Seduction (3 page)

LEXINGTON SAMUELS,
by all accounts, was
the
ultimate party girl. She came from family money, so she didn't have to log in eight hours a day at some boring J.O.B., like the mass majority, which gave her plenty of time to paint the town in varying shades of red. The family made their fortune when her mother took an old family recipe and began making maple syrup from her kitchen. After years of dedication and perfecting the technique, a major food corporation bought the recipe and licensed the name “Samuels Homemade Syrup,” making Lexington and her parents millionaires. And to ensure that the money would last several generations, her father invested in dotcom stocks before the technology market went belly up. He made gobs of money from his investments, then flipped the profits and invested in real estate. He bought dilapidated buildings in Harlem and Brooklyn, waited for the neighborhoods to turn around, and then gut-renovated the properties and sold most of them for four times what he'd paid. He kept a few buildings as rental properties.

At her parents' insistence, Lexington went to NYU and majored in journalism, but she had no intention of becoming a journalist or working for a living for that matter. The only reason she had agreed to go to college was the location of the campus. New York University was in Greenwich Village, one of the city's most popular areas filled with cool clubs, college bars, and cute cafés. Lexington wasted no time getting acquainted with all that the Village had to offer. She spent more time hanging out than she did in class, and during her freshman year she nearly flunked out. Her parents threatened to pull her out of NYU and enroll her in an all girls college upstate if she didn't get her act together. With the fear of being banished to the country and surrounded by nothing but women and woods, Lexington reprioritized and began attending class regularly. To her parents' delight, she graduated in the top ten percent of her class, but their joy was short-lived when she turned down an offer to work as a staff writer for
The Post
. Lexington read “Page Six” of
The Post
on a daily basis, but she was more interested in being written about in the gossip pages than writing the pages herself. Unlike her best friend, Terra, who shied away from the flash of the paparazzi, Lexington lived for press coverage. It made her feel like a celebrity. The only problem was that she wasn't famous or rich enough to garner coverage on her own, so she relied on Terra for exposure. Terra Benson was the heiress to the Benson Tobacco Company; her family's money was old and long, much like the Hiltons'. And like the young Hilton heiresses who dominated the tabloids, the press loved to track Terra's comings and goings, and when they did photograph her—which was rare—Lexington was right by her side glamming it up.

Lexington had been waiting impatiently in the lobby of Terra's building for over forty minutes and she was getting antsy. They were going to the opening of a new hotel and Lexington wanted to get there before the press left. “Finally,” she huffed once Terra came rushing through the revolving doors. “Where the hell have you been?”

“I'm so sorry, Lexi.” Terra gave her a quick peck on the cheek. “But Sage insisted that we have the tasting menu, and you know how long and drawn out those courses are.”

On the elevator ride up to Terra's apartment, she told Lexington all about Sage's plans to start a movie studio.

“So, do you really think he's going to let you star in his films?” Lexington asked skeptically. She also knew Sage from childhood, and knew how conservative his family was when it came to business. On one occasion, her father approached his father about partnering in a business venture, but the senior Hirschfield told him in no uncertain terms that he didn't believe in mixing friendship with business, and if Sage was anything like his old man, he probably thought the same way.

“Well, he didn't exactly say no.”

“But he didn't exactly say yes either, did he?” Lexington asked.

“No he didn't, but I plan to slowly wrap my charms around him until I have him under my spell and then he'll do anything I want,” she said confidently, as she opened the door.

Lexington chuckled. “You sound like David Copperfield and David Blaine rolled into one.”

“Just call me Ms. Magic and watch me work it out.” She held up her hand for Lexington to slap her five.

Lexington greeted her hand with a smack and then said, “Okay, Ms. Magic, why don't you use your skills and make a quick transformation, because we're running late.”

“Ha, ha, very funny. Pour us a drink while I change; there's a bottle of Veuve in the fridge.”

Terra went into the bedroom to make her transformation from debutante to diva. She took off her tailored blazer, unzipped the A-line skirt and let it fall to the floor; then she removed the nude-colored panty hose. Once she was free from the confining conservative suit, Terra pulled on a pair of Chip & Pepper “Walk of Shame” ultra low-rise jeans and a rhinestone-trimmed, black wife-beater. She removed the bobby pins that held her long hair in a French twist and let it flow freely down her back. To complete her club look, she slipped her feet into a pair of Giuseppe Zanotti sandals with rhinestone toe straps. After tousling her wavy hair (for that messy unconstructed look), Terra powdered her face and applied a coat of Bobbi Brown nude gloss to her lips.

“That's what I'm talking about,” Lexington said, commenting on her outfit once Terra walked out of the bedroom. “Now you look like you're ready to hang with me instead of with my mother.”

