Ladies Prefer Champagne Alpha Male Romance Mega Bundle (55 page)
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Authors: Champagne Jackson
Table of Contents
I always loved those moments after a show, when the lights come up and there you stand, exposed, no longer a character in a fictional world. There I stood, taking my bows onstage after
A Streetcar Named Desire
—but probably not the version you’re familiar with. This was an all female version that went up in a black box theatre in Greenwich Village, a theatre which itself was actually located in the back of a gay bar. Like I said, probably not the
Streetcar
you’re familiar with.
The theatregoers—all seventeen of them!—clapped and hooted drunkenly as we took our bows. Mostly, they were cute, put together gay dudes who loved theatre and were very supportive of poor NYU students like me.
One person stood out. She sat in the row closest to the stage, an exotic-looking lavender cocktail resting languorously in her bejeweled hand. She was black, like me, and unlike all the older white men in the audience. Her nappy, frizzly hair, so like my own, hung down in beautiful ringlets over her coffee-colored flesh.
“Maddie!” I gasped from onstage. Her pout broke into a wink as she recognized me and gave a little wave. As my company filed off-stage, I charged into the green room and all but leapt into my street clothes: nothing interesting, and certainly not the slinky black number I had noticed Maddie wearing. Just a tallow-colored dress that showed off my big butt and boobs. I’m not a super skinny girl; not like Maddie, but for guys who like their girls to have a bit more meat to them… Well, I fit the bill. Make do with what you can, I guess.
Maddie was waiting for me outside, as I knew she would be. Jumping up and down and shrieking, I flew into her arms.
“Ohmygodohmygodohmygod, thank you for coming!” I gasped and cried. “It’s been forever!”
Actually, it had only been a year. Maddie the year before from my acting program at NYU. She was 23 now and had been out in “the real world,” while I was still going to class every day of the week while working weekends as a barista. I wasn’t getting paid anything for this show, of course. None of us were—we needed the experience.
“Of course, babe,” she said, pecking me on the cheek. “Listen, I don’t mean to be a snob, but this place is a little dingy for my tastes. What do you say we go somewhere uptown and have a drink?”
I froze, mentally calculating the cost of the subway, plus a cocktail (or, more likely, a sparkling water) when Maddie flashed a blinding white grin and rolled her big blue eyes.
“I’ll pay, you goof.”
“What? I can’t make you do that. You’ve probably got less cash than I do.”
“I doubt that. Unless you’ve just inherited a diamond mind.”
She took me by the hand and let me out onto the dark, crowded Manhattan street. With a single wave of her slender hand, she had a taxi standing obediently in front of us.
“Take us to Province,” she told the driver when we got in. I gasped again—I had heard some of the gay guys at the bar, wealthy art collectors who had gorgeous old townhome across the street, complaining that they couldn’t even get into Province on a Tuesday night, let alone a Friday.
The driver nodded and off we went, north and into the night.
When we pulled up the Province, Maddie slid the driver a single hundred dollar bill.
“Keep the change,” she said offhandedly, ignoring his grateful head-bowing. The ride had only been thirty-dollars.
We tumbled out of the cab and she whisked me past the long line of beautiful people assembled in a mumbling, disgruntled queue, waiting to get in. We approached the tall, thickly built bouncer who gave me a disgusted once-over. I hadn’t even taken my stage make-up off and, horror of horrors, I was wearing jeans!
“Hi, Dom,” Maddie said to him with a smile. She stood on her tip-toes and kissed his cheek. She paused for a second, as if whispering something to him. He nodded stiffly and let us pass.
The cocktail lounge was dark, with lighted spots near the bars and along the walls. I could make out gorgeous, model-thin beauties draped on couches, untouched glasses of champagne assembled before them like silent soldiers standing at attention.
“Here, honey. This is my favorite spot,” Maddie said as she led me over to an empty couch near the bar. Out of nowhere, a handsome, dark young man in a vest appeared, holding a menu.
“Kir Royals for both of us, Alphonse,” Maddie said, waving away the menu. The young man nodded.
“Right away, Madelyne.”
As he strode away, I gaped at my friend.
“Maddie, what am I doing in a place like this?”
“You’re going to have a Kir Royal and chat with me, girl. You ain’t some basic bitch from Bed-Stuy no more. Not when you’re with me, honey.”
“Where are you getting all this money?”
She fluttered her eyelids. “Work.”
“What kind of work?”
“Oh, you know, here and there. It keeps me comfortable and I can spend most of my time acting, if I want. But the money is so good, you know, it almost doesn’t even make sense.”
