One things for sure, if Derrick Blaine is kicked out of the country, there’s probably a legion of women prepared to follow Prince Sin and his gorgeous body and enormous appendage to wherever he settles next.
Stay with us for daily coverage on this breaking news situation. Until then, I’m Abby signing out. Keep your ears open, New York City…
Derrick
Fuck me. I’m going fucking mental thinking about Daphne.
But she’s not fucking here, is she?
Don’t fucking roll you’re eyes at me. I know what you’re thinking. That I’m a fucking wanker and I don’t fucking deserve her.
But I know she’s so much more than a fucking stripper. I know she’s got so much potential.
I’m actually fucking glad she didn’t act like all the other fucking girls and try to jump on my enormous cock right away. I want this to be right. I want to deserve this woman. I want to be worthy of her.
Then why the fuck am I in my Bentley with my mates not two hours after she and I parted ways?
Fuck me. I can’t give you a reason. All I know is that I needed to go out. I needed to clear my fucking head. So I called them up. They’re always down for a night out. Sons of fucking Wall Street titans and Senators and the lot.
I look out the window of the Bentley as it's driving down the street, and see that the line to the fucking club goes nearly one fucking city block.
Jesus Christ, I think. This many people on a Friday night want to go to this spot. Are there that many lonely fucking people out in the world?
It's not like I want to come here. But it gets me out with my mates. It’s a chance to clear my head, like I said, remember? A way to unwind. A place to pick up the sluts so I don't have to do a lot of work to figure out who I'm going to fuck for the night.
That’s right. I’m going to clear my head the only fucking way I know. I’m going to drink and fuck it out.
After all – if that cunt DA presses charges and gets an indictment, this is all gone, isn’t it?
A part of me can’t say I blame the DA for fucking me up the ass like that.
I know I sound like a cocky, arrogant bastard, and I guess if you called me that, I'd look you in the face and tell you that you were absolutely right.
Then, if you were a bloke, I'd beat the shit out of you.
But guess what? Nothing would happen to me.
Because I'm the fucking prince. My father, no matter how much of a wanker he is, is still a head of fucking state. Which means I have something known as diplomatic immunity. There are certain crimes I can commit and there’s very little the police can do about it, because I’m a foreign dignitary.
It's good to be the son of the fucking King. But it’s made me into an asshole. I’m realizing this the more I think about Daphne.
"Stop the car, here," my mate Max instructs the driver.
"Oh come on, mate," I say out loud. "What's the fucking point of having a car drop you off if we're walking the whole fucking block to get to the club?"
Max hems and haws but I know the reason all the blokes are going on with this stupid plan.
It's so we can walk by and have our pick of the ladies.
If these boys were just any old boys, I'd be gone faster than a Thai hooker once she's got your money. But they're my best mates. If we were at war, they'd be having my backs. I'd be having theirs.
I sigh and go along with their plan.
We exit our black stretch-Bentley and the five of us immediately draw looks. People take out their phones to take pictures of us.
That's right. They're taking pictures of me.
My 6 foot plus frame.