What Happens in Vegas

It was a Thursday night, and I was half a 10-year-old bottle of Armand de Brignac Brut deep in the back of a stretch Cadillac. After closing on a mind-staggering deal that would move my boss a few notches up on some Forbes or Financial Times list, it was time to celebrate. Being the only transplant from the East Coast to join the team, I was expecting yet another round at the poker tables at the Bellagio when my fellow executives said this win needed to be honored the "Vegas way." Instead, all 5 of us were crossing the county border, headed to a brothel.

"It's legal over there," Rick slurred, speaking slowly as if I were a remedial kid.

"I know," I said. "But couldn't we just book a suite somewhere and have some girls brought over?"

"We could, but this is different," Rick insisted.

"There's something magical about going to an actual whorehouse. You know, like our forefathers did," Clark insisted.

There was a glimmer in his eye: I wasn't sure if it was the liquor or if he really believed there was something inherently poetic about hitting up a brothel. Either way, it got a chuckle out of me.

"If you say so," I shrugged.

"You're gonna fucking love it," he carried on. "It's a classy joint, too. The chicks are top-tier, as good as anything you'd get over in LA or Miami."

"Better!" Rick declared. "None of the wooing bullshit they expect you to do on Tinder. You take a girl out to the fucking Venetian for a lobster dinner that none of those college cocksuckers she jerks off at frat parties can even afford and then she won't even suck you off after. But if you say anything, you're a misogynist. It's fucking criminal if you ask me."

"So what's your type, Grayson?" This was Declan asking me. He had whipped out his phone. Clark was sitting next to him and had leaned over. "We're like half an hour away now. Everyone put in your order so they'll be ready for us."

"Whatever, as long as she looks good."

"Booooo!" Rick playfully elbowed me. "What the fuck are you, some sort of fucking feminist? Tits or ass?"

"Or legs? You motherfuckers always forget legs. It's a viable preference," That was Warren.

"He says legs when he actually means feet and he thinks we don't know," Clark laughed.

The phone was being passed around the car and finally got to me. I'm no prude -- or a radical feminist -- but there was something unsettling about swiping through real women like I was looking for a set of golf clubs. Unsettling, but exciting. I could feel the the familiar stir in my pants as I carried on scrolling. I suddenly understood the anticipation that filled the limo -- knowing that with no more effort than a simple click, any woman would be yours for a specified amount of time was exhilarating.

I landed on a blonde: Isla. She was a petite little number, with a dusting of freckles on a milky complexion. Her photos were shot in a pastel boudoir. The combination of her pink lingerie, large, blue eyes and golden hair that was in pigtails exuding innocence. Despite all this, her profile promised to give me "a porn star experience that would have me begging for more" and the juxtaposition intrigued me.

"Jailbait is your thing?" Rick said as I handed him the phone.

"It says she's 21," I defended myself. Yes, I was nearly 15 years older than her. But that was nothing compared to some of my colleagues and their second wives or mistresses. "Remind me, what's the gap between you and the Russian piece you've got in the downtown building?"

The rebuttal elicited a laugh.

"First of all, she's Ukrainian," Rick rebutted. "Secondly, fuck you. When you get to my age, you'll realise nothing makes you feel alive like a younger woman."

"He's a dick, but he's right," Warren agreed. "They haven't been fucked over by guys like us long enough to turn into jaded bitches."

"I'll drink to that," Clark cheered.

We filled up with another round of cognac before the limo reached its destination.

Just an hour outside of Vegas, The Oasis was unassuming to those who were none the wiser. A security gate made way for a winding, driveway that led us to a sprawling Spanish neo-colonial. It reminded me of a development of villas in a luxury resort I had overseen in Oaxaca. It had been the first project my boss had trusted me to oversee, and it was how I landed up as the youngest executive in one of the best real estate investment firms in the country.

The driver opened the door and we practically tumbled out. I wanted to blame the alcohol, but it was probably just as much excitement. Everything I knew about bordellos was from movies, and I enjoyed the cliche when on brand, a beautiful, olive-skinned brunette dressed like an Old West harlot ushered us into the lobby. Even though she was subtle, I could see the once over she gave us with her green gaze. Our current disposition (stumbling out a limo, Rick ogling her with his tongue practically out, what I'm sure was the scent of booze emanating from us) gave the vibe of a rowdy bachelor party crew. I was sure we looked like we would be a bad time and lousy tippers. But a quick glance at Warren and Rick's Rolexes, Clark's Ferragamo oxfords and my slightly disheveled but clearly Tom Ford suit, she decided that we were worth their time.

