Trillionaire Boys' Club: The Producer

by Aubrey Parker

  I move my fingers inside her bra and cup her bare flesh. Her nipple hardens against me. I press my cock against her ass, letting her feel me.

  “You think the world will think less of you, if you let me have my way,” I whisper against her neck, my other hand running along the back of her skirt, massaging her ass. “But you’re not just letting me have my way. You’re having yours, too.”

  “We can’t …” she says. But it’s all breath and bullshit.

  “Stop it. Stop telling me what’s right. Stop being a good girl. Stop being what you think they all expect you to be. Stop believing that sex robs your power. There’s nothing more powerful than a woman. You rule the world, Alyssa. You bring us to our knees — if only you have sense enough to embrace it.”

  “I don’t want power.”

  But her whisper is dripping with lust. I want to lift her skirt, lower her panties, and devour her pussy from behind.

  “I’m tired, Cole. Tired of doing it all. Of being strong and organized and right. I’m tired of schedules and appointments and impressing everyone. I’m tired of being in charge of my life. Of trying to keep everything from spinning out of control.”

  My face still in the hollow of her neck, I say, “Then beg me. Beg me to take you over.”

  “Take me, Cole.”

  “Do you want my cock inside you?”

  More breath than word: “Yes.”

  I turn her around and push her down, back to the wall.

  “Tell me how you want it.”

  “However you want me.” Then weakly, so out of character that it almost makes me come, Alyssa adds: “I’m yours however you want me.”

  I unzip. I yank my fly open. My cock springs out, right in her face.

  I push her back against a bookcase. Alyssa’s head lightly knocks the wood. Her mouth opens a little, so I put my dick inside it — all the way in, making her gasp.

  “Do you want me to fuck your mouth? Do you want me to make you gag?”

  Her eyes look up at me. They say, Don’t make me decide. Just take me. Just do as you wish.

  I thrust my cock in and out of her mouth as she fights to take it all.

  I’m so hard it’s all I can do not to come down her throat.

  Her hands find her blouse. She unbuttons it to fondle her breasts. The other hand moves below. Her skirt hikes up; her knees part. She’s not wearing panties again.

  Good girl.

  Her fingers slip between the wet lips of her pussy, taking long, slow strokes. Then the strokes move faster. She stops at her clit, rubs herself all the way to an instant orgasm. She comes with my cock in her mouth, and it’s all I can do not to finish with her.

  I pull her upright. Her mascara is a mess. Her skirt hasn’t settled; it’s still up around her waist, and her body is bare from the hips down. Last night, she must have shaved her pussy bare for me. It’s smooth and hairless, her pink slit wet with her own juices.

  “Did you come for me?” I ask as her face nears mine.

  Alyssa nods. I want to make her say more bad things, but I’m so hard already. If she says the right words, I won’t be able to hold back. Besides, this is about her being out of control. She doesn’t get an opinion today. Right now she’s my fuck toy.

  I please Alyssa by using her without permission.

  I turn her around and bend her over her own desk, face to the blotter. There’s a glass of water perched atop a coaster, but as I wrap my fingers through her beautiful brown hair and shake the world, that glass spills.

  It runs forward, down the front. Her careful pile of documents darkens with spreading ink.

  I bend down behind her and spread Alyssa’s ass cheeks. Her wet slit beckons from behind. I pause to admire it, one hand moving to stroke my cock. She’s perfect. Her pussy intoxicates me. I want to devour it, stick my tongue between her lips and lick her for days.

  I take her with my mouth. Every inch of me is between her cheeks, my nose wet with her pussy juice. With her bent over and her legs slightly spread, my tongue lines up perfectly with her clit. But I don’t go for her clit right away; I make my tongue hard like a cock and run it along her slit, trying to get inside. Then I flick my tongue across her clit. It rises to meet me.

  She comes again as I lick her, as my fist pumps my cock.

  Spasms rack her, and her jittering hands clear her desk of clutter.

