He laughed when they first made him the offer, in the huge expensive suite in the gorgeous Tokyo hotel during his international promo tour, because it was so ridiculous: fifty thousand dollars for sticking his dick through a hole and getting sucked off.
He couldn't stop laughing, actually, and then the two suits looked at each other and the woman said, "A hundred thousand dollars," like it was the number that was the problem.
"For every time I do it?" Adam said, still choking down giggles.
"Yes," the man said, perfectly serious.
Apparently it was the latest in ultra-high-powered brothels, celebrity fucking: charging ludicrous amounts of money for membership, and in return you knew there was a chance you were sucking the dick of someone famous, even though you'd never know for sure. It was explained to him earnestly: the house would quietly alert members who'd expressed an interest that someone on their list was going to be, uh, available on a given day, and—they could fly in for the occasion?
"And this really makes them money," Adam said.
He said no anyway, obviously, but then he finished the tour and while he was lying half-enervated next to a private pool in Malibu, trying to remember why being a rock star had seemed like a good idea, the woman in the suit showed up again, sat down next to his deck chair, and said simply, "One million."
"You are fucking kidding me," Adam said.
"We have significant expressed interest," she said.
"Oh? Five million," Adam said. That was more than he'd actually made on the entire tour, after expenses and taxes.
She hesitated for about three seconds before saying, "Done, if you'll guarantee at least three opportunities over one weekend."
Adam looked down at his dick, which had no objections to the plan. "You know, why the hell not," he said, or possibly the third daiquiri said, and two days later he was on a private jet flying to a private island, and they took him to a suite like something out of the Arabian Nights, and room service brought him anything crazy he made up, and then on Friday they showed him downstairs.
He'd seen a few gloryholes at clubs here and there; this wasn't much like any of those. The room was dimly lit with hundreds of candles, and divided in half by thick curtains of black velvet and filmy silk. There was a sort of standing stool for him to lean back on, padded leather, and a narrow slit in the curtains at just the right level. He wanted to laugh all over again.
Then he slid his cock through the slit, and after a moment a hand was closing on him, careful and appreciative, and then a mouth: hot and wet and wildly eager, tongue teasing at his slit and sliding around the head, lips sealing around him to suck.
"Oh, fuck," Adam said under his breath, and leaned into it, pushing deeper through the curtain; the hand came up to cup his balls when they slid through, and he was being taken deeper. Not expertly, but oh God, he could feel just how badly that mouth on the other side wanted his cock, how hungry it was for him, tongue getting sloppy and urgent, coaxing already.
He pulled back a little, because fuck, he wanted this to last longer; the sucking got apologetic, less frantic. He could get a sense of the body on the other side of the curtains settling in, on their knees, ready to work for it, and he let them have his cock again, sliding slow through the tight O of the lips and back. The anonymous mouth was wide, and open for him, welcoming.
A boy or a girl; he wasn't sure, and the lips could have been slick with gloss either way, but that was okay. He shut his eyes and imagined faces from his tour, glitter and shadow and yearning up at him, and it was like getting to finally fuck all of them at once. "So beautiful," he said a little drunkenly, not caring if they heard him on the other side, and there was enough give in the curtain that he could cup the head of the boy sucking him, that he could hold her in place and fuck her mouth, gently; and he could feel the boy's low moan around his cock, the way the girl shivered, and their deep shudder when he came.
He leaned heavily back against the stool when it was over, soft wet tongue carefully licking him clean with little strokes before it reluctantly let him go, and Adam stumbled over to the couch further back in the room and collapsed on it, panting.
The attendant brought him a glass of cold cucumber-infused water, and a washcloth, and there was a huge shower in the bathroom to wash off the sweat. He felt ridiculously good, and also he wanted to go for a swim, and eat a giant lunch, and then he was going to do this again, oh my fucking god.
The woman in the suit came up to his suite while he was devouring lunch, and sat down and said, "We've wired the first payment to your account. You'll be able to continue?"
"Oh, hell, yes," Adam said.
He slept blissfully the whole long flight back to L.A., and for twelve straight hours after; he only woke up to the frantic ringing of his emergency-contact-only telephone. "Yes?" he said, yawning.
"Adam," Lane said, "your accountant just called me."
"Is something wrong?" he said, still groggily.
"He says he doesn't know how you made seventy-five million dollars this weekend, and he doesn't want to know, but the IRS is going to eat you alive unless you give them half," she said.
"Seventy-five million dollars!" Adam squeaked.
"Yes," Lane said, in a deceptively calm tone. "The difference between me and your accountant is that I do want to know how you made seventy-five million dollars this weekend."
"I did not get sucked off fifteen times," Adam said, counting on his fingers. The problem was, they'd all kind of blurred together after a while—then he noticed he was still on the phone, and Lane was being extremely quiet at him.
"Um," he said, apologetically.
"We'll call it a personal appearance," she said.
"Well, it was definitely that," Adam said.
"And you will not be booking any more personal appearances without consulting me first," Lane said.
"Okay," Adam said meekly.
= End =
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