"Evening, weary travelers," she smiled. "Welcome to the Oasis. I'm Jasmine."

"So happy you could have us, Jasmine," Rick grinned. "Damn, I didn't see you on the website. I bet you're like a VIP thing, aren't you? Well, I promise --"

"We booked online," I interjected. We could be in the lobby all night if we stood around watching Rick try and hit on a girl that would be way out of his league if he wasn't overpaid.

After scanning a code on Declan's phone, Jasmine began handing out tags. Other girls, in similar elaborate costumes came in to lead us to our rooms. We made our way into an elevator -- everyone got off on the second floor. I was the only one who disembarked later.

"We're going this way," my sexy guide led me down a corridor. "You'll have a great time. If I was a guy, she'd be my top pick."

Not that I needed the validation, but it felt good to know I was in capable hands.

The first thing I noticed was that the room wasn't what I was expecting. It was a stereotypical boudoir, with a lush black carpet. The walls were a deep red and the glossy, black ceiling had warm lights. Most of the illumination was coming from a crystal chandelier that shone dimly, adding to the ambiance. A four-poster bed served as the centerpiece, with black lace curtains draped on the poles, revealing the burgundy silk bedspread.

"Get comfortable, I'll be out in a sec!" came a voice.

That's when I realized that the black double doors to my left weren't a closet, but an en-suite bathroom. I felt a thump in my chest at the sound of her voice. It was husky, but still soft and feminine. Feeling like my skin was getting hot, I decided to take her advice and took off my blazer before hanging it on the coat rack that was there. The door finally opened and she walked out.

She was the polar opposite of Isla. I was expecting an innocent, doe-eyed blonde, but found myself standing opposite her antithesis. Her black hair was glossy, straight and fell to the middle of her back. Isla's photos showed a face that was void of makeup and exuded innocence whereas this girl's full lips were painted the type of deep red that was designed to get your blood pumping. It was working. She looked at me with dark, almond-shaped eyes that were bordered by long, thick lashes, her caramel hue masking any hint of a blush, so it was hard for me to read what she was thinking.

"You're not the one I picked," I blurted out.

"Who did you pick?" she asked.

"Isla," I said.

She smiled. "You think you picked Isla, but you picked me."

She walked up to me, the scent of vanilla and jasmine wafting around her. I resisted the urge to lean in and bury my face in her hair to take a deeper whiff. I may have been drunk, but I wasn't that drunk. There were only a few inches separating us, and as she spoke, her dark gaze was locked with mine.

"I'm Isis. You must've clicked on my name instead of hers." She whispered this, subconsciously forcing me to pay attention to every word she was saying. My eyes immediately went back to her lips as she spoke. They were plump and all I could do was imagine what they would look like wrapped around my cock. "Since you're already here..."

"But --"

I was stopped mid-sentence as I felt her hand on my crotch. My dick throbbed at the contact, my blood rushing. It was clear she had caught me unprepared and from the smirk on her pretty face, she knew it. She gave me a slight squeeze and I suppressed a moan before she let go.

Isis pulled back slightly, seemingly reading me. "You picked Isla, huh? One of those 'barely legal' guys?"

"She's 21." Was I going to have to defend myself the entire night? I wanted to believe my voice was steadfast but there was something in Isis's eyes like she was...holding in a laugh? "And she was what I was expecting."

"Why? Do real women scare you?"

For the second time in just a few minutes, she had caught me unready for a rebuttal. This was not me. I hadn't climbed to nearly the top of one of the most unrelenting corporate ladders to be tongue-tied by a hooker, no matter how attractive she was.

"If I intimidate you, I'm sure Isla is still free," she continued.

"You don't intimidate me," I said. "You just aren't my type."

"I'm every man's type." Her statement was matter-of-fact. "You are a man, aren't you? Not a boy?"

"Do I look like a fucking boy?" I scoffed. I already got a mouthful about being young at work, I didn't need it here.

"Looks can be deceiving."

