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Yeah, love, I know what you're staring at.
Let's pause for a moment while you stare at my cock.
Here, I'll even grab it's thick shaft through my boxer briefs and give it a nice little tug for you, yeah? That's 12 inches of man meat. 12 inches of pussy pleasing power. Lust muscle. Fuck stick. Ready for the next victim.
Twelve fucking inches. But we'll talk more about this later, because I need to put on my flight suit.
"I really hope you would reconsider, sire," Jacques says to me once I zip up the suit.
Fuck that.
"I'll see you at the condo," I say with a thumbs up.
"If you survive," Jacques says with a droll voice. Don't ro
ll your eyes at him, love. He's been with me since I've been a wee boy.
"Open it," I order and Jacques latches onto a harness in the compartment to prevent getting carried away and pushes a button.
The aft compartment opens up and I shoot out into the fucking sky.
That's right. I shoot into the sky.
I have the destination coordinates for where I need to go near the UN plugged into my wrist tracker and it shows me the bearings I need to get to from where I am. I begin making course corrections, all the while trying to keep the fear of seeing the ground getting closer and closer from overwhelming me. My heart's racing at 2,000 beats a minute and I know that with one wrong move, I would just be the former Prince, having to be scraped up off the sidewalk. The tabloids would talk about how the Prince of the Party lived hard, and definitely died hard.
My wrist indicator starts beeping and flashing red. I'm too far off course! I begin to panic. If I don't correct myself in time, the parachute won't open properly. I focus. The ground keeps coming closer and closer.
Just when I seem ready to consign myself to death, I manage to hit a jet stream and am able to angle my body to move just right. I glide several yards north and change my trajectory so that I'm spot on. My wrist indicator goes from red to green.
Time to deploy the chute.
I tug at the drawstring and the chute pops out. But in my struggle to get the proper bearings, I had waited too long. This is going to be a rough landing.
108
Natalie
"He's a very important client for our firm," Lisa tells me. She has one manicured hand on her hip and the other cradling a paper cup of hot coffee. She removes the lid and blows on the steam.
"Why does the barista insist on making it so darn hot?" she asks, momentarily distracted.
I know why Lisa's giving me this talk. She's a veteran PR manager and has been at the Gage Price firm for over a decade now. She knows I'm young, fresh out of college, and she thinks my age and inexperience is a liability. But I know what I need to do, and I'm not going to mess this up. I'm motivated. If I play my cards right with this client, I know I'll be up for a promotion.
"You don't need to worry about me," I reply. "I realize that Connor D'Avington is paying good money for our PR."
"It's more than just good money," Lisa says. "It's more money than Gage Price has ever received from a diplomat before—and we've represented quite a few. But we're definitely going to need to work extra hard for him. Prince D'Avington has a lot going against him right now."
"I saw the YouTube video," I nod in agreement. That notorious video has 5 million views already and counting.
"The one in Vegas?" she asks.
"Connor, three strippers, one hot tub—yeah, it was definitely Vegas."
"The media is having a field day with that one," she says, shaking her head. "Did you see the way he was boasting in front of the camera, pounding his chest like Tarzan? Who does that?"
It's true, that video didn't cast Connor in a favorable light—scandalous, boastful, and with an ego that borderlines narcissistic.
"I don't know," I say. "But I'm here to help him turn that all around."
