by Amy Brent
“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?”
Bingo.
* * *
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.