“Girl, you know I have an image to maintain. My parents would flip out if they saw me dressed in low-rider jeans down to my crack. They think I'm their little princess and that's exactly what I want them to think. Until I land that million-dollar role, I have to keep the peace so the money'll keep flowing.”

“I hear you, but my folks know it's no use trying to tame me, so they finally stopped trying to,” Lexington said, taking a sip of champagne.

“Aren't you afraid they'll cut you off financially?” Terra asked worriedly. She couldn't imagine not having the financial support of her family. She'd lived in the lap of luxury all of her life and she wasn't about to give up her six-hundred-dollar shoes, fifteen-hundred-dollar purses, and two-hundred-dollar lunches, so if she had to put on a front until she could properly support herself, then she surely would.

“No, they're cool. Besides, it's not like I have a quarter-of-a-billion-dollar inheritance to worry about like you do.” She handed Terra a flute of champagne. “Come on, drink up so we can go,” she said, changing the subject.

Before leaving, Terra put on a pair of dark, oversized shades to help conceal her identity. Even if her picture was snapped tonight, she wouldn't be recognizable as Terra Benson the heiress, because the photographers would be looking for a French-twist-wearing, conservatively dressed young woman, not a wild-haired, tight-jean-wearing hussy. She'd crafted her uptight image to such perfection that nobody would believe that she was capable of blending into the club scene.

To keep her secret life secret, Terra had given her driver the rest of the night off. She didn't want him driving her around from club to club just in case he reported her whereabouts directly to her father (after all the driver was on her father's payroll). They hailed a taxi in front of Terra's building and headed downtown.

Their destination was the opening of the NoLiTa Grand, a swanky boutique hotel north of Little Italy. Once filled with low-rise tenements, the area was now thriving with local designer boutiques; Cuban, Spanish, and French restaurants; a smattering of clubs; and now an ultra-sleek hotel. The private party was being held to christen the lower lounge of the hotel as the next New York hot spot.

From half a block away, Terra could see flashbulbs popping at the entrance to the hotel. “Maybe I shouldn't go in,” she said nervously as the cab inched its way forward.

Lexington gave her a “you must be kidding” look. “Why? What's up?”

“There are too many photographers out front, and I don't want to wind up on
Page Six
,” she said, fidgeting with her Chloe clutch.

“Take a chill pill, T. Even if they do snap your picture, they'll never associate you with being Terra Benson, so you can relax because you look nothing like your normally boring self,” Lexington reassured her.

Terra took the compact out of her purse and checked her image. She fussed with her hair, making sure it covered a good portion of her face; with the huge glasses and wild hair, she felt confident that no one would recognize her. “Okay; you're right. I hardly know myself,” she said with a renewed sense of confidence.

To Lexington's disappointment and Terra's joy, they made it through the throng of reporters and photographers without anyone asking for an interview or snapping a picture. To the press, they were invisible, just two random chicks trying to hang with the celebrities. Little did the paparazzi know that they had just missed the scoop of the evening by not recognizing the wealthy young heiress.

Terra's nerves subsided once they were inside. The lounge was packed shoulder to shoulder with downtown hipsters—artists, models, actors, and designers—grooving to the funky beats of the DJ Mista Ish and sipping bubbly. The event was being sponsored by Moët & Chandon, so the champagne was flowing freely. Terra and Lexington wasted no time getting two flutes from a passing waiter, and with their drinks in hand, they prowled the scene looking for cute guys to flirt with.

“Now he's fine,” Lexington said, discreetly nodding in the direction of a tall, buffed man with overgrown pecs, a slim waist, and a tight ass. She smiled in his direction, but her smile quickly faded when another man approached him.

“Yeah, and so is his boyfriend,” Terra said, watching the two men snuggle up together.

“What's with these
Brokeback
dudes?” Lexington asked, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. “It never fails; every time I'm attracted to a good-looking man, he's either gay or bisexual.”

“Gay I can understand, but those bisexual in the closet guys are scary. I mean they have wives and girlfriends, but have sex with their ‘boys' on the side, all the while saying that they're not gay. Well, if being poked in the ass ain't gay, I don't know what is,” Terra said, slightly hunching her shoulders.

“The ones that are doing the pitching don't consider themselves gay, because they're doing the fucking and are not being fucked.”

“Pitching or receiving, it's all gay to me.” Terra shook her head in disgust. “I can deal with a lot of issues, but being bisexual isn't one of them. In my book, either you're straight or you're gay. I can't stand those guys who like to double dip. It's just so nasty.” She drained the last of her drink. “Let's change the subject, because this one is too depressing.”

