep Inside

On Your Knees; Hard On; Deep Inside

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I didn't know men read this stuff. Cuz this is def written for the guys pleasure. I thought it was meh. On the other hand I can def recommend Skin of the Night for the girls who read erotica.
03 February 2022 (20:38) 

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On Your Knees

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Table of Contents

Title Page


Prologue: Isaac Hanson

Chapter 1: Isaac

Chapter 2: Amy Rossetti

Chapter 3: Isaac

Chapter 4: Amy

Chapter 5: Isaac

Chapter 6: Amy

Chapter 7: Isaac

Chapter 8: Isaac

Chapter 8: Amy

Chapter 9: Isaac

Chapter 10: Amy

Chapter 11: Isaac

Chapter 12: Amy

Chapter 13: Isaac

Chapter 14: Amy

Chapter 15: Isaac

Chapter 16: Amy

Chapter 17: Isaac


Extra Steamy Bonus Scene: Isaac


Prologue: Denny Chambers

Chapter 1: Denny

Chapter 2: Denny

Chapter 3: Serena Diaz

Chapter 4: Serena

Chapter 5: Denny

Chapter 6: Serena

Chapter 7: Serena

Chapter 8: Denny

Chapter 9: Serena

Chapter 10: Serena

Chapter 11: Denny

Chapter 12: Serena

Chapter 13: Denny

EPILOG: Serena

Super Steamy Deleted Bonus Scene


Chapter 1: Sammy Branniff

Chapter 2: Sammy

Chapter 3: Andrea Nichols

Chapter 4: Andrea

Chapter 5: Andrea

Chapter 6: Sammy

Chapter 7: Andrea

Chapter 8: Sammy

Chapter 9: Andrea

Chapter 10: Sammy

Chapter 11: Andrea

Chapter 12: Sammy

Chapter 13: Andrea

Chapter 14: Sammy

Chapter 15: Andrea

Chapter 16: Sammy

Chapter 17: Andrea

Chapter 18: Sammy

Chapter 19: Andrea

Chapter 20: Sammy

Chapter 21: Sammy

Chapter 22: Andrea

Chapter 23: Sammy

Chapter 24: Andrea

Epilog: Andrea

Bonus S*x Scene – Off the Chart Chemistry!





More Steamy Romance by Amy Brent (Includes Sneak Peeks to 4 Best Selling Novels)

Club Desire

The Complete Series Box Set


Amy Brent

Copyright © 2017

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by c; opyright law.

This is a work of fiction. While, as in all fiction, the literary perceptions and insights are based on life experiences and conclusions drawn from research, all names, characters, places and specific instances are products of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously. No actual reference to any real person, living or dead, is intended or inferred.


I had heard of this mysterious place called Club Votre Désire —Club Desire— for years; a magical place where mega-rich men wined and dined and had their way with women so incredibly beautiful they once existed only in their dreams… But did Club Desire really exist? And if so, could someone like me actually go there to meet the man of my dreams...

You think it’s easy being me? A young, good looking billionaire that women throw themselves at 24/7? Sure, it’s great having money and my pick of the ladies, but just once I’d like to meet a girl who wants me for me, not because of my huge bank account or the other huge asset that I carry around in my jeans.

If I can’t meet a nice girl the old fashioned way, screw it, I’ll just have to get creative to get my rocks off. I’ll start a private club just for guys like me, rich dudes with more money than they could ever spend and desires that never get fully met by their wives and mistresses and girlfriends at home.

I’ll fill the place with the most gorgeous women on earth who will do anything if the price is right. And I’ll personally audition every girl…

Who knows, maybe I’ll bet lucky.

Maybe one of these girls will be the one.

Prologue: Isaac Hanson

I woke up alone, or as alone as I could be with a nine-inch hard-on big enough to choke a horse. Well, a Shetland Pony, maybe. Sometimes, the damn thing was like having an alien attached to my crotch. It pulsated and throbbed with every beat of my heart when it first awoke from its nightly slumbers.

It was hungry.

It wanted to be fed.

I imagined it growling in a phlegmy alien voice.

“Pussy… Ice… feed me pussy… now…”

I yawned as I pushed up onto my elbows and forced my eyes to open. I felt the bed beside me. The sheet was cold. Was last night just a dream? Was she really here with me all night long? Doing all those filthy little things we did to each other or was it all just a filthy little dream?

I grabbed the pillow next to mine and pressed it to my face and inhaled deeply. Unless dreams left the sweet scent of Chanel No. 5 on the pillow and the pungent aroma of sex on the sheet, it was no dream.

She was here.

I didn’t imagine it all.

Everything we did, the hours we spent exploring each other’s bodies, touching, kissing, licking, sucking, fucking…

It was all real.

And it was fucking magnificent.

I tossed the pillow aside and swung my legs over the side of the bed. I gave my cock a few strokes to pacify it and sat looking around the room. Her clothes were on the floor where I’d stripped them from her perfect body the night before. My clothes were in a pile next to hers. I could see my boots and her high heels littered in the hallway outside the bedroom door.

The early morning sun was filtering through the smoked glass in the French doors that led out to the second-floor balcony, bathing the room in a warm wash of light that would have been romantic if I hadn’t been alone.

I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and groaned as I got to my feet, then paused to stretch my arms toward the ceiling. My spine popped a little as I stretched, a faint reminder of my hard playing days on the MIT rugby team.

Or was it a reminder of last night; a sexual hangover that had my entire body in need of a good steam and hot shower. Jesus, I was just forty-years-old, but I reckoned that my years as a sexual Olympian were behind me now.

Too many nights of back room quickies and drunken missionary positions and easy fucking had taken their toll. That was just one advantage of being an eligible, well-hung, good-looking billionaire. Women offered themselves to me like desserts on a tray. I didn’t have to work for pussy anymore. It was just there. Always there. Mine for the taking. I didn’t have to work for it anymore. I’ll have you and you and you and…

Easy pussy had made me soft.

After last night’s gymnastics—and the promise of many more nights to come— maybe it was time to get back in real fucking shape.

I chuckled as I yawned.

Sometimes the shit my brain came up with just cracked me up.

I cocked my ear toward the master bathroom door and listened for a moment. A smile came to my face when I heard her… humming.

Yes, she was humming.

Happy people hum.

Satisfied women hum.

My cock twitched as if saying, “Go get her, you stupid fuck!”

“Patience, ET,” I said quietly, giving my balls a nice scratch as I padded across the heated carpet to the bathroom door. I pressed my ear to the door and listened for a moment.

She was humming a song I knew but couldn’t place. It made me smile. Fuck, everything this woman did made me smile. I quietly turned the handle, found it unlocked, then pushed the door open to reveal a sight that nearly took my breath away. I’d had a lot of beautiful, naked women in this bathroom, but none like her.

She was standing at the sink with a towel wrapped around her wet hair and nothing else. Her perfect body was dotted with little drops of water as if meticulously placed there by a great artist.

The large bathroom was still steamy from the shower. She was on her tiptoes, leaning in toward the mirror, brushing her lashes with mascara. Her big breasts hung heavy on her chest; so round and milky smooth, her nipples in the mirror, hard and pink from the steaming shower.

The muscles in her toned legs were tight. Her round ass was sticking out, facing me, open for business, baby. I couldn’t help but lick my lips at the sight of her pink twat and puckered little asshole.

“Good morning,” I sighed, moving in close behind her and sliding my hands around her waist. She leaned back into me and pressed her wet shoulder blades to my chest and put her arms around my neck. She turned her head so that I could press my lips to hers. We both had morning breath but neither of us cared.

My hands went immediately to her melon tits.

I squeezed her pink nipples until they turned dark red between my fingers.

She moaned at the sweet pain and wiggled her ass against me.

I bent my knees so my long cock could slide in between her legs.

I could feel the heat of her pussy on the top of my shaft as her lips molded over the shaft and the head of my cock slid across her clit.

I groaned in her ear as my hands slid down her flat stomach, across her shaved mound, my fingers meeting at her clit, rubbing gentle circles along the sides, feeling it harden between my fingertips, as I worked my hips back and forth.

She cooed at me in the mirror and pushed her round ass against me.

She told me to fuck her from behind while we watched in the mirror.

I smiled and dug my fingers into her hips.

I swear I heard my cock give a happy sigh.

What a great way to start the day…

Chapter 1: Isaac

The freelance writer Influencers Magazine sent to interview me for what they called their “Influencers of the Future Series” was a blonde named Stacey something or other who had legs up to here and a pair of tits that dared me to try to focus on anything but them.

She was dressed professionally in a pair of black slacks that hugged her long, thin frame, sensible shoes on what I figured would be exquisite feet (I’d sucked a toe or two in my time), and a short black jacket over a turquoise blouse that did little to hide the fact that she had a couple of world class double-D’s stuffed inside there.

Being the horn, computer nerd that I am, I quickly calculated in my mind how long it would take for me to have her completely out of her clothes and bent over my desk should the opportunity arise. Six-point-two seconds, top to bottom, with most of that time spent removing the industrial strength bra that was keeping her big melons in place.

I forced my eyes to remain on hers, although the allure of those tits was making it incredibly hard, like trying to look away from something you knew to be a miracle of nature.

My tongue slid across my dry lips without my brain telling it to.

My mouth filled with the taste of… what was that… milk?

Wow, sometimes my imagination amazed even me.

We were in my fifth-floor office at IDS, the tech company I had founded with my childhood pals, Denny and Sammy, almost fifteen years ago when we were all seniors at MIT.

I was the computer hacker/nerd.

Denny was the big personality/marketer.

And Sammy was the level-headed business guy.

It was the perfect combination of brains, bravado, and balls.

We never fathomed that we were starting a multi-billion-dollar company way back then. It’s just how things worked out. I had a novel idea for a way to store data online and secure it from hackers. I wrote the code and built the site. Denny found our first customers. And Sammy somehow rolled it all into a formal business. He wrote the initial business plan that got us our first ten-million dollars in funding from a Silicon Valley venture capitalist over one long weekend while Denny and I were out partying.

It wasn’t easy. We struggled at first, then, slowly, things started picking up and the next thing we knew, our little company was going public and we were all billionaires. Yes. Billionaires. With a B.

Is this a great fucking country or what?

We even named the company after ourselves. IDS, Inc. stood for Isaac, Denny, and Sammy, even though the rest of the world thought it stood for Internet Data Systems, Incorporated.

Jesus, my mind wanders sometimes…

Where was I…

Oh yeah…

The hot blonde… uh… Stacey…

She was sitting in a chair in front of my desk with her long legs crossed at the knees and her back straight, probably to counterbalance the weight of her tits (I minored in physics).

She had an iPad resting on her thigh and tapped her long nails to the screen, taking notes as I answered her inane questions about the future of tech and this and that and blah, blah, blah.

