by S. E. Law
Wetness drips over my fingers as I burrow back further into the couch, spreading my legs and squirming out of my panties. I am sooo aroused at the notion that it could be Damon between my lips right now; that it could be his hand making its way down between my thighs; that it could be his lips tasting my hard nipples. My hips begin to dance and there’s a flutter in my belly. I let out a sensual moan, which quickly grows into a bellow of pleasure.
“Damon,” I gasp, as my fingers thrust into my soft folds. My digits tunnel up and I pretend that the penetration is from him. “Damon!” I cry again, every nerve attuned to this man.
My head drops back, my body overflowing with ecstasy at the thought of being with my best friend’s father. He would claim me as his, marking me with his semen even as I cry out his name in lust. He would take me over and over again until my body was sore, my pussy molded to the shape of his massive length.
But who am I kidding? As I come down from my high, my vision clears even while I pant. Damon Pratt can get any woman, and he wouldn’t want me, a professional escort more than two decades his junior. Wiping tears from my eyes, I shut the world out and try to fall asleep, still fantasizing of the handsome alpha male.
3
Damon
I spend most of my time these days in the executive office. The days of running from building to building drumming up business are long behind me because my firm has found its footing and business is booming. I still oversee the exceptionally important deals: the ones in partnership with top ten companies or particular projects that involve prestigious buildings or structures, but otherwise, life is sweet. I have a great team of folks who do good work, and that leaves me with a lot of free time on my hands.
I lounge back in my desk chair, looking out the window. I sip my hot mug of coffee as I gaze down at the people going about their daily business below. The crowds of pedestrians make a maze of the street, and I can even see a small dog barking at what appears to be a boy selling newspapers. I didn’t even know newsboys still existed. Isn’t everything electronic these days?
I imagine one of the people downstairs is me, twenty or so years back. Someone risking their ass running like a crazy person just to get the boss his coffee on time. I used to get him two coffees, depending on whether he felt like milk that day or not. I sure have come a long way.
After all, I climbed the corporate ladder for the better half of a decade after graduating from Cornell University. They teach you that the only way to get to the top is to hoist yourself up, kissing the ass of the man ahead of you non-stop. Though my buddies and I mocked this system, I fell in line and did it for some time. It didn’t taste good, but what choice did I have? Unfortunately, there didn’t seem to be another way. But the longer I spent working my ass off for someone else, the more I realized the corporate grind wasn’t for me.
I didn’t want to degrade myself for success. I didn’t want to answer to someone else. And I sure as hell didn’t want to let someone else reap the big bucks I was bringing in with my hard work. I stuck around long enough to learn the ins and outs of the business, and then opened my own firm called Prime Architects.
Having my own shop was amazing from day one. I no longer felt I had to dazzle the boss, or volunteer to take the late shift with a crappy client. I only did things that had my best interests in mind, even when Prime was in its infancy. And surprisingly enough, it set me apart.
Clients noticed my drive. I began to exhibit a different kind of ambition that drove me to offer a better product, and my reputation in the city flourished.
Prime is now booming, and the projects come to us. I no longer have to go about schlepping my portfolio for anyone and everyone to see. Instead, developers knock on my door, hoping to capitalize on our skill, know-how and brand name. Even better, I answer to no one, and I make the big bucks. But I haven’t forgotten what it’s like to be a bottom feeder fresh out of school trying to find an edge in the industry. As a result, I treat my employees better than any firm in NYC, and I take pride in that.
I sigh, stretching. This is the good life. Then, my phone vibrates in my pocket, startling me. I pull it out to see a text from Cherise. God damn, this woman just won’t quit. Cherise goes to my gym. I started noticing that she was always watching me lift weights in the morning. At first, she was subtle about it, pretending to run on the treadmill while I worked out. But soon, she came over to talk, and it started from there.