“To all the
Brokeback
men, let 'em stay in the mountains.” Lexington raised her glass in a mock toast.

The friends drank to straight men and continued prowling the VIP area in the hopes of finding not one but two available men.

“
MAN, YOU'RE
doing an excellent job managing BD Two. The month-end numbers have far exceeded expectation, and it's due to your vision of adding the new theme rooms,” Trey told Mason as he sat in Mason's office on the sixth floor of the club.

“Thanks, Man.” Mason smiled as his boss showered him with praise.

“This club is so popular that we now have a waiting list for new members. Who would have thought that the younger women would be so into this type of scene?” Trey asked.

“There are a ton of young horny women who married older men for money and status, only to find their husbands can't get it up without that little blue pill. So the chicks come here to get their freak on with our servers who don't need over-the-counter help to stay hard.” Mason leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head, relishing the moment. He had worked hard to make the Black Door Two a success and now all of his efforts—hiring a hot young DJ, inventing new theme rooms, and promoting the club through steamy Web sites—were paying off. “Now that I think about it, we should raise the initiation fee for new members. These spoiled rich chicks can more than afford to pay to play.” He laughed, but was dead serious.

“That's a brilliant idea! Mason, you're a lifesaver. Between running the Black Door and dealing with my personal life, there would be no way on earth I could've handled running this club too.” Trey sighed heavily.

Mason leaned forward. “Speaking of your personal life, how are things going with you and Michele?” he asked, knowing the history between Trey and his overly possessive girlfriend.

“They're going fine for her. She lives in Washington during the week, working for my dad, and—”

“Trey, I know I've said this at least a hundred times since your dad won the nomination last year, but I'm so proud of him. I'm so proud, you'd think that he was my father.”

“Yeah, I'm proud of him too. He worked his entire life to get to the Supreme Court, and to think he almost lost everything because of me.”

When the nominating senator discovered that Trey owned the Black Door, he immediately took Preston's (Trey's father) name off of the short list of qualified candidates, claiming that he was guilty by association and the press would crucify him once they got wind of Trey's ownership of the scandalous club.

“But he got everything back because of you. Don't forget that major detail,” Mason reminded him.

Once Trey realized that his father was being denied the opportunity to throw his hat in the ring, he called Senator Oglesby and politely informed him that if he didn't put Preston's name back on the list, then he would have no other choice but to inform the press about Mrs. Oglesby's extracurricular activities. Not only was the senator's wife a card-carrying member of the Black Door, she had also been fucking Mason on the side. The senator nearly collapsed from shock and embarrassment. After he recovered, he quickly reinstated Preston's name, and used his powerful connections to keep Preston from being associated with the Black Door. The rest, as they say, is history.

Though Trey had told Mason about jeopardizing his father's chances of sitting on the Supreme Court, he hadn't told him about unknowingly sleeping with Ariel, his father's wife—well, she hadn't been Preston's wife at the time—because he still felt guilty about betraying his dad. They had met at the Black Door, when Ariel came to the club wearing her best friend's mask. He had no idea who she was; the only thing he knew was that they shared an intense chemistry. Their passion was magnetic and they couldn't keep their hands off of each other. They fucked randomly at the club a few times, until his mask fell off one night during their heated lovemaking. The second Ariel saw his face she ran out on him. Fortunately, the situation was working fine for the time being, except now Trey had an unwanted girlfriend. Michele—whom he met through his dad—refused to accept the fact that they were mismatched. The only thing that they had in common was sex, and once the sheets cooled off, they argued nonstop. Trey had been trying to break off their relationship for a long time, but she wouldn't hear of it. Michele knew about Trey's affair with Ariel, and whenever he talked about breaking up, she threatened to tell his father about his deception, but she hadn't said anything yet. So until he could figure out a way of protecting his dad from the truth, he'd have to deal with Michele's unwanted affection in order to keep her mouth shut.

“Things are going well for her, but what about you? Are you happy?” Mason asked, with concern in his voice.

Trey dropped his head, hesitated a moment, then looked up at Mason and said, “Happiness is a luxury I can't afford right now.”

Hearing the melancholy tone in his voice, Mason said, “Come on, let's go down to the club. I think you could use a momentary diversion to cheer you up.”

Mason walked over to his private closet, took out his bronze mask, and handed Trey a plain black mask that he kept on hand in the event one of his boys dropped by and wanted to check out the club.

They took the private staircase that led from Mason's office to the club's entry. “Hey, Gee, what's up?” Mason asked the club's greeter.