I’d been interviewed hundreds of times over the years. Interviews bored the shit out of me, but Denny insisted that it was good for marketing and Sammy said it was good for business, so I plastered on a smile, worked up what little patience I could, and gave them the answers they expected to hear. Nothing earth-shattering, nothing controversial, nothing too revealing about our future plans. It was basically, “All is well because IDS is on the job for our thousands of big clients.”

End of story.


At least Stacey was smoking hot, unlike most tech writers, and if my potential-fuck-meter was not failing me, she was also giving me the eye from behind the fashionable black-rimmed glasses that she wore. She probably wore them because she thought they made her look smarter, not because she needed them to correct her vision.

Okay, I’m also a bit of a cynic.

Sue me.

“So, you’re saying that the threat of a major hack is not a concern for you or your clients?” She was asking the question when I brought my focus back around to her voice rather than her tits.

“I’m saying that it is no more of a concern today than it was a year ago,” I said with a sigh that probably made me sound even more bored than I actually was. “Hackers are a constant threat. They always have been. They are like self-replicating cockroaches. You will never be able to stomp them all out because if you kill one, two more immediately take his place.”

She smiled at me. “Self-replicating cockroaches?”

I didn’t smile back because I wasn’t making a joke.

“The key is to make sure your systems and software are prepared and secure against whatever threat a hacker may bring. It’s all about preparedness and response. And if you are hacked, it then it becomes about how quickly you can deal with the hack, seal the hole, and repair the damage.”

I’d said those words in so many interviews now that they rolled off my tongue like the freakin’ Pledge of Allegiance. I thought about printing them out and just handing them to whoever was interviewing me to save myself a few gusts of breath.

Stacey tapped away on the iPad. When she looked up, I forced a smile and said, “That’s enough heavy shit. Ask me something fun.”

She gave me a wary look. “Something fun?”

I spread my hands and let my eyebrows go up. “Ask me something no one has ever asked me before.”

I was sitting behind my desk with the wall of tinted-glass behind me that looked out over the twenty-acre IDS campus. Located in the hills overlooking Silicon Valley, the campus looked more like a park than the headquarters of a billion-dollar tech company, with its meticulously-manicured lawns and hedges trimmed to resemble woodland creatures and buildings made of mirrored glass that blended rather than marred the landscape. I had personally conceived the layout and design of the campus and after three years of construction, we had opened the doors almost a year ago and consolidated most of our five hundred employees there.

“The campus is amazing,” she said, staring past me at the green and blue beyond the windows, searching for a question to ask that wasn’t on her prepared list. “I understand you designed it all yourself.”

“Ah, I just sketched it out,” I said with a dismissive wave. “Someone much smarter and more talented than me did the work.”

“You’re being modest,” she said coyly.

“Am I?” I picked up a thick rubber band that was on the desk and leaned back in the chair, rocking, stretching the rubber band between my fingers. I rolled it around my fingers, keeping my hands busy. I had the attention span of a gnat and the only thing that I had found to help me focus was to keep my hands busy so my mind could stay on point. Still, I couldn’t help but stare into the blue eyes staring at me from behind the pair of black-framed glasses, imagining doing things much more fun than this boring, fucking interview.

“I’ve been asked that question before,” I said, my voice taking on a daring tone in a last-ditch effort to make the conversation interesting. I glanced at my Apple watch. “Time’s running out, Stacey. Last chance to ask me something really interesting.”

She took off the glasses and set them on the desk, then turned off the iPad and slid it into the computer bag that was sitting at her feet. “All right then, Mr. Hanson, tell me about Votre Désire. Or what some call Club Desire or Club D.”

I had become a master at keeping my expression as blank as a sheet of paper. That skill served me well when she mentioned the name of the ultra-private club that Denny, Sammy, and I had founded for super rich guys like us who wanted to mingle with super hot women without any strings or worry about public embarrassment. The extent of that mingling was up to the member and the girl, but suffice it to say, most members would pay a small fortune to fuck an otherwise unobtainable woman who looked like a Victoria’s Secret supermodel, and the women who worked at Club D as “escorts” would go all the way if the price was right.

Fuck 10’s.

These girls were 20’s.

Some of them were even off the charts.

I shook my head like I was disappointed at her sad efforts to ask an original question and gave her a look that said the interview was over. “I’m sorry,” I said, putting my hands on the desk, ready to push myself out of the chair and show her the door. “I don’t think I’m familiar with… what was it… Club Desire?”

“Yes. Actually…” She reached into her purse and brought out a business card. She set the card on the desk and used one long finger to slide it toward me. The card was expensive looking, glossy and black, with the words “Votre Désire” and a phone number embossed in gold on the front. I recognized the card immediately, though I tried not to show it. It was a card given to beautiful women who might be a good match for the club. We employed hostesses, waitresses, bartenders, dancers, and escorts; the latter being those who would fuck a member’s brains out for two-thousand dollars a pop and leave them begging to spend more.

And trust me, it was money well-spent. Me, Denny, or Sammy were typically a new girl’s first customer to make sure she was a good fit for Club D. We called it “Quality Control”. If we didn’t think the pussy was worth two-grand a pop, we made her a waitress or a dancer, although some girls passed with flying colors based solely on what they could do with their mouths or other body parts.

We called them “Specialists” because that’s what they were: special.

I know, it was a tough job, but someone had to do it.

I picked up the card and stared at it for a moment, examining both sides, though I knew there would be nothing on the back. The cards were sparsely passed out by one person and one person alone: Club D manager and concierge, Monte Lemon—or as we called him: Mr. Lemon, because we thought it sounded cool. Monte was Sammy’s uncle, a former maître d at a high-class restaurant in New York City. He also ran strip clubs for John Gotti back in the day, which gave him the perfect mix of class and attitude. Monte was in charge of recruiting girls for the club and a fucking master of discretion. I knew he didn’t mention my association with the club. And I doubted he gave her the card. Monte was too sharp to give a reporter a card, no matter how fantastic her tits were.

No, she had gotten the card from someone else, someone who’d passed it on with the whisper about what went on there. Clearly, she was on a fishing expedition, hoping to snag the big one and have me verify the long-whispered rumor that Club D actually existed and was the brainchild of yours truly and his merry band of billionaire brothers.

“Votre Désire…” I said thoughtfully. I glanced at her over the top of the card. “Is that French?”

“Yes, it’s French,” she said, one eyebrow arching as she tried to detect the lie that was firmly sealed behind my lips. “It means your desire or whatever you desire.”

“Interesting,” I said with a slow nod. I knew what the name meant. I thought the name was stupid when we came up with it, but Denny liked the sound of it and he was fucking a French girl at the time, so, yeah… Votre Désire… Your Desire. I should have kept the card, but I didn’t want to raise her suspicions any higher. I set the card on the desk and slid it back her way.

I asked, “Am I supposed to know something about this… what did you call it… club what?”

“Club Desire,” she said, taking the card from my fingers and slipping it into the side pocket of the computer bag. “Club D, for short. Are you telling me that you know nothing about the place?”

“What say we play a little game,” I said, leaning forward to plant my elbows on the desk. I spread out my hands and smiled. “Why don’t you tell me what you think you know about this Club D place and I’ll either confirm or deny it if I can.”

“Are you saying Club D actually exists?” she asked, a hint of urgency in her voice. I could see the spark in her blue eyes at the anticipation of a nice, dirty story that would get her a byline in the magazine or on the website. I could hear her breath quicken. I knew that her heart was beating a little faster behind those giant melons. Her pink tongue darted across her lips. She squirmed in the chair as if it were getting hot beneath her, even though I expected the heat was coming from within her cunt and not from the chair.

Silly, I know, but I started picturing her naked.

Leaning back in the chair with her legs spread.

Roughly massaging her tits.

Rolling her finger over her clit.

Waiting for me to come around the desk and make her mine.

My cock started to chub up a little.

I lowered my voice and gave her a little smile. “Tell me what you think you know. I’ll confirm or deny honestly. But it has to be off the record.”

“Off the record?” The smile faded from her lips as quickly as it came. She muttered, searching for words. “But… I thought…”

I held up my hands to shush her. “Do you want the truth, or not?”

“I do, but...”

“Then tell me what you think you know.” I sat back with my fingers laced across my stomach, giving her a look that told her there was no negotiation. She might get confirmation of her suspicions, but wouldn’t be able to tell a soul without my lawyer ripping her a new one the size of Texas.

“Fine,” she huffed. She crossed her arms over her tits and gave me a pouty look. “Rumor has it that you and your partners, Denny Chambers and Sammy Branniff, started Club D three years ago as your own private, members-only sex club in an old estate somewhere north of the city. You patterned it after the sex club in the movie, Eyes Wide Shut, which was about Tom Cruise getting involved in an underground sex club for rich men.”

I nodded thoughtfully and said, “For the record, I hate Tom Cruise movies, but please, continue.”

The corner of her mouth twitched. She said, “To qualify for membership, the men must have a minimum of one-hundred-million dollars in net worth, donate a million dollars to a charity mandated by the club, and be personally approved by the three partners.”

“So, it’s a charitable organization,” I said. “How noble.”

She smiled at that one. “Supposedly, the place is run by an ex-mafioso named Mr. Lemon. My research leads me to believe that Mr. Lemon is Monte Lemon, who just happens to be Sammy Branniff’s uncle.” She paused, stared at me, waiting for confirmation. She got none. “The club is staffed entirely by beautiful women who are there to serve at the whims of the members. It’s basically a brothel.”

“A brothel?” I hummed at her. “Now there’s a term you don’t hear too often these days.”

She cut me a hard look. She was getting frustrated, squirming in the chair again. I fucking loved it. She said, “Yes, well, that may be, Mr. Hanson, but what else would you call a place where men go to fuck women for money?”

I had to smile at the size of her balls. I leaned forward and spread out my hands again. “I’d call it a safe place where a man could escape the rigors of this cruel world for a few hours and enjoy the company and pleasures of a beautiful, alluring woman such as yourself without worrying about reporters—again, such as yourself— telling the world about it.”

That one stunned her for a moment. She licked her lips because she had talked them dry and took a deep breath that made her nostrils flare. Christ, she really was a beautiful woman, but I knew Monte Lemon well enough to know that he had not given her the card.

I put on a scolding face. “Stacey, do you really believe that there’s a private club where rich men go to party and have sex with gorgeous women?”

She blinked at me. “Well, I don’t know. The rumors are—”

“Just that,” I said, holding up a hand. “Rumors.”

I let my eyes drift down her face, down her neck, down to the cleavage that was trying to work its way from the top of her blouse. Her eyes followed mine. When we both gazed up, she was biting her lip.

“Where did you get that card?” I asked, still holding her gaze.

