100 Days: A Billionaire Romance

by Alexis Angel

  The receptionist looks at me and smiles.

  “Hi Brittney,” she says sweetly.

  Bitch better be nice to me. She thinks I’m already fucking the big boss.

  But no, not yet.

  I smile back. “Is he in?” I ask.

  She nods. “I think he’s on a conference call,” she says to me.

  I shrug and keep walking toward Carl’s door. The fact that he’s busy doesn't stop me. That’s never going to stop me.

  I know you’re probably rolling your eyes at me, hun. I don’t blame you. I’m not behaving like a good little girl. Good girls don’t act and say the things I’m doing and saying. But that’s because I’m not a normal girl.

  What am I?

  Oh, you're in for a treat.

  Because I’m a bad girl.

  I don’t mean like the bad boys you’re reading about on your Kindle. I’m not filled up with tribal tattoos. I don’t turn into a dragon. I’m not part of some underground MMA club. I don’t play football on the field, and fuck off the field. I’m not your Domme.

  No, I’m much, much worse.

  I’m a girl who knows exactly what men want. I can make them give it to me. And then keep giving it to me. I use ‘em and lose ‘em. I don’t get tied down.

  I fuck. Yeah, so what? That’s about as far as their bodies go. Then I move on.

  Women want to be me. Men want me. And I play it all to my benefit.

  Don’t believe me?

  Watch and see.

  I open the door and walk in. Carl is on the phone but he looks up with a start. He sees me, and his eyes show a momentary flash of annoyance.

  He’s the head of the Private Client group. Each day, his group on this floor does billions of dollars worth of business. He’s personally worth about $250 million dollars.

  This is a man that is as alpha as you can find. He works out. Has a nice cock. Commands the respect of men under him. He got to his position by being dominant and taking charge.

  Yeah, that means nothing to me. The fact that he’s upset means nothing to me.

  Because the moment I close the door and undo the sash on my trench coat and stand in front of him with a smirk, his look of annoyance turns into desire.

  “Guys, I’m going to have to jump off this call today,” he says into his headset. “Sorry. Carry on and I’ll look through the notes tonight.”

  I stand there in front of him, letting him admire me. I wasn’t wearing anything under that trench coat but a skimpy little thong and an itty bitty bra. It’s pink and lace. From La Perla. Only the best for this princess.

  “Lauren, hold all my calls and meetings,” Carl says into the intercom and doesn’t wait for a response, but brings his eyes back to looking at me. I’m running my fingers over my boobs, licking my lips and taking a few steps over toward him.

  “I went shopping today,” I tell him.

  “Uh huh,” he says, not paying attention.

  “Thought you might like to see what I bought,” I tell him as I turn around and bend over slightly, bringing my hand to my ass and rubbing my left ass cheek. “Do you like it?”

  Carl nods. “Oh yeah, baby, I like it a lot.”

  “Good,” I say turning back and walking around his desk to stand in front of him. My back is to the window and he’s facing me. “Because today is your lucky day, Mister.”

  Carl should have more questions. He should be asking me why, today of all days, I’m getting on my knees and unbuckling his belt and unzipping his trousers.

  He should ask why it takes me only five seconds to fish out his cock and wrap my lips around it when all this time I’ve told him I’m a virgin.

  That’s right. I’ve been telling him I’m a virgin. Saving myself for him.

  Me. Can you believe it? Brittney White—the one time Princes of Porn. The toast of the San Fernando Valley. Courted by Wicked Pictures, Vivid Video, Naughty America, Brazzers, you name it. Who had to leave that business behind when…well, never mind.

  Yeah, all I had to do was flash Carl some titties, let him feel my ass and he believes now that all virgins are as expert as sucking cock as I am right now.

  This is why men are just so stupid. They can’t think when their cocks get hard. This is why I’m single. Because no man can tame me.

  “Oh God, baby, that feels so good,” Carl moans, running his hands through my hair.

  He’s got about 7 inches. Not bad. But not great either. Still, I’m not really looking to get off for the next part.