  I stand, then run my fingers feverishly along her slit, as if I’ve never seen a pussy before. She’s so warm inside. So wet. I tickle her with my digits, loving the way she swallows my knuckles. Then my hand returns to my cock and I pump it again, having to reach down inside myself and squeeze to keep my orgasm at bay. Only when I’ve settled do I rub my pussy-lubricated fingers across my hard cockhead, and press my wet head against the small, beautiful little pucker of her asshole.

  “I’m going to fuck you in the ass, Alyssa. I’m going to bury my cock in your ass and make you come from the inside.”

  I push my cock against her. She slowly opens to meet me, flinching. But I’m not inside, and need to be.

  “You want me to fuck your asshole, don’t you, Alyssa?”

  “Yes.”

  “You want it inside. You want my balls to slap your pussy while I fuck you from behind.”

  “Yes, Cole. Yes.”

  The head of my cock finally squeezes inside. Alyssa gasps. I inch it the rest of the way in as she thrashes. When I’m all the way inside, I bend over her back and lift her to meet me.

  Alyssa’s blouse is mostly open, her bra shoved away. So I grip her tits and I press my face into her neck, just below her ear.

  “I’m going to come inside your ass, Alyssa.”

  “Come in my ass, Cole.”

  “You love it, don’t you? You love the way I fuck you?”

  “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

  My balls tighten. My cock goes rigid as my thrusts shorten and slow. The feeling builds; I savor it. I make it wait. Then I slam hard into Alyssa as the orgasm claims me, tensing my thighs, my hands, the muscles of my ass. I thrust another few times, growling against her neck, the sensations endless. My hands are leaving fingerprints on her tits.

  When it’s over, I nibble her neck and my cock slips out of her. I make for her private bathroom, clean myself up, and return to find something unexpected.

  I didn’t think she was ready for all of this. I told her we should cut the bullshit between us and that maybe it was time we both stop acting like fucking is a terrible, shameful thing, but I figured the idea would take time to settle. I was sure I’d return from her bathroom to find her composing herself, doing her hair, trying to make as if the last few minutes never happened.

  Instead, when I emerge, I find Alyssa sitting in her office chair with her skirt and panties discarded, blouse mostly open, legs spread.

  And she says, “I didn’t come when you came. Now you need to finish the job.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  ALYSSA

  HE TELLS ME ALL ABOUT Anthony Ross.

  It’s strange. I can’t get comfortable until an hour or so after we’re done having sex — literally comfortable at first, then mentally. After Cole made me come another two times — bang-bang, just like that — we got dressed. It wasn’t quite three o’clock, and for a while we were at this weird impasse where I almost wanted to kick him out for an hour so we could both honor my schedule and calendar of appointments.

  We were supposed to meet at 4, damn it, not 3. It was as if part of me wanted to draw a darker line between our working relationship and what just happened.

  But the artificial need for such a division was exactly Cole’s point.

  “The way Ross explains it, society’s problems all ultimately stem from sex,” he tells me once we’re in the Hill of Beans a block down from my building, looking for all the world like two people who haven’t recently docked with one another like a pair of LEGO bricks. “I don’t really know what he has in mind for this video project — whether it’s a docume
ntary or a series or what. I only know that he believes sex rules the world.”

  “That’s pretty simplistic.”

  “Is it? Tell me, Alyssa. How do you feel about me right now?”

  That’s a tricky question. It’s like my mind was a china plate, and some fool dropped it onto a tile floor. I seem to have several distinct brains, each having different thoughts about Cole Ellison. It’s not that I’m conflicted. It’s as if I’m simultaneously thinking many contradictory things, wholly and completely.