Her hand moved and I anticipated her cupping my crotch again but instead she placed it on my stomach. There was a faint upturn on her lips, that made me wonder if she was surprised to feel the effects of being a competitive swimmer since high school.

"What's your name?" she asked.

As she spoke, her hand moved further up my chest before she wrapped her fingers around my tie.

"Ryan."

Using it as leverage, Isis tugged at my tie to pull me closer to her and our lips met. I wasn't expecting it but even if I wanted to pull away, her firm grip kept me cemented in place. Her lips were warm and soft against mine, and the rush of blood to my dick was inevitable. She opened her mouth and her tongue lapped across my lips, signaling that she wanted me to follow suit, so I did. Her free hand was on my cheek before moving to the nape of my neck. This kiss was controlled, but still passionate, and my brain didn't know whether to concentrate on the way her mouth felt against mine, the sweet scent of her hair or the fact that I could feel that she had let go of my tie and her hand was moving south.

As expected, Isis cupped my hardened length in her hand, but not as gently this time. She made a point of grinding her palm over the painfully engorged stiffness and I didn't bother trying to control the grunt that escaped my lips into her mouth. Her over-the-pants handjob persisted in earnest and I knew that the precum must've leaked into underpants, which was fine enough, but I didn't want to have to ride back in a car with my colleagues in cum-stained pants. If I was gonna cum anywhere, it was gonna on or inside her.

I placed my hand on her waist, about to pull her closer when I felt her let go of my poor cock and the kiss was broken.

"Who said you could touch me?" she quipped.

I could tell she wasn't angry. There was a twinkle in her sultry, dark eyes that I was becoming accustomed to -- the glimmer that seemed to have a direct connection to my dick.

"Then what are we doing?" I asked, the frustration clear in my voice.

"But I'm not your type, remember?"

I followed her gaze as her eyes moved down. We both could see the obvious tent that had formed in my pants -- the unmistakable sign of my arousal.

"How about I call the lobby," she began. As she spoke, Isis pulled at the belt of her robe. It became undone. "They can check if your Lolita can get ready for you." Her voice was sickeningly sweet -- the sound of a sore winner.

She shrugged her shoulders and the flimsy satin fell to the floor. My breath hitched at the reveal. As expected, her body was just as, if not more, beautiful than her face. Unlike Isla's waif-like physique, Isis was sporting a classic hourglass figure. Her look was that of a sexy, expensive trophy; the type of girl that should be hitched to a professional athlete. Natural curves and smooth, light brown skin were complemented by the black lingerie she had on. There was a suspender belt around her narrow waist and her lengthy legs were encased in thigh-high stockings that were topped off with red bows. Type or no type, I couldn't stop myself from succumbing to the overwhelming urge to be inside her.

She went to the bedside phone and picked it up.

"Wait, don't!" My voice was a bit too loud and eager for my liking. I had to get a grip.

Isis turned to look at me, feigning confusion. "What's wrong?" she asked.

I realised that her dark brown eyes were almost feline, which was apt considering that she had me feeling like a meek mouse at her mercy. But I was no fucking mouse.

"Don't call for Isla," I said.

"Why shouldn't I do that?"

"Because you need to finish what you started."

Isis raised her eyebrow so quickly that I could tell it wasn't a rehearsed move from this persona she was performing. I got to where I was by reading people. She had me in the first half. But now that the night wasn't tainted by one stupid, clerical mistake, I could regain lost ground. I walked over to her, and in one fluid movement, wrapped my arm her waist and pulled her in for a kiss. There was a second of stillness before she matched my effort and opened her mouth.

I could feel that she wanted control in the kiss like the first time, but I held her firmly in place, giving her no other option than to let me lead. Even in her satin platform heels, I was taller than her and without the leverage of holding my tie like I was a puppy on a leash, Isis had no choice but to acquiesce. She raised her arms so she could wrap them around my shoulders and for the first time in our chess game, I got one of her pieces.

With my free hand, I moved to cup her ass. She was in a thong and my palm was filled with the smoothness of her exposed cheek. It was my turn to squeeze and I wasn't in the mood to be gentle. Pulling her closer, I rubbed my rigid length against her, knowing she'd feel it against her bare stomach. I felt like a teenage boy again as my hips moved against her, reveling in the sensation of her soft body and mouth against me, knowing it would be enough to make me cum.