“Man, it's hot up in here tonight.” He shook his hand at the wrist for emphasis. “A group of chicks from the East Side just came in
Looking for Mr. Goodbar
.” He chuckled. Gee knew from experience that the East Side women came to the club wearing Burberry trench coats in varying colors on the outside, but the same tan and black plaid lining on the inside. They carried designer purses that cost more than his used two-door Jeep, and they had an air of entitlement—as if the expensive trinkets that they wore entitled them to snub anyone out of their über-rich league. But once they crossed the threshold of BD2, and the coats came off, they were as raunchy and wild as the rest of the members, if not more so.

“Which way did they go?” Trey asked. He'd been in a monogamous relationship longer than he cared to admit. His record for being faithful was usually thirty days, but he'd exceeded that record by nearly a year. Getting caught with his hand in his father's cookie jar was enough to scare him into monogamy, but now that the dust had settled, Trey was ready to sample a few tasty treats.

“I think they went into the Naked Pool Room,” Gee told him.

“Come on, man. Let's check out their game.” Mason winked.

A periwinkle felt-covered pool table sat underneath a silver dome light and was the focal point of the room. Instead of a bright white bulb, the light emanating from the dome was periwinkle as well, giving the room a dim, seductive glow. Mason and Trey stood in the doorway and watched two teams of blondes battle each other in a game of Eight Ball.

One woman, who looked to be at least six feet tall, had one knee on the table while her other long leg rested comfortably against the side of the table. When she leaned into her shot, she lifted her leg off of the floor and pointed it into the air. Balancing herself on only one knee, she looked like an erotic dancer. Despite her orchestrated efforts, she missed the cue ball by a mile.

“It's our game now,” said a blonde wearing a pink corset, which was tied so tight that it pushed her boobs together, causing them to nearly spill out.

Trey could see her pink areolas, which matched her mask and corset perfectly. His eyes were glued to her as she bent over at the waist and aimed her cue stick. She leaned over so far that one tittie popped out. He licked his lips as he watched her nipple brush against the surface of the table. She hit the cue ball with such force that her other tittie sprang loose. The white ball hit its intended target and she jumped up and down as the orange ball dropped into the upper left pocket. Trey could feel his dick spring to life as he watched her full breasts bounce up and down.

“Game!” She grinned and slapped her partner high five.

“We got next,” Trey announced.

The women turned in the direction of Mason and Trey, and when they saw the two handsome hunks, all four of them smiled. “What are the stakes?” asked the winner.

“We'll make it easy on you.” Mason grinned. “If we lose, my partner and I will gladly suck your pussies until you come. And if we win, you'll get on your knees and buff the helmet.”

“We wanna play too,” whined the blonde from the losing team.

Mason smiled at Trey because he knew that within minutes they would be getting their dicks sucked by four blond bombshells. “The more the merrier.” He grinned.

They let the women break first, and they sank a solid ball, but on their second turn they scratched, sinking the cue ball into the lower right-hand pocket. Mason went next. He hit the green-striped ball, which ricocheted off of the red-striped ball, causing both balls to drop in simultaneously. Mason was on a roll, banking and pocketing balls right and left. He felt like Minnesota Fats (minus the fat), as he wielded his cue stick, sinking all of their striped balls. With only the eight ball standing between them and an evening of fellatio, Mason called his shot, concentrated, aimed, and sank the black ball with one smooth hit of the cue stick. He turned to Trey and gave him a high five.

“Man, I didn't know you had game like that,” Trey commented.

Mason smiled slyly. “I learned my way around the pool hall in college. After being on the losing end too many times, I decided to take some lessons to improve my game,” he admitted.

“That's not fair; you guys are pros,” whined the same blonde who wanted to be included in the game.

“If it'll make you feel any better, I'll suck your clit as a consolation prize,” Mason offered.

“Now you're talking,” she said, and hopped on top of the pool table.

Mason walked over to her, spread her legs apart, and patted her pussycat. He then took his hand and pulled down her thong. He fingered the petals of her pussy, and began to play with her pink clit.

“Hmm,” she moaned at his touch.

He could feel her getting wetter with each stroke. His mouth began to salivate in anticipation of tasting her sweet juices. He teased her a little longer before traveling south. He pushed her back on the table, threw her leg over his shoulder, and began feasting.

While Mason had his head buried between the legs of one blonde, Trey was on the other end of the table with a trio of blondes. One woman was on her knees sucking his dick, while another licked his balls. The third woman played with her nipples while watching and waiting her turn to wrap her lips around his big black dick.

Trey reveled in all the attention that he was getting; it was just what he needed to take his mind off of his problems. These women were servicing him so well that he forgot all about the fucked up predicament that he was in with Michele. Mason was right; a little excitement was exactly what he needed to escape, even if it was just for the moment.