Eric Lacroix

The room looked like a bomb had gone off. The chair was shattered, the table was cracked down the middle, the bed frame was unrecognizable. I was actually impressed by how much damage Candy and I had done to the place. The little slut had been harder to break than I had predicted, even with three hits of Ero frying her brains.

The sad thing was that this had been the first really good, hard, sweaty sex I had gotten in a long time. Since Alessandra . . .

I missed being with a woman, a REAL woman, not a little girl like Candy. I had slept with a few men recently, big brothers packing nine inches each, but it hadn't been enough to keep me happy. Fucking Candy hadn't been out of pleasure. The sad fact was this was the only way to beak someone under the hold of Ero . . . and of Eric Lacroix.

Candy was on the floor, naked and glistening with a sheen of sweat, panting like a dog. The look on her face was the most vacant, blissful, pathetic thing I had ever seen.

"Get the fuck up bitch," I said. "You have a phone call to make."

I gave her a cell-phone, dialed the strip-joint she worked at, and held up a script I had written in a notepad. She was so mind-wiped that she did exactly as I told her, reading the script almost perfectly, if not for the fact that her voice was totally flat, but if anything that made her sound more convincing as someone suffering from a cold.

" . . . her name's Tanya," she finished, and I hung up.

"Good job, sweetie."

I got dressed and headed out the door. Candy was looking at me like a lost little puppy. There were some young thugs in the hallway, local punks. I got their attention by whistling them over. The leader of them, a handsome young punk of about 19 or 20, thought he was going to get some from me, but no, he wasn't.

"Check it out," I said, nodding my head inside where the naked little blonde girl was waiting for a master to pluck her up. "She's all yours. But be careful with her around carpets. I don't think she's potty trained."

#####

When I showed up to the strip-joint Candy worked at I was taken by surprise at how ritzy it was. This wasn't some herpes-invested shithole like the kind you found in the Gath, this was in the wealthier red-light district and was a true gentlemen's club, in the sense that you only got in if you were a member, and you had to be filthy stinking rich to be a member. Dozens of shimmering stripper poles sparkled like golden bars, transparent catwalks in every direction, full bars served by the most beautiful women, and an endless assortment of private rooms spanning the size of an apartment building, this place was a hedonists wet-dream.

It was called The Pearl.

The changing room I walked in to already had a dozen girls inside, most of them wearing little more than makeup, glitter, and body-oil, making their naked bodies sparkle seductively. They were also all doing lines of Ero off of the table in preparation for their work. Two of them, both Asian, were so overwhelmed by the drug that they were kissing one another like starving lesbians, and thrusting their smooth hips together so hard I expected the table they were fucking against to break. A serious but lovely Asian woman in a professional business suit came into the changing room, and when she saw the two humping girls she spanked them with her clipboard.

"Save it for the pole, girls." She then turned to me and checked me out with a disappointed, bitchy look. "You must be Tanya, Candy's replacement. Well don't expect any big tips tonight. Jungle-bunnies like you aren't what The Pearl is known for."

"I noticed," I said, barely resisting the urge to punch the cunt in her perfect nose. I was the only black woman in the place. All of the other strippers were white or Asian.

"I'll have you serving drinks tonight," the bitch said. "Now get undressed and find a g-string big enough to fit your fat-ass."

#####

I wanted to strangle that bitch until her tongue turned blue, but working the floor actually worked in my favor. Not only did it give me the freedom to move around and scope the territory, but the drink tray I carried was the perfect cover for my surveillance equipment. I had brought with me a very small, very hard to notice spy-camera with an equally tiny microphone, both of which I tapped to the bottom of my tray when none of the girls were watching.

As I strutted around the club wearing nothing by a tiny neon green g-string and two green pasties, I found myself attracting a lot more attention than that bitch in the changing-room would have expected, but no wonder. Surrounded by all these vanilla and soy-sauce bitches I bet these boys would be hungry for some chocolate. I may have just been serving drinks, but I strut the floor like a boss, swaying my big, bubble butt with an almost dangerous level of swagger.

