So yeah, what the hell is wrong with me? Why was I going out nightly, petting girls at random venues, letting them explode all over me and then walking away? Sure, strange twat is sexy, it's exciting, but at the same time, I wasn't so aroused by it. Naw, it's more of a clinical exercise if anything. I caress those wet folds, watching with precision as the girl gets amped, playing her like a fine instrument. I love seeing nips get hard, her hips twisting with lust as I bring her to the next level. And when the female bursts, folds trembling, breathy moans escaping as jolts shoot through her cunt? Fuck yeah, it's the ultimate validation for an alpha male, I don't know any guy who doesn't live for this.
But after a screaming orgasm, the exercise loses its allure. Because I pull out right away, palm wet, interest gone. There's no after care, no petting, no breathy whispers, no reassurances. It's like I'm a doctor and the surgery's over. Striding off, her name already forgotten, I'm wiping my hands on a napkin, erasing the smell of her pussy. And shit, that napkin's balled-up right away and pitched into the trash. I don't need any memories, it's not like I'm gonna lay awake nights and re-live our casual encounter. Because tomorrow is another day, another twat, another finger-fucking, and that's what I like. Take it or leave it, that's what I'm looking for.
So when the alpha billionaire walked up, my face was coolly unconcerned. No need to let Jared in on what I was doing.
"What's up?" I asked. "What's going on?"
"Naw, nothing," he replied, lowering himself into the club chair across from me.
"How's that little filly you got?" I asked, more as a courtesy than anything. "You know, the one that went up?"
Abby was his wife now, and she'd practically shorted out an entire virgin auction, forcing the show to be aborted. But Jared merely grunted.
"Yeah Abby's good," he said shortly. "Real good."
I raised an eyebrow at him. His wife was the reason the sun rose and set for this dude, but at the same time, the female was a barrel of trouble. The brunette had practically gotten him excommunicated from the Club, and they'd only come back recently to test the waters, to try out some of the Club's many rooms. Because oh yeah, this place is a myriad of fun. There are a shit ton of sex rooms filled with all sorts of machines, toys, and other depravities that you can't even imagine.
Well, I can imagine, I'm that kind of guy. But for the R-rated, it's not a place you want to go. For the NC-17 rated, it's not a place you want to go. For the Triple-X, now we're in the ballpark, but not quite there yet. Like I said, we're an underground lair engaged in the unspeakable, and there's a reason why this place is a fortress and not some palace in the sky.
So I raised an eyebrow at Jared.
"Good to hear," I said smoothly. "Good to hear."
If Abby was riding him hard, all the better. A hot twat on dick is the best kind of life to live, the best kind of mental and physical exercise.
But Jared grunted.
"So what's up with you? What's up with all these trips upstairs?"
I looked at him blandly. Upstairs meant up to the surface of the earth, into the normal world.
"What do you mean? Isn't that what people do?"
He grunted again.
"Yo dude, you know it's not. Most guys who come here don't leave the complex for weeks. It's got everything, pool, sauna, spa, bar, girls. So why are you going up all the time?"
How to answer? Jared was right. The Club brings everything to us, from the finest food to the best entertainment. And most members make it an extended stay, barely leaving their suites sometimes, everything and anything being delivered straight to their door for their personal enjoyment. So yeah, my behavior wasn't exactly normal, but then again, why is stepping out to see the real world so bizarre?
"I got some business," I said blandly. "Stuff that needs to be taken care of."
Jared shot me a skeptical look.
"Oh really?" he asked. "Club business?"
I sighed. This asshole was so into the Club and its operations. What the hell was wrong with the billionaire? But I could sense a rabbit hole in front of me and side-stepped it deftly.
"Naw, nothing to do with the Club," I rumbled blandly. "Just some personal business."
That was a hint if there ever was one to stop asking questions. Stop with the fucking questions and mind your own business. But Jared White can be one pushy mofo and shot me another curious glance.
"Well if you see any good ones, just tell the Club," he said, throwing a card down on the table before getting up. "You know we're always looking for fresh twat."
