Bad Boy Boss Read online

  BAD BOY BOSS

  by

  Abby Chance

  Bad Boy Boss

  Published by Sophia Blanca

  Copyright © 2015 by Sophia Blanca

  All rights reserved.

  Ebook Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Bad Boy Boss

  Normally I wouldn’t work for Cash, but I was beyond broke.

  He was sloppy and it showed, but the script was a pretty standard one and he let me use my Lisa persona. The better class of stuff was mostly wrestling, and better choreographed. Carrie was using her Lillith persona, so she was the heel and I got the baby-face. She’d attack before the bell and have the advantage for a while. She did miss on a chop and smacked my left tit. Not bad, but it hurt; hopefully it would sell a few more copies with some actual pain in it. That is, if Cash filmed it right.

  The set-up in Cash’s backyard in Thousand Oaks had a ring, ropes and the whole nine yards. Most of his stuff was the standard topless, catfight fantasy; he did some fetish stuff with garters, heels and boxing as well. His end product was the bottom line stuff: it looked fake, and even though both Carrie and I were pretty good, his angles were wrong and our pulled punches just a little too obvious.

  The catfights, and some fetish modeling, was about as far as I would go, so I wasn’t into the bigger bucks. Which was the cause of my current dilemma. I kept my panties on, so I got $250 for the shoot. After I choked out Lillith/Carrie, I pantsed her and did a victory dance, so she got $350 for the last two minutes of lying there with her legs spread.

  The money was almost spent. I owed a hundred vig to George on the grand I borrowed to pay the rent two months ago and another hundred toward this month’s rent, which I was five hundred behind on. I had a twenty in my purse, so that and the fifty were going to have to feed me for the month. Hopefully I’d get a few more gigs and cut down the backlog a bit.

  There was this guy who watched us. You can sort of tell the rich ones; the dress, but mostly the attitude. A real rich one stands differently than the one who got his Armani jacket at Goodwill and wore a Hong Kong Rolex. Cash said he had something special for me, and I was leery of this one. The rich ones show up in the Valley when they want an easy lay, working triple X they always figure you for a prostitute. It’s just that this one looked like he could afford an ingénue, and didn’t need to slum.

  Cash called me over as I was shrugging into a light yellow robe.

  “This is Alex,” said Cash. “He’ll get you out from under.”

  “I already told you no, Cash,” I directed my words to my boss, but my eyes were firmly on the stranger. “I don’t do that. I’ve got contacts of my own if I want to be an escort.”

  “Actually,” Alex said, “I need someone who isn’t. You’ll be posing as a series of fairies for a children’s book. You can understand just how thrilled the publisher would be if I used an, as you say, ‘escort’ for that. I think he might tend to use the word ‘hooker’ and that won’t sell in the six and under market.”

  “That’s it?” I said.

  “Not hardly. I need a model. I want to paint. I have the time, the money and the studio, up in the mountains, in Sugarloaf, near Big Bear. Since I own a piece of the publishing company, I’m building a name as a photographer. My great-granddad once dug a hole in the ground and watched it fill up with oil, screwed his partners out of their share and handed me a pretty sweet trust fund, so I play.

  “How much do you owe?”

  “A grand to a shark and five hundred in rent. Actually, as of today, eleven hundred to the shark with the vig.”

  “So I’ll pay it. You get a cabin next to the studio and a hundred a week for the first sixteen, then two hundred.”

  “Lay on MacDuff.”

  “One doesn’t expect Shakespeare in the Valley.”

  “A semester of community college has to be worth something.”

  “How old are you?” he asked

  “Twenty-two.”

  “A child.”

  “Oh, and how old are you?”

  “Twenty-four.”

  “Grandpappy,” I shot over my shoulder as I went to change.

  I wore a mini with boots and a tight top, figuring Cash might want some opening shots of us getting ready, but he didn’t. As you might imagine, wardrobe doesn’t play a big part in these productions. I knew how to wear one, and teased him a bit when we got into his Jaguar. Not that it was a big thing; I mean, he’d just watched a half an hour of me in a bikini bottom and naked tits. Still, flashing a bit of panty never hurts.

  George had a used bookstore on Fairfax, and, as promised, Alex settled with him. He even bought a book. At my apartment, he conned Hector, the super, into throwing my pitiful assortment of material goods into a few cardboard boxes. Hector loaded my stuff while Alex paid my landlord.

  I suppose the Jag helped a lot there because I got a kiss on the cheek and an invitation to return whenever I needed a place. I’m guessing that doesn’t happen if your sugar daddy drives a Celica.

  We started down the Santa Monica freeway, which I suppose is the San Bernardino freeway, taken in the direction we were going.

  I sort of had him; at least I was pretty sure because of the way he was spending more time looking at my legs than the road.

  “They called you both Lisa and Tara… either one your name?”

  “My name is Martha, which isn’t really the perfect name for the business I’m in.”

  “Marty might work.”

  “It invites someone to slip and most X stuff is a one-take affair.”

  “Bogart once did a movie – forgot the name – anyway, he goes through the whole movie calling Lizabeth Scott ‘Mike.’ So, how about I call you Mary isntead?”

