Billionaire Beast

I’m sitting in the back, pants around my ankles. I refuse to drop my boxers in a cab, though. You never know what kind of shit happened on these seats.

To prove my point, she’s slipping my cock through the slit in the fabric, and I’m looking in the rearview mirror at the driver. This isn’t my first time in the back of a cab.

Sure enough, she’s about halfway down my dick on her first time down when he looks up and spots me watching him. I just smile and shrug my shoulders. The guy’s got to be lonely driving all night, may as well give him a show.

“Do you like that?” she asks.

I’ve never been a fan of that question in this context. Chances are, if I’m not telling you to stop, I’m not complaining.

“That feels great, babe,” I tell her. I don’t really like the term, but it’s a lot easier than trying to remember her name.

“Get another drink or two in me, and I bet I can deep-throat that,” she says.

It’s not a terrible idea, other than the risk that alcohol and gag reflexes can cause when put together.

“We’ll see,” I tell her. “I’m more interested in what you taste like.”

Yes, it’s a line, but it works.

In response to my “selfless act,” she’s all the more adamant in her action. Tonight’s not a bad night.

She pops me out of her mouth a moment to lick my sack. This is why I shower three times a day. I never know when it’s going to happen; only that it is going to happen.

“That’s fucking great,” I mutter, hoping the driver can’t hear me. I don’t like talking during the act any more than I like responding to that ridiculous question she asked a minute or two ago, but if that’s what she wants, that’s what she wants.

The driver glances up at the mirror, and I can see his eyes squint into a smile.

It’s when he angles the mirror down to get a closer look at exactly what’s going on that I put my hand on my companion’s shoulder. I’m fine with the driver having an idea what’s going on, even catching a glimpse here and there, but having another guy staring at my junk is just awkward.

“What’s wrong?” the woman asks. “I’m not hurting you, am I?”

Eager to please, loathe to offend: it is a beautiful thing.

I nod toward the mirror, and whatever-her-name-is throws a fit big enough to convince the cabbie to give us a discount for the trip.

I’m still hard when we pull up to her building.

We get out of the cab, and I grin as I wish the driver a good night.

I doubt his is going to be anything compared to mine.

Buzzed Girl is all laughs as the doorman opens the door for us, and I’m just hoping she’s not one of those chicks that’ll spend all of our time giggling and talking about how she never does this kind of thing.

I get that the super-innocence thing is a turn on for some guys, but I’m not one of them.

I like a woman who knows what she’s doing.

We get to the elevator, and although we’re not the only people in the car, she’s standing in front of me, rubbing her butt against the front of my jeans.

Yeah, I’m ready.

“Tell me about your roommate,” I say.

She stops grinding.

“What?” she asks. “Why?”

“I mean, if she hears us, what’s she going to do? I mean, she’s not going to call the cops or anything stupid, is she?”