“A girl at the office gave it to me,” she said, licking her lips again, swallowing hard. I could almost smell the juices oozing from between her legs.

“What girl?”

“The receptionist. She said she was approached by a man in a club where she moonlighted as a bartender. He told her she was far too gorgeous to be working there.”

“And was she?” I asked, my voice going husky as I imagined kissing her nipples.

She gave me a blank look. “Was she what?”

“Too attractive to be working there?”

“Well, I don’t know… I mean… she is very attractive.”

“As attractive as you?” I asked.

Her tongue went across her lips again, but she didn’t respond.

“What else did this man tell her?” I asked. I pushed myself out of the chair and came around to lean against the edge of the desk in front of her. My cock was plumping up like a ballpark frank. I caught her checking out the bulge that was snaking down the right side of my jeans.

She swallowed the lump that was in her throat and blinked at me. “Um… well… he told her that she could make ten times the money working for him. Then he handed her the card and disappeared.”

“Did this man say anything about what went on at Club D?”

She blinked at my cock. “Um… no…”

I reached down and put a finger under her chin to lift her eyes to mine. “My eyes are up here,” I said playfully. Her cheeks flushed and she covered her smile with her fingertips. “So, let me see if I can connect the dots. Someone you work with gave you that card. You’ve heard the rumors that I was somehow involved with this mysterious Club D, so you thought you’d take advantage of this interview to confront me with the card to see if I would crack.”

Now she was the one having a hard time concentrating. She kept glancing at my cock, then up into my eyes. She said, “Something like that.”

“What else have you heard about me, Stacey?” I asked, letting my fingers linger on her cheek.

“That you have a…” her eyes were on my cock. “Well… you know.”

I smiled. This could very well turn out to be the best interview of my life. I lifted her hand from her lap and placed it on my cock. I heard the breath catch in her throat. I cupped her chin and forced her to look up into my eyes. My cock hardened beneath her hand. Her fingernails scratched the shaft.

I said, “You get one more question, Stacey. Make it a good one.”

She glanced toward the door as she started rubbing my cock with the butt of her hand.

She asked, “Does that door lock?”


* * *

My calculations regarding how quickly I could get Stacey naked and bent over the desk were a bit off, mainly because Stacey had ideas of her own.

After I locked the door and returned to lean against the desk in front of her, it took her roughly ten seconds to have my cock free of my pants and into her mouth. It popped out of my jeans like a tensioned spring and bounced in her hand. She didn’t blink when she saw the size of it, though she did give it a little hum of approval.

Without another word, she wrapped the long fingers of her right hand around the veiny shaft, cupped my balls in her left hand, and swirled her tongue around the head until it was nice and slick, then started bobbing her head back and forth over the shaft, slowly, taking it in until the tip reached the back of her throat and out again. She didn’t gag. She didn’t miss a beat. Obviously, Stacey had talents that were much better honed than her interviewing skills.

“Holy… shit…” I said, the words gusting from my lips. Stacey smiled up at me with my cock in her mouth. Wow. This girl was good, on par with the best cocksuckers we had working at Club D even. I hung on to the edge of the desk with my jeans around my knees and let her go to town.

My cock was long enough that she could take half of it all the way into her mouth while milking the rest with her hand. Her fingers tweaked my ball sack and pressed against my taint.

I could feel the blood rushing toward my crotch, leaving my brain and other vital organs to fend for themselves. I knew it wasn’t going to take long for this load to blow.

“Fuuuck…” I moaned out the word as she held my cock toward the ceiling and started licking all along the bottom, from my balls to the slit, which was dripping precum like a leaky faucet. She looked up at me and smiled with my cock to her lips.

“You ready to pop, baby?” she asked coyly, her hand sliding up and down the wet shaft, her thumb rubbing into the spot where the shaft met the head, driving me over the fucking moon.

“Yes…” I said. “Take it… take it all…”

She licked her lips and smiled. “Yes, sir, Mr. Hanson. With pleasure.”

She slid her lips over the head and started pumping the shaft faster and faster, squeezing hard, milking me like a woman possessed. I felt the orgasm building in my balls. They got tight in her hand.

I was sweating now.

I could feel the sweat running down my neck as I got ready to blow.

Every muscle in my body tensed.

When I exploded into her mouth it was as if every fiber of my being was shooting out the head of my cock and down her luscious throat.

Stacey cooed like a dove as she milked me dry, swallowing every last drop. Afterward, she cleaned me off with her tongue, then gave me a satisfied smile and asked if she could use the restroom.

I fell back against the desk and tried to catch my breath as I watched her sashay across the office and into my private bathroom. I cleaned off my cock with some tissue and stuffed the happy monster back into my jeans.

As I started back around the desk, I noticed Stacey’s computer bag on the floor. I leaned down and plucked out the black card and slipped it into my back pocket, then sat down behind the desk and let go a long sigh.

So far, it had been a great fucking day.

It was a pity she was a fucking reporter.

Stacey what’s her name would have made one hell of a Specialist.

Chapter 2: Amy Rossetti

I certainly don’t mean to sound conceited, nor do I want to come off as a whiny bitch, but I was so freakin’ tired of men (and some women) judging me by the way I looked rather than for the brains in my head that I just wanted to scream.

I know, I sounded like some shallow bimbo with blonde hair and big tits whining about my life just to get noticed. But in my case, it was the truth. I couldn’t help the way I looked. My dad was an Italian immigrant from Milan and my mom was an Italian-American from Queens. They were both stunningly good-looking people with jet black hair, olive skin, dark eyes, and bright smiles that could light up the world, especially when they were smiling at each other before my mom passed away a few years back.

My six brothers (yes… six!) all favored my dad, but I looked like my mom, the spitting-image, my dad would say with big tears in his eyes. I had the same shoulder-length black hair and bangs, deep blue eyes, wide smile, and—thank Jesus—the same big boobs, and curvy figure. I also had the same fiery attitude. I was an Italian princess from Queens, bitch. I could knock you on your ass with one hand while I drank you under the table with the other, and out-cuss you any day of the motherfucking week. I tried to keep my temper and foul mouth in check, but there wasn’t much I could do about my looks other than play them down as best I could.

So, I never wore makeup when I was working. None. Not a lick. I kept my hair pulled back and rolled into a tight bun at the crown of my head. I wore huge, tortoise shell glasses that were purely for show. I had 20/20 vision. The glasses were purchased off a sample rack at an optometrist shop and the lenses were clear glass. They looked like something my Grandma Leona wore back in the day when I was just a child watching her make homemade pasta in her tiny kitchen.

I wore the most-confining bras I could find to mask the fullness of my tits. I swear, strapping them into that bra was like putting on a bullet-proof vest every morning. It reminded me of a line from an old Bill Murray movie: “Is that a bra you’re wearing or are you expecting an assassination attempt?” It was uncomfortable as fuck, but it helped mash them down pretty well.

I always wore the same style of outfit to work. Black slacks, black jacket, dark top buttoned to the collar, low-heeled shoes, and no jewelry other than an inexpensive watch and my mom’s wedding ring, again, meant to deflect those men who were put off by such things. It didn’t stop them from ogling me, of course, but it slowed them down when they started spewing a line of bullshit they thought would get me in bed.

The truth was, I couldn’t remember the last time a man even got near my bed. I was pretty sure my cooch was covered in cobwebs and would have to be aired out and fumigated before being used again. At the very least, it would need to be thoroughly scrubbed and freshly lubed. Sometimes it even squeaked like a rusty hinge when I walked.

Okay, that was bullshit, but you get the point.

It was a sad state of affairs, given the fact that I sometimes bordered on nymphomania in my youth and loved to fuck as much as the next red-blooded Italian-American girl.

Sadder still was how most fucking these days came with strings. I was not a fan of strings, even if they came tied around a thick, long cock like a Christmas bow.

So, every morning when I looked at the woman in the mirror I just sighed and shook my head at the lengths I had to go to be taken seriously. No makeup, hair in a bun, huge glasses covering my eyes, tits strapped down like watermelons on the back of a farm truck, ass hidden by the jacket, and no jewelry or fingernail polish, not even a swatch of Chapstick for my dry lips.

I looked like a fucking librarian.

And I felt like a fucking fake.

And like hunting dogs on the scent of a fox, men still managed to sniff me out.

Men took one look at my face and my tits and my ass, even disguised as they were, and became blathering idiots. Even though I never dressed provocatively, my looks caused their brains to shift control to their cocks. I cannot tell you how fucking frustrating that could be, especially when I was trying to lead a meeting of mostly-male IT directors from a dozen or so Fortune 100 companies.

That’s what I did for a living. I owned a company, Amy Rossetti and Associates, even though I was the only employee other than my personal assistant, Serena Diaz. I was basically a consultant, an expert in the fields of Computer Science, Internet Technology, and Cybersecurity. Companies hired me to find holes in their networks and to try to breach their security systems, then show them how to plug those holes and patch those systems in exchange for a six-figure check.

I had a Master’s in Computer Engineering from MIT and a Bachelor’s in Computer Science from Rutgers. And I was working on my Ph.D. in Cybersecurity from Harvard at night.

My brain might not have been as big as my boobs, but it certainly had made me a better living. I pulled down one-point-two million last year, take home. And if I could keep my clients’ heads out of their asses and eyes off my tits long enough, I just might double that this year.

The money usually made the charade worthwhile, but sometimes, like today, it was like wearing a coat made of concrete.

* * *

I was standing at the side of the stage behind the large curtain, sipping from the tall cup of Starbuck’s coffee that had gone stone cold since I had picked it up an hour ago on the way to the meeting. There was a huge table of coffee, juice, and Danish at the back of the room, but I never partook of such things. I wasn’t there to have a picnic. I was there to share my knowledge on the threat of Russian and Chinese hackers and how to defend against them, hopefully to the benefit of the client who was paying me $50,000 for two hours of my time.

That client was Internet Data Systems or IDS, a company that I had worked with several times over the last few years. IDS was at the forefront of the cybersecurity wars and employed some of the best minds in the business to help keep their data—and the data of their clients—safe from hackers and harm.

I had a grudging respect for IDS. If I were to ever decide to work for a company other than my own, IDS would have been my first choice, even though (and here’s the grudging respect part) the rumors of juvenile–and often immoral behavior—by the company’s founders was the stuff of legend.

Supposedly, the three founders, all grown men around forty, had the mentality of a trio of horny twelve-year olds and the money to make the world their personal playground. Their drunken, sexual exploits with bikini models and B-list actresses and female employees were big news when the company first went public, although they seemed to have ratcheted down their antics over the last few years, probably because the IDS board of directors told them to keep it in their pants, at least when they were in public.