It was time to pull away, otherwise I'd be done for. And with the amount of liquor I'd ingested that night, it was likely I only had one round in me. I had to make it count. When we parted, I looked down at her, impressed by mess I'd made of her lipstick.

"Take off your pants and get on the bed," she instructed.

It was a clear command that I had no choice but to obey. The confusion of how I was back to being under her thumb when I had just gained control was mingled with excitement, so I pushed the former back. At the foot of the bed, I watched her as I began unbuckling my belt. She opened the armoire, and I got a glimpse of what was inside. On hooks and racks, was an assortment of tools and toys that looked like they were right out of a dungeon porno. I watched with bated breath as she reached into a shelf. I was hoping it was a riding crop -- I was tempted to see how many lashings her delicious, pert ass could take before the welts were visible on her skin.

To my disappointment, she revealed a bottle of lube and a vibrator.

"Don't worry, I'm not bringing out a flogger and nipple clamps for the boy that ordered Isla," she jeered playfully. "I don't want to scare you."

"I wasn't worried," I assured her.

"Oh, really?" she quipped. "Well that's a brave, big boy." For the first time, she got a full look at me as I sat, pants-less, at the foot of the bed, my cock at full mast. "And you are a big boy, huh."

I'm sure the last part was meant to be an internal thought but hearing a genuine compliment from her was just another thing that made it feel like electricity was travelling along my spine. I was proud of my cock, and I was glad she seemed impressed, even though I could tell she was doing her best feign indifference. It was a more than respectable 7 inches with substantial girth, the head an angry red and glistening with precum from the torture she had been enacting on me.

"Fuck, maybe I should've gone to Isla," I said. "She'd probably know what to do with a cock, instead of just staring at it."

She didn't like that. Her little pout and frown looked cute, but that only lasted for a second. Without a word, she made her way back over to me and kneeled on the floor in between my legs. Before I could get any word out, Isis wrapped her full lips around my cockhead and I was sure I was about to explode. Her mouth was wet and hot and the wave of pleasure surged directly from my cock to every inch of my body, culminating in an uncontrollable moan. With her lips soft and warm around me, I could feel her tongue make circular movements around the base of the head.

"Fuck," I moaned. "Oh fuck."

She alternated between drawing patterns with the tip of her tongue along my sensitive skin, and then flattening it out and engulfing the entire head in hot wetness before lapping away, all the while her head was bobbing.

Using her free hand, she motioned for me to lean back, and I obliged her. I used my elbows as support so I wouldn't completely lose the view of her full, red lips against my raging hard on. For my obedience, I was rewarded by the feeling of her hand gently squeezing my balls and I was surprised I didn't lose it right then.

I could feel the warmth move further down as she took another inch of me in her mouth, the moisture leaking past her lips as she let her spit lubricate her path.

"Wait, if you don't stop, I'm gonna --" I began.

She decided to prolong my suffering and pulled away, a string of her saliva connecting my tip to her mouth. Isis looked up at me, her obsidian gaze locked to my blue one as she slowly licked her lips to break the trail.

"Jesus, fuck," I sighed.

"It's pronounced Isis," she said.

If I had the energy to roll my eyes, I would've. Instead, I watched as she picked up the lube and squirted some in her palm. She rubbed it together before wrapping both her hands around my rigid pole. Even as the feeling of her hands sent another shockwave through me, I caught the brief look of awe in her gorgeous eyes as she realised she could easily stack both fists on top of each other from the base, and the head was still fully visible. Once she had mentally reckoned with my size, she began moving her hands, stroking the shaft. The sensation wasn't as intense as the initial onslaught, but it was welcome. I felt like I could collect my breath again and watched through hazy eyes as she worked my steel rod. I realized I liked how her glossy, scarlet manicure looked against my skin, and made a mental note of it being something I'd probably ask future girlfriends to pay attention to.

"Damn, you're good at this," I mused.

"It's almost like it's my job," she retorted.

I had become used to this rapport by now that I took her snark for it was -- nothing but an innocuous game of cat and mouse.

Her hand cupped my balls again and I anticipated what was to come. Isis's eyes were once again locked on mine, as she slowly opened her mouth. I watched when, as if in slow motion, her tongue made contact with the base of cock and she licked her way to top before engulfing me in the heat of her mouth once more.