“Girl, you’re not performing anymore?” I said, crestfallen—she had always been so talented.
“Oh, I still do, sometimes. And really, work is all performance, isn’t it?” she said with a mysterious grin.
“What do you do again?”
She gave me a playful grin but didn’t answer, as the bartender had come over personally with our cocktails.
“Two Kir Royales for the mademoiselles,” he said in a heavy accent. “Enjoy! Will we be seeing Mr. Bakir again this weekend?”
“Oh, perhaps,” Maddie replied and took a sip of her drink, forcing the bartender to wait for further explanation. “I’ll suggest it to Mr. Bakir tomorrow night. But he is flying back from Saudi Arabia and he usually prefers a quiet night in the club when he’s jet-lagged.”
“Ah, but of course,” the bartender said and disappeared.
“Is Mr. Bakir your boss?” I hazarded a guess.
“Sort of. One of my bosses, if you will. Ayesha, do you want to know what I do?”
“Yes! How could I not?”
She produced a business card from her clutch. It was all black and said, in stark white letting:
NEW AMSTERDAM SQUASH AND POLO CLUB
There was no address; only a phone number. I raised my eyebrows.
“That’s a bit of a misnomer. Myself, and the other girls who work there—we call it the Billionaire Boys’ Club.”
“The Billionaire Boys’ Club?”
“Of course, I don’t know that every single member is a billionaire but it’s just splitting hairs after a certain point, isn’t it? All I know is, membership for one for a single year is half a million dollars.”
My mouth dropped open.
“That’s absurd!”
“I know, right? But in a city like this, there are plenty of big men with big wallets who want to spend, big time,” she said with a wink. “They become members of this club—it’s by invitation or referral only—and they can take meals there, get drinks, stay there when they’re in town or put up guests there… There’s a gym, a pool, a spa, a movie theatre… But that’s not really what they’re paying for.”
She waited and I knew I was supposed to ask what they were really paying for.
“So, what are they really paying for?”
“Us.”
I glanced at her and then at myself.
“The staff is almost entirely female and totally young, totally gorgeous. And there’s an unspoken understanding that, when you’re on-duty, you do not refuse a member’s request. No matter what it is. We’re their bitches… And we get paid good for it.”
The reality of Maddie’s occupation slowly dawned on me.
“You’re…. You’re like a prostitute!”
“Maybe, but a very, very well-paid prostitute,” Maddie said with a smile—a smile that said that I had a lot to learn about life and money. “I made ten-thousand dollars last week. That’s no street ho money.”
“Ten-thousand dollars?”
“Working four nights. And mornings, ‘cause, you know, you gotta’ take care of them when they wake up.” She downed her drink. I had barely touched mine.
“Jesus Christ.”
“And they’re always looking for new girls. I have to admit to having an ulterior motive here—I’ll get a five-thousand dollar bonus for referring a new hire and I’m planning a trip to Paris for New Year’s so…”
I swallowed hard.
“Could I just work weekends?”
“You set your own schedule. If the members decide they like you, you might get requests to be there more often…”
“Do I have to do what they say? If they request that?”
Maddie paused, looking slightly troubled.
“No…” she said slowly. “Not…necessarily. But there might be trouble if you do. It’s worth your while, either way. The more they like you, the more you make. And it’s fun.”
“Do you… have sex with them?”
“Yes. Sometimes.”
I swallowed again. Talking about this with my friend felt so naughty.
“But usually, they have other tastes they want to explore.”
“Like what?”
“Anything you can imagine, and a lot you can’t.” She slid the card towards me.
“I need to go to work, but if it sounds interesting, call the number. You’re cute and innocent-looking. You look young, too—they’ll like that a lot. You can work for a year there, part-time, and if you still want to, you’ll be a well-fed artist after you graduate—not a starving one.”
With this, she dropped a hundred-dollar bill onto the table. I was numb as she pecked me on the cheek and marched out into the night.
I barely slept. Finally, around six, I fell into a troubled sleep and awoke promptly at ten to a phone-call from my grandma, asking how my show had gone the night before. I caught a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror as I talked to them. Maddie was right. I might not have her skinny super model ass but I did look pretty young, pretty innocent—sweet and curvy, even. The players and pimps back in Brooklyn would have called me thick and it would’ve been a compliment. It means a girl with an ass—the kind of chocolate ass you can slap and get a nice, succulent wiggle out of… Would the billionaires like that? It made sense, that they would be into someone who looked like she was still in high-school… But had the ass and tits of a grown ass woman.