I didn’t care about their exploits as long as they didn’t affect me or my work or my bottom line. I had never met the founders and didn’t need to. My contact at IDS was the VP of Marketing, a fiftysomething woman named Louise who was either a lesbian or just enjoyed staring at my tits as she handed me the check.

I showed up, delivered the goods, got my check, went out the door, and hurried home to rip off the bra from hell so I could breathe again. That had given me the reputation of being a cold bitch in the industry, but that was fine with me. Again, I was there for the work, not to make friends.

As I waited for the attendees to filter in and take their seats, I glanced down at the roster to see who I’d be speaking to today. There was the usual hodgepodge of specialties and specialists. There were a hundred names on the page along with their respective titles; most IT directors, managers, and staff, a couple of Vice Presidents of technology, a few network managers, all employed by IDS, which was putting on the two-day seminar on hacking and cybersecurity. Today was the last day of the event and I was the keynote speaker, which meant that I would be the last one to speak. They always saved the best for last, I thought with a smile.

As I was patting myself on the back, I noticed a man walk out onto the stage from the opposite side. He was with Louise, who was talking and pointing toward the back of the room. He had his head bowed, listening intently, walking with his hands behind his back and a serious look on his handsome face. Though we had never met, I knew immediately who he was. I recognized him from the company website and the dozens of photos I’d seen online over the years. It was Isaac Hanson, IDS co-founder and the proverbial brains behind the operation.

Unlike most men in his field, there was nothing nerdy about Isaac Hanson. To the contrary, he was tall and lean, with surfer-boy blond hair and looks, and a tan that made his eyes and teeth glow in the dim light of the stage. He was wearing a white dress shirt, untucked and open at the collar, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a pair of ratty jeans and scuffed motorcycle boots. He listened for a moment, gave her a nod and… holy shit… headed my way.

“Miss Rossetti,” he said, approaching with his hand out and a smile on his face. I felt my heart skip a beat when his long fingers closed around my hand. His hand was warm. Funny, because it gave me a chill. “Isaac Hanson, so great to meet you. Thanks for being our keynote speaker today.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Hanson,” I said, squeezing his hand, probably a little tighter than was necessary. “And thank you for having me. It’s always a pleasure working with IDS.”

Then something strange happened. Rather than his eyes dipping to my tits and his tongue darting across his lips, he let go of my hand and turned to face the meeting room, which was now nearly full. He put his hands behind his back again and rocked on the balls of his feet.

I was almost… well… sad that he didn’t seem to notice me. Maybe my disguise was working a little too well. Or maybe Isaac Hanson was not like other men. He reportedly had a genius IQ and was not the big-time party boy his partners were. Maybe looks didn’t matter so much to him. Many men of his caliber had married women who were not raving beauties: Gates, Zuckerberg, Jobs, just to name a few. Maybe it was brain power that turned him on. How wonderfully different would that be? To fuck a man because he loved your mind and not your tits?

“This threat of Russian and Chinese hackers has our clients really on edge,” he said seriously without glancing my way. He seemed to be watching the door at the back of the room as if he were expecting someone. His voice was deep. It tickled my ear. “Hopefully what you’re going to share with us today will help IDS guard against that threat. And maybe even cut the bastards off before they can get in.”

“Yes, that is my goal,” I said with an official nod. “I’m sure that together we can—“

“Sorry, gotta run,” he said suddenly. He hurried across the stage and hopped off the front edge and made his way up the aisle toward the back of the room. I thought he might have seen someone important he needed to talk to. I was right. There was a blonde with big tits and a loopy smile waiting for him at the door. I recognized her as a reporter for some magazine.

She had interviewed me a year ago for a “women in tech” article she was writing. Stacey, something or other.

They greeted each other like old pals or new lovers, and he put his hand on her arm and ushered her to the seat next to him in the front row.

I sighed, chastised myself for my momentary lapse of self-control, and waited for Louise to call me on stage.

Chapter 3: Isaac

Holy hot tamales, Batman...

I had heard through the grapevine that Amy Rossetti was not only a freakin’ genius but also a freak of nature; a smoking hot, piece of ass that was at the same time as cold as a chunk of Arctic ice. The grapevine wasn’t wrong. Her hand was like ice when I shook it, her grip as strong as any man’s, but there was something in those blue eyes staring at me from behind the Coke bottle glasses that made me think that the right man might just thaw her out. Might.

She was dressed like a librarian or an FBI agent from some TV show (I always thought Agent Sculley from the X-Files would have been hot as hell if Agent Mulder had ever gotten her clothes off), but I could tell she was naturally drop-dead gorgeous, with a body the black pants suit could not disguise. Pity that I had let Stacey talk me into letting her tag along to the seminar after that award-winning blowjob in my office. Otherwise, I would have been on Amy Rossetti like white on rice.

That said, it was probably a good thing that I had a gorgeous blonde sitting next to me in the front row.

It’s basic physics that one way to thaw out a block of ice is to leave it alone in the heat for a while. Maybe giving Amy Rossetti—who probably had men far better looking than me lined up around the block—the cold shoulder, so to speak, was the best way to warm her up.

Louise introduced Amy, which took several minutes given her credentials and long list of accomplishments. Amy strode onto the stage with the poise and confidence of the smartest person in the room. Not the smartest woman, mind you, but the smartest person, period. I took out my phone and did a quick Google search. According to Wikipedia, her IQ as verified by MENSA was 145. Mine was 147. I was smarter, but not by much.

I glanced over at Stacey. So far, she hadn’t noticed that the Club D card was gone from her bag. My plan was to keep her distracted long enough that she’d forget about it, maybe string her along for a bit of fun back at my place after the seminar.

So far, Stacey proved to be a girl who was easily distracted.

And she was very distracting.

She had the iPad resting on her knee, ready to take notes of Amy’s presentation. I reminded her that this was a private event and what was said here was not for public consumption. She gave me a pouty look, hoping to get her way. She rubbed her knee into mine and licked her lips, but I scolded her with my eyes until she relented.

She tucked the iPad into the computer bag between her feet and settled back in the seat with her shoulder touching mine. I could feel the heat coming off her body, radiating into my arm and across my chest and down to my cock.

Stacey and I would definitely continue our little party at another time. For now, I’d let her hang around until the seminar was done, then gently send her on her way before the boys and I shoved off for Club D for the weekend.

At the moment, however, Stacey would just have to stew in her own juices. I was far more interested in watching Amy Rossetti do her thing on stage.

Chapter 4: Amy

The talk at IDS went off without a hitch, as all my talks usually did. I’d given a dozen TED Talks around the country on the topics of hacking and cybersecurity, not to mention over a hundred keynotes for private organizations and large corporations. These days I almost made more money talking about cybersecurity than actually fighting it, which was just fine with me. It was easy money, no pressure, even when I had someone like Isaac Hanson and the blonde reporter sitting on the front row chit-chatting like high schoolers at an assembly for the first few minutes.

I managed to stare them into silence as I spoke. I caught Isaac’s eye and he shushed the blonde who was whispering in his ear. I was sure it wasn’t the first time he’d told her what to do with her mouth.

That said, I could feel him watching me as I spoke, his eyes following me as I moved across the stage. It was distracting at first, like trying to ignore a sniper rifle’s laser dot dancing on your chest, but after a moment, I found the attention… exciting.

Knowing that his eyes were on me was exhilarating, even sensual in a way. Was he undressing me with his eyes or was that just my hopeful imagination? Should I be offended by his stare or flattered by it? Was his mind on my words or on my body? And more to the point, where did I want his eyes and hands and mind to be? I ignored the heat between my legs and pushed on through.

After my talk, I noticed that Isaac was quick to leave the room with the blonde on his arm. I sighed a little as I watched him escort her up the aisle and out the door. I chastised myself for even thinking Isaac Hanson put more stock in brains that beauty. He was no different than most other men on the planet. He had a cock, which he let alternate control with his brain. He was watching my tits and ass the entire time I was onstage, then he grabbed Stacey what’s her name for a little game of “hide the sausage” in his private elevator or his corner office.


Men were pigs!

Isaac Hanson was just a rich pig…

A really, really, really good looking, rich pig…

And I was… shit… no way…

I was jealous of Stacey what’s her name…

* * *

I spent another hour doing Q&A with the audience, then got the envelope containing my check from Louise and headed back to my office downtown. Isaac Hanson was still on my mind—and I was still oddly furious with him—but I had managed to push him into a dark corner of my brain to keep him out of the way of the important things I had going on. I had the sinking feeling that he would creep his way back into my thoughts, maybe later on tonight.

Amy Rossetti & Associates had offices in a ten-story glass building that housed several dozen tech start-ups and the venture capital firm that funded them all. The only reason my offices were there was because I’d saved the venture firm’s ass more than once after they had been hacked. The CEO tried to hire me as a formal employee, which I declined despite the high six-figure salary, so he opted to put me on retainer, and part of the deal was the free office space, which they could have easily rented out for fifty-grand a month.

Again, it was a prestigious address, but it was all for show. There were four offices with fictitious names and titles on the doors, the reception area where Serena sat behind the desk, and my office, a space twice as large as I actually needed, but it fit the profile of a high-caliber tech consultant such as myself. Smoke and mirrors, baby. Smoke and mirrors.

The suite also came furnished with high-end furniture and fixtures that made my stuff at home seem like yard sale fare. I slid into the two-thousand-dollar Hermann Miller chair behind the six-thousand-dollar glass desk and kicked off my shoes. I sat rubbing my feet as Serena came in to set a fresh cup of coffee on the desk. She plopped down in a chair across the desk and let her perfectly-manicured eyebrows go up and held out her hand and wiggled her fingers at me. I reached inside my jacket and handed over the envelope containing the $50,000 check.

“So, how did it go?” she asked, tucking the envelope into a folder she had sitting on her lap with IDS on the label.

“It went as it always does,” I said with a sigh, sounding completely bored despite the fact that I’d just earned in two hours what it took some people an entire year or more to bring home. “I could give these talks with my eyes closed.”

“Maybe you should try that next week when you speak at the Pentagon,” she said with a smile. She nodded at the steaming mug sitting in front of me. “Drink that. I put in a little honey and lemon for your throat. It’ll make you feel better.”

“Serena, what would I do without you?” I picked up the cup and brought it to my lips. The strong aroma made me smile. Little beads of steam settled beneath my eyes. I took a careful sip and smacked my lips. “Thanks, I needed this. Any messages?”

“Nothing that can’t wait,” she said in her usual mother hen voice. Serena took good care of me. She kept the distractions away and my schedule on track. You’d never suspect that Serena, who resembled a young Sophia Vergara in every way, right down to the gorgeous face, luscious hair and killer body, was a graduate student in physics at USC.

She was just twenty-three, a brilliant girl who worked twenty hours a week as my assistant and the rest of the time on the dissertation that she hoped would cap off her illustrious educational career by getting published in Physics Today, the official journal of the physics world.

