One
Sebastian Black
Wilma and Betty fuck like porn stars. I knew from experience, I’d been fucking them for the last four months.
I dug my fingers into chocolate hair and pressed down, until the back of her throat massaged my slippery tip. A flat tongue added pressure underneath my shaft as a dainty hand massaged my sack. A moan pressed against the back of my teeth and Betty giggled on the head of my cock. The loud slurping filled the hotel room, as she sucked me like my come was the answer for world peace.
Strawberry blonde hair moved up and down between Betty’s thighs. She moaned over and over again, as Wilma licked and sucked her sweet, pink folds. The wet smacking noises were an aphrodisiac, pushing me faster toward release. It was a beautiful thing to hear and watch—nerve candy for the five senses.
I couldn’t hold back any longer—especially not with two sexy women fucking and sucking everything in the room. I let go, coming hard and fast with a string of curse words. Both ladies captured my spray, lapping it up like a fine wine, licking their lips as my personal flavor coated their tongues. It was truly a thing of beauty.
Later, with both women asleep beside me, I peeled back the sheet and crept from the bed. Wilma muttered something in her sleep as I slipped on my pants and buttoned my shirt. My expensive jacket covered my arms and the tie around my neck was perfectly tied. When I left the hotel room, I was thoroughly sated and ready to take on the chaos of New York City at night.
By the time I made it back to the club, Vick was waiting in my office.
“You look like you’ve been thoroughly fucked and sucked into oblivion,” she said, pouring me a glass of my favorite scotch.
“Wilma and Betty…” I hummed. My fingers wrapped around the glass of Johnnie Walker, as I melted into the leather of my favorite chair.
I’d spent many nights with the redhead and brunette. They were my favorite threesome go-to girls. Wilma ate pussy like a starved woman, and Betty sucked dick like she was going for a gold medal in blow jobs.
“I’m surprised you’re not bored with them yet,” Vick snorted.
She pulled off her jacket and threw it across the back of the black leather couch in my office.
“Not yet.” A grin stretched my face and I swished my scotch around, making the ice clink against the sides of the glass.
Victoria, a.k.a. Vick, was my assistant, and had been for the last six years. We grew up in foster care together, and she was my right-hand man. We covered each other’s asses when shit got out of control, which it tended to do when we were younger. She was the only person in the world who knew every detail of my life—the biggest hard-ass I knew—and the only woman in my life I hadn’t fucked.
It wasn’t that Vick wasn’t attractive, she was sexy in a Laura Croft: Tomb Raider kind of way; it’s just she was more like a sister to me. I didn’t have any siblings. Hell, I didn’t have any family, so our relationship was special, even if I never told her so.
Men found her attractive. Her long, dark hair was always pulled into a tight ponytail and her wardrobe consisted of black. She had pouty lips that were formed into a permanent frown, and big cerulean eyes. Vick made her resting bitch face look sexy—like she was minutes away from slinging a whip and fucking you senseless.
I kicked lots of ass over her growing up. Then, I ran away from the system, leaving her to fend for herself. It killed me when I found out she’d earned money selling her ass during the years we were apart. Needless to say, when I became the rich fuck I am today, I pulled her along for the ride. I made sure she’d never have to lie on her back for money again.
“Any luck finding your Jessica Rabbit?” she asked, fingering the night’s paperwork, putting together figures.
Tilting the glass to my lips, the smooth liquid slid down my throat, igniting a burn in my chest. I set the glass on a table and stood. “Jessica Rabbit is a myth. There are no Jessica’s in the world, but if I find one, you’ll be the first to know,” I winked. “What’s it looking like?”
She held up a paper with a smile. “Tonight was good. Ten grand more than last night. Looks like the article in the New York Times paid off. Of course, the fact they named Clive’s the ‘hottest new nightclub in New York’ didn’t hurt.”
I took the paper from her and looked down at the percentages. She was right. Clive’s had brought in almost double the revenue from the night before. The fact I was banking so much on a weeknight meant I had single-handedly built Clive’s into a success.
I’d come a long way from the seventeen-year-old punk I used to be. I owed it all to Clive… the nightclub, and the man himself.