Unscrupulous

by Avery Aster

  Kiki jumped in front of her face.

  “I own the building, Kiki, please.” She exhaled another puff and spoke in a husky voice. “Can’t I have one vice in this world? Everyone else does.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Good point.” Taddy couldn’t argue with her on that one.

  “Go to Exhale Bliss Spa for a facial if you’re stressed.”

  “No.”

  “Gilad’s Pilates?”

  “Screw Pilates.” Her body needed more than just a conditioning workout. “I’d rather take a BDSM class at the Dupree Club.”

  From the look on Kiki’s face, she didn’t care for what they’d watched on Queen Dick’s video.

  “Or you could grab your Fendi and head down to the rifle range, shoot some rounds.”

  “Love that idea.” It had been awhile since Taddy had fired her gun at Lipstick & Lead’s Rifle Range.

  In a flash Kiki snatched the cigarette pack and slipped it into her pocket. She beamed with obvious accomplishment that she’d stopped her boss from smoking again.

  “Give me a hug goodbye and get your beautiful butt to the airport. You can’t be late for takeoff.” She smiled at Kiki. “We’ll figure out your accessories when you get back.”

  “Hugs aren’t allowed. That’s what it says in the handbook,” her assistant cautioned as if being tested.

  “We’re friends, aren’t we?” She extended her hands out to put Kiki’s worry at ease and gave her assistant a hug. Sensing Kiki’s body shake, she whispered in her assistant’s ear, “Have fun, darling.” Taddy slipped her hand into Kiki’s pocket and took back the cigarettes without her noticing.

  Kiki picked the trip folder up from her desk, took a sip of water, lingering perhaps to ensure her boss was okay. Taddy smiled at her. “I’ll be fine, honey. I need a day off. I promise, tomorrow I’ll go get a facial uptown, shoot some rounds downtown, whip someone in a sling in midtown and won’t come into the office.”

  “Don’t forget, you have a nine a.m. fitting for your Candy Land Ball costume.”

  “Yes. Long live Princess Lolly.” Taddy was starting to feel better just thinking about her party.

  After Kiki closed her office door, Taddy took one final puff and then extinguished the cigarette in the Waterford crystal bowl her Aunt Muffie had given her for Christmas. She reached over and grabbed the clutch and opened it. I forgot what the hell is in here. I never… She remembered returning to the villa after she walked Garner home from Privé Extreme. Up late, Lex had sketched her dress designs, a late-night de-stressor from all the shit Birdie had put her through. Vive had come in at the same time. They’d discussed in detail their goals for the year ahead, including the pact to focus on their careers and not give men time they didn’t deserve.

  Opening the clutch, she pulled out the Baden Cosmetics Utah Virgin lipstick. I wondered where this shade went. A hairbrush and some cash fell out. Oh my God. She picked at a few loose vajazzle gems and admired their brilliance. I felt sexy. The look on Garner’s face when he pulled his hands out from under the table was too funny. Taddy couldn’t give Kiki a messy bag. Not one with all this crap in it. She reached over and grabbed a sheet of copy paper from the printer off her desk. With a flick of her wrists, she emptied the sparkles out onto the paper. Amber glass bits clumped in dried blood toppled onto the paper. A business card fell out.

  Warner Truman’s name was printed on one side. She turned it over to read his contact information on the other and remembered his final words. “I put my card in your—” She’d cut him off.

  The card listed three numbers—office, mobile and assistant. Taddy would try his New York office and see if his voice was on the greeting. He couldn’t be working this late. Garner spoke in a deep, heart-racing, thigh-clenching voice. She’d be sure to recognize him if she heard it again. Picking up her desk phone, she dialed the “212” number on the card. She pressed the nine key on her keypad a little longer than she did the other numbers to be sure she wanted to do this. Releasing the final digit, she heard a buzz. On the second ring, his greeting picked up.

  “This is Warner Truman. I’m out of the country for business. Please call my cell or ring my executive assistant by hitting one on your phone. Have a great day.”

  Taddy slammed the phone down before it beeped to leave a message. His voice. It’s him. What a pig. Garner is Warner. That made sense. The crowd at Privé Extreme had worshiped him. They’d sat alone, behind a velvet rope and VIP curtain. He’d owned the club and the hotels all along. The second she’d touched him, he’d felt influential. Warner Truman and Big Daddy were the same man.

