by Alexis Angel
“Alright, I’m going to sort this out,” I say, reaching for my cellphone and getting ready to call the Samantha. These bureaucratic fucks are always after one thing - money - and I have plenty of that. I’ll cut a fucking check and in a week nobody’s going to care about my cock’s appearance on TV. Well, the ladies will care, of course, but that’s life.
I unlock the cellphone but, as I do it, it starts ringing. My father’s name is on the screen like a fucking bad omen. My father, the King, is not really the kind of guy to call to know how I’m doing. Besides, after everything he’s ever done to me and my mother, may she rest in peace, he’s lucky I’m even going to take his fucking call.
But still, I take the call and press the speakerphone button. Before I have the time to say a fucking word, my father is already speaking. And he’s both upset and worried.
“You crossed the line, Derrick,” he says and then takes a deep breath. “Are you okay? Is everything alright?”
Sigh. Here we fucking go. Moral lectures from the man who started dating his Press Secretary one year after I left the palace. Seriously, the only good thing about Samantha, the Press Secretary was that she was Alicia’s mother. Alicia Bayer. I would love to just sit and fucking rub one out thinking of her, but I have a cunt father to respond back to.
“Fuck you, Leo. I guess you already know, then,” I say with venom dripping down my words. “Like father, like son, huh?”
“Derrick? Son? What are you talking about and what’s going on? I can’t turn on the television without seeing you make an ass of yourself! It’s all over every damn TV channel in the world!”
“Well, it’s not my fault I was made for the spotlight, you know?” I say, putting a toast inside my mouth while I lean back against the chair. Fuck, people are really getting bent out of shape. “But don’t worry, old man. I’ll call the DA’s office and I’ll get it sorted. I don’t need your fucking help.”
“Derrick, I’m your father, for Christ’s sake,” the fucking fool continues. “Don’t use your anger for me to ruin your own life.”
He sounds so miserable on the phone. Whatever. Like I gave a fuck. After beating my mother and cheating on her till she couldn't fight the cancer anymore, I don’t owe him shit. I don’t even care that he’s dating his Press Secretary. I just wished he’d showed my mom just a little bit of love when she was alive.
But I still can’t treat him as badly as he’s treated Mom. I decide to give in a little.
“Alright, alright. Calm down. I’ll just go back home for a few weeks and let this die off.”
“No,” my father says in such a firm way I know there’s no way in hell I’m going to convince him otherwise. “You are going to stay there and you are going to fix it, Derrick. I’ve been trying to get a trade deal on paper for three years with the US, and I won’t let you ruin it just as we start to negotiate. Stay there. Get it fixed. If you leave now, it’ll look like you’re fleeing and be even worse.”
I’m about to protest when Larry jumps in. “You really have no idea what you’re into, Derrick. You’re way in over your head. The DA doesn’t want a deal; she wants your head on a platter. I don’t know why. But whatever the reason, she’s going to indict you and try to get your VISA revoked.”
What the fuck? Kick me out of the States?
“I take it by your silence that you know what all this means,” my father continues. “You need to get this sorted.”
Fuck, I really hate being treated like a fucking child. I’m Derrick fucking Blaine, not some goddamn pawn to be used by the DA against St. Livy.
“Listen to me --” I say, but he doesn’t allow me to continue, cutting me short.
“I don’t want to hear a thing, Derrick. You’re St. Alban’s heir. It’s time for you to behave like it. You want to hate me, that’s fine. You want to judge me for everything you think I’ve done? Go ahead. But I will not let you ruin your life because of your anger towards me and I will not let you ruin the lives of your subjects.” And, without giving me time to respond, he ends the call. I stay there, staring into the New York City skyline with the cell phone disconnecting after a bit.
Fuck all this shit. Just fuck it.
“Pressly, get me my helmet. I’m going out.”
“Are you sure it’s a good idea, sir?” He asks me in that understanding tone of his. If there’s someone that cares more about me than about some fucking trade deal, it’s Pressly.
“I need to unwind,” I simply say as I grab my leather jacket.
“Very well,” Pressly says, disappearing into one of the rooms and returning a few seconds after with my black helmet in his hands.
I look over at Larry who’s still sitting there. “Sir, if I may...” he starts.
Here we go. Larry’s about to lay some fucking wisdom on me. I hate it when people do that… But whenever it’s him, I can’t help but listen.
“Let it out, mate.”
“If you can show that you’ve changed, that you’ve become more stable – we could make it work out in the end. I know it might sound absurd to you, but I know you’re capable of it.”
I stare at him for a heartbeat. Change? How the fuck am I supposed to change? Should I become Derrick nice guy Blaine? That’s fucking impossible. Wrecking shit up is in my DNA. I’m a fruit of the genetics of chaos. You can’t change this shit. But instead of arguing, I simply nod at him respectfully - I know he means well. He could charge me a fortune, but he serves the kingdom pro bono.
“Any ideas how I can change?” I ask him. I turn from Larry towards Pressly. “Any?”
There’s a pause. At last, Larry ventures, “Is there anyone wholesome you could turn to? Someone you could be seen with?”
Wholesome. With me? Gimme a fucking break.
