Knocked Up by Brother's Best Friend

by Amy Brent

  Genevieve was the most amazing woman I had ever had the pleasure of fucking because she could do things with her body that just blew my mind. She could literally suction squeeze pussy around my cock like fingers and milk it without moving her body. Seriously, she was like this Tantric Yoga Master and could do shit with her mind, mouth, pussy, and ass that most women would never dream of doing.

  She was in a word: un-fucking-believable.

  She would have been a star attraction at Club D, though she would never sell her favors for money.

  She loved it when I massaged her tits and bit her neck while she sat on my lap and rode my cock like a jockey in the Kentucky Derby.

  She would press her thighs tightly around my ears and moan as I probed her sweet pussy with my tongue and fingers.

  Then she would push me away and take control.

  She loved being in control.

  She would not let me touch her the first hour we spent together, even though we were completely naked and my cock was throbbing like a cobra ready to strike.

  She had us sit cross-legged across from each other on the floor with only our knees touching.

  She had to tie my hands behind my back with her scarf to keep me from reaching for her.

  Then, as my cock got harder and harder until the head looked like a crimson balloon about to pop, and the scent of the juices flowing from her pussy filled the air between us, she made me close my eyes and breathe deeply, in and out, in and out, as she described what she wanted me to do to her and what she would do to me in return.

  It was really weird at the time, and still hard to explain, but by the time she loosened my hands and ordered me to fuck her long and slow (that’s what she kept saying… fuck me, mon ami… fuck me long and slow), my cock felt like a lead pipe, but I knew I would not cum until she ordered me to.

  She lay back on the floor and spread her legs and her pussy opened up to me like a beautiful, pink flower. I could see the moisture on her lips as it oozed from her hole, a little line of juices sluiced into her asshole. The sight and smell of her pussy made me long to taste her.

  When I told her I wanted to eat her pussy before I fucked her she just smiled and said, “Later, mon ami… Come here now… fuck Genevieve… fuck me long and slow.”

  And that’s exactly what I did.

  I moved on top of her in a pushup position and she took my hard cock in her long fingers and pulled me gently toward her pussy. When her fingers went around the shaft it was the most amazing feeling, unlike nothing I had ever felt before. I felt little shockwaves coursing through my body. My toes tingled. My vision blurred. My mouth watered. It was suddenly hard to breathe. When she pulled me closer and swirled the head of my cock around her wet hole, I thought I was going to explode in her hand. I somehow held back, even though I was feeling the first tingles of an orgasm building in my balls. She guided me inside her, then wrapped her legs around my waist and prodded her heels into my ass to nudge me closer.

  “Fuck me long…” she sighed. “And slow…”

  My cock is a good eight-inches, so I could get the long part down, no problem. It was the slow part that stymied me. I was used to getting an erection and banging the shit out a girl as quickly as I could. It never occurred to me to take things slowly because that’s not in my nature. I’m always in a hurry. I always leave the girl satisfied, but I was always rushing so I could move on to the next pussy in line. When you’re a good-looking billionaire who owns a brothel, there’s always a next pussy in line.

  Genevieve taught me many things that weekend.

  I could still hear her thick accent in my head, almost like the voice of a kindly teacher. Or an angel.

  “Slowly, mon ami. Rhythmically. Like a dance. Make your lover cum in waves, not all at once. The orgasm should build slowly, like a warm stream that flows through a mountain, not like a raging river into the sea. Yes… that’s it… slowly… pull your beautiful cock out until you see the head… yes… now… slowly… slide inside me… yes… until you can come in no more… now… again… yes… breathe… again… don’t cum too fast… do you feel my pussy caressing your beautiful cock, my love… do you feel my pussy massaging you… milking you… that’s it… make it last… mon ami… make it last…”

  And last it did.

  So long that I lost track of time.

  The only thing I knew was that when Genevieve dug her sharp fingernails into my back and said, “Now… cum with me now, mon ami… cum with me… fill me with your hot seed…” almost an hour had passed.

  Swear to God.

  We had been fucking long and slow for an hour. And when I shot my load inside her it was like a bursting firehose coming unkinked. The orgasm rattled my body, jarred me like an earthquake. It started at my toes and went up my legs into my balls and shot from my cock with such force that Genevieve literally bounced on the rug beneath her back, her heels digging into my ass, her nails leaving long red scratches on my back, her teeth biting so hard into my shoulder that the marks would remain there for days.

  It was the absolute best and longest orgasm of my life.

  The first of many that weekend.

  And Genevieve, for that short time, was the love of my life.

  And in many ways, she still is and always will be.

  I came home to America praying that her teeth marks would never disappear from my skin.

  When they started to fade, I had them tattooed as a permanent reminder of my weekend with Genevieve.

  I still thought about her often.

  She was rich and famous now, living in Italy, I believe.

  Hell, she was rich and famous back then, I just didn’t have a clue who she was. Turned out she was like this famous sex therapist-slash-pussy massage expert or something. Yes, you heard me right. Pussy massage. I had no idea there was such a thing, even though it does sound like something I would enjoy learning more about.