Talk morphed into coffee and then coffee morphed into dinner. So we went on one date. So what? It was okay, but nothing special. To be honest, I’m not attracted to her at all. Cherise is a skinny little thing with platinum blonde hair and plump pink lips. She wears matching pink velour sweats when she works out, often pairing her sweats with a white sports bra that shows off her nipples. I guess to most guys, Cherise is the very definition of hot with her skinny frame and bottle blonde hair.
But for me, there was nothing. We had nothing in common other than a gym membership. I got the impression that all she cared about was a hot bod and a fat wallet. I was cordial during dinner but was adamant about ending it after dessert. There was no way I was bringing her back to my penthouse, even though she practically begged me for it. I even broke down and told her as kindly as I could that she just wasn’t my type.
Even so, Cherise didn’t take the hint. Either that, or she flat out doesn’t care. She’s been coming around hanging out by me while I’m on the machines at the gym just about every morning since our date. It’s bad enough I have to avoid her where I work out, but now I have to deal with her texting me in the middle of the workday asking me if I want to meet up for drinks. Doesn’t she have a job she should be at?
I ignore the text and slip the phone back into my pocket. It always seems to be like this. There are tons of women around, but none worth having. I try to conjure up the image of the perfect woman for me. She would be sexy, smart, and motivated to make something of herself.
Unbidden, my mind drifts to my daughter’s best friend, Rose. I know it’s wrong. Not only is she my daughter’s friend, but she’s so young too. I try to shake off the thought, and as if in a bad dream, I hear my ex-wife’s voice belittling me in my head.
Get a grip, she’d snigger. That girl’s still in the cradle.
Well, cradle or not, Rose is better than my ex. My God, Nicole was the definition of a beautiful bitch. She had long, silky blonde hair and eyes the color of the ocean. But her looks rendered me blind to her tactics and caused me years of suffering. Don’t get me wrong because I loved her. Well, a part of her at least. At times, Nicole was funny and easy to get along with. She could be playful and very creative when it came to entertaining Lucy, whom we both adored. But my ex had a dark side, and her Machiavellian ways got the best of me far too many times.
To be frank, I think she loved our lifestyle more than she did me. She loved the money, the big apartment, and the fancy dinners. I think deep down she loved us too, but Lucy and I weren’t her top priority. Not even close. As the years went on, Nicole’s patience wore thin. One day, she jumped ship to Europe in order to “find the freedom” her soul needed to “breathe” and “grow.” I still don’t know what that means, but I was livid when I found the note by the front door. I have never forgiven her for walking out on our daughter. On me? Fine. But our daughter is another story, and Lucy was heartbroken when she realized her mom was gone.
I tried to fill the gap, but what man can be both mother and father? It’s impossible. Still, Lucy has turned out to be a wonderful woman, and for that, I am grateful every day.
Plus, looking back, I get angry because Nicole was a vicious bitch. She didn’t hit me or threaten my life or anything like that, but she belittled me non-stop. She broke down my spirit, even if it’s not manly to admit. Every fault and weakness that I have, every inch of self-doubt, she did everything in her power to bring to the surface. And once it was at the surface, she magnified it until it was all I could think about. She used it as a retaliation tactic when
ever she felt I had done her wrong.
You see, Nicole is the one who is truly insecure deep down. This insecurity led to immense amounts of jealousy that invoked an envious rage at the smallest trigger. If I paid any woman besides her even the most minuscule amount of attention, she would lose her mind. If I held eye contact slightly too long with the waitress or held the door open for an elderly lady on the way into the store, she viewed it as an act of total infidelity.
The worst time, though, was right before she left. I think it may have been the straw that made her feel she needed her “freedom.” Lucy was a freshman in high school and was having a few friends over for a sleepover party that night. Two of her girlfriends came early to help setup because it was going to be quite the shindig. They wanted to have little outdoor cabanas where they could hangout and drink soda and play cards. I thought it was a great idea, so I thought I’d help set it up.