  I never meet men with any expectations other than having a good time. Then I’m never disappointed. It was her motto, and she forced herself to remember the mantra. The second she’d looked into Garner’s eyes that kept changing colors and felt him put his arms around her, she’d felt at home. For the first time in she couldn’t remember how long, she’d touched the most amazing man she’d ever met.

  Ripping the card up, she dumped the shreds into her wastebasket. She placed the bronze purse back into the box and walked it over to Kiki’s workstation. Then she went back to work. Warner Truman, you are a douche bag.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Infamous Orgasmic Pedicure Chair

  May 18

  Cannes, France

  “A riot is ahead.” The driver attempted to turn the corner from Rue Pasteur onto La Promenade de la Croisette but failed. “Monsieur, we are stuck.”

  “What the hell…?” Warner sat straight up in the limo’s backseat.

  Moments ago, he’d flown in to Aéroport Nice Côte d’Azur from a Tokyo business trip. Even on his private plane, the eleven-hour flight had left him crippled with jetlag.

  Star-fuckers in the street blocked cars from going anywhere; they seemed to be chasing a celebrity.

  “What’s going on?” Warner asked the chauffer who’d released his hands from the steering wheel. People had come from all over Cannes to stand at Hôtel du France’s entrance. He slid a piece of sugarless gum into his mouth and chewed, hoping it would wake him. I smell trouble.

  Before the season started, he’d instructed management to book production crew for the film festival, no party animals. Truman Enterprises’ strategy for making money during the summer in Cannes came from remaining off the celebrity radar. Hôtel du France catered to behind-the-scenes industry folks. If they were to host any starlets, they would be the low-drama Julia Roberts or George Clooney types. Not the young partying Lindsey or Mischa, troublemakers who’d alert paparazzi to their every move prior to making one. He rolled the car’s window down as the driver inched closer.

  “Gimme your meat, baby!” a woman’s voice screamed from the balcony above his car. “Oui, oui, oui, Manuel, fuck me harder.”

  Manuel?

  “You magnifique slut, Caramel!” a man shouted huskily.

  Caramel?

  Warner stuck his head out the window, glaring up at where the voices came from, at what everyone else in the street gawked over.

  Against the sun’s bright rays, two famous porn stars, whom he’d seen in several movies, fucked on his presidential suite balcony. Their names? Manuel Coq de la Grande and Caramel Swallows.

  Caramel Swallows, who’d been nicknamed the Porn Queen, had a number-one-selling online video. It translated in English as Cream Caramel over the Causeway, and had grossed over thirty-five million dollars in digital downloads. With her own reality show titled Her Porn Life, cameras tracked Caramel for months, catching her every move. And at the Cannes Film Festival, it appeared to be Manuel.

  “You want me, Caramel?” Manuel stabbed his stiff rod in her ass. He held on to her hips as the woman’s face twisted with erotic pleasure.

  Her breasts jiggled so fast Warner couldn’t tell one nipple from the other. Caramel’s long black hair flew wild in the humid Mediterranean air, and her body shook as Manuel’s thrusts increased.

  “FUCK CARAMEL. FUCK CARAMEL.�
� The crowd howled, egging them on.

  His scrotum rammed her like a sandbag. Sweat came off him, his face focused and possessed, pounding her so hard she’d become quiet.

  Panicked, Warner jumped out of the car. “Move! Get out of my way.” He pushed through the crowd when they didn’t pay any attention to him. Everyone was too busy staring.

  “FUCK MANUEL. FUCK MANUEL,” tourists chanted. Cameras flashed and video recorders streamed. TV film crews had come out of nowhere to capture the footage.

  “What the hell is going on?” Warner snagged Hôtel du France’svalet manager’s attention before he could drive off to park a hotel guest’s regal blue Bugatti.

  Slouched down in the car’s white leather interior, with no place to escape, the attendant’s lips twitched, trying to speak. He hesitated, not knowing how to respond.

  “Answer me,” Warner demanded.

  “Prix du Cinéma Pour Adultes…”

  “No?”

  “Oui.”

  Prix du Cinéma Pour Adultes was the largest adult film convention in the world. Held annually alongside the Cannes Film Festival, it wasn’t anything like the other award programs taking place that season. Instead, pornography actors had received Oscar-style awards at lavish dinners. The extravaganza was always oversold and booked months in advance at a competing hotel, not a Truman Enterprises property.