“I did meet someone interesting today,” I said as I leaned back in the chair to prop my bare feet on the desk. I wiggled my toes to get the blood pumping again. I wore low-heeled, sensible shoes and my feet still ached after two hours onstage. I could not fathom how a woman could go through an entire day with her feet wedged into a pair of high heels.

“Yeah? Who was that?”

“Isaac Hanson.”

“The founder of IDS?” she asked, eyebrows arched. The way her lips fell open told me she knew of the legend that was Isaac Hanson. I did not, however, expect her eyes to go dreamy and her voice to soften. “He’s something else, isn’t he?”

I blinked at her for a moment. That was not the response I expected. “Have you met him before?” Serena nervously licked her lips and looked as if she regretted her words. I gave her a hard look. “Serena? What are you not telling me?”

“Yes, I’ve met him,” she said, rolling her dark eyes like a kid who had been caught telling a fib. “I kind of know him, actually.”

I frowned behind the coffee cup. “You kind of know him… Exactly what does that mean?”

She looked toward the open doorway as if making sure we were alone. She leaned into the desk and lowered her voice. “I kind of work for him, well, for a company that he owns. But I really can’t say anything more. I signed an NDA.”

“A nondisclosure agreement?” I let my feet drop to the floor and turned to face her with my elbows on the desk. “Okay, you cannot leave me hanging with that one. What the heck are you talking about?”

She quickly looked down and shook her head. “I really can’t say.”

“Serena.” She glanced up and I nodded at the IDS folder on her lap. “Would a thousand-dollar bonus loosen your lips?”

She smiled. “No, but a five-thousand-dollar one might.”

“Well played,” I said, smiling back. “Done. Now, spill the beans. And they better be damned good beans.”

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then asked, “Have you ever heard of Votre Désire?”

“It’s French,” I said, shrugging. “Your desires… Wait... you mean… you’re talking about…”

“Yep, the infamous Club Desire,” she said, head bobbing. She took her voice down to a whisper. “Isaac Hanson is one of the owners.”

I narrowed my eyes at her. “And you know this how?”

“Well, I sort of work there.”

* * *

You could have knocked me over with a feather. Votre Désire—Club D or Club Desire, as it was more commonly called— was one of those places you heard people whisper about, but had never seen proof that it actually existed, like Shangri-La or Atlantis or Heaven or Hell.

I’d heard the rumors of the private estate somewhere north of the city where rich men romped with beautiful women, fulfilling their every desire for a hefty price. The legend was heightened by the rumor that members included billionaires, entrepreneurs, famous actors, senators, congressmen, former presidents, dictators, sheiks, all who had put up a ten-million-dollar bond that would be cashed and given to charity if they ever broke the code of silence. And the women who worked there were supposedly paid enormous salaries and sworn to secrecy, obviously going so far as to sign NDAs, and would never reveal the secrets of Club D because it would mean cutting off the goose that laid the golden egg.

“What do you mean, exactly,” I asked cautiously, wondering if perhaps I did not know Serena nearly as well as I thought I did. “You sort of work there?”

She shrugged. “I mean I work there. As a waitress, not as a… well… you know.”

“No, I don’t know,” I said, huffing at her. “Why on earth would you work at such a place?” I knew that I sounded pompous and condescending, but it couldn’t be helped. Being judgmental was in my Italian DNA. The truth was, I was more stunned than anything.

Stunned that the place really existed.

Stunned that Serena worked there.

And stunned that the rumors were apparently true: Isaac Hanson, Denny Chambers, and Sammy Branniff, the billionaire founders of IDS, were really the men behind the mystery. They were the founders of Club Desire.

Serena gave me a deserving frown. “Well, no offense, Amy, but you barely pay me enough to afford an apartment in Silicon Valley.” She spread out her fingers and ticked them off as she spoke. “Plus, I have a car payment, credit cards, a mountain of student loan debt, I like nice clothes, I like to eat…”

“Serena, I would give you a raise in a heartbeat,” I said. “Or a loan that you could pay back whenever.” My voice took on a hurt tone. “I had no idea you were hurting for money.”

“Oh, I’m not hurting for money,” she said with a smile. “Honestly, Amy, I work for you because I like you, not for the money. Plus, I learn something from you every day. You’re a super strong, professional woman. You’re more of a role model and mentor than a boss, I mean, in a good way.”

“Well, that’s good, I suppose…”

“Plus, my net last year was around two-hundred-grand. I just have a way of spending every penny I make.”

My mouth literally dropped open. “You netted two-hundred-thousand? Dollars?”

“Not including what you pay me, yes, I took home around two-hundred grand,” she said proudly. “All of it tips from working at Club D.”

“Wow,” I said, falling back in my chair. “I had no idea waitresses could make that kind of money.”

“Ordinarily, they can’t,” she said. “The ones who make the real money are the girls who… well… you know.”

“No,” I said, a little dumbfounded, head swiveling on my neck like a frisbee. “I don’t know.”

She put her elbows on the desk and rested her cheeks between her hands. “They’re called Escorts and Specialists,” she said, eyes dancing as if she were telling ghost stories in front of a campfire. “They’re the girls who take the men upstairs for whatever it is the man is willing to pay for.”

“Oh my god,” I whispered, covering my mouth with my fingertips. “You mean… for sex?” Duh, of course, she meant for sex. What was wrong with that? And why was I playing the part of the prude all of a sudden? I liked sex. Hell, I loved sex. I’d never been paid to have it, but back in the day when I was a struggling college student, the thought had crossed my mind a time or two. It was a good thing I never started “hooking” I think it was called. I might have liked it a little too much, especially if the John was a handsome billionaire like Isaac Hanson.

“How does it work, exactly?” I asked. “I mean, men paying women for sex. That’s textbook prostitution. Which is illegal in California.”

“They don’t pay the women for sex, technically,” she said with a grin as if she knew they were getting away with something and found it funny. “They call it consensual sex, and there is nothing illegal about that.”

I didn’t know if I was more intrigued by the sex or the commerce of it all. I had to know more. I asked, “How does it work then?”

“Well, the women are all super-duper drop dead gorgeous, of course. Like freakin’ super models. The men fall all over themselves to get close to the girls, they buy them glasses of thousand-dollar champagne, five-hundred-dollar tequila shots, huge bowls of caviar, mountains of Maine lobster, whatever you can think of they have it there. Then, the men ask the girl if she’d like to go upstairs and if the girl wants to go—and only if she wants to go—they go upstairs and have consensual sex or whatever. It’s like this humongous mansion, like an old hotel really. The girls all have private bedrooms there for the weekends, and some of the higher-net worth members have suites, too. They basically arrive on Friday night and leave on Sunday night. Some of them never leave their rooms.”

“That’s… unreal,” I said, not sure if I believed her or not, though I knew Serena would never lie to me. “How do the women get paid?”

“Every member must put up a Platinum American Express Card and everything is charged directly and automatically to that card. Their initial dues, monthly dues, food, drink, room fees, and—“ she made air quotes with her long fingers— “entertainment fees, that may or may not include private entertainment in one of the upstairs bedrooms. It’s all charged to the card. The girls get every nickel the member spends once they’re upstairs. The house gets everything else.”

“So, the men do not pay the women directly for sex,” I said, making an “aha” face. “The women are paid by the company. Probably as independent contractors.”

“I suppose,” she said with a shrug. “All I know is the girls who work as Escorts and Specialists are pulling down major bucks. There’s one girl, Carina, who supposedly cleared over two-million-dollars last year.”

“Holy shit,” I said, shaking my head. That was more than I made last year. “That’s incredible. How did she earn that much?”

Serena gave me a scolding smile. “She is very good at what she does.”

“Wow…” I leaned back to sip my coffee for a moment, then asked the question I really wanted the answer to. “Tell me about Isaac Hanson and the others. How involved are they in running the place? Are they there every weekend?”

“I probably shouldn’t say anything more,” she said, sucking air in her teeth. “I’ve said too much already. I’m pretty sure I just broke the terms of the NDA, which would get me fired and sued into the ground if they found out.”

“You just earned five-grand in five minutes,” I said, leaning forward and leering at her. “That’s Carina-level money, and you didn’t even have to take your clothes off.”

“I know, but—“

“Serena, cut the shit. Dish it up, baby girl, every dirty little detail.”

“Amy, really, I can’t…”

“Let’s make that bonus ten-grand, shall we?”

She glanced down at her manicured nails for a moment, then took a deep breath and told me everything she knew about Club D and its founders.

Isaac, Denny, and Sammy were typically there most weekends; partying, drinking, schmoozing, sometimes pairing off with one of the escorts or specialists, which I came to understand were escorts with special skills, such as the ability to deep throat the longest of cocks or, like Carina, take on five men at once and make them all cum simultaneously.

To quote Serena, “Three holes, two hands, perfect timing.”

I’m still having a hard time figuring out the physics of that one.

Or like another girl, Annabel, who could contort herself in such a way that she could lick her own pussy while the men watched.

It was a little like hearing someone describe the freak show at the circus rather than a high-end sex club-slash-whorehouse.

Each founder had his own private suite on the third floor away from the action downstairs. Denny and Sammy were the more social of the three partners, but Isaac was the one all the girls wanted to fuck according to Serena.

She kept using words like “huge schlong” and “can go all night” to describe what she’d heard the other girls saying about him. She had never personally drunk from the Isaac Hanson cup because the line to do so was simply too long. Plus, he wasn’t really her type. She had her sights set on Sammy Branniff, the partner who looked like a linebacker for the Rams.

I was shaking my head by the time she finished. I had stood inches away from Isaac Hanson and never would have pegged him to be some kind of insatiable sex god. Still, I couldn’t deny the warmth I was feeling between my legs just listening to Serena’s stories. Heck, it had been so long since I’d been turned on I might have just pissed my pants.

“Oh my god, I just had a thought,” she said, gushing, like having a thought was a new thing for her. “Why don’t you come with me this weekend?”

“What? To Club D?”

“Yes. I’m staying the entire weekend. They have a huge guest house for the employees who don’t want to drive back and forth to the city. You could stay with me and be my guest. I’d have to get it approved by Mr. Lemon, but once he saw you all dolled-up I have no doubt he’d let you in if you would be willing to schmooze with the guests. You wouldn’t have to do anything, of course, and—”

I held up my hand. “Mr. Lemon? Seriously? Is that really his name? I think I know him. Is he round and yellow, by any chance?”

“Yes, that’s his name and he is the manager,” she said. “And no, he’s not round and yellow. He’s like six-five and skinny as a rail.”

“Right, yes, well, I’m going to have to pass,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Thanks anyway.”

“Amy, when was the last time you slept with a man?” she asked, one eyebrow up in a perfect arc.

