Dirty Daddy: A Secret Baby Bad Boy Romance

by Alexis Angel

  I pause as the music starts.

  A drumroll and then the video shows a simple pair of eyeglasses—sleek and minimalist.

  “Behold, the Illicit Escape,” I say to the audience, as if showing them the fucking meaning of life.

  People pause for a moment as the video starts to pan around the glasses and goes from looking at them from the front, to showing what they look like from the point of view of a wearer. It shows the glasses being worn, and tiny cameras and sensors on the rims.

  “Based on revolutionary new software, the Illicit Escape uses a built-in operating system that looks at where your eye is focused to highlight what you see. And what you see, is a whole new world of sex,” I say, reading from the script.

  I turn around to look at the video because this is fucking cool. A holographic image of a woman materializes on the inside of the eyeglass like an object. She’s in perfect detail. She’s only visible to the wearer and she starts doing a bit of a dance.

  That’s when a holographic image of a shirtless man shows up. I had wanted to be in this shot, but Cheryl told me that doing so was crossing a fucking line. I would have still done it, but she went ahead and scheduled the shoot for when I was in another meeting, and I didn’t find out till too late.

  It’s a fucking shame too, because while this guy on the screen is hot, I’m in way better shape.

  And when the girl gets down on her knees and starts to take off the guy's boxer briefs, the crowd begins to ooh. When she puts his cock in her mouth they go aaah.

  The video then rotates the POV and shows that to the outside world, it looks like the wearer is just wearing regular clear eyeglasses.

  “Watch virtual reality porn, wherever you go, safely, discreetly,” I say into the microphone and the crowd begins to cheer. “But, now, Illicit Escape takes it one step farther.”

  The video zooms out to show a diagram of the glasses on a human face.

  “Using groundbreaking new technology, the Illicit Escape uses subconscious visual cues to make your brain believe that what you're seeing is something you’re actually experiencing,” I say to to the audience. I can tell they’re looking at me, not believing.

  “That means that when she does this,” I say and point to the video as it changes to a user POV and shows what it looks like when one wears the glasses. A hologram of a woman is sucking a dick. “You feel the sensations of the mouth on your cock. Your brain feels every aspect of hands on your body.”

  There’s a silence as the idea sinks into people. To put on some glasses and trick your brain into thinking you're really having sex?

  Apparently everyone comes to the same conclusion that we did; this is a fucking great idea. Because the next moment, they’re cheering louder than ever before. It seriously takes me a few minutes to get the last line of my speech in.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the Illicit Escape. Available for sale this year,” I say and pause as the cameras get one last shot of me. I wave and then Cheryl comes up to me. She’s smiling and she guides me off stage.

  Lots of adrenaline, I’ll be the first to fucking admit.

  But that’s not all that catches my eye.

  At the curb, there’s a limo. And as I look over to see it, I notice the window gets rolled up. When I try to walk toward the limo—I don’t know why, okay?—it pulls away from the curb and drives away.

  I don’t know why it fucking bothers me so much. Corporate espionage? Maybe.

  “Cheryl,” I tell her as she handles some press inquiries at the base of the podium. She looks at me, waiting for me to speak. “Pull the surveillance cameras and get me the license plates and registration for that limo that just went by when you get a chance, will you?” I ask her.

  She nods.

  Maybe I’m being a bit too paranoid, you know?

  But with this high of stakes—with something that’s going to take me from a regular billionaire to the richest man on the planet—you can never be too careful.

  109

  Brittney

  I don't make it a habit of jumping inside of strange limos, but I acted on impulse and here I am. Walter didn't seem concerned, and I trust his instincts. He's never steered me wrong in the past, and when the man said it would be worth my while, I figured I'd hear him out. A new business prospect will always pique my interest, and like I said, I'm not worried; I can handle myself. If I can handle one man, I can handle them all. As I scoot into the limo, I look across the leather seat and find a man with long, stringy blonde hair. It's thinning and he pushes it behind his ears. He has a thin, crooked nose that he's rubbing with the back of his hand, and he's wearing skinny jeans that make him look more feminine than masculine. I don't see a bulge in his crotch. I was curious; can you blame me for looking? But I bet he has a small cock. He's rail thin with watery eyes, and I immediately second-guess my decision to get into this vehicle with him.