Finally, after I hung up with my grandma, I dug the card Maddie gave me out of my purse. I called the number on the card and listened to the line ring. Someone picked up after the third or fourth ring.
“Yes?”
I froze. The voice on the other line, a terse-male sounding voice, spoke again.
“Yes?”
“I-is this the New Amsterdam Squash and Polo Club?”
“It is.”
“I… My name is Ayesha. Ayesha Jefferson. My friend, Maddie Fellows, referred me for a job.”
There was a brief but pregnant silence on the other end of the line.
“Do you know where the club is?” the voice said finally.
“No… There was no address on the card.”
The voice gave me the address, which I recognized as being close to Province on the Upper East Side.
“Come by at three o’clock today. Don’t be late.”
“Sure thing—“ I started to say but the voice had already hung up.
Three o’clock—it was ten-thirty now. That gave me only a few hours to get ready. I all but dove into the shower and gave myself the works—moisturizing, conditioning, and shaving just about every inch of my body. As I showered, I worked on my strategy. I would try to look innocent, maybe even virginal. I probably couldn’t pull off Maddie’s femme fatale look but the sweet, inexperienced schoolgirl? I could definitely do that.
I put my chestnut hair up in pigtails and picked our a white blouse and a short plaid skirt. To my delight, I remembered that I had white knee socks and little black schoolgirl shoes from a play my freshman year. And they still fit!
I went easy with the make-up, applying only enough to enhance the effect of a little girl playing at being a big girl. What the hell am I doing, I found myself wondering. And what would the interview be like? Would they want me to… do anything? I supposed there was only one way to find out.
~
The club was down the street from Province. Maddie must have walked there from the bar the other night, I figured. That made sense—maybe she even got the club to reimburse her for the cab.
The address took me an old, patrician building with a doorman. I showed him the business card and he led me into the elevator, keying in a special combination.
“It’ll be the thirteenth floor,” he said shortly before the door closed. I noticed that there was no button for the thirteenth floor. The floors went ten, eleven, twelve, and then onto fourteen, fifteen and so on.
The elevator ride was one of the most nerve-wracking of my life. What was I getting myself into? This was essentially a brothel, wasn’t it? Maybe even something more, from the way Maddie had acted. But on the other hand, she seemed to like it. Maybe this could just be a good way to make some money. More money than I was making at Starbucks, at least.
The door dinged open on the thirteenth floor. I checked my phone. 3 o’clock exactly. At least I had that going for me.
There was a gorgeous Asian girl in a tight black dress that showed off her ample cleavage posted at the desk just outside the elevator.
“Ayesha Jefferson?” she asked immediately.
“That’s me.”
“Glad you could make it. I’ll let them know you’re coming in,” she said, keying her iPad a few times. “If you would just take a seat…”
I complied, and sat on a simple bench across from her. I watched her work and noticed that she seemed slightly… agitated. She was flushed and her breath came in hard, short gasps. Whatever she was experiencing seemed to get more and more intense. She gripped the desk and bent forward, her eyes shut tight.
“Are you okay?” I stammered.
“F-fine,” the girl muttered back before letting out a shriek and leaning back in her chair, shaking.
Just then, the door to the club opened and a tall, handsome white man, looking as if he were carved out of pure ivory, strode out. He was dressed in a jaunty dark maroon vest-jacket and matching pants, with a black tie.
“Ayesha, welcome to the New Amsterdam Club. We’re so happy you’re interested in working for us. Annie, I’ll take it from here.”
The girl, Annie apparently, nodded weakly. “Yes, sir,” she whimpered.
I followed the man into the club and down a long, dimly lit corridor. It was all dark oak paneling and pictures of old, presumably dead white dudes. The club’s former members, I guessed.
“My name is Richter Chance. I am the proprietor of this establishment. The fourteenth, in fact.” He had a slight German accent, I thought. Maybe Dutch?
“It’s…very beautiful.”
“Why, thank you! We renovated two years ago. It was expensive, but I think the members appreciated a return to the…classicality of it all. Before, we had some garish, post-modern design and it didn’t really suit anyone, at all.”
“I can imagine…” I said uncertainly. Richter led me into a parlor off the corridor, which was decorated in a similar vein: oak paneling, comfy looking leather couches, dim lights, and bookshelves everywhere. It was exactly what I would have imagined a private club looking like.
“Now, how much has Madelyne told you about this establishment?” Richter asked with a smile. There was a bar in the parlor and he took a seat, gesturing for me to sit next to him.
