But at college, a reality check was in order. I was no longer a star, the MVP of the track team. Instead, I was positively slow compared to some of the other girls. Take my friend Kendada Niyembe, for example. We call her the Nigerian Breeze because she gave birth her sophomore year and then went on to Olympic trials eighteen months later, can you believe it? I’m so proud of her, and her baby’s the cutest to boot.
But next to Kendada, it was clear I didn’t have a career as a professional runner. So I re-made myself by focusing on school, majoring in journalism with a minor in kinesiology, to show potential employers that I was serious about being a sports reporter. Then there were the endless rounds of interviews coupled with relentless networking. I wish the world didn’t work this way, that you didn’t have to shake hands, press the flesh so that people remember you, but I guess it helps.
And at last I scored an agent, a professional to help me land contracts, who got me my first gig with KPIX out in Las Vegas. Stanley was upfront and realistic.
“Ana,” he said, “you’ve got to change your name and a couple other things.”
“Why?” I asked. I’d already mentally planning to re-brand myself as Stacey, but I wanted to hear a professional’s opinion.
“Ana is Hispanic-sounding and Las Vegas doesn’t have that kind of demographic,” he said shrugging. “Something more Anglo will play better in Vegas.”
Okay, that made sense. I would miss Ana, but it was okay, my close friends and family could still call me that.
“How about Stacey?” I asked tentatively. “Does that sound alright?”
Stanley nodded, looking at the ceiling thoughtfully.
“Yeah, that sounds about right. But Stacey,” he continued, “you need a look that compliments your new Stacey-ness.”
My new Stacey-ness? What did that mean? But my agent knew his stuff and didn’t hesitate to share.
“You need to brighten your hair, wear more make-up, wear better clothes, look cute the way people expect Staceys to look,” he explained. “You’re not ugly, you just need to do it up.”
“You mean like a FOX News anchor?” I asked dryly. The women on FOX always looked overdone, tight dresses and stilettos, heavy makeup for the camera.
“You laugh,” warned Stanley, “but those women are pulling in the big bucks. You think Megyn Kelly got to where she is by looking drab? She hit the big time through a combination of natural looks and image consultants.”
I sat back. Megyn was my hero, her insightful reporting and stinging questions a mix of sugar and spice. And you know what? I wanted to be like her.
So dutifully, I took myself off to the salon and came out with a headful of golden highlights, bouncy blonde hair balayaged to the max. I’d put on some weight since graduation and was now deliciously curvy, my tiny waist emphasized by swinging hips and a nice, jouncing ass. Plus, my boobs were still there, my saving grace even during the days of Bean-dom.
“Perfect,” said Stanley, eyeing me critically, looking me up and down. “Now go get ‘em,” he commanded, and I walked into my first interview spirits high, hopes up.
I didn’t get it. Nope, not that one, not the one after, not the one after that either. In fact, I freelanced for a while before finally getting a spot as part-time sportscaster.
But once I got my break, I played it for all it was worth, working night and day, learning the ropes, making sure I was the best sportscaster out of Vegas. And you know what? I think people appreciated it. I was knowledgeable about just every sport, football, soccer, swimming, various Olympic events, you name it. My days as a freelancer had served me well because I’d been forced to cover everything from high school cheer to women’s gymnastics and now my knowledge was positively encyclopedic.
So it was with a spring in my step that I headed to work at 4 a.m. that Monday morning. I’d just gotten back from my work trip to Atlanta, the one where I’d had fun with my two rubbery friends in the shower, and was looking forward to going over some clips, reviewing a reel with my editor.
Except when I got to the front door, my co-worker Karen came rushing out to meet me.
“Stacey,” she gasped. “Have you read today’s Enquirer?”
What? No, I was a sportscaster, ESPN and Sports Illustrated are our bibles, not gossip rags.
“No of course not, why?” I asked.
Her face remained a shocked mask.
“Because you’re in it Stacey. Someone videotaped you and they’ve posted a clip to their site. Don’t look on-line,” she rushed. “It’s not worth it, it’s not going to do you any good, go and talk to Walter, he said to tell you to come in as soon as you got in.”
I frowned. Walter was our Managing Editor and a really nice, easy-going middle-aged guy. It must have been serious if I had to report to his office first thing at 4 a.m.
But of course, I had to see the clip first, I couldn’t go in blind. I slunk to my desk, trying to draw as little attention. Fortunately this early in the morning, full staff isn’t in yet and it’s still a skeleton crew, just enough folks to transition the studio to day-time.
I flicked on my laptop and surfed to the Enquirer’s site. Annoyingly, an ad popped up and I clicked the X in the upper right corner right away. Why hadn’t my ad-blocker screened it? But almost immediately, I wished I hadn’t been so hasty because my face suddenly filled the screen.
Stacey Light Videotaped In the Shower Doing the Dirty! the headline screamed. What the? My jaw dropped open in shock and I could only sit in stunned silence for a moment. What was going on?