  She and her partner, some guy whose name I can’t remember, wrote books on the subject of pussy massage. They even opened a chain of resorts where women could go for the weekend to get one.

  I’m serious.

  It’s a thing.

  Look it up if you don’t believe me.

  Anyway, as coincidence would have it, it was the next week that me and my partners, Isaac and Sammy, started bouncing around the idea of opening a private club for rich guys with hard cocks and deep bank accounts, mainly so we would have a place to hang out and drink and fuck without the press hounding us.

  We were getting drunk at Isaac’s beach house in Malibu the weekend after I returned from Paris and started brainstorming names for such a place.

  Sammy suggested the usual crap.

  Pussy Cat Club.

  Fuck Club (he was a fan of Fight Club).

  Club V (you can guess what the V stood for).

  The Dollhouse.

  Pussy Galore.

  Cum As You Are.

  I know, Sammy is a brilliant business guy, but his creativity is for shit.

  But I’m a marketing guy.

  I know how to package and market a product.

  And I still had Genevieve on the brain.

  I knew the name had to be something mysterious, something seductive, something that would make a dude shell out a million bucks just to get in the door and another few million a year just to play along.

  Something like the high-end escort service Fleur-de-Lis in my favorite movie, LA Confidential.

  Suddenly, I heard Genevieve’s sweet voice whispering in my ear.

  My cock got hard as a rock sitting there on Isaac’s couch.

  Without realizing I was speaking out loud, I said, “Votre Désire, mon ami… whatever you desire.”

  I said the words and they both looked at me like I was nuts.

  When I told them about Genevieve and the magic of her words, they were immediately sold on the idea.

  Club Votre Désire was born.

  Sammy said only pussies spoke French, so he called it Club Desi
re.

  Members, and those who can only speculate about its true existence, simply call it Club D.

  Chapter 1: Denny

  “So… Who is Denny Chambers?”

  I literally sighed at the question posed by Robin Robinson, the rather large-breasted, sparkly blue-eyed, little too perky for me this early in the morning, host of Good Day America.

  I momentarily forgot that we were on live TV and millions of people were waiting for me to answer, though most of them probably had no idea who the fuck I was. They were just waiting for me to get the hell off the set so the fat weatherman could do his daily cooking segment.

  Today on the show: fun with macaroni!

  I wasn’t quite as fascinating as macaroni, if the faces of the studio audience were any indication. The few dozen or so people lucky enough to be let inside this morning (dozens lined the sidewalk trying to get in to watch the show live every day) were all bleary-eyed, mostly tourists, wearing loud summer shorts and homemade t-shirts with pithy sayings like “Alabama Loves Robin!” drawn on the front. They didn’t give a shit about hearing what I had to say. I was just some tech billionaire from Silicon Valley, not a famous actor from Hollywood. I was here to promote my company’s philanthropic efforts to bring clean water to remote African villages, not pitch my latest movie. The fact that Robin Robinson was even asking such a dumb question probably stemmed from that stupid profile that Forbes did of me with the same title a few weeks back.

  Who is Denny Chambers?

  Who the fuck cares?

  Suddenly, the voice of my partner, Isaac Hanson, echoed in my empty head.

  Dammit, Denny!

  Focus, you asshole!

  You’re on fucking live TV, for petesake.

  I can’t help it, my brain muttered back.

  Robin’s tits were distracting me.

  She kept uncrossing and crossing her long legs.

  I kept having flashbacks to that old move, Fatal Attraction…

  No, wait…

  Basic Instinct…

  Yeah, that was it, the one where smoking hot murder suspect, Sharon Stone, uncrossed her legs to reveal the fact that she wasn’t wearing panties to the flustered, horny detective played by Michael Douglas. You never really got a great look at Sharon’s cooch, but you knew Michael did, and somehow, at the time, that was enough.

  I was pretty sure Robin was wearing panties, but it was distracting as hell, nonetheless.

  Mainly, I sighed because it was such a boring question, but the world was full of boring people who asked billionaires like me lots of boring things, so I just focused on her eyes and gave her the standard boring answer.

  “Denny Chambers is just a guy trying to change the world, Robin.”

  Okay, I barely got that out with a straight face.

  Maybe I should have said something equally hokey like, “Denny Chambers has many sides, my dear girl. Which one should I introduce you to first?”

  Yes, ma’am, that would have been a revelation right there.

  A real viral moment... Yawn... Sigh…

  Maybe we’d start with the boring Denny Chambers you would find if you Googled my name or looked me up on Wikipedia.

  Denny Chambers is the forty-year old cofounder and Chief Marketing Officer of Internet Data Systems, Inc.—IDS for short—one of the world’s premier online data storage companies with over 30,000 employees worldwide.