  With a slurp and final suck, I take my mouth off his cock and use my hands to jerk him once or twice. He’s hard. He’s ready.

  “Are you ready for this?” I ask, as I make my eyes smolder and get up, pulling down my thong and using one hand to rub my clit and the folds of my pussy, getting ready to take him.

  He nods at me dumbly.

  Idiot.

  I swear to God.

  I give him a sweet smile and climb onto his lap, positioning myself over him. I feel his tip against me, and I kiss him on the neck. I’m wearing lipstick and I’m trying to leave a mark on his neck. By the time I’m done, I’ll get some on his shirt collar too. Plus I'm wearing lots of perfume. His clothes will smell of me for sure.

  I unzip a condom and unwrap it on Carl with all the skill that virgin girls should not possess. But Carl doesn’t notice.

  Gritting my teeth I bring myself down and feel Carl enter me. He groans loudly.

  Stupid.

  His secretary is right outside. Does he think she doesn't know what we’re doing? He’s so fucking disrespectful to her.

  “Slow down, baby, or else you’ll make me cum soon,” he grunts. I speed up my thrusts, shucking myself on his pole.

  I don’t know why I’m mad at him. I mean, I knew he wasn’t going to say no to me.

  But maybe…I don't know. Maybe I hoped at the last minute he’d have a change of heart. That I’d be able to go back to his wife and tell her that her husband really isn’t a cheater, and that she hired me but I can’t get her the results she needed, and as per the policies of my company, Man Chasers LLC, here is a full refund.

  Or maybe I hoped that at least he’d have the presence of mind when faced with free pussy to think, even. I mean, it’s bad enough you’re going to cheat, but your office window is open and there are no fucking blinds. What would happen if someone were in the other building on a floor that's facing Carl’s office? What if they were looking through the glass, filming Carl and I? Filming as Carl grunted and bucked his hips as I began timing my thrusts faster and faster, kissing his neck in the process and using my hands to unbutton his shirt and rub his nipples?

  It’s not a hypothetical question, babe, because that’s what Walter is doing right now. From his position that we scouted out a few days ago, he’s got a high definition camera trained on us. He’s filming us in crystal clear perfect video. The transceiver in my purse is on, and it’s giving him perfect audio.

  “Oh, fuck, baby, you like that?” I ask, and I can feel Carl’s nuts tighten. He has no fucking stamina at all.

  In another three thrusts he groans and throws his head back and I can feel his cock spasm inside of me, as the condom gets warm.

  I milk him with my pussy for another half a minute. Let him get some pleasure out of it. When I deliver this recording to his wife, it’s going to be all she needs to get out of the loveless marriage that she’s trapped in. She’s going to sue him for everything he has. He’ll probably go from Mr. Senior Managing Director in a Park Avenue condo to living in Bed-Stuy in a basement apartment. Most likely not so much sex happening then.

  Oh well. He’s a guy. I don’t really have that many fucks to give.

  ***

  “Make sure that Mrs. Ketchum is made aware where to transfer the money to, Walter,” I tell my trusty sidekick over the phone as I leave the offices of Carter Jeffries. Once the sex was complete, it’s all I could do to get the fuck out of Carl’s office as soon as possible. Walter had what he needed,
and I needed to get paid.

  “We have a new commission too, if you’re interested,” Walter tells me in his off-English accent. He’s been with me since I left Los Angeles. He’s loyal and I trust him with my life. Think Alfred from Batman. He’s my Alfred.

  “Fine, let’s vet them like normal,” I reply, wondering why Walter would bring up a commission without vetting them. He’s usually thorough.

  “I tried, but the man was insistent,” Walter says over the phone. “Said he was going to talk to you now. He told me he’d pick you up outside the Carter Jeffries building.”

  What the fuck?

  How does someone know where I am?

  A guy? It couldn't be….no.

  I’ll tell you about him later, hun, but I don’t think he would call Walter.

  That’s when another limo pulls up. It squeals to a stop on 52nd Street, right next to where I’m standing on the sidewalk.

