Mile High Society: CH. 3

CHAPTER THREE: THE COUNT OF MONTE CARLO

Daddy is this enigma, this thing that no one really understands. It's like he has this omniscient presence wherever he goes. He's calculating in that he knows what you're thinking before you do. But unlike his friends, he isn't a self-made billionaire. His wealth is generational—like really generational, like railroad oil tycoon kind of money. The kind of wealth that doesn't just open doors; it owns the buildings the doors are attached to.

As far as I know, he doesn't have some super high IQ, just a lot of money and the biggest garage I've ever seen—big enough to park a Gulf Stream in. So does some part of me believe that he orchestrated every single part of this adventure, including the part we're at now, where Mitch slides his cock into my hole and the two fit like interlocking puzzle pieces? Yeah. Yeah, I do.

The feeling is overwhelming—it's this sensation of fullness and pleasure that's wrapped inside this other thing that feels just as good, maybe better. As soon as he bottoms out, the world disappears, and this is just not a feeling I've ever felt before because usually I can anticipate these things. Usually, I'm three steps ahead, reading the play before it happens.

But not now. Not with him.

I'm not just out here playing the role of the dutiful bottom. I'm wrecking lives and taking names along the way. That's what I do. That's who I am.

You want to come undone at the seams? I'm your guy. You want your cock put through the gauntlet? I'm your guy. You want to cum so hard that your toes curl and your eyes roll into the back of your head? I'm your guy. You want your body to cease functioning, to be suspended in that space between life and death—that thing we call the mortal coil—where for one brief, crystalline moment you contemplate everything you are and everything you've ever been, every choice that led you to this exact second of pure, unadulterated ecstasy? Yeah. I'm your fucking guy.

That's my specialty. That's what I bring to the table. I don't just give good head or take dick well—I give people experiences they'll replay in their minds for years, the kind of memories that'll make them hard at the most inconvenient times. Board meetings. Family dinners. Funerals, probably.

But from the moment Mitch's cock slides into my hole, I feel it—and not just in my ass or my prostate, but I feel it in the deepest recesses of my person and fuck if it's not the best feeling I've ever felt. The stretch, the pressure, the way he fills me completely—it's like nothing else exists. For a moment I forget there's a room full of guys watching us, their eyes tracking every movement, every reaction. And the thing is—when I remember they're there, when I catch someone's hungry stare in my peripheral vision, I find it even hotter.

"Ugh—fuck!" I moan, the sound ripping from my throat before I can stop it. "Yeah, just like that."

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