“Well, she explained that it’s a very prestigious club,” I said lamely. Richter’s smile faltered. That wasn’t quite the answer he was looking for.
“And that the scheduling his flexible…” His smile faltered even more. I had to come up with something good, or this interview was over.
“And that the staff has to be ready to fulfill any request a member has?”
Richter’s smile returned in full force.
“Yes! That is correct, and the most important aspect of our club. You see, our members have the pick of private clubs in New York. In the world, in fact. Do you know why they pick our club?”
I shook my head.
“Because ours is the only one where dreams come true. Where anything you desire can be had. And our members have very imaginative desires… As you can imagine.”
I inhaled sharply. So far, so good.
“So, to start: Ayesha, would you make me a gin and tonic?”
That was easy enough, I figured. I stepped behind the bar, took a second to get my bearings, and filled a glass with ice. I gave him have tonic water, half Bombay Blue Sapphire gin, and topped it off with a lime.
“Enjoy,” I said with a sweet smile.
Richter took a sip.
“Very good,” he said, pleased. “What do you think of the diplomatic situation with Russia?”
“With Russia?”
“Yes, with Russia.”
I paused, racking my brain for things I had heard from the past week.
“Well… I think Obama has muddled things with the Russians but for all the wrong reasons. The gay rights situation with Sochi, that would have been an acceptable reason to cancel the meeting with Putin. But Snowden? Obama is making the United States look like a whining child.”
I had my right-wing father to thank for that golden line, but Richter seemed pleased.
“Very insightful! I had not thought of that. Now, my dear, one last request. Fellate me.”
I was slightly shocked but not that much. I suppose I had suspected there might be something like… that… in the interview. I came out from behind the bar and without saying anything, got down on my knees in front of Richter. I unzipped his pants and used my teeth to pull down his underwear, letting his long, swollen pink-white cock pop out of his pants. I almost gasped but I held my tongue. I had to look like the consummate professional, I decided.
I licked from the base of his cock up, up to the meaty tip, swirling my soft little tongue around his thick,white manhood.
“Mmm, not bad, my dear,” Richter said, obviously pleased as he ran his hand through my hair. I started to shrink away from his touch but instead I leaned into it. I had to make him think I liked this. Make him think I wanted it; that I wanted this job, and especially, that I wanted his cock. That was the secret, I realized in that moment, as I felt his manhood twitch under my tongue. Make him think that I wanted it, because he, like all the other billionaires who came to this club… All they wanted was to be wanted.
And so I attacked his cock, devouring it like a wolf who’s been starving all winter, bobbing my ravenous lips up and down, up and down, swirling my hungry tongue around that veiny shaft. I pressed my nose into his chestnut brown pubic hair, feeling it tickle my nose before sliding all the way off it and then, only then, impaling my throat on his slick sex.
“Oh, good god, girl,” Richter groaned. “You could suck the chrome off a Buick.”
I decided to take that as a compliment, especially when Richter’s cock began to twitch in my mouth. I braced myself and shut my eyes tight as his cock spasmed: stream after stream of milky, salty cum flooded my mouth. I started to choke; I had never liked swallowing, but I forced myself to gag it down. He grabbed my roughly by the hair and forced the tip of his pale cock even further down my throat, as if he were injecting me directly with his hot seed.
“Not bad. Not bad at all,” Richter said with a sigh as I let his softening cock flop out of my mouth with a pop. He handed me a napkin from behind the bar which I used to dab at my mouth daintily.
“You’re a bit… How shall I say it… Bigger than the girls we usually hire. But, you’ve clearly got the requisite skills and some of our patrons have expressed a desire for more… bountiful employees. So I think you’re just what we’re looking for.”
I smiled, shooting out my tongue to grab the last drop of his cum.
“What do you say you start tomorrow evening?”
“That’d be perfect,” I replied. He produced some paperwork for me to fill out, which I did, and then sent me on my way. As I left, I noticed Annie had collapsed against her desk, panting slowly.
“A-a-are you okay?” I asked tentatively. Annie glanced up at me.
“It’s fine.”
She pulled up her skirt and I gasped to see a giant dildo, inserted deep into her hairless pussy, secured firmly with duct tape strapped across his crotch and reaching around her ass.
“Mr. Richter is controlling it, to keep me on edge. I think he wanted you to see me orgasming. So you would have an idea of what you’re getting into.”
I nodded slowly, not really having any idea whatsoever of what I was getting into.