With numb hands, I reached for my headphones, fitting the cushions over my ears. Taking a deep breath, I pressed play, bracing for the worst, but it was even more terrible than expected.
Last Saturday night, after I’d come back from the Chargers game, I’d let myself into the hotel room for a warm steamy shower, and it was all on tape now. You saw me rushing over to turn off the A/C, my naked form scampering across the plush hotel suite to fiddle with the thermostat. And that done, I ran for the shower, pink bits still on display.
But that wasn’t all. Because believing myself to be alone, I’d pulled out Mr. Mongo and Mr. Wall Dildo, proceeding to put them in their respective places, in my pussy and mouth, and ride them to heaven, moaning and shrieking, water sluicing over my limbs, my face contorted in dazzling pleasure, my boobs heaving, my hips jerking up and down as the toys did their work.
And did this end after thirty seconds? No, the tape captured my entire sex session, three whole minutes of Stacey Light getting pounded, assets on display, a magnificent clip of female lust, delight, and satisfaction, conveniently on-line for your viewing pleasure.
Numb, I sat back, mouth agape. Oh shit, oh shit. I could barely think. Who had seen this? Who was behind this? What was there to do? Without even realizing it, tears began rolling down my cheeks, there went the end of my dignity, my sense of safety, my bold entry into womanhood, afraid of nothing, girl power ready to roll in the fast-lane.
Suddenly, I heard a soft knock on the wall of my cube and Walter poked his head over the side.
“Stacey,” he said, his eyes immediately taking in the tears and the footage on my screen. “Let’s go into my office, we’ll have more privacy,” he said quietly.
I got up and followed him into his corner office. Goddamn, but he had glass walls and the crew could see us, my tears, my slumped shoulders as I sat, defeated, in a chair.
“Wal- Walter,” I said, choking, “I’m not sure how they got this. How? Does the Enquirer have spies?”
Walter, a kindly middle-aged man, handed me a tissue.
“I’ve done some asking around, on the down-low of course,” he said. “It turns out that someone offered to sell a tape to the Enquirer. Someone planted a camera in your hotel room and videotaped you.”
“I see that,” I mumbled. “But how? How did they get a camera into my room? How is this possible?”
Walter only shook his head slowly, his eyes pitying.
�
��Stacey, we’re not sure yet but I’m doing everything I can to find out. You know I’ve been in this business a long time, we’ll figure it out,” he promised.
“But how could the Enquirer have bought it?” I asked, the tears coming on even stronger now, my voice choked and garbled. “How could they go public with something like this? I’m a private citizen, my privacy has obviously been invaded, this isn’t right,” I shook my head. “How could they?” I asked, my shoulders heaving now, a hand covering my face. I wanted to disappear altogether, shrink into nothingness.
“I don’t know,” said Walter, coming around his desk to put a hand on my shoulder. “There’s been a ton of litigation about stuff like this recently, remember the Hulk Hogan sex tape scandal? Gawker put up a vid of the Hulk having sex with his best friend’s wife on their site without his knowledge.”
“I know you feel like this is the end of the world but it’s not,” he continued. “We’ll figure this out, I’ve already talked to the station’s lawyers. They’ll get the clip taken down asap,” he promised. “I’m sure not many people have seen it,” he added soothingly.
I wanted to believe him, but knew it wasn’t true. I’d seen the stats and over two million people had viewed the video already, with more than five thousand thumbs up. I hated modern technology all of a sudden, hated how with a single upload, my privacy was destroyed, my naked body for the world to see. I felt destroyed myself, limp, tired all of sudden, my limbs heavy and dead.
“I have to go,” I said listlessly.
“Take the day off,” soothed my manager. “Take a few days off actually,” he said. “We’ll call you with any updates.”
And like a zombie I got up, ignoring the stares of my colleagues, the pitying looks. Because life was over as I knew it.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Pax
Practice had been brutal as usual, sprints, tackles, blocks followed by two hours of weight-lifting. Exhausted, I walked into the locker room to the sound of loud laughter and hoots. That was nothing new. Our teammates were rough around the edges, a bunch of apes.
“Check it!” laughed Bulger, aka Big Studly. “Check it, check it!” he whooped, his eyes glued to the screen of his laptop.
Jermaine, a tight-end with magnetic hands, peered over his shoulder, eyes wide, practically drooling.
“Man, she’s hot, isn’t she? Man, oh man,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ve never liked blondes, but this one? Maybe I’ll change my mind.”
And that we had to see. Jermaine is one of those guys who has a type, and that type was ebony beauties, girls with the air of an African queen, graceful with elegance and dignity. So to hear him rave about a blonde, maybe even switch sides, was something.
Standing over Bulger’s shoulder, we narrowed our eyes, squinting at the grainy video. And I cocked my head to the side, disbelieving. Because it was our stepsister Ana, or Stacey as she’s known now.