  I’m a bit startled. A bit wary.

  Is this the same guy who called Walter?

  The door to the limo opens and I can’t see inside.

  “Get in,” the voice says to me. That’s it. Just that command. “It’ll be worth your while.”

  I sigh. But I’m not worried.

  Men. If I can handle one, I can handle them all.

  I get in and close the door as the limo speeds away.

  Let’s see what kind of fun we get into today, shall we dear?

  Ethan

  “Watch out for the sludge,” Cheryl warns me as we walk past the pedestrian portion of Broadway toward our Times Square setup.

  I look down. There’s a green and vile looking stream of ooze running from the sewer grate down the street. Jesus fucking Christ. You’d think the Mayor would actually clean up the city a bit and prevent the sewers from overflowing. But he’s off who the fuck knows where trying to move jobs to China or something. At least that's what the papers are saying.

  “Ethan!” Cheryl calls and I snap out of whatever daydream I was in the middle of. I look up at her. She’s at the podium a few paces down.

  We’re standing at the corner of 44th and Broadway, and a crowd has already formed.

  I look around me. New Yorkers call Times Square the Crossroads of the World. I call it The Last Place I Want To Visit.

  I mean, sure you got the fucking theaters. Whatever. Off-Broadway is becoming the avant-garde nowadays. What else do you want? I’ll give you a million fucking other places in New York City you can get it.

  You want the flashing lights? Go to fucking Herald Square.

  You want shopping? Again, go try SoHo, TriBeCa, or Midtown near Macy’s. Hell, go to fucking Columbus Circle.

  But there is one thing that Times Square is known for.

  Sex.

  Plenty of fucking sex all around here if you just know where to fucking look.

  Say, you want to go to a peep show? Well, actually, not much use for ladies at peep shows, but if you know that special man in your life who's not able to get any fucking women, then all he has to do is go over to 8th Avenue and look left, and right next to the fucking Port Authority Bus Terminal he'll have what he needs. Plenty of fucking peep shows there where he can jerk off to a girl in a room smoking a cigarette and fingering herself while little peepholes allow people look in.

  Want to buy some porn? You’ll find that all over 46th street. Any kind of fucking porn you want. Tourists walk right by it; they’re so entranced by the fucking M&M’s store and the Coca-Cola sign. They can’t get enough of the NASDAQ building that they totally don’t realize they’re walking by three strip clubs and fifteen massage parlors that specialize in the ancient art of Rub N’ Tug.

  Maybe your male friend wants to just skip all that and go straight for the hookers. Look no further than 7th Avenue from 44th Street to 49th Street. These women will stand there day and night walking the streets – you just gotta know where to look and you’ll see. More than likely, they see you. And if they see that you’re a tourist, they’ll blend in so fucking well.

  I mean, take it all in. Naked Cowboys—yep we've got that. Girls with nothing on except body paint? We've got that too. You can take a picture of them as they rub themselves up against your cock for $20. I’m fucking serious.

  It's a fucking pit of licentiousness and debauchery.

  Which makes it absolutely goddamn perfect for what I’m about to do.

  I walk up the stairs toward the podium.

  We already have some of our regular porn starlets there, entertaining the audience and posing for pictures from reporters and photographers.

  I’d say we have a good crowd. There are at least 10,000 people. All the major newspapers and news organizations are camped out.

  What? I know you may be finding this hard to believe, considering KaneCo centers around pornography—right up there with Hawkelane Media—but porn has become completely mainstream in America today. We fucking celebrate it. And that’s good. Because if there’s one forte that I have, it’s pleasing the fucking ladies.

  Don’t get me wrong though. I’m not just some fucking schmo with a good fucking body and a giant fucking cock. I built this fucking company from the ground up. My parents live in California—in Los Angeles. My dad owned a shoe store and my mom was a housewife. I was your regular kid. Went to UCLA for undergrad and then graduate school. Started working in marketing. And then I realized I didn’t like working for the fucking man. So I quit. Took what meager savings I had and started my own marketing and media company.