  “Sounds intriguing, but it’s hardly original. Sure. Why not? And if you don’t stop staring at my legs out of the corner of your eye, we are going to become an unwilling part of the cargo of some semi.”

  “Actually, you’re going to have to get used to that, though it might not be your leg,” he responded unapologetically. “I’m sort of sketching in my head, pretty much all the time; right now it’s your knee. Knees are kind of individual, did you know that? It’s kind of hard to find exact matches in knees. And yours are spectacular. We’re only a few miles from the road up the mountain, which takes a bit more concentration than the freeway. If you didn’t have nylons on, I’d ask to feel your knee a while, but the material would distort it.”

  Well, if he could be a smartass, I could too, or so I thought. So I unhooked the nylon and rolled it down to the top of my boot, then I propped it up by the gearshift. I’ll admit, it was just a bit unwise because it gave him full access to a bundle of nerves that was almost as sensitive as my nipples. By the time we hit the outskirts of the lake, he might as well have had his hand on my clit. My panties were soaking, and I was toughing it out. I really wanted to moan, and then I didn’t know if I was glad or sorry when he told me to roll up my hose and pay attention.

  We talked a bit about the catfight on the trip up.

  “It was rather obvious you weren’t hitting each other; does it come out that way on film?”

  “With Cash, you never know; someone who is really good with a camera, it’s hard to tell. Carrie and I are good at it, so with good camera work, it really looks like we’re smacking the hell out of each other. There’s a group in Tarzana that is so good at it, they can squirt fake blood on you during the match and you can’t tell on screen.”

  “As they say: if you like sausage, never watch it being made.”

  “Bismarck and its politics and sausages, but I guess it sort of applies.”<
br />
  “Hell of a community college you went to.”

  “I just like to read. And we never got a computer.”

  “I thought I saw a laptop in your stuff.”

  “Somebody who was trying to be a friend gave it to me. That all sort of went south when I didn’t work for a month and tried to go back to school. Besides, he was a drug dealer and I wasn’t a fan. We didn’t part on the best of terms and his stalking is one of the things Cash meant when he said getting me out from under.”

  When we hit the lake, he showed me the tourist areas to avoid and the ‘ordinary folks’ areas with chain pharmacies and grocery stores. Finally we turned off the highway, went past a high school and into a neighborhood with a sign that said Sugarloaf.

  We stopped before three garage doors. Alex touched a button on the dash and one opened. He drove the Jag in and the door closed behind us.

  The cabin was a square, two thirds of which was a great room with a kitchen behind a bar at one end. The rest was a bedroom and a bathroom with a stall shower. He carried my worldly belongings into the bedroom: three trips. Then I shooed him out and closed the door.

  As soon as I heard his footsteps walking away, I ran to my ‘props’ box, opened it, and grabbed a vibrator. I was hot as hell and that just wouldn’t do at all. I went into the bathroom, and made quick use of my battery-operated friend. After the shamelessly-quick orgasm, I felt a little more in control, at least enough to walk out and face Alex without taking my clothes off.

  “Martini or Gibson?” he said.

  “What’s the difference?”

  “With a martini you get an olive, the Gibson gets an onion.”

  Why not? “How about one of each?”

  “A double. So I’m driving us to dinner. In your car.”

  “My car?”

  He threw a keychain over the bar to me. “The house keys are this cabin and the studio next door; the car keys are the ‘66 Mustang in the south end garage. The 'Stang is yours.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No, I’m not kidding and you’re not getting it. I will touch every inch of you, I will stare at you and follow every move you make. I will know you inside and out. This is just paying for that. You are employed to be my model. And I will learn you until the portrait I paint of you rivals the Mona Lisa in the Louvre as the greatest portrait ever painted. That’s why you are here.”

  He shook the drink and put it in front of me.

  “You’ve never tried this before?” I asked.

  “I have.”

  “And…?”

  “She married a doctor.”

  And that answer told me reams.

  “Okay, if I’m going to be Mary, you’re going to be Peter and you need to stop living in Never Never Land, Peter.

  “Of course she married a doctor; love isn’t objective and the way you’re going about it, you’ll be bringing aging prostitutes up here until you can’t get it up anymore. DaVinci was probably a twink and the reason she didn’t open her mouth to smile was because she had about half her teeth.

  “I’m up for it,” I continued. “Devour me. Love me in every way you can. But realize that I will have your children, get cellulite and a floppy stomach. That’s reality, Peter. That’s the only way you will get what you want. And, yes, Peter is your name now. Make me another fucking whatever that was. Buy me a great dinner and take me to bed. You can’t paint love if you have never experienced it, moron.”

  “You’re in love with me?”

  “Of course not. Love me, and it may work out that I love you. For what you want you need to love me. By the time you get what you want, I may be such an indispensable part of that, then we will have a life. Shake the damn drink and head for the star!”

  “Star?”

  “Second star to the right…”

  “And straight on ’til morning,” he finished for me.

  Then he moved around the bar and came up to me. He reached into my blouse, and below my bra, gently, all the time keeping his eyes on mine. Then he moved to kiss me and I accepted it.