  I remember the Cole who ravished me in my office and I feel one way about that man. I remember the Cole who belittled me last week and whom I fired, and I feel another way about that man. Lastly — and most perplexedly — I remember the Cole who woke me up on Wednesday morning with coffee and eggs Benedict. I feel one way about that man, too.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Then I’ll tell you how I feel about you.” Cole’s manner is affable — downright friendly. Is this a fourth Cole I need to feel some way about? Or is this a recurrence of one of the others? “I think you’re smart and capable. I think you’re the best publicist anyone I know has ever heard of. I think you’re unafraid, and willing to take risks and make mistakes along the way. I think that courage makes you an attractive person — and by that, I mean that you attract others, not that you’re pretty. But at the same time, I do think you’re pretty — a sweet sort of gorgeous that’s full of innocence because you barely know it’s there. I’ll admit I sort of want to kiss you. But on top of those thoughts, I think a third thing. And it’s that I already want to fuck you again. Specifically, I want you on top. I want your legs spread so I can see—”

  “Cole,” I say, blushing. He isn’t loud, but the coffee shop is full.

  “My point is that everything I know about you, I like.”

  “You sure didn’t act like it until the other day.”

  Cole points at me as if to say Exactly, as if I’ve stepped right into a trap. “Because of sex.”

  “Because you were a bastard.”

  “Because I wanted to have sex with you. And because you wanted to have sex with me. And because despite the fact that both of us felt that way, something between us wouldn’t allow it to happen. That frustrated us. Made us hate each other in ways we otherwise might not have.”

  “Was that ‘thing’ you being a bastard?” I ask.

  “What each of us took as bad behavior stemmed from unfulfilled lust.”

  “I hated you quite independent of lust. I’m sure of it.” I notice too late that I’ve used the past tense.

  “And so: how do you feel about me now?”

  “You’re playing nice enough. For now.”

  “And what’s changed?” The question is rhetorical, so Cole answers: “We had sex.”

  This all sounds wrong to me. I’m not buying any of it, and I’m shocked that Cole seems to have. He’s been trying to explain Anthony’s ideas for a half hour now — not because he needs to convince me, but because I can’t advise either of them from a publicity standpoint until I understand what exactly they think their thesis is, whether it’s bullshit or not.

  “Look,” Cole says. “What did I do for you this afternoon?”

  “You know what you did.” The spell is broken. Maybe he can get me to talk dirty when we’re naked, but I’m not about to do it in a coffee shop with families around.

  “Not that. I meant something deeper.”

  I roll my eyes, assuming deeper is another double entendre, but Cole waves it away and touches his temple, presumably indicating his brain.

  “Deeper up here. The answer is that I took control. I let you shut it all off for a while. You were wound so tight, but now look at you.”

  I look down at myself. Cole laughs.

  “You’re relaxed,” he says, answering his own implied question.

  “I just needed a good fucking. How very manly and convenient.”

  “You needed psychological release. That’s different. You had to give yourself permission to stop controlling for a while and let me steer instead. We did it with each other. But the same could have happened if you’d gotten yourself off. Or even if you’d just—”

  “So all the tense women of the world need are more orgasms.”

  “Jesus, Alyssa. Stop trying so hard to be offended. And stop defining ‘sex’ so narrowly. Sex is at the heart of this world’s gender issues, as well as causing stress and strife and illness. There are repressed cultures where sexual subjugation breeds deviants and violence, sure. There are people who hide who they are and what they want, because their desires aren’t acceptable to their peers. Those things cause problems, yes. But there are many more subtle manifestations. Why are men threatened by you? Because you represent the power they blame for keeping them from what they want. It’s not a one-to-one thing. It’s not about you and those men threatened by your strength; it’s about them and all women; about you and all men.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Cole sips his coffee, then takes one big, resetting breath. “Okay. Anthony said this to me: ‘Imagine a world where there’s no sexual shaming of any sort — at least within the mainstream. Imagine a woman with a healthy sexual appetite being allowed to indulge it without fear or shame. Imagine people free to be gay or bi or whatever they want or innately are, with no one to judge them. Imagine a world where prostitution was legal and affordable — hell, maybe covered by insurance as necessary therapy. A world where you didn’t have to stuff your urges down every second, be ashamed, and let that shame define you. What would that world be like?”

