A Bad Boy Billionaire: Forbidden Alpha Male Romance (5 page)

American Women

For many, the first million dollars are the most dangerous in many different ways. And then the risks increase with each one hundred million you grow. I remember being new to the game. I remember the way her lips tasted after eating a light lunch in the park. The way her hair flowed down naturally yet

somehow still part of a whole. Beams of light hitting her here and there and me too and the giant oak tree provided shade, but the sun manged to make it through.

“My love is like solar neutrinos.”

“But I'd never be able to feel you.”

“You like feeling me, do you,” I teased.

“I do.”

“And it's not just the money?” So new, I still told everyone I met just in case. I'm not sure why now, but I was still adjusting.

“Of course the money plays a small role, but no bigger than the size of your dick.”

I wasn't sure if she was putting me down, trying to be clever, or both. I let it slide as I slid my hand across her chest and cupped a breast. I leaned forward and captured her nipple between my lips. We were on some stretch of land I owned with trees and a creek running through. I had my shirt off and shorts on. She reached down and into them, taking me into her hand.

I sat up. “It's getting late.” I didn't want to start another round with her just yet. I still wasn't sure. Was she just stimulation or was there something deeper? We'd been spending a lot of time together, which worried me. I didn't like to give any single person too large of a block of my time anymore. It seemed to be working, at least for business but not so much with the women.

“So? It's not the dick comment, is it? I was just kidding.”

“I know. It's not that.”

“Then what?”

“I can't explain it.” I looked into her eyes for the answer and saw vapid emptiness.

American women were so spoiled compared to the majority of the rest of the population of the planet, but beyond that it was the ignorance of the fact that most had that made them so intolerable. Of course, American men are no better, but there you go.

I reached down and offered my hand. She accepted the help and stood up. Grabbing the blanket, we started walking toward the house, the mansion, the whatever you want to call it. I hadn't gotten too wild or extreme with real estate yet, but I bought land as if it was not being made anymore.

“You sure you're not mad?” she asked again as we walked across the manicured lawn.

“Not mad at you, dear,” I said, looking at her to try to assure her. I must not have done a very good job because I could see a sadness wash over her face. I wasn't well traveled in the world at that point, those early years, so I had no reference point against which to judge American women.

“Am I going away soon?”

I laughed. “What do you mean?”

“I've heard about you, you know.”

“Oh yeah?” I was intrigued. “What have you heard?”

“Well, the obsession over the size of your penis for one.”

“I have no such thing!” I tried to laugh, but it came out too forced.

“Okay. We can not talk about it.”

“Seriously, I don't care about the size of my penis anymore.”

For American men, the size of the bank account, the size of the pile of gold, the power was more important. Modern magicians could conjure up mixtures of elements in little pill shaped forms to make the snake rise. What mattered to many American men was the money. American women too, but there was still a divide in many ways. The gap was lessening with each passing year, but it was still present.

We reached the back patio and entered the small kitchen. “Want something to drink?” I asked, heading to a cabinet of liquor.

“I'd love one.”

I mixed us both a rum and coke.

“Only pussies and pirates drink rum,” she told me.

“Oh? And which one am I?”

“I'm not sure yet. We just met really.”

“And there you have it.”

“Have what?”

“The answer to your question.”

“Which question?” At twenty-one years old, her attention span was not expansive.

“Are you going away soon.”

“Are you asking me?”

I sighed. “Nevermind. I'm a pirate. Definitely not a pussy. Pussies don't get power and wealth in this world. It's all messed up.”

“And you think you have power and wealth?” She took a sip of the heavy on the rum drink.

“I have a little and getting more all the time. The first million is the hardest.”

“That's what they all say.” She reached under the table and grabbed me underneath the cotton shorts. I sat back and let her play as I took a drink and tried to not think about how the day had gone. I'd finally surpassed a million and was well on my way to my first hundred milestone, but I'd had to destroy a childhood friend in the process. Well, an acquaintance. Maybe he was never my friend. I kept telling myself that.

I let out a moan as she unzipped me and my half-hard member popped out. Sitting at the kitchen table of a practically empty mansion getting a hand-job. Had I achieved the American dream? What did Darlene think I want? “What do you think I want?” I asked her suddenly.

She looked up from my penis, seemingly mesmerized by it. “What?”

“What do you think I want?”

“To cum?”

“Well, yeah, that, but beyond that. What do you think I want from life?”

“A blowjob instead?”

I sighed and nodded my head. She smiled as if she got the right answer and bent down and got to work. The job wasn't a pleasant one for her. I could tell by the lack luster performance she put in while going down on me. She made me cum. Afterward, I led her to the front door. She cried a little, but I told her I would call her sometime. American women are used to being lied to on a regular basis by everyone around them.

I spent the rest of the night alone, smoking high-grade marijuana and writing on my laptop while sitting on the balcony of my first large home. I was almost to $100 million. I felt as if going from one to one hundred was as difficult as getting that first million. Already my sense of time and place were sent into hysterics due to the gravity produced by all the money I was accumulating. A poet who made money? Who would've thought. With the poetics of coding and making the machines do my will, I had come up.

