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Chapter 2
Vivienne
“Holy fuck!” I yell in surprise. How am I already covered in his cum? I just walked through the door.
And to think, I thought wearing black on my first day would be a safe bet. Now, it looks like this new Chanel dress is ruined, all thanks to King David’s massive amounts of cum staining the fabric. I wish I could say that I’m pissed, but I’m actually impressed.
Yeah, Yeah, I know. I’m sure you’re thinking, What the fuck, babe?! How in the hell are you not pissed that this man just blew a five-pound load of cum on your new $700 Chanel dress, the one you purchased specifically for today?
If it were anyone else, I would be livid. I’d probably walk out of the door, slam it in his face, and never look back.
But it’s King David. The David Lockridge. And I just saw his dick—his impressive, thick, twelve-inch dick, fully erect in his hands.
Not only is he fucking gorgeous—like, other-worldly, too hot for humans gorgeous—but so is his cock. And I’m surprised because I never thought I’d find a dick that’s so damn attractive.
Though, admittedly, I’ve seen it before. It’s been in sex tapes and in random photos printed in tabloids throughout the years.
But to see it in person is a whole different experience. Like the saying goes, the pictures do not do it justice.
I try to refrain from staring at it—no, correction, gawking at it—but it’s too hard. Very hard.
My panties were already soaking wet as I watched him stroke his cock to ecstasy. And now, as I feel the warmth of his cum showering my body, regardless of it was meant for me or not, is making me fucking hot.
I should probably back up because it sounds like I’m a fucking fangirl. Well, to be honest, I kind of am. But that’s not why I’m here.
Unfortunately, my job description doesn’t include fucking the clients. Well, it’s only unfortunate because, now, my client is King David.
Being from New York or the U.S. in general, the idea of royalty has always been a romanticized notion. We fantasize about being a Princess or a Queen and being married to a King. It’s so far-fetched that the only thing we can do is dream about it.
And that’s what I always did.
The tabloids made it easier because I could stay-up-to-date with what the actual royals in Europe were doing. And while growing up, I was one of the billions who followed David’s every move.
He was fascinating. More than the others, especially. It also didn’t hurt that he was so damn sexy—I mean, if you didn’t want to be his princess, you definitely wanted to, at least, fuck him.
Oh, and it didn’t help when the sex tapes came out. Let’s just say, every woman then had a clear idea—and image—of how he is in bed. And it is very impressive.
I would be lying if I said he didn’t star in my fantasies every so often. Or more like every day.
Though now that I’ve seen him in person, I realize my vibrator doesn’t do it justice. At all.
But let me back up a bit.
Those types of stories are exactly why I’m over here now. He has a bad reputation. He’s known for partying too hard, fucking too many women, and, frankly, not giving one damn about his country.
It worked well for him as a Prince, making the headlines as the Debaucherous David—as well as for my highlight reel. But as a King? That type of shit does not go over well. With anyone.
After the tragic incident which resulted in the death of most of his family, he recently was crowned King. The turnover was swift, and before the world knew it, the porn star Prince was on the throne and making all the decisions.
And no one is happy about it.
But with some finagling and spinning, his image can be restored—or, at least, that’s what I told the royal counsel.
I’ve worked my ass off as a Public Relations consultant in New York for most of my twenties. I’ve dealt with all sorts of clients, ranging from strung-out, doped-up athletes who needed to rework their images into wholesome family guys in order to keep their jobs, to philandering politicians who were begging for a second chance.
I’ll never judge anyone for what they’ve done, especially my clients. It’s not for me to decide what’s right or wrong. For me, it’s just business. And I help whoever pays me.
But don’t be too quick to judge me and my approach, babe. A woman has to eat, and, in New York, eating gets damn expensive.