If I had wanted to I could have used the footage on my tiny spy-cam to blackmail a lot of powerful people. I served a martini to district attorney as he was getting his balls licked by two barely legal Asian girls with tongue-studs. I served a whiskey-sour to a news anchor I recognized but couldn't name while he sat in a private room, getting a lap dance from a large breasted stripper dressed as a nun. Passing by another room I peeked in to see a famously anti-gay televangelist one his knees, jacking his tiny four-inch nut while two strapping young men made passionate love to one another in the corner. I actually hung out there for a second, just enjoying the show as my pussy started to get wet. My arousal was actually going to become a problem, I hadn't been around this much sheer hedonism in a long time, not since my sorority threw the orgy where I met . . . Alessandra . . . but I couldn't think about that. I had to stay focused on my target.

And there he was. Sitting back in a chair at the far end of the VIP section, with a cocky smirk on his face like he didn't have a care in the whole world. When I saw him the room went quit, the subwoofers blasting in the club suddenly dying down, and all I could hear was the beating of my own heart. My palms were so sweaty that I almost dropped my tray of over-priced drinks, and my mouth literally salivated with the anticipation of my quarry, but I never lost my cool, not really. I was ready for this.

Eric Lacroix was in his early thirties, about six feet tall, handsome in a rugged, weathered kind of way, especially for a white boy, with that big perfect chin, light stubble, and a smile that just made little bitches just want to giggle their virginities off. He was more handsome in person than he had been in his pictures. Even his mugshots from when he was a young punk dealing weed and pimping high-school girls looked more like headshots for a modeling agency. I had no doubt in my mind that Lacroix had always been the kind of stud who could make a pair of panties drop faster than most boys could get a phone number. Seeing him now, sitting like a king on a throne rather than a drug-dealer in a brothel, I almost couldn't blame Alessandra for what she did.

"Have you reconsidered my offer?" A smooth, sexual voice asked, a woman's voice.

Lacroix was not alone he was sitting across from a stunning older Asian woman with pronounced cheekbones and their most subtly done purple rouge. She wore a tight, covering, and yet provocative black dress. I recognized her from a job Interpol did with a department last year. Miho Koga. She was the wife of one of Climax City's most powerful yakuza bosses, or she had been, until he died under some mysterious circumstance last month. The coroner's report said her husband died of a sword wound to the gut, several bullet wounds to the back, and a drop from the roof of a ninety-eight story building. It was later ruled a 'suicide.' There were no arrests or retaliation from the yakuza. In fact, they seemed quite happy when Miho Koga stepped up to take charge of her husband's faltering operation. I should have realized that The Pearl was owned by one of Climax City's kingpins.

"You mean, us going into business together . . . 'exclusively?'" Lacroix laughed, taking a sip from his drink, a Black Russian on the rocks.

Holy shit he had a sexy laugh. He had a slight accent, something melted between Louisiana Cajun and a Mississippi droll. Something about his voice alone felt like a warm breeze was blowing between my legs.

"Sorry mon cher," Lacroix continued. "But it would just never work between us. You are a beautiful, powerful woman of importance in the community, and I am just a lowly rogue, getting by with nothing but his wits and luck. I simply don't deserve you." He laughed again, dripping with the sweetest false-modesty.

Miho was breathing so hard that I could see her nipples bushing against the tight material of her dress. Her beautiful eyes fluttered half-open, almost as if she were about to pass out.

"I could make you a king," she said. "With your drugs and my network, we could conquer this city. Forget the mayor, forget the kingpins. We'd cut them down like grass." She leaned forward and grasped his firm, muscular leg, her lovely face melting with desperation. "That night you gave me was the most incredible night I have ever experienced. It changed me, It changed EVERYTHING! I can't . . . I can't go back to the way I was before you. I-"

"Can I get another Black Russian," Lacroix interrupted, turning away from the now crying Miho. Dark purple rivers started to drip down her cheeks.

It took me a moment to realize he was talking to me. His piercing blue eyes were cutting apart my chest like knives. "Uh . . . sure. One sex-I mean 'sec.' One second."

I turned and marched to the nearest bar like my ass was on fire, and it almost felt like it was. My pussy was so hot and wet I might have left a trail of drops on the floor. The bartender was a skinny blonde thing wearing nothing but a bowtie and a black thong. She was chatting it up with a handsome brother, biting her lip nervously as he asked her what time she got off, making it fairly obvious that he wanted to 'get off.' I pushed him aside so hard that he fell out of his seat and hit his head against the table on the way down.

