100 Days: A Billionaire Romance

by Alexis Angel

  That’s right. It’s only been ten fucking days and I’ve already started selling pieces of my dad’s smut empire.

  Don’t get me fucking wrong. I love to fuck. I mean, the first time you saw me, I was fucking two strippers, remember?

  “You’re father would have been very proud of you,” some random old guy says as I descend the podium. I have no idea who the fuck he is, but he takes the stage after me. I navigate around all the fucking leeches that surround this place. As long as I’m making a name for myself by distancing myself from my dad’s smut kingdom, and giving away some money to them, they’re content to come let me inside. But the moment I start going against their rules, they’ll pull back the red carpet and leave me out in the cold.

  I find Gerard waiting for me outside the Met on the steps. He’s looking through his phone, checking emails. Always a good lawyer. Always on top of things. Hell, he basically raised me after my Mom died and Dad started marrying women left and right. When I moved out of the house before college because I just couldn’t get into Dad living with three other women, it was Gerard who fucking made sure I didn’t go off the deep end. Sure, I like to party. I like to get wild. But trust me when I tell you that I’d be having a lot more than tattoos on my body if Gerard weren’t there to bring me back when I started to stray.

  “Luca Gianoni’s left two emails and a voicemail while you were inside,” Gerard says. “He’s still talking about the rest of the strip clubs as being on the table.”

  Great. Does no one in this fucking city buy into the sex business except the fucking mob? I’d rather not sell to them if I can help it, but if no one else is at the fucking table, I can’t really help it.

  “We have no more other offers?” I ask, incredulous. “The strip clubs bring in close to five hundred grand a night when you combine them.”

  Gerard shrugs. “They also cost roughly three hundred grand a night combined when you add it all up,” he says.

  He’s got a point of course. Strippers aren’t cheap. In fact, they’re fucking expensive. But oh my fucking God, what a great fucking expense to throw money at.

  I’ve always been a fan of strippers. But I swear it’s like ever since that night a week and a half ago, I can’t get strippers out of my fucking head.

  I sigh as I get into the car and Gerard gets in next to me.

  “You thinking of heading to Scorcher's again, Arsen?” he asks. He’s got a touch of fucking pity in his eyes. I can’t blame the guy as I nod.

  “I got to find this girl,” I tell him. I’ve been searching high and fucking low for the stripper who was on the pole. I don’t know her name. I don’t know when she works. No one else at the club seems to either.

  You want to know the bitch about the whole thing, though? It’s that same night I shared a fucking cab with her. I could've asked her for her name at least that night.

  Don’t you knock me for being quiet that night. I’m sorry, it was just that my Dad had just died, okay? Sex wasn’t really going through my head at that point. This isn’t like some fucking plot hole or something you can mention in the review. You try getting news that your estranged family member has just hit the fucking bucket and you have to manage a sprawling multi-billion dollar sex empire and see if you remember the small details.

  The car pulls up outside the strip club where I had first seen this gorgeous, blonde haired, perfectly curved woman ten fucking days ago. With a name like Scorcher's, I’m not sure what I'm going to find instead. But fuck it. If I come up empty, maybe I can fuck another stripper.

  Way to look at the fucking bright side, eh?

  I walk in, and instantly I’m greeted by the House Mom, Yasmine.

  Yasmine’s been eyeing my fucking cock for years. She’s got to be the oldest one in this joint. And a fucking vet too, seeing girls come and go.

  “You’re here for another one of my girls tonight, Arsen?” she asks me with an arched eyebrow.

  “I’m looking for someone,” I tell her. Sure she’s been eyeing me, but I’ve never really given it up to her. Never really know why. Just the circumstances weren’t right probably.

  “Let’s go upstairs,” Yasmine says as she turns around. I look at her ass flex and instantly I’m reminded of the blonde. Yasmine turns her head back to look at me. “To your office.”

  I follow dutifully. Fuck it, if I don’t try to get my dick hard thinking about boning Yasmine. But it’s like every time I think about ass, or tits, or pussy, there’s just one image that keeps coming into my head.