The next day, I wanted to cum again, so I called Sarah, who was a little older. She worked at one of the few remaining bookstores in the world. Actual paper books. I should be careful lest my audience of readers begin to realize who I am or what I'm capable of doing – with words. Always with words. The medium doesn't matter as much as the content. Sarah would understand that and gave a good blowjob as well. She also appreciated good head, letting me go down on her as she instructed me about every nook and cranny she wanted me to reach.

I was on the back patio by the pool when she arrived. Sitting on a lounger, I heard birds chirping in the distance and then she was there in front of me. She didn't waste any time and stripped down to a bikini.

“What's up, old man?”

“Bored and horny,” I said, honestly. I liked her directness. American women don't fuck around.

“I'm on the rag, but I can blow you and you can owe me one, a long double orgasm for me like you did last time.”

I nodded. “Thanks, I would appreciate that. Smoke a joint first?

“Of course.”

I sat up and retrieved a good sized joint. I lit it up, took a quick, short puff and passed it to her. We rested on the lounge chairs, laying back and soaking up the last of the sun without any conversation. Halfway through, she got up and knelt beside me. Without a word, she pulled down my shorts and started to examine me closely with precision.

“You need to shave down here more,” she said, then looked up at me.

“Yeah...” I said dreamily then took another puff of the joint.

She grabbed me with one hand at the base and took me in her mouth, rolling her tongue around as I hardened. She deftly used her fingers, tongue and lips and even her nose and cheek. I closed my eyes and felt as if I was flying through the air. All that mattered, all that existed was her and me and then I came, feeling her pumping me as I shot load after load across my chest.

I sighed deeply. “I needed that.”

“I could tell. Save me some of that?”

“Of course.” I handed her what was left of the joint that had gone out. As she struggled to light it, I pulled out another and lit it, took a hit, then passed it to her. She rolled her eyes, but accepted it and tried to catch up to me. She had too far to go in a single night.

“What's wrong?” I asked, knowing something was not quite right. She was too quiet.

“Oh, I had an unexpected bill come up.”

I nodded, knowingly. This was a game we played. While upfront about half of the facts, she left some out which resulted in something not quite true and not quite a lie. American women love to have their cake and eat it too.

“I can help some if you want,” I offered.

“No, I couldn't let you do that. You've done so much already.”

“It's no big thing.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Just don't go around telling all the women it's no big thing. They might get the wrong idea.”

Her smile, the one I loved watching, reappeared. She was innocent and happy. Christmas morning had arrived and Santa Claus was real. This was the true American dream for many women and men. I had to leave the country soon and travel the world. To get my bearings and make it to one billion, I wanted to experience more than Sarah could offer me.

“You can fuck me in the ass if you want?” she said suddenly, standing up and sticking it in my direction.

“Oh yeah?”

“Well, you're not that big and since I'm bleeding I can still please you.”

“You already pleased me.”

“I know, but I want to make sure you're happy.”

“What's with everyone wanting to know if I'm really happy. I'm fucking rich! Why wouldn't I be?”

“You don't look happy. And what do you mean everyone? Was that whore here again?” She glared at me suddenly.

“I'll send the money to your account. Can you let yourself out? I'll give you a call soon,” I said, not wanting to get into it with her.

She shook her head, but she left, not saying a word. I would hear from her again. I always heard from American women again. That was the problem. I wanted something different, another perspective on life. Most of the women I had been meeting were all the same. Their ages made them different in some ways and they all had their own personalities and traits, but beneath everything when you crawled under the covers with them at the end of the night to try to sleep without nightmares they were all the same to me.

Take Samantha. She was a Tomboy all the way, even wearing her hair cropped close to her skill. She wore jeans and work shirts and had a bit of a swagger. But at the end of the day, after all the kinky sex, she wanted the same – security, to know there was something more than the allure of money and wealth. I didn't know what to tell these women to make them happy. I tried telling them the truth at first, but most didn't like this. And those who were okay with it didn't like the little lies I had to tell to keep sane at the end of the day.

Did I fuck people over to get my money? You bet. The higher up the ladder you go, the less feelings you need to have to be able to survive. Up here it's vicious and a long stream of women did nothing to quell the feelings of emptiness that wouldn't go away no matter how much money I spent. And yet, once I had the initial formula completed, the initial scripts running, the rest took care of itself to an extent. As long as I kept myself together and thinking clearly I would be able to keep moving forward.

Even at that point in my life I knew the likes of Gates and Branson were in my sights. And all the others. They had thought too small because they were from the old generation. I was born into a magical period in the timeline. I had been in the right place at the right time over and over again. And now I had Samantha kissing me and I had to take care of her. I put the thoughts out of my mind and ran my hand through her dark red hair, curly and hanging down below her shoulders.

She had my head in her hands as well and pushed my head to her breasts. I nuzzled them then lifted her shirt off for better access. I started kissing all of her flesh, wanting to taste all of it at once. I took my time and moved an inch at a time across her landscape with my tongue, my lips, a light then deep kiss. Getting closer and closer to her special spot, she took my head in her hands again and guided me. American women love to feel like they're in control, which they are maybe in some ways.

At the gates of her magical kingdom perfectly sized and shaped for my cock, I stopped and peered into her. Her lips were starting to spread open and I could see her clitoris still partially hidden, waiting to come out to play. I went through the motions at first, getting started, but as she started moving her hips up to make closer contact with my mouth, I started to heat up myself. This allowed me to know before she knew where to go, what to lick, what to press lightly and want to stab with my tongue firmly.