We lost touch with our sister after graduation, unsurprisingly. We’d left Ana in the forest after taking her virginity, and admittedly, it wasn’t one of our best moments. Peyton and I had sworn never to take a virgin, it was just too much responsibility, too much weight on our shoulders, the endless crying, the need for reassurance, the midnight calls for so-called “emergencies.”
So Peyton and I stuck with girls who were experienced, who’d been around the block a couple times. After all, practice makes perfect and the more you do something, the better you get at it, so wouldn’t you want a girl who’s slept with a couple guys before? They understand their bodies better, know what turns them on, and best of all, can handle two massive dongs … most of the time.
But we’d taken a wrong turn with Ana. Secretly lusting after her had clouded our judgment or maybe we’d just been flat out wrong. I can admit it. Maybe her ability to take two in her mouth the first time had convinced us that she couldn’t be a virgin, no way. But never judge a book by its cover, it’s always the most demure girls who turn out to be wanton, ready to let it all go.
So why hadn’t I followed my own advice? Goddammit. Ana had been able to take two in her mouth, but so what? It didn’t mean she was practiced down there, it just meant that she had good oral skills. At the very least, we shouldn’t have left her in the woods again, we should have picked her up, put her together, stroked her and petted her, given her some good after-loving. But it was too late now, we’d beat feet like assholes, complete dicks.
But she’d come out okay, at least from what we see on TV. Because little Ana is now gorgeous Stacey Light, the hottest new sportscaster to hit the national scene. In some weird twist of events, she’s become the preferred reporter for the NFL and we see her on the sidelines at games, interviewing our teammates, joshing with producers, all the guys trying to get a piece of her, flirt with the pretty blonde.
Although when it comes to the Jones twins, somehow she always manages to avoid Peyton and me. There’s always a co-worker ready to take over, someone else to hold the reins, so she’s been able to escape a one-on-one with us … so far.
But the video was unexpected to say the least. We watched, scandalized and hungry, as the girl humped a dildo in the shower, her face a mask of ecstasy, little shrieks of pleasure and gasps of delight emanating even with another dildo in her mouth, her body convulsing, long, blonde hair plastered to her back, droplets streaming off that beautiful female form.
She’d filled out, oh yeah. Skinny Ana was now voluptuous Stacey and the camera missed nothing, zooming in on those bouncing breasts, the luscious ass, the wide hips wriggling right and left, up and down, enjoying inch after inch of pounding delight from her wall-mounted friend.
And you know what? This was the best porn we’d ever seen, every guy in the locker room was now watching the vid, most of us with our dicks in our hands as we watched the little girl take two monsters. And was it my imagination, but did I hear her softly moan “Pax, Peyton,” beneath the drum of the water, her lips forming our names, chanting an unspoken melody?
Shaking my head, I shot a look at my twin, our eyes meeting in agreement. Time to get back in touch with our stepsister pronto.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Peyton
“Where is she?” I asked our agent, Jim.
It was the only way to get a hold of Stacey. We’d thought about going through our mom and dad, but that was unlikely. Ever since graduation, Stacey had gone out of her way to avoid us, never showing up for family events, finding excuses to miss Thanksgiving and Christmas, heck, the one time we’d thought we’d bump in to her for sure, she’d been “sick.”
“Really?” I’d asked my dad. “Really, Ana’s sick?” I’d asked, disbelieving.
“I guess so,” shrugged Gordon, looking around the Hilton ballroom.
Our parents were throwing a party to celebrate Ana’s twenty-first birthday, and the girl wasn’t coming. Pax and I were astounded. It’s one thing to not return phone calls, to never be available, but it’s another to skip out on a party in your honor.
“What about all this?” gestured my brother, indicating the tables stocked with food, the band, the guests already arriving. Our parents had gone to considerable expense judging from heaps of food and luxurious decorations. You’d think the girl would make an appearance at least, show her face for five minutes no matter how sick she was.
But I guess not.
“The guests will just have to live with it,” shrugged my dad. “I heard it’s female problems,” he said, disinterested. “I’m glad I don’t have daughters, sons are so much easier.”
I just grunted in reply. If Gordon knew how many girls we’d banged in our high school days, how many we banged even now, he’d be singing another song. Because Pax and I are in the NFL and the groupies roll in waves. Each tide brings another crop of chicks, short skirts, giggling, twirling their hair, smelling like bubble gum. Every stop, every away game, they’re at the hotel, outside the stadium, throwing themselves at us, pushing out their boobs so that you can’t help but see.
And sure, Pax and I indulge occasionally, but it’s nothing because we have our sights set on something greater ... a Championship. All this is pure distraction until that ring is on our finger.
In the meantime though, we needed to reconnect with our stepsister after that disastrous video, so we’d called our agent to set it up.
“What’s this for?” Jim said, oozing sleaze. “You want to do an exclusive with Stacey Light? Or is this about that video, play off her notoriety?” he cackled.
Trust Jim to be a douchebag, to use someone else’s misfortune to his advantage. But Pax and I ignored his remarks.
The Dirty Hotel King: A Billionaire Bad Boy Romance Page 56