“And His Highness could work with her and maybe do some good publicity?” Pressly asks Larry.
“Exactly!” Larry says. “Someone you could do some public service with that would get the public thinking you’re an asset rather than a liability towards civilization.”
Fuck.
I say nothing to them as I walk out of the condo. I need to work out. Then I need to fuck something.
I grab the helmet and put it under my arm; I head to the elevator and get to the garages down below as fast as I can.
Two hours later, I leave the private gym that I belong to and hop on my bike. I thought working out would clear my head, but doing dead lifts and squatting hundreds of pounds only increases the testosterone level inside of me.
It makes me into a fucking maniac. All I need to do now is fuck.
I cruise through traffic like a fucking storm, tracing the route to my very own strip club like some fucking missile. I bought the place two years ago and I use it when I need to release some steam or be by myself. Don’t fucking judge - women are my drug and I’m not fucking ashamed of that.
As soon as I step inside the huge room, everyone turns their heads to me - yes, even strippers. I’m a fucking God among men, and they know it.
I turn on my heels and head upstairs to my private room. Yes, I have a private fucking room in here. Stocked bar, soundproof walls and the windows that are one way mirrors. Exactly what I need right now - a place where I can drink in peace while taking in the sight of beautiful half-naked women. I get in and sit down on the couch, removing the cap out of the bottle and taking a massive gulp.
“Well, hello there, Your Highness,” I turn my head back as a Russian looking stripper enters the room, wearing only a black lace thong and a pearly bra. She smiles at me, and asks, “I saw you coming upstairs and I thought you might…want a little company. May I…?”
“Be my guest,” I say, leaning back against the leather couch as she walks towards me. It’s not the first time. Every fucking girl here wants a piece of me. They all want my fucking cock. At least once they want the eleven inches of His Royal Highness inside of them. That’s why they come to work here. Today must be her turn. “What’s your name?” I ask.
�
��Marta,” she replies with a lascivious smile.
I take one hard look at her: I’ve seen her around a few times, but never had the time for a one-on-one with her.
She hits the switch on the wall and dims the lights; in an instant, she’s on the couch, sitting on top of me. I’m like fucking honey to strippers - they all want to try Prince Sin firsthand. Not that I’m complaining.
Before I can say a thing, she’s already grabbing at my crotch, massaging it with her open hand. Boiling blood flows down to it and in an instant my raging erection is already pushing against her hand. She starts swaying her hips back and forth, grinding against me as I grab at her ass.
“I want you to fuck me…” She whispers against my ear, already unbuttoning my jeans with quick experienced fingers. In half a second, she pulls my cock out and starts to stroke it with quick flicks of her wrist. Like a fucking magician, she makes a condom wrapper appear on her fingers. She opens the wrapper and slides the condom down my length with a grin on her face.
She asked nicely, so I guess I have to fucking oblige - I push her thong to the side and turn her over before grabbing her ass cheeks and pushing her down. My cock slides inside her in a flash, a long moan pouring out of her lips. She starts jumping up and down on my cock, clawing at my chest with her long fingernails.
“My God…” She moans. “You’re… huge.” I guess she didn’t believe the rumors, or watch the television, since she sounds so fucking surprised. Well, all the better for her.
I thrust at her as hard as I can, my eyes wandering down to the dance floor below past Marta. Nothing better than fucking a tight pussy while you can still appreciate an army of perfect strippers down on the stage.
My thrusts have her screaming her head off. Her body quivers and her pussy tightens around my cock as her whole body starts to tremble in ecstasy.
Great. She’s cumming. I hope she doesn’t stop because I’m still too far away from my own fucking climax.
That’s when I see her. There’s a woman I’ve never seen before among the other strippers - she’s probably one of the new girls, but there’s something in her that makes me unable to look away. I’m not sure if it’s the innocent look on her face or the perfect way she moves across the floor.
I grit my teeth harder, grabbing the stripper and holding her down as my cock starts to spasm violently. I’m not ready to cum yet. I want to watch this girl on stage dance. But just looking at her is doing it for me like nothing else. I can feel my balls begin to fucking tighten up. I don’t want to lose myself so quick.
I slow down my thrusts and feel myself start to get control back. Marta looks back at me. “Why’d you slow down, Sire?” she asks.
But I’m not paying attention to Marta. My eyes are focused on the main stage. At the beautiful woman who’s dancing. I’m timing my strokes to her moves. She looks up at the private room and for a second I think she can see through the one-sided mirrors.
Fuck.
Alicia
Okay, can I just say for my own self-defense that when Samantha Scar, the District Attorney for New York State walked into the offices of The News of the Times, I never really thought that sitting in on the meeting would lead me to getting ready to go on stage at a strip club.
I mean, come on, hello, can we say surreal? This just happens to be the day that I just caught my asshole boyfriend, sorry ex-boyfriend, cheating on me.
But actually, you know, I've got to be honest with you. If I can't be honest with you, there's really no point in this, is there? :)
And if I'm being honest with you, the truth is that I'm really not that sad because of Jake anymore. There's only one thought going through my head right now.
Revenge. Not on Jake. But on Derrick Blaine.
