by Amy Brent
End of story.
Yawn.
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?”
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.