CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Tristan
A year later …
“Sir, good to see you again,” bowed Bowles, my butler.
“Thanks, it’s been a while,” I rumbled, stepping into the foyer of the New Jersey mansion. It was quiet, but then I expected it to be.
I haven’t been back in a year. I took off after my illicit weekend with Daisy, realizing that I was playing with fire, that we were both going to get burned to cinders, going up in flames. Because Daisy was gorgeous, funny, smart, and ambitious. She was everything I needed, everything I’d ever wanted. But the fucking problem was me, an older man cum lech who used that nubile body every which way when the sweet teen didn’t know better.
Because sure, she was eighteen but that hardly excused things. I’d been ordained by her mom to take care of her, make sure the girl didn’t get into trouble. But instead, I’d been the cause of the trouble, popping her daughter’s cherries, violating all my promises. For one illicit weekend, one incredible, once-in-a-lifetime occasion, I let myself revel in the taboo, take what I’d wanted, however I wanted.
And it had gotten out of hand. True, Daisy and I had been careful – to the outside world we were just a guardian and ward on a college tour, visiting my alma mater, nothing special. But holy shit, it was so much more than a simple tour of the campus. I showed Daisy the Labyrinth, the down and dirty nook in the library where couples got it on, taking her cunt, her ass, her virginity, her everything.
And after it was done, she was so good, so tasty that I needed more. I fucking went ape-shit, putting it in her ass, making her cry out and scream, forcing her to fuck a dildo for crying out loud. Who does that to a virgin? Who the fuck? Me, that’s who, and I hated myself for it. I’m so depraved, such a fucking user, and I’d taken that girl for all she was worth, sating myself, watching that pink pussy pulse around my cock again and again.
But I couldn’t live with it. I’d violated my sacred oath to Carolyn, I was the monster in the closet, I’d made promises and instead, taken from the vulnerable, the needy. And fuck, but as CEO of Marks Holdings, I’m responsible for a vast portfolio of publications including publications like Sixteen, a teen rag for adolescent girls. What would the subscriber base say if it got out that I was banging my ward? That the guy who literally founded Everyday Dads and put Rachel Lewis Living, Healthful Life!, and Moms and Tots on newsstands was now drilling an eighteen year-old night after night, parting those cunt lips for countless sperm deposits? It was fucking bad business and there are shareholders to keep happy, a business to run.
So I took off, leaving for Europe, managing my conglomerate long-distance. My staff was aghast at first, stuttering and grasping.
“Mr. Marks, we need you in New York. Who’s going to preside over the board meeting?”
“Mr. Marks, we’re looking at three executive hires, we need your input at the senior level.”
“Mr. Marks, we need you for the quarterly earnings call. It can’t happen without you.”
We need, we need, we need. I ignored it and as expected, the problems magically resolved themselves. Or maybe the problems had never been problems to begin with, they’d merely been the nervous blabberings of annoying underlings.
So yeah, things worked out business-wise, I’ve still got Marks Holdings under control, our shit is selling like hotcakes, money’s pouring in in waves, making me a very rich man.
Except that I’ve been miserable here in Europe, missing my little girl. I’ve tried my best to keep my mind off her, taking out a bunch of highly eligible women, supermodels, PR chicks, marketing babes, all of them six feet tall in stilettos and cocktail dresses, glossy hair swinging over their shoulders, stick thin with calculating smiles.
But I’ve felt absolutely nothing. I smile, flashing a grin for the cameras, my arm around their waists, but I literally can’t focus. The women jabber on, their voices running like water through my head.
“Tristan,” the latest one purred, hanging off my arm.
“Hmm?” I replied, turning distractedly to her. What was her name again? Oh right, Jenny. I’d agreed to be seen with Jenny because she had brown hair, the waves rippling under the light, reminding me of another woman, a sweet, sassy girl.
But just as she was about to speak, a photographer ran up and snapped a pic, the flash bright in our faces. As if on cue, Jenny struck a pose, jutting her hip out, throwing herself into my arms, and I reflexively caught the woman as her body pressed tight to mine, not an inch of daylight between us. But as soon as it was over, I pushed away, disgusted. The female was so thin, so frail, all skin and bones, like I’d been hugging a skeleton and not a ripe, curvy female. What I wouldn’t have given at that moment to feel Daisy’s huge tits against me, those pillows molded against my chest, that sassy ass wiggling and jiggling. Fuck my life, dreaming about my ward even while on date with an international supermodel. I was so fucked.
But work has brought me back to New York now. Marks Holdings is in talks to buy PrettyGirl, a “gentleman’s magazine” of the best sort, the kind where girls go at it triple-X style, baring everything, pushing everything and anything into their cunnies. Naw, this wasn’t soft-core stuff, not like Playboy where you see breasts but no ass. This was no-holds-barred real shit, skimming the line of vulgarity, dicks out, tits out, cocks in cunny.
And fuck, but sex sells, bringing in shitloads of moolah, far more than Sixteen or Moms and Tots, our current cash cows. It’s not PrettyGirl, the magazine itself, but rather the on-line website. People purchase subscriptions to PrettyGirl.com for fifty bucks a month and there were currently twenty million subscribers. That’s one hundred million in cash per month. Count it, folks. One hundred million dollars. Per month. And that didn’t even include the live streams, the on-air talk show, the “talent” that circled the world dancing at various clubs. We were talking some serious bucks, my empire would expand dramatically with the acquisition of this beauty.
But PrettyGirl’s an odd one. It’s still owned by the original founder, Jerry Echo, a sleazy douchebag of a dude, seventy and constantly wandering around Hollywood with three blonde starlets on his arm. He’s fucking disgusting, there’s no way that guy can get it up without Viagra, but hey, to each his own and he’s built an empire on his image, living the life in a silk bathrobe and wheelchair.
And Jerry wants to make sure his baby is sold to the right buyer. Old fuck Echo wants to make sure that Marks Holdings has a niche for the magazine, that we’re going to market it well, that we’re going to keep feeding his pet project, max out its value even after he hands over the reins. And so I’ve got to change my image. Gone are the days of Tristan Marks, alpha billionaire, model-dater, serial womanizer, the man with the Midas touch. Hell, that was the old shit, way too tame for Jerry’s tastes. He wants someone in his image, someone who’s just as nasty, dating girls decades younger, sweet and nubile, sassy and fun, and I know just how to get it. I’m re-branding myself as Tristan Marks, billionaire alpha … and the asshole who seduced his innocent ward.