Sam nips my nipple with his teeth as I pull his head closer and buck my hips against his thigh, trying to get pressure on my clit.
"Jenny, we need to talk," he says, then wraps his mouth around my breast.
God help me. His mouth is so warm, wet, and perfect.
"Okay, babe," I say, guiding his head to my other breast. We do need to talk, I just hope it’s about the same thing. I want to talk about my tag-teaming fantasy and find out where he stands on the idea. Fuck, I'm getting wetter just thinking about two men at once. I grab Sam's head and push him toward my pussy. He takes the hint like a champ and slides his arms under my thighs while kissing his way down my torso.
"So, we're talking?" he prods, dropping my ankles over his shoulders.
"Yeah, baby. What do you want to talk about?" I wrap my fingers in his dark hair and press myself closer. I don't mind if he talks while he's eating.
His tongue slips into my belly button, and I sigh in contentment.
"I want us to be exclusive."
What?
I pop up on my elbows and look at him between my thighs. "You know I'm seeing Greg too," I remind him. Tonight, actually. I need to finish this up with Sam in the next hour if I'm going to shower between them.
"I know." He skips over my pussy to rim my asshole with his tongue. "But I'm ready to take our relationship to the next level."
Fuck.
Two
I tell Sam I'll think about it, then give him the blow job of his life to soften the blow. Pun intended.
Sam is perfect. He's rich, virile, smart, and beautiful. He's a doctor. Well, a dentist, but it still counts. He's thirty-five with the stamina of a twenty-five-year-old, and he's an all-around gold medalist in fucking. My ass, my mouth, my pussy—hell, he even makes sure I come while fucking my tits.
And he's in love with me.
The problem is, Greg's in love with me too. Greg is twenty-four and a bartender at a family friendly chain restaurant. You're judging me, aren't you? But Greg is hung. Like, urban legend hung. I honestly didn't think it was possible for a white guy to pass the eight-inch mark. It is. He does.
That fucker hurts—in the best possible way. I get wet just thinking about it…the way the first few thrusts hurt every time—and did I mention his girth? Yum.
I took pictures once, with his cock buried inside me. I made him lean back so I could snap a picture of my pussy stretched around him. I shudder a bit when I look at it…my skin pulled so taut, it looks like it should tear. Then I masturbate with an average sized dildo. I love Greg's penis, and they make Greg sized dildos, but who’s capable of impaling themselves on that? A cock that big needs to be forced into me while I pant and sweat and scream a little. No way I could inflict it on myself.
I know what you're thinking. Do I have a picture of Greg's erect cock next to a soda can for reference and can you see it?
Of course I do. I'd share, but I'm a bitch. Plus, I don't have your email, and you know I can't post that shit on Facebook. Fucking Zuckerberg. "Someone reported your photo for displaying nudity." It's like a breeding ground for tattletales.
I bet Eduardo would have voted to let us post penis pictures. Too bad Zuck kicked him out. That reminds me, I need to call my best friend and thank her for lending me her stylist for the wedding last weekend.
The wedding. I'd suspected Sam was growing a vagina while witnessing his friends commit to a lifetime of monogamy. I'd suspected, but I'd buried those suspicions under a few gin & tonics and focused on planting the idea of a threesome in Sam's head. With Greg to be clear. What the possible fuck would be in it for me if Sam and I had a threesome with another woman? Splitting one penis between two vaginas? I don't think so.
So, I'd gotten Sam a bit drunk at the reception and asked him if he'd ever experimented in college. He'd looked at me strangely, said no, and then fucked me missionary.
My work was cut out for me.
Three
I pull up to The Ivy and hand my car off to the valet. I'm meeting my bestie Darlene for a two-hour lunch on a weekday.
Do you hate me yet?
I'm rich too, you might as well know. I've done nothing to earn it either. My father is an aging gay pop star. You know the one. Did you feel sorry for me when I was born? Did you read the spread in People magazine, a picture of my fifty-year-old father cradling me on the cover, and wonder what kind of life I'd have? Did you go to one of his concerts and nudge your date and mutter, "He'll be sixty-eight by the time his daughter graduates from high school!"
Or were you more concerned I was being raised by a gay man? Did you post something bitchy on Facebook about a little girl needing a mother? You weren't alone. Lots of people passed judgement and made nasty comments.
Guess what? If you have enough money, the court of public opinion doesn't matter.
Thanks to money, a fifty-year-old gay man can give the middle finger to the world, buy an egg, hire a surrogate, and nine months later, be blessed with the miracle of me.
My childhood was fan-fucking-tastic, in case you're wondering.
I was, and still am, the apple of Daddy's eye. Imagine being raised by someone who thought every silly finger painting you did was artistic genius worthy of museum-quality framing. Someone who showed up to watch every dance class and sat front row during your recitals, then greeted you after with a bouquet more appropriate of a Broadway performance.
You know those machines indulgent California parents rent so their privileged offspring can experience snow? I never got one. When I mentioned wanting to see snow as Daddy tucked me in with a bedtime story, he'd have the private jet fueled, and an hour later, we’d be Vail bound. I'd slept on the plane and woke to a winter wonderland.
Any maternal needs I had were covered by my nanny, Martha. I had the same one my entire life, and she was always there for me when I needed a female shoulder to cry on or help with girl stuff. She's retired now, since I don't need a nanny at my age, obviously, but she's still on payroll, just in case, and she's at every holiday, just like family.
So, my childhood might not have been what society thought it should be, but it was perfect.
As an adult, I live on a healthy trust allowance, but I'm not a total deadbeat. I do work, designing purses. By designing, I mean I draw an occasional sketch and select materials while a team of people run the company with my name on the door. People may think I have it easy, but it's a lot of work building a brand. A lot. It doesn't happen overnight. In fact, I've been working hard at this for eighteen months. Eighteen! Then, just last week, the child of a washed-up actress launched her own line of handbags. Puh-lease. Everyone knows I'm the celebrity child handbag designer, and she's riding my coattails. She can try, but she won't succeed. People buy the handbags because of me—because they want to be me. I asked my lawyer to send her a cease and desist. She can design a line of sneakers if she wants. The handbag market is mine.
In addition to working four to eight hours a week, I maintain a vigorous beauty and exercise routine. You've got to be red carpet ready in Los Angeles at all times. Just last month, I escorted Daddy to the Grammy's where he was honored with a lifetime achievement award.
I'm blessed.
I'm a bit of golden girl on the celebrity child circuit. Twenty-five years old, and I haven’t had a single arrest or stint in rehab. Plus, the handbag thing. Maybe I'm not doing the grunt work there, but I tell everyone I am, and life is all about perception.
I'm practically perfect in every way.
I stride into The Ivy, and the hostess leads me to a table where my best friend is already waiting. Darlene is the daughter of a supermodel and an Oscar-winning Hollywood director.