Total pages in book: 189
Estimated words: 174749 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 874(@200wpm)___ 699(@250wpm)___ 582(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 174749 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 874(@200wpm)___ 699(@250wpm)___ 582(@300wpm)
She’s new. I know it. I’ve fucked so many of the fucking strippers in this club, they should seriously give me some sort of award for not catching any STDs. But then again, I always protect myself to the max.
But this girl. I’ve never seen her before.
Or have I? She seems so familiar, and she’s so beautiful I feel like I know her.
She’s got blonde hair that comes down to her shoulders. Fuck, her face is so fucking gorgeous. With the sweetest most innocent eyes and the most beautiful face. But so what if her face is sweet and innocent looking; her body is fucking sinful. Tits that are perfectly shaped and big. A perfectly tapered waist. Slender legs. An ass that's…
Fuck, I’m going to cum. I’m going to cum so fucking hard. I need to calm the fuck down. I can usually go forever. What the fuck is wrong with me?
“Baby, I just felt your balls tighten up,” Heather says with a wicked grin. “It’s okay, I know my pussy’s tight.”
Actually her pussy is the opposite of tight. I might as well be fucking a plastic bag, but I somehow don’t care at this point in time.
I’ve maybe only fucked Heather for five minutes now but I pull out, and toss off my condom as if in a daze.
It’s because I am in a daze. I’m staring at that girl as she twirls around on the pole.
My heart rate is increasing. I’m not going to last much longer.
Both Sophie—who’s calmed down and returned back to earth—and Heather get on their knees and start jerking me off. They use their tongues to rub the underside of my cock.
And more stimulating than what those women are doing, I look down and I see the stripper from Heaven bent over on the pole, shaking her ass.
Holy fucking Christ.
I can’t take anymore.
I fucking explode.
I shoot out arcs of cum. Rope after rope of cum is leaving my body and I feel electric impulses go from my nuts to my brain, paralyzing me. My muscles freeze and I can only experience the convulsions that tear through my body.
I watch as my semen lands on Heather's forehead, her chin, inside of her mouth, on Sophie’s tits, and on her nose. As I come back to reality, I can hear myself breathing harshly. I look down to see my cum dripping from both of their faces and chins onto their bodies.
Normally, I’d be pleased at my handiwork. But today, I search desperately for the stripper.
But apparently, her song is over because she’s leaving the stage.
I need to go downstairs. I need to talk to her.
But that’s when the phone rings.
My personal phone. My cell phone. Never ignored, because it’s always important.
And only one person usually ever uses it to call me. It’s no surprise that it’s on the windowsill behind the strippers. I reach over and grab it and turn it on. This better be quick. I need to go downstairs and find this girl.
Oh, what about the ones in front of me, you’re wondering? On their knees, cooing and purring and licking my cum?
Whatever. I don’t fucking care what they do tonight. I’m done with them.
“Gerard?” I say into the phone. He usually doesn't call in the evenings. He doesn't usually want to interfere whatever—or whoever—I’m doing.
“Arsen,” the calm off-English voice of Gerard comes through. “You need to meet me at the Plaza Hotel immediately. Your father just died of a massive heart attack.”
It’s like I hear the fucking words, but don’t understand them.
“Arsen,” Gerard says after a pause. “Your father, Sloane, is dead. You are now the sole owner of Hawke Media and you need to come over. Now.”
Well, fuck.
I need to get the fuck out. I need to go to the Plaza and meet Gerard.
Oh, listen, if you’re still here. This seems like it’s going to be a fun ride. You’re welcome to stay along. If it’s not your cup of fucking tea, no harm, no foul. But if you stay on and move onto the next page, then take my fucking advice and go somewhere you can be by yourself. And maybe take your panties off if you don’t want to do laundry. I won’t have time to remind you because I gotta get to the fucking Plaza. Like now.
ASHLEY
E
very other stripper in this club will hate me, but I've got to say it anyways. I like it when I’m on stage. But not for the reason you think. Sure, I’m getting naked and sure I’m getting "rained on." When the customers “make it rain” the club actually changes a $100 bill for them for 100 singles and then lets the customers throw the bills over you, in effect making it rain.
It makes it a bitch to collect though. But I can deal with that. No, I like being on stage because I don’t have to hustle and work the main floor. I can be by myself. Most dancers—we prefer dancers and not strippers—prefer earning the lap dance cash from the clients one to one. I like being up on stage. Most dancers only use the stage as an advertisement, to catch a man’s eye so when they go down to the floor, people remember them. I wish I could stay up here forever.