  “They tried that world once. It was called Sodom.”

  “Only because of the weight of judgment.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Look. Consider prostitution. It’s illegal and generally seen as immoral in much of the world, right? Well, what if some guy got all pent up, and he’s unstable, but all he really needs is to blow his load. He’s been fucked up all his life, though, so at best, if he doesn’t get laid, he’ll be a serious asshole and ruin someone’s day … and that person will get pissy and ruin another person’s day, and on and on and on in a never ending cycle. Or at worst, that guy could be a psychopath. He might rape or even kill someone. He might abduct kids because he can’t get laid. And hell, maybe his mother caught him jerking off when he was a kid and burned his dick with a lighter. All sorts of sick shit happens because of stupid, misguided opinions about sex. Who knows what might happen with that guy on a bad day, all because he can’t get his release?”

  “So you’re suggesting a doctor send him to the hooker store for vag therapy? And that will solve the problems?”

  “It’s just an example.”

  “Okay, so what happens when this fucked-up guy goes to his friendly neighborhood hooker, but he’s so deviant that his brand of sex is to beat the crap out of her?”

  “Oh, well, you have to assume he never had the behavioral dysfunction to begin with.”

  I almost laugh at the argument’s simplicity — a surprise coming from such an intelligent man. “How the hell is that supposed to work? You’re proposing solutions for a fantasy world, not the one that actually exists.”

  “I’m not explaining this well. It’s Anthony’s idea.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, let me get right on this campaign to make the world into a big orgy for world peace. Will you all start growing 1970s porn mustaches?”

  “Go back to the idea of the guy never having his dysfunction in the first place.” Cole shifts on his chair and I can tell this absurdity is more fully realized for Anthony than for Cole, yet he’s trying to justify it anyway. “You’re seeing things through your modern lens. You’re not giving the thought experiment an objective look because you’re who you are, raised how you were. Imagine the world as perfect, without all the shame and hangups.”

  “So we’re using the assumption that Anthony’s crazy plan worked from the start, before it was even implemented? And the world is just perfe
ct to start with? Neat trick.” I nibble my biscotti. I enjoy seeing Cole stumped. It’s cute on him.

  “I’m just saying, What if?”

  “Hmm. Well, yes, that is a problem. Because there’s no what if in an impossible scenario. Say it all you want, but that doesn’t change that the whole world is what it is, raised how it was.”

  “But what if it were different?”

  “You’re talking in circles. I took logic in college, you know. You’re not going to slip this crap by me.”

  “What if the whole world were reinvented, starting now, from the ground up?”

  Exasperated and tired, I practically groan, “But how?”

  “That’s where you come in. You and a whole lot of others.”

  “I just don’t follow. And honestly? My head hurts, Cole. I’m tired of this. Leave Anthony for another day.”

  Cole takes another big breath, but I no longer have the energy for this philosophical debate. He’s right about one thing; right or wrong, our session back in my office untied the strings that usually hold me so tight — to the point where now I’m like cooked spaghetti. It was true the first time, too, but this time I don’t think it’s costing me anything — work time, productivity, status — so I’m not going to sweat it. I’m rolling with my relaxation now: admitting to Cole and myself that I enjoyed what we did and would like some more, rather than feeling guilty.

  And that makes me wonder: Are my own thoughts about the two of us proving this crazy thesis right?

  I genuinely don’t want to think about it. I want to drink coffee, do some work, and get laid. Just like that psycho having a bad day.

  Cole is a drug, and I guess I’m addicted.

  “Let’s talk about something else,” I say.

  “I can explain this.”

  I shrug as if to say, Even if I believe you … so fucking what? “Please don’t try.”

  Cole sighs. I watch him, fascinated not just by his change but by the change in my attitude toward him. There’s still definitely a way in which I hate this man, but it’s obscured behind something new. It’s more a concept than a real thing. More a memory than something in the present. If I hate him in this moment, it’s only because I’m supposed to.