We made little huts out of decorative sheets nailed to two by fours. We hung string lights and lit tiki torches at the entrances. We filled the tents with bean bag chairs and tons of little knick-knacks from around the house. It was a hell of a project. The girls had a blast doing it and it was a great creative outlet.
The problem came when Nicole stepped outside to find me. She needed my credit card to go pick up some pizza and snacks, but then she walked out and saw me teaching Krystal how to hammer a nail. I had my hand around Krystal’s hand on the handle, and was demonstrating how to strike the head at a ninety-degree angle. It was totally harmless and completely innocent. It never even occurred to me that such a thing could be viewed in an inappropriate way.
But if anyone’s mind can go berserk at the littlest provocation, it’s Nicole’s. She straight up lost it. My wife demanded I come inside with her ‘right this very instant.’ Then, she scolded me for taking advantage of such a young girl. I tried to tell her I was just helping build the cabanas, no biggie. None of them had ever used a hammer before! I was doing a fatherly thing, but my ex didn’t care.
“Those are your daughter’s friends! My husband is flirting with little girls. Damon Pratt you truly have no boundaries, skeezing on Lucy’s best friend like that. What are you, some dirty old man who sticks his dick into tight young pussies?”
While I thought it was laughably ridiculous at the time, the words stuck with me for some reason. Later on in life, when Lucy went to college and I met her roommate, the words rang loud in my head, reminding me of past torments. Yet, I couldn’t help but be attracted. Rose Crain was gorgeous, with curly brown hair, playful chocolate eyes, and a curvy body that made my mouth water. I’d never seen such big breasts on a teenage girl before, and I could hardly tear my gaze from that hourglass shape. Still, I heard Nicole’s voice again in my head.
“Damon Pratt you have no boundaries, hoping for a chance with Lucy’s best friend.” Would it make it better or worse that Rose works as an escort? Who the hell knows?
But now, my mind drifts to Rose once again. So what if I’m into her? She’s a grown woman, and I don’t judge anyone, and certainly not my daughter’s curvy, sassy pal. I don’t even care about what she does for work because a girl needs money to eat. Rose is just doing what she needs to do to survive in this crazy place called New York City, and she’s found a unique way to do it.
Anyways, I suppose I can’t help whom I’m attracted to. I give in and see her image in my mind once again. I haven’t seen Rose in a while now, but I remember her as clear as day. She’s curvy and round with big breasts, a small waist, and a wide bottom. Good, because I like my girls lush and ripe. I can’t help but remember Rose in her shiny gold one-piece bathing suit at my daughter’s last Fourth of July bash. She was a real knock out, and I literally ejaculated in the shower after the party, imagining those lush assets beneath me.
Suddenly, my thoughts are interrupted by a soft knock on the door. I spin my chair around to see my secretary Stacey entering the room. Stacey was hired through a temp agency. She was struggling to keep herself afloat financially at the time, and that struggle gave her the gift of drive. Now, she gives the job her all, and I couldn’t ask for more. I’m glad I was able to provide the opportunity to get herself up on her feet.
“Mr. Pratt, you have a visitor,” she says smartly, looking at me through Coke-bottle glasses. “Would you like me to send her in?”
That’s strange because I wasn’t expecting anyone. Well, the unexpected is always exciting. I nod, and Stacey steps outside once again before waving someone inside.
“Let me know if you need anything,” my secretary says before making her way back to her desk up front. I nod and thank her.
Then, a woman sashays into my office, and to my astonishment, it’s Rose. I jump up a little in my seat, remembering the things I was just thinking about her. Trying to play it cool, I smile in a professional manner, standing to shake her hand. That tiny palm is soft and feminine in my big paw, and she looks at me hesitantly with warm brown eyes.
“Hey, Mr. Pratt. I hope my dropping by unannounced like this is okay,” she murmurs.
“It’s no problem. Have a seat, Rose.” She gracefully slips into one of the armchairs on the other side of my desk.