Derrick is the reason why Jake is the way he is. People like Jake look up to people like Derrick. He makes using and losing women look sexy and cool. He made tormenting me look like the popular thing to do.
So when Samantha walked in, I was all ears. I was sitting in Mike’s office. He had also invited Danielle Marlowe, the CEO of the paper to join us.
"We're going to take that man down," the District Attorney said. "And this paper is going to help me do just that."
I was curious at first how this was going to happen, but she just looked at me. "You're the reporter that grew up in St. Livy, right?" she asked. I nodded with a startled expression. She'd done her homework. "Alicia Bayer, right?"
I nodded again, too surprised to even speak.
“Alicia is one of our smartest up-and-coming employees," Mike said. "She regularly writes on Page Eight."
I rolled my eyes. I'd just drafted my first draft of a Page Eight piece that morning - about the antics of Prince Blaine, but I guess that meant regularly when talking to the District Attorney. To date, I could count on one hand how many times I'd been allowed to land on Page Eight - but hopefully that luck would change. People in the industry looked to Page Eight as the gold standard for career launch pads – everyone in the newspaper wanted to be there.
"What are you writing about what happened this morning?" Samantha asked me, her eyes sharply descending on me.
"Well," I said taking a deep breath. "I talked to some people. I'm still waiting to hear back..."
If I bring charges against him, he could lose his visa and be deported from the country," Samantha said, cutting me off. "I want you to include that. Tell them you got it from a source."
I gulped. That was a little extreme, wasn't it? I didn't like him at all, but to kick him out?
"Okay," I mumbled and took down some notes.
"But," Samantha continued, not even paying me any attention, "Before I can deport him, we need to really get some dirt on the scumbag," she said.
I was nodding my head. Okay, I could go along with getting dirt.
"We need to get close to him. We need to get into his head," Samantha continued. Both Mike and Danielle were nodding their heads.
"We need to get him to tell us what his dirty laundry is," Samantha spoke, as if in a trance at this point. "The public still loves him to an extent. They think he's a goofy, self-destructively nice guy just because he's handsome. They love to hate him."
I didn't know where this was going just yet, but I waited for Samantha to finish. "We need to show him that he's dangerous to them," she said, getting up out of her chair. "And with public opinion against him, they’ll beg me to press charges against him. And before you know it, bye bye Prince."
Mike and Danielle looked at her and I thought I saw fear in their eyes. She nodded to them one last time before turning around and walking out of the floor towards the elevators.
A part of me was wondering how one District Attorney could tell a newspaper editors and the CEO what to do and walk out in such a fashion. My questions were answered when Mike turned to me.
“If Samantha owns a majority stake in the paper, I don't care what it is, we're going to have to follow her instructions, no matter how difficult."
So that was it. Somehow, Samantha had a financial control over my employment. Not that it mattered. I looked to Mike and Danielle to see what our plan was going to be.
And now, 12 hours later, I cannot believe this is the plan that we came up with.
I'm standing off to the side of a main stage in a strip club called "O". It's apparently owned by Prince Sin himself. By the way, I'm actually a bit proud of myself with coming up with the "Prince Sin" moniker as I was writing the piece today. It's taken off pretty fast, going viral along with the video of him waving his dick in the air and his condom flying around smacking those network men with his...
Okay, focus. Yes, it was actually really uncomfortable to sit and watch his fabulous body at work, and yes, maybe I did watch a couple times. And by couple, maybe I mean I spent a good two or three hours watching the video during breaks. And maybe seeing him fuck that reporter and his devil may care attitude, his perfect Greek-god body, chiseled muscles, and twinkling blue eyes got me a little wet. But j
ust because I get aroused whenever I think of him doesn't make him any less of an asshole, okay? I'm serious. I seriously hate him. He made my early life miserable. When he wasn’t ignoring me.
"You'll be fine, kiddo," Mike is saying, standing next to me. He had called in some contacts and managed to somehow talk to the manager and get me an audition in the last half hour.
"But she's not going to get naked," Mike had told the manager.
"What good is a stripper that doesn't strip?" the manager asked, dumbfounded.
"She just needs an audition," Mike said. "If the Prince comes in, then we'll go on stage, but have the DJ cut the music at the two-minute mark. Let the Prince come to her."
The manager smiled knowingly. "Oh, it's one of those things, is it, Mikey?" he asked with a wink and a nod.
And that's when the Prince walked in. More like stalked in.
I still don't know how Mike managed to wrangle this deal as I think back to the last half hour in this club. I figure that when you work in gossip, you know all kinds of characters.
"Two minutes, kiddo," Mike says to me, the manager having told us to get ready. "Two minutes is all you have to get his attention."
I nod. I'm a little nervous. I'm wearing whatever I could find really quick - with a short black skirt, stockings, high heels, and a black tank top.
I'm not sure how I got into this situation.
Actually, wait a second. I take that back. I know exactly how I fell into this situation. I jumped at the chance to get back at Derrick Blaine. I remember back to one afternoon when I was thirteen. I remember it vividly because it was two weeks after the King’s wife had died in New York City. I don’t remember much about the circumstances, but I do know that Derrick was away from school for those two weeks.