4 months ago

Double Dealing

“Yeah, VP,” Scott

“Yeah, VP,” Scott snorts. “Like the board would ever go for something like that. These old bastards are just looking to set their nieces up for life.” “You think I can’t work around these guys?” “Not to brag, but I could whip them into submission easily,” he laughs at me, and I realize what’s about to happen. We’re about to make a bet. “No fucking way. I’m not betting on something I’m going to win. It’s like taking candy from a baby.” “Scared?” “Yeah, scared,” I roll my eyes. “I’m terrified, Scott, can’t you see it?” I laugh, showing him my hand and make it twitch as if I’m having a nervous breaking. “If you want to bet, let’s bet. I’ll make a VP out of her.” Scott laughs. “We’ll see who gets that done first. Challenge accepted,” he says. He looks around at the people walking around us. We both stare at the same pair of legs and rolling hips that passes us before Scott turns his attention back to me. Bets – it’s been like this ever since college. It didn’t matter what the subject was; if we could bet on it, we would. Especially if the subject matter was an outrageous one. We once bet that we could make a vegan eat a steak. By the time we were finished, our poor victim went through a four-course meal of the finest meats New York has to offer. Once, I made Scott stroll inside a courthouse and present himself as the lawyer while the court was in session. That earned him an overnight stay on a comfortable prison cell, but he won that bet. So far, I’d say we’re fifty-fifty. What can I say? You can’t win them all. But turning a secretary into a Vice-President, and having the board agree to it? Now that’s something. Sure, I’m the CEO – but it’s not like I’m the Louis XIV of the publishing world. A CEO has to show his reports, after all, even if that means bowing down a board full of assholes. Secretary to VP…I’ll have to put her to work fast. I just can’t decide – should I make her focus on all the paperwork, or on my dick? Ah, whoever said being a CEO is an easy job had no idea what they were talking about. Tough choices all around.

Besides, what makes it so interesting is the fact that Scott wants her as well. So, really, this isn’t just a bet – this is a competition. I shift in my seat, imagining Carly sandwiched between us with both our dicks buried inside her. Scott and I have fucked in the same room before, but never the same girl. I wonder if that would be the way to go – a friendly draw. “Let’s try it then. We’ll see who makes a VP out of her.” I smile, looking down at my whisky, and then add, “And we’ll see who makes her moan the loudest.” I want to give it a shot, though. God, thinking of Carly naked, her mouth and her pussy occupied by a dick, her long dark hair falling over my chest or my hands on her ass. I shift, trying to get comfortable around the erection in my pants. “You’re on,” Scott says. He throws back the last of his whiskey and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “One dollar?” “One dollar it is,” I reply with a laugh, taking his hand in mine and shaking it. It’s not about the money with us. It’s about who gets to beat the other. It’s about bragging rights. Another woman comes past, and she wears a dress so short it is more like a belt. She is more drunk than sexy, falling over her own heels. She has a drink in her hand, and it is more than half full. Alcohol is great in moderation–just enough to drop your inhibitions can make for a fantastic night–but there is a limit, and after that, it is easier just to walk away. In this case, drunk-and-weaving heads toward us. Scott glances at me. Neither of us are in the business of taking advantage of women. Do I love sex? You bet I do. But this drunk needs a greasy meal and a warm bed to sleep it off. She stumbles past us. I see it happen in slow-motion–she loses control of her drink, and it splashes onto my knee. “Goddammit,” I say, jumping up. She starts toppling toward me. I grab her arm, trying to steady her. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Someone says right behind me. When I turn around, I come face to face with a brick wall of a man. “That’s my woman.” I unhand the drunk girl. “Ow,” she says, rubbing her arm. “Sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to hurt her, at all.”