My name is Braden Masterson and I'm a fucking legend.

As the head of an elite underground racing circuit in the most exciting city in the world, I’m the man that everyone wants to know, and the man that very few do.

Basically, I'm the most exclusive man in town and I like to keep my life and my affairs private. I'm the VIP that you just can't get access to.

I make it happen. I'm where the excitement begins and I'm the fucking life of every party. If you don't know me, you've likely heard whispers of me, tales of the legend.

I can’t keep a low profile, though, because of the operation I run. High-profile underground racing is no easy feat to accomplish unless you have power. In this industry, money is power. Lucky for me, I have more fucking money than I know what to do with.

The cops themselves shut down the streets of Manhattan just to make my dreams possible. Of course, it means I offer sizable donations to fund their retirement accounts but it's a small price to pay for the freedom of going fast.

Fast is how we roll. We’re collectively known as The Billionaires Club. The authorities allow it because we have so much damn money and all of us have one-of-a-kind, custom-made, souped-up race cars.

Hell, some of the cops even attend our races. It's an honor to be invited and it's such an underground scene that it's got that whole element of intrigue that attracts people. The cops close down certain roads within the city for construction—then the fun begins.

I'm part of the club, but most people consider me to be the best of the best. There's a reason for that. I have an edge. I almost always win because I have access to some of the best engine technology in the industry. My cars have the most high-performing engines, ones I developed myself.

Is all of this boring you? Well, it doesn't bore me. You see, engine performance equals winning, which means raking in a metric fuck-ton of money. The tiniest details matter because every second gained or lost is equivalent to about $10 million.

Now that you understand the social status of this club, maybe you can appreciate the level I'm at.

All this power I have in my hands automatically makes me the hottest bachelor in the city. To some, I'm a ghost, a phantom that they've only heard about but can’t get their hands on. But to others who have the privilege of knowing me, I'm a fucking god. I have women lining the streets just to get one taste of my cock.

In fact, right now, one begging to wrap her lips around my cock and give me a blowjob. She's a leggy brunette with fake tits and fake lips. She looks like a goddamn blow up doll. She's also the hottest girl I've seen tonight and that's why she's here.

"Hey baby, it's time," I say as I lean against the hood of my latest creation, a beautiful race car that I've named Desire.

I don't know this girl's name, but I definitely know her type. She's wearing an expensive dress and everything about her screams high-maintenance. Not uncommon around our racing unit.

She's probably been with a couple of billionaires already, maybe even tonight, and she gets off on the money and the power. Who wouldn't?

It’s obvious she really wants to please me, so she bends over the hood and starts sucking my cock really hard. She immediately starts to deep-throat it, and that's the kind of woman I like.

"That's it, baby, take it deeper," I say.

My tone drips with seduction. All I can think about is having her take in more and more of me.

She takes a pause so that she can use her hand to encircle my now slippery cock. Her strokes speed up as she works her way up and down my thick length. I'm not really in this for a hand job, though, so I try to force her head back down on my shaft.

But she's got other plans in mind. She bends down low and starts to tease and suck my balls. It's so fucking hot, and I can feel myself tensing up from the feeling of her lips around me.

Once I've had enough, I grab her head and force it onto my cock once again. I need those lips around me. She deep-throats me once again like it's her mission in life to please.

The entire length is stuffed down her throat and she can't get enough. She's moaning and crying, and I feel the vibrations all around my shaft. Her head bobs up and down, and I think this is fucking glorious.

I look up at the array of stars and think what a perfect fucking moment this is. I've got a girl sucking my cock as I lay down on the hood of my newly equipped race car under a vast, enormous sky. What more can a man ask for?

I'm one with nature and the race and everything beyond. But one thing I’m fucking sure of—I'm not one with is this girl. She's just one in a thousand that I've been with. Nothing about her tells me it's gonna last.

I'm weary of being with so many women that mean shit to me. But that doesn't mean I'm not gonna seize the opportunity to have my cock sucked whenever I want.

I love the enthusiasm of this one. She simply can't get enough. And I don't blame her.

I fist my fingers in her hair and hold her head steady as I pump my hot cum down her throat. She sucks up every last drop and continues to suck me even after I'm done, drawing out my pleasure.

She pulls off my cock with a pop and says, "Braden, mmm, you taste so good. You want to go back to your place?"

Fuck no. If this girl thinks she's gonna see me outside of this moment, she's got another thing coming. She should know I don't stick around. It's my well-established reputation. Besides, I've got other things to do. I let her down as gently as possible.

"No honey, I gotta run. But hey, maybe I'll see you at the next race."

I leave her with at least a shred of hope. Besides, who says it won't happen again? If I need to get off quickly, I can always count on her. And I know she'll be at every race she's invited to, looking for me and hoping that I pay her one ounce of respect and attention.

She wipes the sticky cum from her lips, and I take my keys and get in the car, giving her the signal that it’s time for her to leave.

She's not coming with me. I have a gala to attend. I rev my engine and leave her in a trail of dust to find her own ride home. I mean, fucking come on. Surely, she knows how these things work.

There’s a gala after every major race. It's going to be a hell of a party, one that only billionaires know how to throw.

I'm anxious to get there and away from this girl now I've had my fill.

I take my car to the city streets where everything is legal. Back to fucking reality.