  I didn’t know I was going to be getting into porn. But what I did know was that I wasn’t going to stay broke, or middle class. I was going to be fucking big.

  That seems like so long ago from now, doesn’t it? I mean, I know you know I’m famous; you see my face on all the newspapers and shit. But you never heard that little bit, did you?

  I’d tell you more, but it’s time to start.

  The starlets are all done with their fucking happy and giggly jiggling. Don’t look at me like that. I’ve fucked them all. They all moan like a whore when they've got my fucking cock between their legs.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the first ever product launch by Illicit Entertainment,” I say into the microphone and watch as the photographers flash their cameras and people start to cheer.

  Seriously, they’re cheering for me. A fucking pornographer. Sometimes it boggles the fucking mind. But we all gotta get laid, right? So maybe they know something I don’t. Maybe I’m fucking old fashioned.

  “I hope you enjoyed the Illicit Entertainers,” I say gesturing to the girls. People cheer again. They’re clapping and hooting and hollering. Not just pervy fucking dudes either. We’re talking tourists snapping pictures with their iPhones—wife and kids in tow. Teenagers. Hell, is that a fucking priest in the crowd?

  “Pornography has come a long way since the days of old, America,” I say, looking directly into the cameras now. I may be in Times Square, but my face is being beamed all over the world. “And today, Illicit Entertainment is going to take it into the next millennium.”

  A collective hush goes over the crowd and I nod to the technical guys.

  The stage darkens. A screen lights up behind me and our company logo appears. This is my cue.

  “We used to have scrawling of people having sex on cave walls,” I begin, pacing my words like Cheryl taught me to. “But from cave art, we went to pictures. And pictures became magazines. Magazines became books, that went to movies.”

  People are looking at me with rapt attention and they look at the screen, which shows a montage with wonder. Seriously, I’ve probably destroyed the values of the next generation, but whatever; it pays the bills.

  “Movies changed when we got the VCR,” I say, and the screen behind me switches to showing VHS tapes.

  “Then came the Internet, and it revolutionized everything,” I say, and the screen flips to show pictures of webcam girls and streaming media. “Until today. Today, Illicit Entertainment is proud to announce the n
ext generation of pornographic entertainment.”

  I pause as the music starts.

  A drumroll and then the video shows a simple pair of eyeglasses—sleek and minimalist.

  “Behold, the Illicit Escape,” I say to the audience, as if showing them the fucking meaning of life.

  People pause for a moment as the video starts to pan around the glasses and goes from looking at them from the front, to showing what they look like from the point of view of a wearer. It shows the glasses being worn, and tiny cameras and sensors on the rims.

  “Based on revolutionary new software, the Illicit Escape uses a built-in operating system that looks at where your eye is focused to highlight what you see. And what you see, is a whole new world of sex,” I say, reading from the script.

  I turn around to look at the video because this is fucking cool. A holographic image of a woman materializes on the inside of the eyeglass like an object. She’s in perfect detail. She’s only visible to the wearer and she starts doing a bit of a dance.

  That’s when a holographic image of a shirtless man shows up. I had wanted to be in this shot, but Cheryl told me that doing so was crossing a fucking line. I would have still done it, but she went ahead and scheduled the shoot for when I was in another meeting, and I didn’t find out till too late.

  It’s a fucking shame too, because while this guy on the screen is hot, I’m in way better shape.

  And when the girl gets down on her knees and starts to take off the guy's boxer briefs, the crowd begins to ooh. When she puts his cock in her mouth they go aaah.

  The video then rotates the POV and shows that to the outside world, it looks like the wearer is just wearing regular clear eyeglasses.

  “Watch virtual reality porn, wherever you go, safely, discreetly,” I say into the microphone and the crowd begins to cheer. “But, now, Illicit Escape takes it one step farther.”

  The video zooms out to show a diagram of the glasses on a human face.

  “Using groundbreaking new technology, the Illicit Escape uses subconscious visual cues to make your brain believe that what you're seeing is something you’re actually experiencing,” I say to to the audience. I can tell they’re looking at me, not believing.