“Well, that’s none of your business,” I huffed.

She gave me a scolding look and blew out her cheeks. “Okay, when’s the last time you went out on a date? Or had a man’s tongue in your mouth or his hands down your pants? When’s the last time you had a big, thick, juicy cock in your hand?”

“Serena, that’s enough.”

“No,” she said forcefully. “Tell me.”

Sadly, I couldn’t remember the last time I was with a man.

Or kissed a man.

Or had dinner with a man.

And the closest I came these days to holding a big cock in my hand was when I was buying Italian sausages at the grocery store to make carbonara for my dad on Sunday.

I frowned into the now-empty coffee cup and mumbled.

“Well… um…”

“You can’t remember, can you?”

I held out my cup. “Can I get another cup of coffee, please?”

“Oh my god!” she wailed, hands in the air. “It’s settled. I will not take no for an answer. I’m going to clear your schedule tomorrow so you can spend the entire day at the spa and the salon. I’m going to pick you up at seven tomorrow evening and I want to see those tits and that ass and that face on full display! Understand?”

“I understand,” I said with a smile, though I was lying through my teeth. There was no fucking way I was going to put on a tight dress and go to Club Desire for a weekend of watching rich men with Viagra boners chasing after women who made me look like Mr. Jane from The Beverly Hillbillies.

No fucking way.

That was not my style.

No, sir.

Not gonna do it.

“It’s settled then,” Serena said with a happy smile as she got out of the chair with the folder tucked under her arm and her phone in her hands. She was swiping the screen with one long finger. “I’ll clear your schedule and call Mr. Lemon to get it okayed. He’ll want to see a photo. I have that one of you from that fundraiser you spoke at a couple of weeks back. You were wearing a black cocktail dress and your hair was down. You actually looked hot in that picture.”

“Gee, thanks,” I said, holding up the empty cup. “Now, could I get a little more coffee before this miraculous makeover begins?”

“Sure,” she said, taking the cup in one hand and continuing to swipe in the other as she headed out the door. She called back over her shoulder. “I’ll make the appointment at the spa for tomorrow morning.”

“You do that,” I said, turning toward the computer on the desk, shaking my head. I set my fingers on the keys, about to check my email, when Isaac Hanson crept out from the dark corner of my brain where I’d put him a couple of hours before.

He was smirking at me.

He was naked now, his body tanned and muscular.

My eyes trailed slowly downward from his handsome face, across his bare chest and six-pack stomach, through the little field of blond curls.

His cock was hard and straight.

And huge.

I shook the image from my mind and opened Google in a browser and began to type with shaky fingers.

I typed: Isaac Hanson, Club Desire.

Chapter 5: Isaac

“So, she sucked your cock? Right here in the office? Son of a bitch!” Denny waved his arms in the air and grinned at Sammy, who was lounging on the other end of the oversized sofa in my office with his sandaled feet on the coffee table and a large iced coffee resting on his flat stomach. Denny shook his head at me. “Shit, I guess I should have done that interview rather than point her at you.”

“Maybe you should have,” I said, leaning back in the chair across from them with my fingers laced behind my head and a big smile on my face. “Next time she calls I’ll refer her to you. You’ve always loved sloppy seconds.”

“Seconds and thirds,” Denny said, snorting.

“I have an interview scheduled with Ben Greene from the Wall Street Journal on Monday,” Sammy said casually. “I’d be happy to defer that one to you. He has quite a set of man-boobs, as I recall.”

“I’ll pass on getting a blowjob from a chubby, fifty-year-old man,” Denny said, making a sour face. He slumped back on the cushions and sighed. “Oh well, I’ll just have to make up for it this weekend. He held out his hands and pushed his eyebrows up. “You guys wanna three-way Carina this weekend? A little Founder’s Day celebration among partners?”

“I’m in,” Sammy said, holding up the iced coffee to suck on the straw. “Hard to believe Club D is three years old.” He smirked at Denny. “Time flies when you’re having fun.”

“It certainly does,” Denny said, grabbing his crotch and grunting like the pig he was. “Best fucking investment we’ve ever made. Too bad all the proceeds go directly to charity. The place is a motherfucking gold mine.”

“We make enough money right here,” I said. My phone buzzed in my pocket. I tugged it out and glanced at the screen. It was Stacey what’s her name, asking what I was doing this weekend. What the fuck? I didn’t recall giving her my cell number, which I gave out to almost no one. Then I remembered that I had left my phone on the desk while I was in the john taking a leak before we went to Amy Rossetti’s seminar. Maybe this girl was slicker than I thought. I’d have to keep that in mind if I saw her again.

“Fucking-A right we do,” Sammy said. His cellphone was on the couch next to him. He picked it up and wiggled the screen to life. “You guys see the stock price this morning? We print money faster than the fucking US Mint. I’m thinking about buying a small South American country. Who’s with me?”

“I’m in,” Denny said, pointing toward his head. “Do I get a dictator’s cap?” Denny was dressed in his usual business attire: a blue Oxford shirt open at the neck and cuffs, wrinkled khakis, woven belt, expensive loafers with no socks. He was lean and muscled, with buzzed black hair and dark eyes that sparkled when he was up to no good, which was most of the time. He was the marketing piece of the IDS puzzle. Mr. Personality. The life of the party. Everybody loved Denny. And he used it to his full advantage, whether negotiating a marketing deal with Google or negotiating a weekend rate with a Specialist like Carina.

“You can be co-dictator,” Sammy said seriously, his buzzed head bobbing with the straw between his teeth. “And yes, there will be caps and hats.” They both gave me an expectant look, waiting for me to jump into the joke with them. “Isaac, you in?”

I gave them both a scolding look, knowing full well how little effect it would have. I had always played the part of the thoughtful one, the level-headed stooge, the one that tried to keep the others on track. I was Mo. They were Larry and Curly. It had been that way ever since we were kindergarteners figuring out ways to look under the teacher’s skirt.

I had a thick rubber band around my left wrist. I snapped it a few times to keep myself on track. “You guys don’t forget why we started Club D in the first place.”

“So, we could fuck beautiful women without TMZ finding out?” Sammy offered. He held up his hand and Denny slapped it.

I smiled, unable to deny the truth. “Well, yeah, that, too, but…”

Denny’s hand shot into the air and he grunted to get my attention. “I know! I know! So we could have a place to hang out where we could make total idiots of ourselves and not worry about word leaking to the board?”

“Guys, seriously, focus.” I leaned forward with my elbows on my knees and my hands spread. “We started Club D for all those reasons, yes, but also to raise money for our charitable foundation. And thus far…” I picked up my phone and swiped open the spreadsheet program. I held up the phone and wiggled it at them. “In three years, we have raised twenty-three-point-two-million dollars.”

“Holy shit, that’s a lot of pussy,” Denny said, whistling. “I wonder how much of that came from me? I still think we should get shit for free, considering that it was our money that funded Club D in the first place.”

“Pussy sells well,” Sammy said, nodding as he sucked the last of the iced coffee through the straw. I watched the thick muscles of his shoulders go up and down as he breathed. Sammy was a bull, 6’4, two-twenty, built like the star linebacker he was in high school and college. You might never assume it to look at him, but he also had one of the most brilliant business minds in the tech industry. He was also a total horn-dog with a schlong that made mine look tiny. The girls at Club D loved him because he never failed to please and never failed to tip thousands of dollars for their time.

“Anyway, the point I’m trying to make if you two shitheads will shut the fuck up,” I said, struggling to keep the grin from my face. “Club D is a success from a money making point of view, but I’m starting to think that it’s just a matter of time before the news breaks that we’re the ones behind it. That would bring not only heat from the IDS board of directors, but the cops, the attorney general, the DA, the public.”

“Ah, fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke,” Denny said with a dismissive wave.

“Seriously, Denny,” I said. “Shit always gets out. It’s just a matter of time. We’ve always known that.”

“The members would never let that happen. We have some powerful motherfuckers on the list. There’s no way they’d let anything that would associate them with Club D get out. No way.”

Sammy nodded with a deep frown on his face. “Denny’s right. We have half a dozen senators on the membership rolls, not to mention big city mayors, governors, congressmen, millionaires, billionaires, venture capitalists, lobbyists, athletes, actors, fucking priests… and the CEOs of just about every Fortune 100 company west of the Mississippi. Even if the existence of Club D was somehow verified to the public, the cops and attorney general aren’t going to do shit to us because that would mean they’d have to go after their own, and that will never happen.”

“That may be so, but the public might shit on our stock,” I said, directing my words at Sammy, our Chief Operating Officer, the guy charged with keeping the business on track. “Not everyone would support what we’re doing at Club D. I mean, let’s face it; basically, Club D is an illegal brothel and we’re peddling pussy.”

“Ah, but it’s primo pussy,” Denny said, snorting a laugh. He held out his hand and Sammy slapped it again.

“It’s still illegal,” I said.

“Isaac, dude, lighten up. The lawyers tell me that we have enough legal loopholes to jump through that we could tie it up in court for years,” Denny cut in.

I glanced at Sammy. “Still, it wouldn’t be good for the company.”

“So, what are you suggesting?” Sammy asked, dropping the smile.

“I’m suggesting we divest our interests in Club D,” I said. “Turn over formal ownership to an offshore, blind trust and set it up so that it would take the fucking FBI, SEC, and whoever else decades to crack the nut.”

“I’m fine with that,” Denny said with a shrug. “Long as we can still be members.”

I looked at Sammy. “You good with that?”

Sammy thought about it for a few seconds, then shrugged along with Denny. “Sure. I’ll get the lawyers on it first thing Monday.” He leaned forward and rubbed his palms together. “Now, can we talk about this weekend?”

“Third anniversary of Club D,” Denny said, bumping Sammy with his elbow. They looked at me and waited for me to reveal my plans for the weekend.

Sammy asked, “So, what do you think we should do?”

“Two words,” I said with a smile. “Masquerade ball.”

* * *

An hour later, the plans had been made and Sammy headed to his office to call his uncle Monte to make the arrangements. Club D would host a huge masquerade ball over the weekend starting on Friday night at nine and carrying the theme through the entire weekend until midnight on Sunday. All the Escorts and Specialists would wear nothing but masks to cover their eyes and jewels to adorn their bodies.

There would even be an auction at midnight on Friday so the members could bid on the girl—or girls—they wanted to spend time with. By Monday, we’d have raised tens of millions of dollars for charity and hopefully, everyone would have had a good time.

“Hey, I forgot to ask earlier,” I said as Denny and I were walking down the hallway toward our offices. He was on one front-facing corner of the fifth floor and I was on the other. “Tell me what you know about Amy Rossetti.”

He stopped to give me a curious look. “Amy Rossetti, the consultant that spoke this morning?”