  Yeah, you fucking guessed it. The blonde goddess that I saw last week.

  We get upstairs and the music is a bit more subdued.

  Yasmine slides over to me, rapidly erasing any personal space that I may have had. But I don’t mind. I wrap my arms around her back and squeeze her ass.

  “I’ve been waiting for this for a long time, Arsen,” she coos. “I knew you were coming tonight. You’ve been here every night. But ever since you had Sophie and Heather, you haven’t taken any other girl. I think I know why.”

  Maybe this is going to be my lucky night. Does Yasmine know?

  That explains it! She didn’t want to fuck me, but that’s what she had to make it look like to the other girls.

  Jesus, I’ll never figure women out, you know?

  “You’re done with those girls, aren’t you, baby?” Yasmine asks. I don’t know why, but I nod.

  “You need someone who’s finally caught your eye, don’t you?” she asks. Fuck, she’s on the money.

  “You need someone who will treat you just right,” Yasmine says.

  She couldn’t be more clued in if she tried.

  “You know where I can find her?” I ask and Yasmine smiles. Her hand comes to rest on my crotch.

  Wait a fucking second!

  “What do you mean, babe?” Yasmine asks, a glint in her eyes. But I’m too caught up and I don’t pay attention.

  “I think she was what? 5’ 7”. Blonde hair. Body like a goddess. Last time I saw her was ten days ago, the night I had Sophie and Heather up here,” I tell Yasmine.

  Stifling a look of disappointment, Yasmine backs off.

  “That’s where I saw her for the first time, and then I actually shared a cab with her, but I didn’t get a chance to talk to her much,” I say.

  Yeah, I’m a fucking asshole because Yasmine looks completely fucking disappointed. I guess she really did want to fuck me tonight, huh?

  But you know what? I’m going to be the first one to admit that in reality I am a fucking asshole. I got nothing to fucking hide. So there. I’ll be completely honest about it with you as to who I am.

  I mean, I’m sorry if it hurts your feelings, but would you rather I lie?

  “You’re talking about Ashley,” Yasmine says quietly.

  So this Stripper Goddess has a name! Finally.

  “Is she working tonight?” I ask her.

  “She doesn’t work here anymore,” Yasmine says and I think I see a glint of pleasure at the total look of devastation that wracks my face. "Her stage name is Misty, but her real name is Ashley Lane. Don't tell anyone that I told you."

  Just my fucking luck. The one woman I obsess about ends up being the one who doesn’t work here anymore.

  But Yasmine has a heart of gold, because her next words are, “She started working at Simulated Pleasures last week.”

  Fucking bingo!

  Good thing I didn’t sell that place yet.

  First thing tomorrow, I’m stopping by there and finding out how to get ahold of this girl.

  I rush over and kiss Yasmine on the lips.

  Hell, I break it off before she wants more. I know what I do to women. And I don’t want to go down that road now with anyone but Stripper Goddess. Wait. I mean Ashley.

  “Thank you so fucking much, Yasmine,” I say and she just looks at me in a daze as I rush down the stairs.

  I got to get ready for tomorrow.

  It’s going to be a great fucking day. I can feel i
t.

  Ashley

  It's been exactly one week of taking calls and I've learned a few things: never ask permission questions, never asked if they're married, and hot girls aren't bored. So when the phone rings, I immediately snap into character. I lower my voice almost to a whisper. I finger the lace of my bra—Agent Provocateur—and then run my hands up my stockings. I know some people can do this job while they're washing the dishes, or mopping the floor or something, but for me, I have to be all in. I can't multi-task. I think it should feel authentic, and wearing the heels and lingerie instantly gets me into character. I even turn down the lights. I find that the darker the room is, the more I can focus on the voice on the other end of the line.

  I answer the call and sit back on my bed. I whisper in a soft, sultry voice. The secret is to keep your voice smooth as a stick of butter. "Hi, this is Misty. Who am I speaking with?"

  I hear a man clear his throat. "Mike."

  I wait for more but it doesn't come. "That's my favorite name for a man," I purr, urging him on. "You sound strong and handsome."

