Chapter Two — Ben
I casually look around the strip club, still taking note of the pretty girls despite the fact that I already have the entertainment for the evening sorted out. Still, never hurts to look—and since my current fling is obscured by the table at the moment as she's sucking my cock discreetly, well. I can use all the eye-candy that I can get.
I don't come here to Xanadu nearly enough, I decide. The place is nice—like what I'd imagine a middle-eastern harem to look like, with all different types of girls. And it's not like I don't have the money to splurge on their services.
Plus, it's been a while since I engaged in anything this risqué, and I need this. I need the feeling of her lips around my length, of her wet heat surrounding me as she bobs her head, lightly sucking and then flicking her tongue against my slit.
Her hand comes up to cover the rest of my prick, the part that her mouth doesn't quite reach—because even though she's very adept at swallowing down my length, I'm big when I'm hard, both in length as well as girth, and so I can't blame her for not quite being able to engulf me inside of her this way.
But suddenly, just when she's getting into the rhythm of things, my agent Barry slips into the booth across from me. “We need to talk,” he says in a serious voice.
I groan and still the woman's movements with a hand on the back of her head. Of course, I'm not about to stop her, I just need her to slow down a little, because the last thing I want is to waste a good orgasm because Barry is trying to have a conversation with me as the woman blows my brains out.
“Barry, this is my personal time,” I remind him, even though I know he doesn't really need reminding. He's there now because it's my personal time, I'm sure. That means he wants to impress on me the severity of what he's saying.
“It's about your contract,” Barry says. “As you know, we've been in negotiations over it—management and I. They're looking ahead to the draft, and you are blowing out most of their spending at the moment.”
“They can't seriously be thinking of cutting my pay,” I say, aghast. “If they do, they know I can find another team in–“
Barry cuts me off with a look, reminding me of where we are by looking around the club. “I wouldn't think that I would need to remind you that that sort of talk only hurts our chances of getting you higher pay,” he chastises me. “After all, to management, that's seen as a sign that you aren't loyal to the team. That you aren't committed to this franchise.”
I shrug, sneering a little. “Well, that's the truth,” I tell him, not caring who might overhear me. We're in a strip club, after all. It's not like there are going to be press members lingering undercover somewhere. Especially not since my presence here is hardly a story; everyone already kind of knows what I do in my free time—and I'm proud of it.
Barry gives me another warning look, though, so I decide to be gracious and drop it for the night. Maybe I can get him to leave so I can let the girl under the table finally finish me off. I have a pretty impressive stamina, but even that's beginning to wear down as she continues to lave at my throbbing cock, using her clever little tongue to find all my sensitive spots.
I can't help a muffled groan from escaping my lips, and Barry gives me another type of look, one that I can't quite decipher. He begins drumming his fingers against the table in clear agitation.
“If you would just clean up your act a little, it would be easy for us to get everything you wanted in a new contract,” he reminds me, as though he hasn't said that a thousand times before. Contracts are bullshit. Now Barry is really crushing my climax; I can’t come in her mouth while we’re talking shop.
I pull the woman up by her hair, “Sweetheart, get me a few shots from the bar.” I turn back to Barry. “I'm not interested in cleaning up my act,” I say, slapping the whore on the ass as she leaves. He was always such a prude about these things… “As long as I'm posting numbers, management can't really say anything, can they?”
It's not like there's any sort of ethics code or anything like that in my contract. Well, except that I'm not supposed to sleep around with coworkers, but it's not like any of them would ever tell on me if such a situation did actually happen.
As Barry talks I think of that new girl, Marissa. God, she was hot and off limits—a perfect challenge for me. A good pair of legs on an attractive woman was definitely my Achilles heel. I would love to have her pressed up against a wall, with those legs wrapped around me as I pinned her there. Or maybe I would bend her over and take her from behind as she moaned against her desk. With legs like that, she was probably the perfect height—and I could tell she was flexible in the graceful way that she carried herself.
My mind is filled suddenly with images of what she must look like while she's being fucked. I can imagine her with her long, brown hair falling in cascading waves down her back, looking totally blissed out and still keening her way through yet another orgasm—because from the way she was staring at my penis, I can tell that she needs it, and bad.
I wonder how long it's been, how tight she must be. I'll have to be gentle with her, probe her first with my fingers—and maybe with my tongue—making sure that she's wet and wanting before I push my thick manhood inside of her…
My dick hardens again just thinking about her, and for a moment, it doesn't matter that Barry's there or that just a moment ago, some nameless whore was under the table. I zip up my pants, actually surprised I’m thinking about Marissa.
The whore comes back to the table with shots, and that's enough to bring me crashing back to reality. I smile at the woman, struck suddenly by her resemblance to Marissa. Must have been my subconscious trying to pick the best that I could get—for now, anyway.
There was no way I was going to let the woman continue to work there without doing something for me along the way. She might think that Mark was her boss, but she would soon learn who was really calling the shots with the Chicago Kings.
I hand the whore a hundred bucks and smile sweetly at her. “Thanks, darling,” I say. “Come back in ten, don’t keep me waiting.”
The woman grins at me, pocketing the hundred, and nods, slinking away. Of course she'll come back; they always do. Anything to keep the great Ben Price happy. I laugh a little to myself.
Barry raps his knuckles against the table. “Could you focus, please?” he asks, frustration in his voice.
I sigh and look away from that playfully swinging ass and back to my agent's face. “What?” I ask a bit peevishly. “Look, Barry, I get that you've come here to ruin my night, the last thing I want to talk about at the minute is cleaning up my image or anything like that.”
“You're not posting the numbers,” Barry tells me bluntly. “Sure, management might have no choice but to look the other way when you're posting numbers. And sure, maybe you don't need the Chicago Kings and could go somewhere else—when you're posting numbers. But in the last couple seasons, your numbers have dropped substantially, and this year, you're nowhere near the best quarterback in the league. So before you start talking about posting the numbers–“
“Hey,” I interrupt heatedly, half-standing so that I can use my height against him. I'm incensed. He has no right to talk to me that way—and especially not since he, of all people, knows exactly how hard I've worked to stay fit and game-ready.
“You know how hard I'm working,” I remind him. “It's been a difficult start to the season, sure, but not for any lack of trying on my part. We have a lot of young guys on the team—and a lot of new guys. It's going to take some time for us all to mesh and for our passes to start connecting out on the field. You know that.”
“I know that,” Barry agrees. “And so does management. But on the other hand, you've never led the team to a Super bowl victory, and–“
“That's bullshit,” I interrupt. “Football is a team sport, and we win or lose–“
Barry slams his hand down on the table, causing a few people around us to look our way. “Damn it, Ben,” he hisses, standing up as well and leaning in close despite the table between us. “Listen to me for a second, would you? That's what you hire me for after all—remember?”
“Go on,” I say sulkily, folding my arms across my chest.
“Let me tell you how things look from management's side of things,” Barry says. “It doesn't look good. It looks like they're seeing you give more of your heart to those floozies on your web videos then you give to each game. It looks like you're exhausted out on the field—and guess what? Drinking and fucking aren't helping you look less tired. So they're starting to think that maybe at 28, you can't keep up the way that you used to. And yet you continue to choose drinking and fucking—so then they start to think that maybe, just maybe, they'd be able to find something better in someone younger, someone whose vices weren't consuming him.”
I'm fuming, absolutely ready to blow—but I know from past arguments that fighting with Barry will get me absolutely nowhere good. Finally, I just turn around and walk out of Xanadu, not even bothering to say goodbye or to acknowledge that I'd heard him.