Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 129179 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 646(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129179 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 646(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
I. Loved. Pussy.
Pussy worship was an art. Touching, tasting, licking, devouring, fingering, and, my favorite of all, fucking, required skill – and I had it. Not much of a surprise, seeing as how I’d spent countless hours in a pussy-induced fog. It was my drug of choice.
I knew several married men who were lucky to have sex a few times a month, and I felt sorry for the poor bastards. Sex was used as a bargaining chip within their relationships and I thought it was depressing.
I couldn’t even fathom how I’d survive on that little sex. I lived to fuck. Often. I liked the variety of moving on and finding the next woman who would be taking my dick. It was never hard to find new people to twirl on my pole for two reasons.
1. My thick eight-inch cock
2. I was rich as fuck
Like most men, my dick was my compass. I let it lead me to a variety of women instead of one. No woman had or ever would have a hold on me. The idea of being with someone long-term was inconceivable to me. Marriage didn’t work, period.
That mindset went right out the window the day fate laughed as it lobbed a curveball at me.
* * *
My system was cranking Guns n’ Roses ‘Paradise City’ as I guided my black Range Rover into a parking spot at the rear of my store, Erotic Bent. It was a beautiful day and, all things considered, I’d rather have been working at my record store by the sea than at the sex shop, but digging through vinyl wasn’t on the agenda. Instead, I’d just driven for a bit less than two hours to get from Malibu to Riverside.
The online component of my business made up for more than half of my yearly earnings, but the stores were still important. I owned ten shops in Southern California, which meant sometimes I had no choice but to make those shitty drives. I wouldn’t have bothered if it weren’t necessary to be seen. I cared about all my stores, and I wanted my employees to know I was hands-on.
Still, I wasn’t excited about having to spend the day sitting with my accountant to go over financials for a yearly internal audit. The only saving grace was that if all went according to plan, it would be my only face-to-face interaction with him until he generated his report.
My chief bookkeeper could've handled it, but I liked to make sure everyone knew who was in charge from the get-go. People assumed it was easy being as successful as I was, since in a lot of ways my products sold themselves. They couldn’t have been more wrong. I’d never been one to sit on my laurels, and I didn’t see obscene wealth as an excuse to be lazy. As a thirty-four-year-old billionaire, I could’ve sold or delegated everything, but I hadn’t. I’d gotten to where I was with a lot of hard work, and I was proud of it.
After getting myself in the right frame of mind to look at numbers all day, I turned off the engine and climbed out of the car. Closing the door behind me, I clicked my key fob to arm the system and then headed into the store. It was just after ten in the morning, which was a busy time. Most people figured sex stores saw the most action at night, but that wasn’t the case. The morning was when most people found it easiest to sneak off to buy their sex toys.
We did a brisk business with the unsatisfied suburban moms. They came in once the husband left for work and the kids were in school, looking for something to end the monotony of being ignored sexually by their man. They came in for plastic fantastic, and sometimes, if there were a connection, I’d give them the real thing. After it was over, I’d leave and never contact them again, which was just what we both wanted.
The narrative about women not wanting one night—or one afternoon—is dead wrong. It isn’t just men who know what they want. There’s no one more willing to have it be a one-time thing than someone who just wants to be touched. I aimed to please. Those women rode me like they were auditioning for the rodeo and sucked my dick like their last name was Hoover. I didn’t feel guilty, either. If their husbands didn’t want someone else to be giving their woman dick, they needed to get the fuck on it and do it themselves. There was no excuse for being a negligent asshole. I might have been anti-commitment, but I enjoyed women and took tremendous pleasure in making them happy.
When I entered the store, I stopped at the end of the dildo aisle, grinning when my eyes settled on a beautiful woman tracing her finger over a package containing Big Barry. Barry was a ten-inch long, wrist thick cock that drove women wild. My attention stayed on her as she licked her lips, her fascination with Big Barry more than evident. I started walking toward her to give her my card in the hopes of meeting up with her later. I figured I’d do business for a few hours before doing her if she was interested.