  "You can say I'm strong. I work construction—concrete pump operator."

  "Oh that's good because I could use a few pumps of your hot concrete. I'm so glad you called. My neighbors have been fucking all day and listening to them has made me so horny…"

  "That makes two of us," he says.

  "And I've got a secret to tell you. I'm not wearing any underwear."

  "Is that right?" he replies, and I can almost hear a smile in the way he asks.

  "I've been so horny. I can hardly stand it. I haven't had sex all day and it feels like forever. I have myself so worked up and hot that I'm lying in front of a fan, and the cold air is making my nipples hard. Do you like hard nipples, Mike?"

  "Mm hmm," he mumbles, and I continue.

  "What kind of girls do you like?"

  "Young, blonde, and busty," he says without hesitation.

  "Well, you're in luck. I'm 18, and I have long, blonde hair that goes down to my tiny waist. I wish you were here with me right now," I say, just above a whisper, and Mike lowers his voice as well.

  "What would you do to me?" he asks, as if it were a shared conspiracy.

  "Oh Mike, I'd make sure my lips touched every manly inch of you. I'd start by nibbling on your ear—playfully, but then I'd get more serious and move my lips down to your neck and I'd touch your strong chest—I can tell you have a strong chest just by your voice. And I'd run my tongue over your nipples, circling them a few times."

  "And what else?" he asks.

  "I'd let my mouth move down your body even further, my tongue resting in the deep V above the waistband of your pants. I can even taste the salt on your skin and it leaves me wanting more—so much more."

  "Is your pussy wet?" he asks.

  "Oh yes, you make me so wet. I'm soaking wet—it's your voice, your body—you have me so turned on, Mike. My pussy is throbbing for you. I'm in the mood to fuck."

  "Cut or uncut cocks?" he asks.

  "I love all cocks."

  "What would you do to my cock?"

  "I'd unbutton your jeans after you've had a hard day at work, and I'd slip my hand over your cock. Both of my hands would work their way up and down your shaft until you're nice and hard and then I'd place my lips on it. First kissing the tip, and then slowly basting it with my warm, wet tongue, moving up and down your manhood."

  "Mm hmm, I like that," he says.

  "But I wouldn't stop there. I'd wrap my lips around your cock so tightly and take you deep into my throat. I'd take it so deep that I might gag. Would you like it if I gagged on your cock?"

  He doesn't answer, but I can hear him breathing heavier, so I continue.

  "Do you like it when I suck on your cock like this?"

  "Yes—mm hmm—more," he answers at a whisper…or is it a whimper?

  "Good, because your cock tastes so good. I can hardly stand it," I say, and I can hear him jerking himself off—skin slapping skin.

  "Mike, my pussy is so wet—I want to ride your cock. I want you to give it to me. I'm going to straddle your lap and lower my pussy onto your thick, hard shaft with my breasts in your face. I want you to take my nipples into your mouth."

  Then I hear Mike coming, his breathing overtaking the conversation, so I decide to enact my own climax as a spectacular finale.

  When his breathing slows, he asks, "Can I get your phone number?"

  "Oh Mike, I'm so flattered, but my dad would kill me if I gave out my number. I'm still in high school. I'm 18, remember? Let me give you my four-digit calling code so you can call me again in private."

  He agrees, somewhat reluctant, and we end the call. I lie back and stare at the ceiling. Yasmine is right, I think to myself. This is much better than stripping. At least I can use my imagination during these calls. At Scorcher's, what you saw is what you got. There's no masking the fact that you're on a stage being judged. But during these calls, the people on the other end of the line have to use their imaginations too—which is also great because it eliminates my old routine —waxing, makeup, manicures, pedicures, and you name it.

  I think about putting on a pair of yoga pants and heading to the gym, but then my eye travels to the stack of bills piling up next to my bed. Shit. Unlike Scorcher's, this job also doesn't leave me with cash in hand every night. I better go pick up my paycheck from the phone sex company headquarters, Simulated Pleasures LLC.