  He kissed me and continued to massage my breast, slipping his other hand behind my knees. Then he picked me up and carried me to the couch. My nipple was getting hard and I was getting little thrills as he brushed it. He was a good kisser, his tongue playing in and out of my mouth teasing me and licking my lips.

  He got me out of my top easily and my bra followed. The kissing expanded, following down my neck – increasing the thrills in my crotch – across both breasts, lightly licking my nipples, then back to licking my lips and teasing me with his tongue. His other hand worked over the back of my knee as well as up and down the inside of my leg, the nylon enhancing the feeling as he lightly ran his hand up to the top of the stocking and back down to the little thrills behind my knee.

  Twice more, Peter kissed me down my neck and across my breasts. The second time, it brought an involuntary shiver. He brushed the inside of my leg twice and on the second time, I grabbed his hand to move it higher. I was getting to the point that I needed to be touched, the point where my panties were soaked and it wouldn’t take a lot to orgasm.

  He wouldn’t move any further up my leg and instead turned his attention to my neck and breasts until I let his hand go. Then he moved it up over my stomach and down over my garter belt and under my panties. He slid two fingers inside of me and his thumb on my clit, gently massaging, exploring, and rubbing all my highly sensitive, intimate parts.

  This was definitely not what I expected, ever. Plug in, plug out, and you consider yourself lucky if he grabs your tit on the way. My last boyfriend would have shot his wad, rolled off me and been snoring by now.

  He moved his free hand down to my back, massaging it, and it somehow heightened the sensation in my crotch. I just started to lose it.

  “What are you doing to me?” I said, not really expecting an answer or getting one.

  He hit the right combination and the orgasms came – all three of them – and my reaction was a bit hard to miss.

  He put one hand gently on my breast; the other just lay against my back. He looked down into my eyes, and gently kissed me.

  “We go to bed now?”

  His eyes never left mine and I guess I must have looked like a deer caught in the headlights. He slowly shook his head no.

  “Now we go to dinner,” he said.

  “I have to go,” I said.

  He kissed me gently and let me up.

  I needed a feminine spray, dry panties and to get my top back together. I didn’t use a lot of makeup, but what I did use needed replacing. What I didn’t have in a suitcase was a change of confidence. I could always handle men, physically and otherwise. This one just totally dominated me. Mentally, physically and emotionally, he left me naked, vulnerable, and wanting to be touched, kissed again.

  We ate at a small place that featured French food, right before the road hit the lake.

  I stayed with a glass of the house red because the martini/Gibson had pretty well knocked me for a loop. My panties were getting wet again because he was looking at me.

  After dessert, he took me back to the cabin and just brushed my lips with his own. Then, he left me there. I couldn’t believe it. My nipples were like rocks, my panties were wringing wet and he just said, “Be at the studio at eight tomorrow morning.”

  I had spent all of dinner thinking about going to bed with him, and he just walked away.

  He had left the last drink in the shaker; I never got to it before dinner. It had diluted a bit, but I put it over ice and it knocked me out.

  I woke early, about six. There was some Alka-Seltzer in the medicine cabinet that helped. I guessed I’d eaten enough that my stomach was pretty much all right, but my head didn’t agree with that at all. I had a headache that had me seeing stars. The refrigerator was pretty well stocked, but all I really wanted was coffee and some orange juice. I took a long, hot shower and dressed warmly. The weather outside the window looked crystal clear and ice cold.
It had been a while since I’d seen air that clear; Los Angeles and its suburbs always had a quantity of smog even on ‘clear’ days. I wasn’t wrong about the temperature. When I walked over to the studio at eight I almost froze to death. My casual stroll became a rush toward warmth and I didn’t even knock before I let myself in.

  The studio was almost hot by contrast. He’d been there a while, apparently, as the heat was up and a fire was burning away in the fireplace.

  An older woman arrived shortly after I did. He introduced her as Kate and me as Mary, then showed me the screen behind which I was supposed to undress and put on one of the three robes hanging on the inside of it. I chose the terrycloth one because it looked the warmest.

  Kate took out a plastic measuring tape and noted about every angle and asset I had, for which I had to take off the robe. Not one to miss an opportunity, Peter sketched me as this was going on; actually, judging by his eye level, he only sketched my knees. Kate just said she’d have the first costume ready on Wednesday and left.

  “So today we do some charcoal,” he said, leading me over to a dais built against a windowless corner by the fireplace that had six built in spotlights, which operated independent of each other. There was no shadow when all six were on and different shadows could be cast on the two white walls behind the dais with different combinations of the lights.

  He took the robe off and posed me, which involved touching me in some places that really should only be touched if the touching was going to continue. He worked from five to ten minutes at a stretch, depending on the pose; some were difficult to maintain that long and even though I was in shape, I was happy to drop the poses when Peter nodded.

  What was even more difficult was the fact that I was getting touched just about everywhere and I was getting hot. He didn’t really know it, but the night before, he’d shaken me to my foundation and every touch was meaningful. I mean, he could have patted me on the head and it would have had sexual connotations. It was disconcerting how much I wanted him.