  "You want a bump?" he asks. He's holding out a playing card—King of spades—with a small pile of white powder heaped on it. I wasn't born yesterday. I've been with enough loser ex-boyfriends to know what he's offering me. But believe me, I'm not about to go down that path.

  "I'll pass," I say. "I'm not here to waste my time. Why did you call this meeting?"

  "Suit yourself," he smiles. "But you're missing out. This is the good shit. Straight from Colombia."

  I watch as he holds the card to his nose and inhales the powder in one, quick snort. His eyes seem more animated now and he continues, "I need you to get back into porn."

  Is this guy serious? I laugh out loud. "That's it? You've got the wrong woman. I have bigger, more successful hustles now."

  "No, I don't," he continues, looking straight at me. "I've got the perfect woman. I'd argue you're one of the best performers in the industry. That scene you did with the alien tentacle fetish—brilliant."

  "I appreciate the compliment, but that's all in the past. I'm not getting back into that industry. I've moved on. If you know anything about me, you know that I now have better things to chase," I say.

  "Let me finish," he says. "Are you familiar with the name Ethan Kane?"

  "Of course. He's the billionaire porn producer of Illicit Entertainment. Who doesn't know him? He seems to be in the news every other day."

  "I need you to get him to fall in love with you."

  I can't help but laugh some more. Is this guy for real? I'm not laughing because I think I can't do it—I know I can. But why would I want to? "You've got to be kidding. Get Ethan Kane to fall in love with me? He's a playboy. He doesn't fall in love with anyone. And who are you anyways—some scorned ex-lover?"

  "Pardon my lack of an introduction. I should've introduced myself," he says, extending his hand. "I'm Simon Conners. Ethan and I used to be business partners—but that's another lifetime… and a long story." He looks out the window of the limo, and across the city. He seems to be lost in memory.

  "Look, corporate espionage isn't really my thing. You're better off finding someone else. If you were an abused lover looking for justice in an unhappy marriage, I could help. But this? No thanks. I'll pass." I reach for the door handle, but Simon stops me. He places his hand on mine and shakes his head. "Oh come on, how hard can it be darling?" he asks, his eyes glare at me as if this were a dare. I'm a competitive person—I'll admit that—and I'm not one to back down from a challenge, but this is ridiculous.

  "Why would I want to get Ethan Kane to fall in love with me?" I ask. It's a legitimate question. Sure, he's hot, but guys that good looking have an ego to match. And why would I want to jump back into porn? I have a lot more power and prestige with what I'm doing now. I don't need it. Sure, porn is exciting. If you're a strong, hot woman who knows what she wants, it's great. It's empowering, even. The power. The fans. That's good. Sure, I've seen my fair share of high-octane drama—relationship scandals, jealousy, you name it—and sure, sometimes you end up sleeping with some hot men… and women—but at the end of the day, many women can't hack it. In fact, I've seen
a lot fail. It's a lot of maintenance. Hair, nails, waxing, makeup, daily workouts, tanning, calorie counting—you get the picture; these are the things that take up your time and attention every day. And when you're doing this in front of a camera—extreme close ups and all—well, all of those things are even more important.

  And sometimes—although it's rare—filming porn can be downright embarrassing for some of the entertainers. Like the one time I watched as another woman was scheduled to give a quick blow job. I never eat right before filming scenes. That's just my personal rule. Eating is a rookie mistake. But there she was, gorging on pizza without a single regard to the consequences. So, the director brings her in front of the camera and as soon as the guy jams his cock down her throat, she throws up all over him—and the set—and we all watch as she runs to the bathroom as fast as she can in stilettos. The director had to call me in to cover, and let me tell you—I was happy to do it. No one can deep throat a cock like I can. I won an award for that scene.