“Well, let’s see, if you heard her speak you know she’s obviously brilliant, not to mention very hot in a subtle librarian sort of way…”

“Is that it?” I asked.

“Who the fuck am I? Google?” He narrowed his eyes at me. “Yes, that’s all I know about her. Why do you ask?”

“I just met her this morning for the first time,” I said with my hands in my pockets. I shrugged. “She just seemed… interesting.”

“I’ve met her a few times,” he said. “Interesting is one word you might use to describe her. Along with cold, icy, condescending, arrogant, bitchy…”

“Okay, okay,” I said, smiling, patting him on the arm. “I get the picture. I’ll see you later.”

He went his way and I went mine. My way led me to my office with the door closed and a browser open to Google. I typed in Amy Rossetti’s name and spent the next hour perusing articles she’d written, watching videos of talks she’d given, and staring at photos taken at various events where she’d lectured.

Sadly, there was no secret sex tape or hacked naked photos.

But Denny was right.

She was beautiful but looked arrogant, bitchy, irritated, and completely unapproachable.

But there was something about her.

Something in her eyes…



Perhaps the ashes from a long-smoldering fire?

Fuck, just listen to me.

Who was I?

William freakin’ Shakespeare?

I was more like Edgar Allen Poe.

Regardless, I would not have been able to explain it if you had asked me to at that moment, but something inside told me Amy Rossetti was a woman I would enjoy getting to know, though sadly, I probably never would get that chance.

Chapter 6: Amy

I managed to keep Serena at bay for the rest of the afternoon because I was neck deep in a research project for MIT that was due in a few weeks. I probably should have hired a formal researcher to assist me, but I liked doing it all myself. It kept my mind occupied and my hands busy. I had never been good with idle time. My mom always said that when I was a toddler the only time I was completely still was when I was asleep. I was thirty-two now and not much had changed.

Serena came back into my office a couple of times to update me on my revised schedule, but I pretended to ignore her. I would call back the clients she had rescheduled in the morning and carry on like it was a normal day. I would NOT be going to Club D for the weekend, no matter how appealing the idea was on the surface. I was a highly-regarded expert in my field. I had contracts with the US government and a dozen Fortune 100 companies. I had a reputation to protect, and unlike most men who would chuck it all for a quick roll in the hay, I would not risk my security and reputation for any man, not even one as sexy as Isaac Hanson.

By the time I came up for air it was nearly seven o’clock and I looked around to find myself alone in the office. The only light in the place was from my computer screen and the small lamp Serena always left burning in the lobby. Serena had left hours before, leaving me with strict instructions about my day on Friday.

I’m not sure what time it was, but I looked up to find her standing in the doorway with her phone at her face, barking orders at me like a drill sergeant. “All your appointments for tomorrow have been rescheduled. Be at Terra Dolce Salon & Spa at 10 AM for hair, a facial, nails, and a bikini wax.”

I frowned at her. “Why do I need a bikini wax?”

She scoffed. “Are you fucking kidding me now? Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’ll bet you’ve got a fucking jungle growing down there. This ain’t Australia, Amy. No man wants to go trekking into the bush looking for a piece of pussy.”

“You’re terrible,” I said, feeling my cheeks heat up. “Don’t worry. There’ll be no man trekking into my bush this weekend.”

“Whatever. You still need to get it done. I’m surprised you haven’t developed some kind of twat rash from all that hair.”

I smiled but looked in the other direction so she couldn’t see it. It was easy to see why all six of my brothers loved Serena—and were constantly dogging me to hook them up with her. She was not only “smokin’ fuckin’ hot”, to quote my oldest brother, Anthony, she could also hold her own with any foul-mouthed Italian that came along, and there were fewer Italians more foul-mouthed than my brothers. It helped that Serena came from a large Hispanic family of five brothers and six sisters, of which she was smack dab in the middle.

“Again. You’re terrible.”

“Terrible or not, you gotta get that bush trimmed,” she said, clicking her tongue. “The freakin’ health department is gonna start sending you notices you’re so overgrown down there.”

“Oh my god, I am not!” I said, though, by her standards, I probably was. Serena had mentioned in the past that she kept her bush completely shaved clean. I couldn’t imagine it. I mean, would that itch like mad when the hair started coming back in?

I held up my hands in defeat just to make her go away. “Fine. Anything else?”

“Yes, hang on,” she said, finger swiping up and down, reading my agenda from her phone. “You have a three o’clock to get your makeup done at Sephora, then… that’s it. You need to pack a bag for the weekend. There’s an indoor pool and tennis courts for the guests and staff that Mr. Lemon said you could use, so pack your gear. And make sure you bring that little black dress, you know, the one you wore to the Symphony Gala last year; the one that pushes your big tits together and shows off your legs? And a pair of high heels that make your calves look toned.”

“My calves are toned,” I said. “I’m a runner. Remember?”

“Great. And the higher the better. Stilettos, if you have them.”

“Christ, Serena, you really should be a personal stylist to the stars, you have such a winning way about you.”

“You have great tits and a great ass and great legs,” she said, wagging a finger at me. “It’s time you showed them off. No man is going to be attracted to you while you’re wearing that librarian shit you have on every day. And speaking of…” She walked to the desk and picked up my fake glasses. “Leave these fucking Coke bottles at home.”

“I need those,” I said, reaching for them. “Give them to me.”

“Amy, you have perfect vision,” she said, backing up and taking the glasses with her. “I’ll return these to you on Monday. This weekend, the only things that will be impairing your vision are alcohol and Isaac Hanson’s giant cock.”

“Oh my god,” I said, clutching my chest like I was having a heart attack. I’d had enough. I held out my hand to shoo her away. “Okay, that’s enough. Leave so I can finish this.”

She stood in the doorway, eyeing me for a moment, like a human bullshit detector. “I mean it, Amy. You’re going to become an old maid if you don’t break out of this cocoon you’ve built around yourself.”

“Thank you, Serena. Goodbye. Have a nice night. See ya later.”

I should have been more irritated at her, but I couldn’t be because she was right.

I had built a cocoon and crawled inside and sewed it shut.

Maybe it was time to bust out and spread my wings a little.

At least for a couple of days.

* * *

The car service dropped me at my downtown apartment a little after seven. Carlton, the doorman who always wanted to make chat about my day, started to say something, but I waved him off and headed for the elevator. He already thought I was a bitch—everyone did—so I wasn’t too concerned with hurting his feelings. Besides, I always gave him a nice card at Christmas time with twelve one-hundred-dollar bills inside, one for each month of the year. I might have been a cold bitch, but I knew how the game was played. Pissing off your doorman was one thing you never wanted to do, regardless of how rich and successful you were.

And no offense to Carlton, I was simply too tired to talk to anyone. I’d been going full bore since 5 AM and was ready to drop. All I wanted to do was grab a quick bite, soak in a hot tub for an hour, and fall into bed.

I hadn’t decided what I was going to do on Friday: reschedule my appointments, take a free day, or actually prepare to spend the weekend with Serena at Club D.

I doubted very seriously the latter would ever take place.

Still, to be fair to Serena, whose feelings I did care about, I’d sleep on it and see how I felt in the morning, though I doubted I’d take the idea any more serious than I did now.

* * *

I was standing at the back of the stage, peering out through the heavy curtain. The auditorium lights were down low, but I could tell that there was no one seated out there waiting for me to speak. Had they all forgotten? Was I too early? Had the event been canceled and no one bothered to tell me?

“There’s no one here,” a deep voice whispered in my ear. “It’s just you and me. I hope that’s alright.”

“It’s perfectly alright,” I said without turning around. I didn’t have to turn around to know who the voice in my dream belonged to. Isaac Hanson was standing behind me, so close that I could feel his hot breath on my neck. My hair was in its usual bun. He expertly removed the pins to let my hair fall over my shoulders. He swept it around to the left side so his lips could kiss my neck on the right. I didn’t flinch when I felt his warm hands on my hips, pulling me back into him. His cock was hard and moist at the tip. I could feel it rubbing slowly up and down the crack of my ass. It was at that moment that I realized we were both naked. The heat of his body against mine made me sigh.

I leaned back against him and turned my face toward his. He smiled as he lowered his lips to mine. His lips were warm and soft and wet. His tongue swirled around my lips, then slid between them to probe my eager mouth. When our tongues met, I heard and felt little sparks of electricity shoot through my body.

His hands slid from my waist to my big tits. He cupped my melons and worked my nipples gently between his fingers. The pleasure spread through me like a warm breeze. My nipples plumped like strawberry gum drops.

“You’re beautiful, Amy,” he said, breathing into my mouth. His hands slid down my stomach. His fingers trekked through the thick curls above my clit. He didn’t complain about my bush. He kissed me again and slid his index fingers down the sides of my clit and pressed it between them, then rubbed slowly up and down, milking my clit like a hard, little cock.

“Does that feel good?” he asked, his lips at my ear.

“Yes… don’t stop…” I said as I reached around to take his cock in my hand. It was long, thick and girthy. I could feel the plump veins along the shaft as my hand began to slide back and forth over the muscle, back and forth, back and forth.

“Do you like my big cock?” His fingers slid further down, between my pussy lips. Hot juices were flowing out of me now, like a river about to flood. My juice flowed over his fingers. I could feel myself gushing, streams of hot sex running down the insides of my thighs. Isaac slid two long fingers inside me and began working them in and out.

“Fuck me… with your big cock,” I said, moaning the words, the breath catching in my throat. “Please… Isaac… fuck me now.”

Without a word, he put his hands back on my hips and I leaned forward with my ass out and my hands on my knees. My big tits hung from my chest and swung freely as I breathed. I could feel his cock, the head swirling around my juicy hole, lubing, probing, exploring. When he pushed into me, I could feel my hole expanding around him, the walls of my pussy giving way for his girth.

“Easy,” I moaned. “Slowly… fuck me… slowly…”

“No,” he said, fingers tightening on my sides. “I’m going to fuck you hard, Amy. Like you deserve to be fucked. Like you want to be.”

Before I could say a word, he thrust into me with such force that the breath was pushed from my lungs. His cock filled every inch of me, stretching my pussy, the tip slamming into my cervix. My body was suddenly on fire from the pain and pleasure. Sweat washed across my face and tits. My pussy responded by gripping him tightly, milking the long shaft like a thousand little fingers.

“Oh… fuck… that… feels…”

“Amazing,” he said, thrusting in and out steadily, shoving his cock in hard as far as it would go, only to withdraw it slowly and thrust in hard again.

I could feel him everywhere inside me.