"He! What're you-"

"A Black Russian!" I demanded. "Now!"

As I returned to Lacroix with his drink I saw that Miho had regained her composure, or at least most of it. Her legs were still trembling as she choked back the emotions pushing her to the verge of a sexual hysteria. My timing was perfect too. Lacroix had just planted a metal briefcase onto the glass table between them, and there was no doubt in my mind what it was: Ero. It had to all be Ero. Possibly a million dollars' worth.

"And the money?" Lacroix was asking.

"In your private room," Miho said, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. "Or you could . . . if you wanted to . . . come up to my room we could-"

"And there's my Black Russian," Lacroix said, once again ignoring the desperate crime-lord practically on her knees before him. "And brought to me by such a lovely black queen. What's your name, mon amour?"

"Tanya," I said, never breaking eye contact with him. As I placed his drink on the table and made sure to bend my ass over right in his face, letting him get a nice, big view of my delicious yams. I wasn't flirting though. I was just getting a better angle for my spy-cam to snap footage of the metal case. Really!

"I haven't seen you here before," he said. "I'm very familiar with the girls here, a little too familiar maybe, and I must say, you are quite the refreshment."

I refuse to believe that I was blushing, but there was no denying how soaked my thong was. "I'm just covering for a friend, serving drinks."

"You're not a dancer?" he asked, sounding a little coy and a little disappointed.

"I'm not working the poles tonight, but . . .," I let my gaze fall to his lap, and my jaw dropped when I saw the monstrous, impossible bulge growing there, " . . . but maybe I just haven't found the right pole yet."

"Well tell you what, Tanya," he said, pronouncing my name like it was butter melting on his tongue, "why don't you come with me up to my private room and give me a private dance. I'll make sure you get what's coming to you."

Perfect! I thought, and definitely NOT because I wanted to take a horsey ride in this asshole's lap. He was going to make the switch between the money and the drugs in his room. I'd have the perfect opportunity to collect the evidence I needed to put his ass in jail for-fucking-ever.

"Lead the way," I said, tucking my tray under my arm and pouting my thick lips like an impatient little girl.

He rose up to his feet with strong, feral grace, and although he was only about five inches taller than me he felt like a giant, and I was not a woman accustomed to feeling small. My ass was too much for most brothers to handle, and yet something about Lacroix made me think he could lift me up with one hand and throw me around a room like a blowup doll.

He took my arm and led me away as the crime-lord Miho Koga, the Yakuza Queen, watched with the most bewildered look of betrayal on her face. She was stammering almost incoherently.

"Bastard . . . you piece of . . . wait!" she yelled at his back. "Please I . . . I killed my husband for-"

"Say hello to you daughter for me," Lacroix winked back at her. "I know she misses me just as much as you do."

#####

The moment the elevator doors opened I felt Lacroix's hand press firmly against my back, and he shoved me into the empty compartment. I hit the mirrored wall with a bouncy thud as the soft parts of my body jiggled from the unexpected impact, and my nipples grew hard from the sudden contact with the cold glass. It wasn't until right then that I realized how hot my body had become. I was burning up.

Damn it! I dropped my tray though. It rolled on the floor and started to spin on it side like a big coin, and I held my breath hoping Lacroix wouldn't see the camera I had taped to the bottom. Thank God, the tray landed with the camera side down.

"Hey!" I yelled. "What was that for-"

My question died with a wet muffle as his lips impacted with mine and his hot, impossibly strong tongue slipped into my mouth and subdued me. I had never understood that my mouth could be an erogenous zone, but I swear to God that this man had just found a g-spot hidden on the back of my mouth, and was tongue-fucking me towards a beautiful orgasm. His body pressed against mine, and I could feel just how hard his muscles were through the cool, smooth material of his clothing. Something about that feeling alone, the feeling of my naked body being caressed by a fully clothed man, it just made me feel so weak, and for some reason I liked that. No man had ever pleased me like Alessandra did . . . but no man had ever made me feel this way either . . . and . . . just . . . fuck.