  Simon clears his throat and starts talking again. He can tell I'm lost in thought. "Today, Ethan Kane announced a new technology that is going to revolutionize the porn industry—Illicit Escape," he says, bringing me back to the present.

  I shrug my shoulders. "Good for him. I mean, that's where porn's going—if companies aren't embracing technology, they're losing out. What else is new?"

  "Listen, darling. I need you bring me the plans for the Illicit Escape technology, and you'll do that by getting back into porn, and trapping Ethan by getting him to fall in love with you."

  Where does this guy get off giving me commands like that? "First off, I don't fucking take anyone's commands. Second, your plans sound good in theory, but I've already said no," I reply firmly. "How many ways can I say it? No means no."

  Simon looks exasperated but undeterred. "I wouldn't come to that conclusion if I were you. I'll pay you—a sum that will make you—"

  I cut him off. "I'm making enough money without this gig," I say. "Hire some developers, bring in the best augmented reality and virtual reality platforms that money can buy, and make it yourself—if you've got as much money as you say you do."

  "I'm not interested in doing any of that, and there's more," Simon continues, indifferent to my recommendations. "I'll also give you a file."

  "What kind of file?"

  "There's a man by the name of Robert," he says. "Perhaps that name rings a bell? He could be told where to find you at any time… any place."

  The name causes me to freeze. I wonder if it's the same Robert I'm thinking of… It has to be.

  "Are you threatening me?"

  "It's not a threat darling," he says. "It's the truth."

  "Who the fuck do you think you are?" I nearly shout. Now he's taken this too far, threatening my livelihood. I have one hand in my purse, my fingers resting on a cold, hard can of mace. I carry it for emergencies and I consider taking it out and spraying it into those beady eyes of his.

  He senses what I'm about to do and says, "I wouldn't do that if I were you. Be smart and do the right thing. Be the predator and not the prey. You can walk away from this with a lot of money. Believe me, it'll make your current wealth pale in comparison. Or… and I hate to think about this path darling… but if you don't make the right choice, you'll walk away the wounded gazelle with her throat in the lion's mouth."

  Shit. How did I end up in this spot? Just when I thought my life was gaining the kind of positive momentum I've always wanted for myself, this asshole comes along. I told you that I'd tell you about my past hun, and I promise we'll get to that, but I will say right now that the name Robert sends a chill up my spine. It's taken a lot of work to move beyond my past—and I'm stronger for it, but when Simon sits here and tells me point blank that he can tell Robert where to find me… well, let's just say I'm in no mood to see that happen.

  I consider what he's asking for a moment.

  "Fine," I say. "I'll do it. But this will cost you."

  110

  Ethan

  “Am I interrupting?” I ask walking into the casting studio.

  “Not at all, sir,” Joel the casting director replies back to me.

  It’s been three days since the announcement of the Illicit Escape in Times Square. And wouldn't you know it, within minutes of the fucking announcement our website traffic began to pick up.

  But it wasn’t just guys looking to jerk off.

  No, these were women.

  They began to submit their profiles. Head shots. Body shots.

  People started messaging our Facebook Page. They began to send us messages on Twitter and Instagram.

  Hell, people even started sending resumes on LinkedIn and messages on KiK. All told, within 24 hours of the fucking announcement we had over 12,000 applicants.

  The next 48 hours saw over 25,000 people apply.

  Now, it’s important to realize that there are a lot of people who want to get into porn. You wouldn’t believe the slush pile our casting director has. And it’s not just guys. Girls apply probably more than guys. And Cheryl looks through all of them. She watches all the fucking videos and reads all their letters. That’s how dedicated she is.

  But at the end of the day, we need a certain girl.

  So after a frenzied level of activity that meant literally taking less than half a percent of those that applied, fifty girls were called in, specifically from the New York Tri-State area.