I stared at the white square before picking it up. Shit, this guy was so annoying, why the hell was he recruiting chicks still? It wasn't his job anymore, and now he wanted me to do the same? I'd never want to work Procurement, it's not my thing, there could be nothing worse. I'm all about anonymous, faceless encounters. I don't want to talk with girls, putting a female at ease to get her to loosen up, sharing details about her life and pretending to care. No fucking way. Hell no.
But I kept my expression bland.
"Sure, will do. Absolutely," I nodded. Shit no, hell no, never.
Jared merely looked me over again speculatively before striding off.
"Alright," he grunted. "Good to hear."
And finally, I was alone again. Fuck my life, that entire encounter weird as shit. Why the hell was Jared White asking me to source women? What a fucked-up mofo. But boytoy was probably whipped by his new wife, doing whatever hot pussy asks.
I grunted, flipping my laptop open again, shaking the incident from my mind. What the hell, might as well forget the whole thing sooner rather than later, it was taking up unnecessary memory. And watching the screen avidly, I willed my newest victim to type. Sure enough, ellipses appeared indicating she was typing, and a text popped up in a few secs.
LIPSTICK4EVAH: Hi, got your message.
I grunted soundlessly. I'd picked the brunette's profile from a site I sometimes surf, Discreet Encounters. Her pic had been blurry but overall pretty cute. Big brown eyes and curly brown hair, with a ripe, curvaceous body. Just my kind, the type that I love juicing best. My fingers had trembled when I emailed her, introducing myself as Donny.
DONNY: Great, you up to meet tonight?
A pause.
LIPSTICK4EVAH: Well, I'm not sure. Do you want to chat more?
DONNY: Bout what?
Another pause.
LIPSTICK4EVAH: Well, this just seems so fast. I mean, you only emailed me this morning.
DONNY: That's what it's like here. It's discreet encounters baby, we're not going to get to know each other or anything.
LIPSTICK4EVAH: Oh I get it, totally get it. I was just wondering more about you.
DONNY: ???
LIPSTICK4EVAH: You know, like what you like to do for fun? Where you live?
I sat back, grunting. This girl clearly had no idea what she was doing on-line, much less on a site like Discreet Encounters. I needed to set her straight.
DONNY: Where I live? Shit honey, that can get you shot and killed on this site. We're all about anonymity, baby, where I live is the last question you should be asking a dude. You do that often? The moderators haven't warned you? Did you read the Terms of Agreement when you joined?
A pause. Was she flustered? Embarrassed? Had I gone too far? But then the ellipses appeared again.
LIPSTICK4EVAH: Oh I'm sorry! I just joined yesterday and yours is the only message I've gotten so far. I mean, I've gotten other messages but they were from people whose names were … well, I can't repeat them here.
That made me chuckle. Can't repeat them? I wanted her to say those filthy words, to hear them float from those sweet, pouty lips. But still, she had my curiosity piqued. There was something curiously naïve, innocent and giving that drew me like a magnet.
DONNY: So … you wanna meet tonight?
Another pause.
LIPSTICK4EVAH: I do, but …
My dick twitched. What was going on? Usually a girl who ducks and covers, who plays coy and kittenish does nothing for me. Usually I'm looking for hot sluts, ones who leap on the chance to get their pussies plowed by a random stranger, some dude who was willing to do it with no questions asked, no comments, no judgement, no nothing. But somehow, my lipstick girl had charmed me. The hesitation, the naive questions about where I lived and what I liked to do were getting under my skin, pulling me in rather than turning me to ice.
So I kept going.
DONNY: What's got you holding back?
LIPSTICK4EVAH: It's not you, it's not.
I frowned. Of course it wasn't me. I don't have a pic up, I don't have any stats except that I'm a forty five year-old white male, athletic, living in Vegas. Could be anyone right? There's no reason to disclose that I'm a billionaire with a hot bod and private plane at my disposal. No need to say I own a couple islands in the Seychelles, that I like to vacation in Paris and Milan, that I've got a closet full of designer suits. To these ladies, I'm just a finger in the crowd.