  Basically, it was my job to make sure the letters IDS were branded into the brains of every corporate IT director and manager on the planet that used online data storage systems and software. I did my job well. So well, in fact, that IDS now owned 30% share of the online data storage market. Not too shabby for a company I started in college with my two best friends, Isaac and Sammy, fifteen years ago.

  I’m one of those good looking, young, adventurous, tech billionaires you hear so much about but rarely ever see in person. Tech billionaires are like Bigfoot in a lot of ways. Legendary, mythical, believed to exist but seldom spotted outside of their natural habitat, the mystic hills of Silicon Valley.

  I won’t bullshit you, there are worse things to be than a billionaire. Being insanely rich has its obvious perks, but it’s not all unicorns and fairy tales. There were downsides of being a high profile, tech billionaire in this age of instant sharing. I was always under the microscope or the focus of some tech paparazzo’s zoom lens. If I so much as farted in public TMZ or Wired picked it up and made a big deal about it. They didn’t do that to Warren Buffet or Bill Gates, but I can’t cross my eyes without making the news. Then again, Warren Buffet doesn’t look like me or fuck super models in the back of limousines or frolic on the beaches in Cannes with topless actresses or escort the daughters of rich industry giants to stuffed shirt fundraisers. And I’m pretty sure Bill Gates has never been caught naked and drunk swimming in the ocean outside their Malibu beach house (that’s a story for another time).

  On the upside, I have more money than I could ever spend, though sometimes I try my hardest to go through it all. When you have a net worth of two billion dollars it is nearly impossible to go broke, no matter how much cash you blow on crazy shit. And I have spent a ton of dough on crazy shit, trust me on that one.

  Would you pay a million bucks for a pair of Angelina Jolie’s dirty panties stolen and sold to you by the Peruvian woman who cleaned both your houses?

  Well, I did.

  Don’t ask me why.

  Let’s just say I’m a dude with a very active imagination.

  I keep them sealed in a large, air-tight freezer bag in a safe in the floor of my bedroom closet.

  I bring them out occasionally to… well… you know.

  I’m going to hire a chemist to figure out how to keep them fresh forever. Seriously.

  Hey, don’t judge.

  Just let it go.

  I don’t blow money like that every day. I invest in the usual things. For example, I spend a shit ton of money on real estate. I own houses and property all over the world.

  A villa in Tuscany...

  A winery in France...

  A beach house in Malibu and a shoreline estate in the Hamptons...

  A fifty-acre estate south of Los Angeles that once belonged to the aforementioned Ms. Jolie…

  Then there was the thirty-million-dollar apartment in Manhattan that looked out over the park...

  The ski lodge in Vale…

  A small island in the South Pacific…

  And half a country in Latin America (another deal my Peruvian cleaning lady turned me on to).

  Sometimes, I just throw a dart at a map and have my real estate guy buy me something there just so I can say I own it.

  Yeah, I’m a bit of a hoarder.

  I’m also a dude, so naturally I own a fleet of cars.

  You name it, I own it.

  Lambos, Ferraris, Bugattis, Porsches, McLarens…

  I own a Hennessy Venom GT Spyder that cost me a cool $1.3 million.

  A Ferrari LaFerrari Aperta that cost $2.2 million.

  An Aston Martin Vulcan that cost $2.3 million…

  And my favorite for the moment, a dark red Koenigsegg Regera that looks like something out of the freakin’ future. That baby cost a mere $1.9 million. It’s one of those cars that rich fucks like me buy just so we can brag about owning it, but we never drive it. It’s like the world’s most beautiful woman with the world’s most perfect pussy. She’s simply too perfect to fuck. You’re happy just to stare at her for hours and pull your pud until you shoot your load all over the garage floor and…

  I mean…

  Never mind…

  The sad thing is, I never drive any of them because IDS provides a black Mercedes G-Wagon and a driver named Al who ferries me anywhere I need to go whenever I need to go there. I couldn’t tell you the last time I actually drove a car. Like I said, I just like to stand in front of them all and close my eyes and jack off in my mind.

  Don’t try to psychoanalyze that comment, ladies.

  It’s a g
uy thing…

  Same with motorcycles. I probably own three dozen bikes of all makes and models, some new, some classics, some custom builds that were never meant to be put on the road. All expensive as hell, sitting in a pristine, hermedically-sealed, $5 million garage under the watchful eye of my full-time garage manager, Pete.

  Who has time to ride? I usually work twelve to fourteen hours a day, seven days a week. I think the last time I took more than a couple of days off was when my partners Isaac, Sammy, and I took two weeks to climb Kilimanjaro back in 2007.

  Again, ladies, it’s a guy thing.

  It’s a mountain: we must climb it!

  I do go on dates every now and then, when I can find the time or meet a woman who is just so fucking hot I simply have to take the time to wine and dine her so I can fuck her, but mostly I work, hang out with my buds, and hit Club D on the weekends. I love that fucking place. I can just leave the real world outside those big stone gates, pick myself the most beautiful woman (or two or three) in the room, and let it rip all weekend long.