It’s a good thing that Strokes has called me to warn me that she’s coming in today. I need to think of something else, and I know that when Strokes comes in we have to take care of business.
And, no, doll, I mean real fucking business, not the daily operations of a sex club.
I’m sitting at my office, looking through the financials of this month (profits have been climbing up for the fourth month in a row) when there’s a knock at my door.
“Yeah?” I don’t even look from my laptop as the door swings open; my security staff always leads before anyone comes inside.
“Mistress Strokes is here, boss.”
“Send her in,” I tell the head of my security detail and, a few seconds after, Strokes strolls through the doorway.
“These guys are really uptight, Jesus,” she starts with by way of hello. “They know who I am, so why don’t they just let me in?”
She knows me long enough to fucking complain so I let it fly and watch her as she sits down right in front of me and stretches. She yawns then, covering her mouth with the back of her hand.
“You know why,” I tell her with a smile, and then get up and head to the coffee machine in the corner. I take a double espresso out of it, and then push the cup into her hands.
“Been getting some sleep?” I ask. “You look terrible.”
Okay, don’t fucking kill me, okay?
You think I’m a fucking idiot. I know you don’t tell a girl that she looks terrible. It’s a lie, she doesn’t look terrible at all; in fact, she looks as stunning as she always does.
Sure, she has a thing for painting her hair in the weirdest bright colors, but she has that cute innocent face that just disarms any man.
And when she smiles, it seems like the whole room lights up.
And let’s not even talk about her body; sure, she’s a petite one, but her tits seem to prove a different point.
So why did I tell her she looks terrible?
Because she always pushes herself to exhaustion; when it comes to business, she’s fucking tireless, and I don’t want her to burn out.
No, I need her thinking straight.
We can’t afford any mishaps, not in this line of business.
“Don’t you worry about me,” she yawns again, but then starts drinking her coffee. “I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”
“That’s funny,” I say, but I’m not laughing. I care about her. And don’t go putting words in my mouth, alright? I’m not fucking her, and never have. I’m not saying I wouldn’t like to fuck her—I sure as hell wouldn’t mind, but I don’t want to ruin what we have going on because I can’t control my monster cock. We’re doing important stuff, and it’s important enough for me to forgo sex for a few minutes.
Besides, even if I fucked her, there’s only one girl I have in my head and would have in my fucking brain.
That’s right.
Destiny Renee.
“We need to consider our options, Austin,” she finally gets down to business, setting the cup on my desk and looking me in the eyes with a serious expression. “Lester isn’t going to stand down for long, and you know that.”
I sigh as she continues. “If he somehow manages to get a warrant so that he can raid Python, that’s what he’s going to do.”
“I know that,” I sigh, sitting back down on my chair and folding my hands in front of my face, pondering what our next move should be. “But we can’t move all the women out of here without him noticing. We need to be careful.”
“We do,” she lowers her voice and then leans into me. She caresses her right earlobe with her thumb, and that gives away the fact that what she’s going to tell me isn’t really up for discussion. I’ve seen her do that too many times to start arguing; she argues back, and she doesn’t budge. And that’s exactly why I trusted her with this job in the first place.
“And being careful means that we have a safe place to move the girls in case there’s a raid,” she says. “We can’t let Lester catch us with our pants down.”
“Okay, okay. Fuck. I’ll think of something,” I tell her, my throat suddenly growing dry. It would be so much easier to run a regular strip club, but I guess that’s not who I am.