Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 22903 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 115(@200wpm)___ 92(@250wpm)___ 76(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 22903 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 115(@200wpm)___ 92(@250wpm)___ 76(@300wpm)
After all, it’s not exactly easy owning a hotel. I spend my days in meetings that last far too long talking to dozens of competing stakeholders, and lately, my Inbox has become totally unmanageable. Does this happen to other people? I literally gave up, and asked my secretary to take over my email. So now, everyone who thinks they’re getting a reply from Stone Thompson, is actually getting a reply from Pamela Gould. Pam’s doing a great job, and honestly, no one’s the wiser, so to hell with it. I might as well stick with this system.
But there’s no sense in complaining either because this hotel is my brainchild, and my ego is wrapped up in its success. Revenues, profits, permits, taxes, payroll, and all that bullshit are worth it when I look around the Corinthian and realize that I built this place. Every lightbulb, every chandelier, hell, every toilet bears my mark and I love it. It’s perfection from the ground up, and the stress was totally worth it.
But then my nose wrinkles as I skulk around backstage behind the auditorium. What’s that smell? Shit, it must be a combination of hairspray, sweat, cologne, and, if I’m not mistaken, tanning oil. It’s good to know that my dancers know what they’re doing because no one wants to patronize a male revue with flabby, pasty dudes. But dang, that Hawaiian Tropic smell is overpowering with its coconutty stench.
I shake my head, trying not to breathe through my nose. At least the show makes a lot of money, and brings screaming female crowds almost every night of the week. But then, I stop myself. The last thing I need is to start thinking about is profit margins at this time of night. I stress about that shit non-stop during the day, and right now, I want to relax.
I continue strolling around backstage, forcing myself to take it easy while observing details high and low. There’s a stack of gladiator helmets by the wall, as well as a pretend fire hydrant with a real hose attached. That must be for the fireman skit that the revue puts on. The guys literally hold the hose in front of their crotches and pretend like it’s a massive dick as they spray the women. Again, the female audience loves it and practically cream their panties while screaming with joy. It’s a winner, for sure.
But then, the tinny sound of music makes my ears perk, and I stop. Is someone else here? Maybe it’s just a night guard with their radio on a little too loud.
I turn to leave, but then a steady bass hits my ears and I realize this isn’t a radio. Someone’s blasting a boombox, and it’s coming from further down the hall. With a furrow in my brow, I slowly wander in that direction as the bass thumps louder and louder, practically shaking the walls now. Who the hell is doing that? Thunder Strike has long since wrapped up for the night, so this place should be empty.
Finally, my feet come to a halt in front of the door of a practice studio. What the hell is going on? Are they doing a conga line in here? Annoyed, I push open the door and peek inside. At first, it looks empty, but then I see a young woman gyrating about, her curves flashing in the mirrors as she spins in a sexy circle.
But even crazier, this isn’t modern dance, ballet, or tap. This woman’s doing a sexy striptease, and my eyes widen as slowly, she slinks her top off her shoulders, letting the fabric drop to the ground. She’s got huge tits that bounce, and with a secret smile, the girl shimmies her shoulders before slowly pushing the straps of her bra down. Then, the woman unbuckles the back and the skimpy lingerie drops to the floor.
Oh shit. She’s gorgeous and those breasts are creamy and full, at least Double D’s. They jiggle enticingly, the pink nipples making my mouth water as the woman sways this way and that, the ivory orbs moving along with her.
But then, the woman does me one better. She reaches down and catches a big breast in her hand before lifting it to her mouth and licking the nipple. I almost come in my pants because shit, she’s dirty, and I’d love to get a taste myself. But then with a giggle, she starts dancing again, this time, unbuttoning the waistband of her skirt and slowly letting the gauzy material fall to the ground as well. The beautiful woman’s wearing only a thong beneath the material and she wiggles her hips again, making those big buttocks jounce up and down.
Oh shit, oh shit. I’m going to cream in my pants, and as if she can read my mind, the woman turns her back to me before parting her legs in a v-stance. Then she bends over slowly, running her hands down her outer thighs all the way down to her calves before coming back up again. With a sly smirk, she smacks one big buttock, the loud crack audible even over the music. Goddamn, who is she?