“Did Stacey offer you a beverage? There’s coffee, water, or tea if you’d like,” I say in a professional tone. Thank god it’s only slightly hoarse. What are the odds she would drop by right when I was thinking of her? The pretty brunette smiles, and my heart races.
“Oh, thank you. I had a coffee this morning already,” she says.
“Okay, great. So how are you, Rose? This is certainly unexpected, although delightful. Is everything alright?” I ask. Hopefully, everything’s fine. Oh shit, is one of my grandchildren sick, and she’s here to deliver the bad news? Rose seems to read my mind and holds up her hands.
“No, no. Everything is wonderful!” she smiles. Then, she nervously bites her lip and scooches to the end of her seat. I notice that she has on a professional skirt suit set, although the skirt is distractingly short. In fact, I have a hard time tearing my eyes from the length of creamy thigh revealed as she shifts uncomfortably in the chair. But then, Rose takes a deep breath and looks me in the eye.
“I have a business proposition for you, Mr. Pratt,” she says in a clear, direct voice. What? I steeple my hands, intrigued.
“Really?”
She nods.
“Yes, I know … well, I have an idea and I was hoping to bounce it off you,” she says.
I smile.
“Sure honey. I’m always interested in what you have to offer. Let’s hear it.”
And with that, Rose presents a delightful deal that changes the course of my life forever.
4
Rose
I seriously cannot believe I am doing this. I’m sitting in Damon Pratt’s office about to ask him to invest in an escort agency I want to launch to go against City Girls. I’ve shown up unannounced and am feeling a bit unprepared. Okay, if we’re being honest, ‘a bit’ is a radical understatement. I didn’t prepare anything.
Instead, I woke up this morning with the intention of getting ready for this moment. In my mind, this was going to be the culmination of all my dreams and desires. But two phenomena took over: procrastination and overexcitement.
Procrastination saw me sitting at the table in front of a blank notebook, alternating between biting the tip of the pen and tapping it against the pad of paper. I sat for about forty-five minutes trying to figure out where to start. I have all of these great ideas, and I understand how they would work in real life. But how do you put them on paper? Does every detail need to be listed or just the bullet points? The more unknowns that crossed my mind, the further I got from actually writing anything down.
Next came overexcitement. Sure, a standard business plan includes tons of detailed documents. But Saucy Nights is not a standard business! I don’t need fancy paperwork, I need capital. I need to get going. And Damon of all people would understand this! He knows me and has seen how I work. I’m gr
eat on the go, just not so much when it comes to steady, methodical planning.
I slammed the notebook closed. Yes, there are plenty of things to be written down, but why does everything always have to be memorialized? I ignored the fact that I didn’t know the first thing about organizing, documenting, legalizing, and of course, implementing and executing my idea, and instead, decided to just go for it.
Then, I jumped the gun and got dressed with the intention to make my dream a reality. It didn’t take much to work up the nerve to come to Prime Architects. I convinced myself again on the walk over that I would blow Damon away with my idea, and he’d be so excited that he’d believe my excuses.
‘I haven’t written a business plan because I already have it all figured out up here, in my mind. I’ve been tweaking and correcting City Girls’ tactics for years now. All I need to do is apply what I’ve learned over the years to my new business. I know I can make it happen!’
But now that I’m actually here, in person in his office, a wave of doubt washes over me. I realize how silly it all seems, but suddenly, my mental business plan seems very small and childish in this huge executive suite with the sun beaming through large floor-to-ceiling windows.
It doesn’t help that I feel totally out of my element here. Damon’s office is spare, modern, and stylish with blonde wood furniture and a neutral, beige rug. It’s highly professional, as is everyone else I encountered on my way in. The women look so chic. They dress in a sophisticated manner that screams subtlety and finesse. Flaunting their female assets could be a detriment to a woman in the business world, but these ladies seem to know exactly how to walk the line between subtly sexy and pure corporate dominance. I picture myself in a killer pant suit, looking like I mean business instead. As if.