As he pulled away a shimmering strand of saliva dangled from his lips, and it broke when I felt the heavy embrace of his body leave me cold. I think I might have actually whimpered like a pathetic little girl whose popsicle just been taken away. I slowly turned around, but I found my legs so wobbly that I had to lean against the mirror. My breasts were heaving and so sweaty that one of my pasties had just fallen off, and the now revealed nipple was over an inch erect. My hand sunk down to my tiny thong and I found the crotch of it soaking wet. The mere touch of my fingers was enough to send an almost painful tremble through my body. Holy shit . . . what was happening to me.

"Ero!" I said.

Lacroix was smiling. He had pushed Ero into my mouth with his tongue. It must have dissolved during our kiss, which meant he was exposed to it too. Of course he was, the waves of heat coming from his body were so powerful it felt like they were pushing me down. But unlike me he seemed in control of his high, completely! I was Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole, and he was Dionysus drinking his own wine.

"Listen Tanya," he said with a tone that really sounded like 'listen BITCH,' "I'm not really interested in watching a dance. Truth be told, I just made a multi-million dollar sale and I want to celebrate, which in my mind mean spending a whole night doing nothing but having hard, hot sex."

"Why . . . why me . . . all those girls-"

"I've already fucked half those girls, and the other half are just . . . the same. Besides, when I'm on Ero I can't control myself. I fuck for as long, and as hard as I am able, and most girls simply can't keep up. The last stripper of Miho's I took, some redheaded farm girl with big, freckled tits, she ended up in the hospital. But you . . .," His strong hands gripped my buttocks and squeezed, and for the first time in my life I felt like my ass was small. He squeezed so hard that he actually started to lift me off the ground, and my breasts pressed against his cool silk short as I trembled on my tippy-toes. " . . . I think your body can take a beating. Even from a weapon like this."

His hips pushed against me only slightly, but something hanging between his legs pressed against my soaked cunt with the weight and thickness of a baseball bat. Impossible! It . . . it couldn't be-

DING!

Floor 69. We were here.

#####

I had been so eager to follow him out of the elevator that I had almost left my tray, but at the last moment I managed a coherent thought and picked it back up, holding it behind my back like a little girl trying to hide something naughty. I was still on a mission here. I needed more photos. Photos of the drugs, photos of the money, photos of his hot . . . chiseled body . . . no! Concentrate! Fuck!

He opened the door to his private room and I lost my breath when I took it all in. This room, which wasn't even his actual apartment, was bigger than any house I had ever lived in. The ceiling was higher than the church's I had gone to as a kid, and the entire far wall was nothing but giant windows gazing out over the twinkling skyline of Climax City. Piled up an a large glass table in the middle of the room was more cash than I had ever seen in my life. Even when divided into $100 bills, a million dollars was still a fucking lot of paper.

"Holy shit, this is-"

Suddenly he was in front of me, taking of his coat with a strong, dominant flourish of his shoulders. I thought he was going to embrace me again so I prepared for another pussy-shattering kiss, but instead all I felt was his hand gripping the nape of my neck. He pushed my down, and suddenly I was on all fours, kneeling like a dog with my big ass higher than my head. Then I felt him plant his foot on my ass, the cold, dirty bottom of his shoe pressing against my firm flesh.

"Now be a good girl and hold still," he said. "Daddy needs to untie his shoe laces."

Holy shit! He was using my as a fucking footstool! What the fuck! FUCK!

I wanted to scream, but when I tried all that came out was a hoarse, whiny little whisper.

His Italian leather shoes fell to the floor, and then I heard him undoing buttons. I looked up and saw the only proof I needed to know God was real, because his chest was immaculate. Not hairless, but not hairy; glistening, but not sweaty; chiseled like a marble statue, but not bulging obscenely like some sort of bodybuilder. I think a tear rolled down my cheek as I admired him. Fuck Michelangelo. Eric Lacroix made David look a piece of shit.

Lacroix was smiling down at his new bitch . . . me.

"Want to help Daddy take off his belt?"

"Fffffffe! Fu . . . Fu-fu," I had actually forgotten how to speak. "Fuck you!"

I managed to get up without falling back over and I stumbled over to the nearest couch, my pussy so swollen that I had to walk with a wide gate like some kind of stupid cracka cowboy.

"You know what?" I said. "Fuck you! I'm not attracted to gay-ass white boys like you, spending all your time doing crunches and shit, just so you can look like those faggots from those teen Vampire movies."