  “Mr. Kip Van Scott booked rooms this week for the adult film awards?” Over the winter he’d promoted Kip to this property from Secrète de St. Barth.

  “Correct.”

  This explained Kip’s success. His ability to sell rooms was record breaking. But he never expected this from Kip. The unofficial spin-off of the Cannes Film Festival where adult actors celebrated their work ran as a two-week-long extravaganza, which apparently had hosted itself at Hôtel du France.

  He stepped back to see the crowd cheering the male actor on as he slid in and out of Caramel’s ass.

  “I’M COMING!” Caramel’s body rocked against Manuel’s, ready to shoot off.

  “Manuel! Manuel! Manuel!” the crowd repeated as he drove in harder. They loved him.

  Pulling out from Caramel, Manuel stepped close to the balcony’s edge. He ripped the condom off, throwing it out into the audience.

  Oh no, Manuel…

  He jacked his donkey dick. Manuel’s hairy bag hung low. His skin glistened in the sun. The porn star shouted down to the onlookers below and asked, “You want it?”

  “Oui, oui, oui,” the mob cried.

  Manuel wouldn’t dare…

  Spreading his legs wide, he stood on the guardrail.

  With cameras flashing, the crowd pressed under the balcony. Even if they wanted to escape, they couldn’t.

  He spit. He tugged. He twisted his dick.

  Chanting, the crowd raised their arms. Manuel became a demigod.

  Manuel’s erection reached his bellybutton.

  A gasp came from the crowd as the front group realized they were going to get it. How could they not have realized this before?

  He yanked once—twice—three times.

  “He’s going to come on us,” warned one woman who ate an ice cream cone with one hand and held a Galeries Lafayette shopping bag with the other. Panicked, people squished in one direction then another.

  “Yeeeah, bébé!” His gravy shot, misting the onlookers below.

  “Merde! You shit,” one person shouted back. The cheers shrilled into screams. Horror. Did they think it was just for theatrics? Manuel had ejaculated for his fans. He didn’t know any better. They’d gotten what they’d asked for.

  People threw their wine and beer bottles at the balcony. They screamed in anger at the porn stars. Ducking for cover, Manuel and Caramel fled inside the hotel room. They closed the balcony’s doors as bottles smashed the glass.

  Warner took the fire escape two stairs at a time. He hurried up the hotel’s east wing and made it to the top step, catching the Cannes Police in the process of breaking the door in.

  “Officer, my name is Kiki. Please don’t arrest me. I wasn’t doing anything wrong,” a petite, busty blonde girl, not a day over eighteen, pleaded.

  “Pardon, your name is—what?” The officer grabbed both of her hands behind her back.

  Who calls themselves Kiki?

  “Ouch! It’s Kelly Izatt. I’m from New York, please don’t—”

  The task force pushed her to the side.

  Warner stepped around the Kiki girl, looking for whoever was in charge. “I’m Warner Truman, owner of this hotel.” He handed his card to the uniformed officer, who was taking control of the situation.

  “Man of the hour.” The detective greeted him with sarcasm. “Any idea what you have going in here, Mr. Truman?”

  “This room is the VIP suite held for Air Euro Airways executives. Hôtel du France contracts a standing reservation with their team yearly. I don’t understand—”

  “Monsieur Truman. We’re charging your airline friends with public indecency.”

  “Add drug possession.” Another officer came out with a ziplock bag filled with white powder.

  Inside the room, there were a few people handcuffed.

  “They’re shooting a porno.” The officer pointed at the camera equipment.

  He turned to see the short blonde he’d passed standing in the corner. Her eyes had filled with tears. Warner approached. “Are you with Air Euro?”

  “Not exactly,” Kiki replied with a shaky voice. “I work for Brill, Inc.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A media firm.”

  “What’s your airline connection?”

  “Monsieur Jérôme du Tautou lent us the room. I didn’t know it’d get so crazy. I—” She started to sob but managed to say she was truly sorry.

  “If she’s not on the reservation, we can charge her with trespassing,” encouraged the officer whose badge read “Gaston.”

  Warner confirmed with a nod and stepped to the side, witnessing the American pressed against the doorway.

