“That was fucking amazing,” I tell her as I tuck my shirt inside my pants and zip up my fly.
“Of course it was,” she teases me, wiping her mouth with the back of her right hand. “Now let’s go back before anyone notices we’re missing.” Without waiting for a reply, she pulls the drape to the side and heads out; I follow after her, head held high and completely unable to wipe a satisfied smile from my face.
And that’s when I fucking see her.
Rhoda’s between two rows of seats, and she's walking straight toward Penny and I.
“Where were you, Penny?” she asks her daughter, stopping just a few feet away from me.
“Rhoda,” I greet her coldly. She doesn’t even respond or acknowledge me. Which is pretty fucking funny, me being the keynote speaker and main donor of this fucking event.
“We were just having a chat,” Penny chirps happily, and then goes on her tiptoes, leans in, and kisses her mother on the cheek, her breath a very probable blend of cock and fresh cum. Fucking hell.
“Just having a chat,” I repeat, my cock twitching inside my pants. Without waiting for her mother’s reply, Penny walks past her and continues on her way. I follow after her, my eyes taking in every delicious step she takes.
Fuck, now this is a wicked girl.
Penny
Two months.
That’s how long we’ve been together. It’s crazy, right? Just a few months ago I thought that my stepfather was the Devil himself, and now here I am, sleeping next to him more times than I sleep alone in my own bed.
It’s funny how these things work out, isn’t it? I’m not one to believe in destiny, fate, or all that hocus-pocus … but damn, it seems like both our paths were meant to cross.
Of course, all this cozying up to the ‘enemy’ (or so my mom would say) isn’t really doing me any favors. But what did I expect? It’s not like I can go against my boss (which is also my mom) and the mayor without being reprimanded along the way.
Twenty-seven.
That’s the amount of face-to-face meetings I’ve had with my mother and Laurel. And, let me tell you, these things are forsakenly exhausting. Just imagine spending two hours locked in a room with two women with tongues so sharp they could use them as knives, and they aren’t pleased with you. Yeah, doesn’t feel great, does it?
But that’s how it goes for me, at least twice a week. And, if they’re feeling generous, one more time over the weekend. ‘Have you found out anything yet, Penny?’ they always ask me, and my answer is always a timid ‘perhaps he isn’t the kind of man you think he is’. Yeah, I don’t need to tell you that this isn’t what they want to hear.
They want Magnus’ head on a platter, not to hear my pleas for fairness and ethical journalism. All that just falls on deaf ears.
Look, I get it; in a way, Magnus represents a lot of what’s wrong with America nowadays. He doesn’t seem to have a conscience, especially when it comes to his female counterparts, and he’s richer than God himself. America loves to hate on people like Magnus; but on the other hand, this reflects a rather nasty truth about ourselves: we love to hate the ones who can’t hate us back.
And so it is with Magnus. He’s an easy target for women like my mom and Laurel, working in the shadows. The way I see it, they aren’t even working against Magnus; they’re just trying to topple down an image of him that they've built inside their heads. Because, truth be told, the Magnus I met is quite different than the one I always believed him to be.
And I guess my fellow New Yorkers see it the same way.
Ninety-three.
That’s Magnus’ approval rating. That’s right, ninety-three percent of New Yorkers approve of the work my stepfather is doing, and they are fully supportive of the Equinox deal. I guess every city dweller wants to say they live in the city with the tallest building in the world, right? And Magnus is just the man to make that dream come true.
Besides, it seems that New Yorkers love his crazy antics. Sure, he might be a bit unruly and rough around the edges, but I think that it just adds to his natural charm. Besides, it seems he has even won over the political-correctness brigade after he toned down his bad boy image and started contributing to the city’s welfare with his hefty donations.
And I gotta say, more than just win over his fellow Americans, Magnus has won me over as well.
Two hundred.
Now, this is just an estimate, but that’s how many times Magnus and I have been together. And you know what I mean by together, don’t you? Okay, I’ll be crass: we've fucked two hundred times over these past two months.
If you’re making the calculations inside your head, let me help you with that: it means we’ve fucked more than three times every single day. Sounds a bit unbelievable, doesn’t it? Don’t worry; I’d be thinking the same if someone told me something like this. No, scratch that, I’d just call them a liar.
But it’s the truth; Magnus is an animal between the sheets (and out of them as well, being that we often get frisky without a bed in sight), and I have no choice but to try and keep up the pace. My body demands it, you know? I just can’t get enough of him and of his twelve-inch cock.
Of course, pleasure often has consequences, and it didn’t take long for them to manifest.