My cunt…

My tits…

My throat…

My brain…

Isaac was fucking me hard and fast and deep like no man had ever fucked me before. And I fucking loved it…

“God… I’m... going to… cum…” I squeezed my eyes shut and pushed my ass back toward him, daring him to go in deeper, harder, faster. I was on fire… I could feel the orgasm building from my curled toes… It crept up my legs like a thousand spiders… It rammed into my cunt with the force of a hurricane hitting the shore… My pussy exploded… Gushing wave after wave of hot juices over his long cock and balls… Shooting lightning through me… fuck…. Isaac… fuck…

“Oh… jeeeeeeezzuzzzzz…” I whined. “I’m cumming… fuck… Isaac... cum with me… fill my pussy with… your hot… milky… cum…”

I heard him grunt like an animal as he rammed his long cock into me as far as it would go. He held it there for a moment, his fingers digging into my sides. My pussy grew hot as his load filled me. I came again from the heat. I came again… again… again…

Then, as quickly as he had appeared, he was gone.

I was suddenly again standing alone at the back of the stage.

The auditorium was dark.

I was naked and very cold.



Always alone.

I woke myself up crying, as I’d done many nights before when the realities of my world interrupted my dreams.

I dried my eyes on the sheet and looked at the clock.

It was 3:18 AM.

I knew at that moment what I had to do.

Serena was right.

I had to make a change.

Chapter 7: Isaac

Only a handful of people really knew what went on inside the hundred-fifty-year-old estate that housed Club Votre Désire. Tucked in the mountains north of San Jose, the main house sat nearly a quarter of a mile from the winding road that led up the mountain, and in the summer time 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 guarded 24/7 by a team of armed guards that no one in their right mind would dare fuck with. Big boys, mean looking sons of bitches, with round shoulders and thick necks that strained against the black, tactical outfits they wore, like our own private SWAT team. In truth, it was mostly for show. Mostly. They were all Sammy’s former football buddies who moonlighted for us as guards and security personnel. They wouldn’t hurt a fly… unless the fly gave them cause to. Then, pity the fly.

It was all part of the deal. When you often had senators and congressmen and a vice president and other assorted politicians and world leaders on hand, the security had to be high. There were many weekends where we had the Secret Service and Interpol patrolling the grounds around the estate. They weren’t allowed to come into the main house, but I knew they were always close by.

The main house—if you could call it a house—sat on fifty mostly-wooded acres and loomed four stories tall. It had once been a grand hotel built by some rich steel baron out of New York, with over 55,000 square feet of indoor space, now divided into thirty luxury suites on the top three floors. The bottom level housed a full-blown 5-star restaurant, an enormous bar, a dozen small meeting rooms, and the main banquet hall, which was the length and width of a football field. There was a 10,000-square foot guest house out back of the manor house with thirty double rooms for the employees who came to stay each weekend. 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 at Club D. I drank and fucked and made a bloody fool of myself as much as the next guy. I certainly didn’t need that brought up the next time I did a TED Talk on Net Neutrality or Say No To Porn.

I was so paranoid about the place being found out that I wouldn’t even let employees and guests drive there on their own. Everyone except me, Denny, Sammy, and Uncle Monte, had to park their cars or be dropped off at, a parking garage we owned in the nearest town thirty miles away. The employees were loaded onto buses and the members loaded into luxury SUVs, all with the windows blackened so they could not see out, then ferried to the estate. The drivers of the buses and SUVs were also friends of Sammy’s. They were paid extremely well and sworn to secrecy. If they opened their mouths too wide, Sammy or one of his pals would quickly shut it for them.

Call it paranoia.

Call it being overly cautious.

Call it whatever you want, but we all knew that one slip of the tongue could end it all for Club D and for us.

And we were not ready to stop the party.

At least not yet.

Chapter 8: Isaac

Me, Denny, and Sammy arrived at Club D just after seven on Friday night. We rode up in one of the company’s Mercedes G Wagons with Sammy at the wheel, driving up the narrow mountain road fast enough to cause my butt to pucker. I rode in the back while Sammy and Denny road in the front acting like a couple of horny teenagers on their way to their first whorehouse.

The place was the model of controlled chaos when we walked through the doors, dozens of employees preparing for ten o’clock when the first members would start to arrive. The employees were like busy little bees with great tits and tight asses buzzing about, getting ready for another big weekend. Servers, waitresses, bartenders, hostesses, chefs, and sommeliers hurried by, all female, of course, and all beautiful.

The only male employee allowed in the manor house was Monte—Mr. Lemon, if you please—and he was always the consummate gentleman. It helped that he was gay as a parade float, though you’d never know it by his appearance or mannerisms, other than his impeccable grooming and meticulous style. The temptation for him to abuse his authority over the women simply wasn’t there. Plus, he loved the shit piles of money we paid him for managing the whole shebang. He was too old to go back to Weehawken to manage an Olive Garden and he knew it. He’d be a fool to screw this gig up.

The Escorts and Specialists were upstairs in their private suites with the hair and makeup artists we kept on staff to keep the girls looking beautiful. Yes, the Escorts and Specialists were treated better than the rest of the girls on staff, but they were the ones who brought in the big bucks for the charitable trust and kept the members happy. The trick was keeping the girls humble at the same time. Even they got big heads now and then, no pun intended, but usually deservedly so. They knew what made Club D work because it also made them among the richest escorts in the world. Perfection was key. Like models who had stepped from the pages of Glamour or Penthouse. It was all part of the smoke and mirrors that was Club D.

“Everything is all set,” Monte said as he met us at the door. “The staff has been told that we are having a masquerade ball weekend and they love the idea. The Escorts and Specialists will be wearing nothing but stiletto heels, diamonds, and these.”

Monte turned toward a mahogany table that had been set up as the reception desk in the front hall of the mansion. It was covered with beautiful masks of all shapes and sizes that the girls and guests would use to disguise their eyes and noses.

“I wanted a rubber mask I could pull on over my head,” Sammy said, growing at the feathered and jeweled masks. “Don’t we have a Bill Clinton mask around here somewhere?”

“You’ll wear this one and be happy,” Monte said, scolding his young nephew with a smile. He held up a black mask that was adorned with green studs in the shapes of dollar signs.”

“Fine, whatever,” Sammy said, plucking the mask from Monte’s long fingers. He picked up his suitcase and headed toward the grand stairway at the back of the entrance hall. “I need a shower before the fun starts.”

“Me, too,” Denny said. He picked up his bag and cocked his eyebrows at me. “You coming up, Ise?”

“In a minute,” I said. “You go ahead. I can wash my own cock.”

He held up a middle finger as he started up the stairs after Sammy. I remained behind to talk to Monte privately.

“So, did you get my message about the transfer of ownership?”

Monte gave me a curt nod. “I did. I will handle everything from this end. No worries.”

“Good,” I said, patting his shoulder. “You should know, nothing changes as far as you’re concerned. You’re still in charge.”

“I appreciate that,” he said. His smile melted into a frown. “You okay, Isaac?”

I blinked at him. “Sure. Why do you ask?”

He shrugged. “You just look... I don’t know… tired?”

I took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. I turned to watch the activity going on behind me in the banquet hall. “Do you believe a man can get bored with his life, Monte? Even a life like mine?”

“I believe everything can become boring given the chance,” he said. He put an arm around my shoulder and jostled me into him. “Maybe it’s time for you to grow up, my son.”

I gave him a sideways smile as a gorgeous, naked woman trotted down the stairs with her big tits bouncing on her chest. It was Carina. Our star attraction. She gave me a little wave and hurried toward the kitchen.

Sadly, the sight of her perfect ass did nothing to change my mood.

“Maybe you’re right,” I said with a heavy sigh. I picked up my bag and headed toward the stairs. “Maybe it’s time.”

Chapter 8: Amy

“I still can’t believe I’m doing this,” I said as I stepped off the bus that ferried me, Serena, and a dozen other young women from the parking garage where we left Serena’s car (a brand-new BMW) to the estate that housed Club D. It was all very mysterious, and a little too cloak and dagger for my suspecting nature, but Serena assured me this was how it had to be done to protect the club and its members.

I had spent the day getting what Serena called “an extreme makeover”. My long hair was cut, colored, and styled for the first time in months. My face was scrubbed clean, then plied with thick makeup that I thought made me look like a hooker, but Serena said made me look gorgeous. Whatever.

My bush was trimmed to an acceptable density, then waxed into a neat vee. If felt odd, not having the cushion of curls around my clit. It seemed to heighten the sensitivity of my clit. I kept getting little tingles when I walked that my brain was finding hard to ignore. I kept my legs tightly crossed on the bus ride, but there was a warmth in my cunt that I had never felt before. Maybe it was the trim or maybe it was the anticipation of a dream that might come true.

I was wearing a jogging suit and tennis shoes, but I had packed an assortment of clothes for the weekend, including the little black slut dress and stiletto heels Serena liked. My biggest concern was that I wouldn’t be able to walk in four-inch heels.

The bus was comfortable enough, but it was strange having the windows blackened out so we couldn’t see where we were being taken. I was a little claustrophobic and was feeling the anxiety by the time I heard the air brakes hiss and felt us rolling to a stop.

“We’re at the front gate,” Serena said, patting me excitedly on the arm. “The bus will pull around back to the guest house to let us out. The members are dropped out front.”

“Awesome,” I said weakly, mustering a smile. The other girls, all bubbly and excited to start the weekend, were already on their feet pulling their overnight bags from the overhead bins. Serena got to her feet and had our bags down by the time the brakes hissed again and the bus shut off.

“Okay,” she said, making a face like a little kid about to get on a rollercoaster ride. “Follow me.”

We were the last ones off the bus. I won’t lie. I was getting excited about being there. It was like walking out into the great unknown, like taking the first steps on a long journey without knowing where each step might lead.

I stepped off the bus and looked around quickly. We were parked in a wide courtyard between what looked like the back of a grand hotel from the nineteenth century and a smaller mansion that Serena called, “the guest house”. The guest house? Really? Holy shit.

We were approached by a tall, dapper man with steel gray hair and cutting blue eyes. He was immaculately dressed in an expensive pinstripe suit. His yellow tie matched the hankie that was perfectly folded and tucked in his breast pocket.

“Hey, Mr. Lemon, this is my friend Amy that I called about,” Serena said, stepping aside and presenting me with a wave of her hand. “Amy, this is Mr. Lemon, the managing director of Club D.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Rossetti,” he said without offering to shake my hand. I noticed that he was holding a clipboard in his left hand. He held out the clipboard and pulled a Monte Blanc pen from his inside pocket.

“We’re pleased to have you with us for the weekend, Miss Rossetti. Before I can allow you to go any further, however, I’ll need you to sign this form.”

I dropped my bag to the cobblestones and took the clipboard. There was a legal document attached. My name was printed at the top and bottom of the document. My signature would avow that I agreed to the document’s terms. “What is this exactly?”

“It is a legally-binding nondisclosure agreement,” he said with a nod. “Stating that you will not divulge, share, report, discuss, or reveal anyt