  I know they were looking for people with prior experience. We had a couple stars come out of retirement to be a part of this project. But even with experience, we also want a fresh face. A face that doesn’t scream out slut. Because this shit is going to go mainstream. Someone should be able to put on an I.E.—Illicit Escape—in a crowded library and no one should be able to know that they’re watching porn.

  I mean, you ever been on an airplane with your kid, and you’re sitting there and the dude next to you has his iPad out and he’s watching two chicks fucking blow a dude? With your son or daughter just sitting there and you’re like what the fuck, right?

  Think about how disrespectful that fucker is. Now, if he had an I.E., then he can zap out and you wouldn't have to worry about your kid being exposed to shaved pussies until you know, later on in life when he knows how good fucking feels.

  But enough about this shit. I actually came here today because sure, I’m a bit curious as to the quality of these girls that we’re casting.

  “We were just going through some exercises to classify the girls, Ethan,” Joel tells me. I nod and sit down.

  ‘Going through exercises’ means that Joel is looking for ways to separate out the wheat from the chaff.

  I sit down on a folding chair in the room across from five couches with fifty girls in various degrees of scantily clad attire. Some girls are sitting there in sweat pants and others are sitting in just a bra and panties. A few are topless, thinking it helps their chances.

  Not likely.

  “Alright, ladies,” Joel says going through his clipboard. “Let’s give us all sexy faces.”

  It’s fucking hilarious how the mood seems to change as fifty girls go from various stages of being bored but trying to look excited, to trying to look smoldering hot. They scrunch their noses, wrinkle their eyes, leave their mouths open, bat their eyelashes, and start breathing heavily.

  I scan the girls. Yeah, you heard me; I’m enjoying the fucking view.

  I mean, who knows, I could end up fucking one of them.

  Fuck, I wouldn’t mind taking my turn through all of them. In fact, a part of me wants to hire them all and bring them over for one night and fuck all of them.

  But that would probably end the casting call in disaster. We’d fall behind in our product launch. All for what? Pussy?

  It’s not worth it.

  Or is it?

  My eyes set upon a girl in the middle. She’s wearing a tight black dress that hugs her legs and ass like a second fucking skin.

  Oh, fuck. Yes, I definitely would love
to tap that fucking ass. She’s got a slender fucking body with curves in all the right places. Her blonde hair is shoulder length and her eyes are bright and intelligent.

  She’s wearing a sticker on her chest—similar to the other girls. Her sticker says #26.

  And she couldn't look more bored if her life depended on it.

  “Numbers 3, 4, 6, 9, 12, 24, 34, 38, 43, 45, 49, 50, thank you,” Joel says looking at his clipboard. “You can go now.”

  So that’s it. After dragging themselves all the way down to our Times Square studios, they sit around on couches for a while, and then they’re told they can go. Which is a polite way of saying fuck off.

  Normally, this would be my fucking cue as the girls with the numbers mentioned get up and proceed to the door. I’d be up and following them out, looking to fuck one of these sluts and take her home with me for the night.

  But right now, I’m fucking entranced just look at #26 sitting there, even though she’s completely bored out of her fucking mind.

  I look down at my casting sheet and try to find a name that matches #26. There it is. Brittney Roman.

  “Alright, ladies, let’s get up and bend over,” Joel says. “Show me that ass.”

  Jesus, is he for real? This is what he fucking does for work?

  As if on cue, each of the girls gets up. They turn around and bend over. Some look back at Joel. Several look toward me. They may not know who I am, but they can tell the tone of fucking deference that Joel used when he addressed me.

  The girls are either bending over and slowly shaking their ass, or running their hands over their ass cheeks as they look back. A few are just bent over with their hands against the couch. One woman has fiery red hair and five-inch stilettos. She's wearing nothing else. She saunters over, running the palms of her hands up and down her naked thighs. She's holding her gaze on us—she has her eyes on the prize—and she slowly bends her knees, squatting down to the floor.