  “Dejon! Please don’t let them do this to us,” Kiki shouted to a tall man against the wall. She started to cry so hard a female officer came over to help cuff her. She was then carted off with the actors, camera crew and the tall guy named Dejon.

  * * * * *

  Midtown, New York, NY

  Princess Lolly costume fitting? Check. Candy Land Ball was all set.

  Lipstick & Lead Rifle Range? Check. Two rounds had been fired.

  Dominatrix sling class? Double check. Whipped and then beaten.

  Feet soaked in eucalyptus? Working on it.

  Taddy had followed Kiki’s suggestion. She’d spent early Saturday afternoon at Exhale Bliss Day Retreat on Fifth Avenue. The Neve Adele account could wait until Sunday. Taddy had selected the perfect bright red shade in a translucent crimson base with a top glitter coat.

  “Mr. Kim Lee, let’s do my toes in this Baden Cosmetics color called Stilettos Slamming.”

  In agreement, he took the nail polish bottle from Taddy and went to work on her feet. A favorite of Vive’s and Lex’s, Mr. Lee had been voted by Harper’s Bazaar as the best pedicurist in town.

  Flipping through an expired Debauchery magazine copy, she sipped her jasmine tea with an artificial sweetener. The hot beverage soothed her tender throat, which felt raw from smoking the entire Nat Sherman pack last night.

  The pedicure chair vibrated under her ass and stimulated her hard nub. She positioned the pleasure zone in the seat just right. Why didn’t I do this sooner? She made an effort to escape to Candy Land. Months had passed since she’d played Princess Lolly. But who would she fantasize about with Brayden Brooks, Gilad, Dr. Fassenbender, Jose and Díma all crossed out? Big Daddy slipped into her conscious. As much as she wanted to avoid thinking of him—she couldn’t help it.

  Mr. Lee scrubbed her soles. It felt euphorically good.

  I need this. I deserve this. Please. She grabbed the seat’s remote, set the vibration speed at five and moaned in
a low voice, “Ooooh…Mr. Lee, you want some.” Imagining gumdrops, she attempted to get into Candy Land. She couldn’t.

  Determined to get off, she upped the chair’s speed to ten—ass rocking, legs swinging and vulva buzzing. Suddenly, Taddy recalled taking Asian language studies back in college with Blake, who during their freshman year had experienced a major rice queen fetish. Figuring Mr. Lee was Vietnamese she muttered, “Du, du.”

  “Huh?” Mr. Lee stopped scrubbing her feet.

  Taddy rested against the seatback and sang to her own tune in her head. A Waris Sugar song titled “Pinky Licking”.

  Mr. Lee resumed his foot-cleansing duties.

  Irritated she couldn’t make herself pleasure trip, Taddy grabbed the remote, increasing the chair’s speed to fifteen. Teeth chattering, breasts jiggling, her crotch hummed. Now we’re talking. Her honey hive about to wet, she figured Mr. Lee must be Chinese, not Vietnamese. She pushed her back muscles into the chair and over her Easton Essentials blouse, she twisted her left nipple with her right hand. She panted, “Mīmī, mīmī.”

  “Please.” Mr. Lee smacked her calf muscle with a foot file, perhaps intending to be kinky.

  She took his paddle whack as an invitation to go further. She’d learned this technique from Dominatrix Queen-Dick Dupree hours earlier in the day while taking her BDSM class. Upright in the chair, she jolted the speed to twenty, figuring he mustn’t be Vietnamese or Chinese. Mr. Lee was from Korea! Resting the fashion magazine against her stomach, as to be inconspicuous, she slipped her right hand down her cashmere sweatpants. She sang the Waris Sugar lyrics to the track out loud.

  I’ll smack your back.

  Now lick my crack.

  Fuck my twat ‘til its whack.

  Mr. Lee’s eyes widened.

  “You want some Taddy-lic-icous-kitty?” She moaned in Korean, “Segseu, segseu.” Taddy’s fingers played with her clit’s hood, getting close to going to Candy Land.

  “You are freakin’ me out, lady. I’m gay—knock it off!” Mr. Lee shouted at her in an accent that wasn’t Vietnamese, Chinese or Korean. Hell, he didn’t sound Thai, Japanese or Filipino either. He poured cold water on her feet, probably wishing she’d cool her jets.