  I quickly dress and hail a cab outside. When I tell the driver where I'm going, he gives me an odd look. Is it a look of judgment, or something else? I can't tell. I decide to ignore it and place my ear buds into my ears and stream music through my phone, drowning out the outside world.

  After 20 minutes, the cab pulls up to a large, non-descript white building. If it weren't for the address, I'd never know that this is the headquarters for one of the largest phone sex companies in the country. I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't this. I'm still listening to my music, and decide to leave my ear buds in. I hand the driver the money and give him a curt smile. As soon as I leave the cab, I walk toward the building, rounding a corner.

  And then I feel it—like taking a bowling ball to my back. I'm struck in the back and I try to turn around but my arms are pinned behind my back. Without my hands, I can't remove my ear buds or stop the music streaming through my phone, so it's impossible to hear what's going on around me. I'm screaming and thrashing my head from side to side, and the movement causes the ear bud on my right side to fall out. I can now feel a man's hot breath on my neck, "Shut up! Just shut up right now!" He's placing his hands over my mouth, muffling out my screams, and I bite down as hard as I can. It's my only option and it's instinctual. I feel the flesh of his fingers pinched between my teeth, and that's when he hits me; he hits me hard enough on my head to shut me up. I'm feeling dazed, but when I finally get a look at the man's face, I'm shocked.

  "Peter?"

  "Shut up! Just shut the fuck up! You want to humiliate me on Facebook live and then ignore all of my calls for a week? Well, I'll show you what I'm going to do about that!"

  The look in his eyes is one of pure rage and a battered ego. I'm also surprised at his strength. He was never one to work out much, and I attributed his soft body to weakness, but he's stronger than I anticipated. It's shocking, really. Without saying another word, he brings his hands around my neck and squeezes. I place my hands on top of his, trying to pry them loose, but it's not working. I can feel myself running out of breath and in a tiny voice I manage to squeak, "You're hurting me, stop!"

  And just when my entire world starts to fade to black, he stops. I can't believe it. I open my eyes just in time to see another man between us now. He's big—tall, muscular, and broad shouldered. He's not the kind of guy you want to fuck with, and I watch as his fist crashes into Peter's face, breaking his nose.

  "If I ever see you around here again, I'll fucking kill you," he growls, clenching Peter by the collar of his shirt, and when he lets go,
Peter turns around and runs, not bothering to look back.

  "Are you okay?" the man asks.

  As he looks down at me, I get the vague feeling that I know him from somewhere. I'm rubbing my throat and besides being emotionally rattled, I'm fine. "I want to thank you—what you did—most people wouldn't get involved, but you saved my life." When I finish talking, I look into the man's eyes again, and I realize where I know those intense icy blues from—the cab ride from the club.

  "Wait… I've seen you somewhere," I say. "You're the guy who tried to steal my cab outside of the club the other night."

  "It was an emergency. I don't normally jump into other people's cabs."

  "Look, I appreciate your help but I have to go."

  "Wait. I'd like to take you to dinner, I—"

  "I'm sure you're a nice guy and all, but I hope you'll understand that I'm in no mood to be setting up a dinner … not after my ex-boyfriend just tried to murder me."

  "Forget him. He no longer matters. Just say yes."

  I look at him—his eyes the color of perfect weather, his strong, broad shoulders, and gentle smile—and even though I'm feeling bruised and frazzled, and I promised myself I'd never go out on a date with a man who frequents a place like Scorcher’s, I surprise myself and say yes.

  Arsen

  With a last look in the mirror I close the locker door and head out of the locker room at the New York Athletic Club. Sure, it’s filled with the same fucking fancy people that I spoke to at the Met—some of these people are still scandalized that I’m in their precious little club of theirs. But guess what? I’m now worth at least $5 billion dollars. If I want to go around joining all the most exclusive clubs in Manhattan, I have the money to buy my way in. They don’t. They’re sitting on their piles of fucking reputation and fake integrity that’s as hollow as a fucking clam shell. Probably got their house mortgaged five times over and a mountain of fucking debt. They’re probably just hoping that they die before the bill comes due so everyone will at least think they’re prosperous and dignified now. Who the fuck cares once they’re dead, right?