Real name: Erotica Jones.
Secret identity: Stripperella.
Among the men and women of Los Angeles, she was as famous as could be. A verifiable superheroine that did her job with damn good efficiency. A hero deserved compensation, no? Not in a selfish sort of way but like…come on, she deserved better. As a stripper, she made fat wads of cash and at long last, she decided to use that money to vacation.
So, here she was, drinking a martini at a hotel lobby bar in New York. Erotica planned to stay over and shop for two weeks.
The martini sat sweating on the marble counter, condensation pooling around the glass's base like a tiny moat. Erotica Jones traced a fingertip through it, drawing absent patterns. Her blue eyes darted to the noise unfolding near the hotel's grand revolving doors.
"—what do you mean, the penthouse isn't ready?" A man's voice, rich with irritation and money, cut through the lobby's murmuring.
She turned on her barstool, just enough to see him.
Coincidentally, she looked down at the magazine cover on the bar table. 'Johnathon Vane.'
Her eyes flicked back. Yep, it was him. Blond hair the color of spun gold, swept back from a face that seemed engineered to grace magazine covers. Jaw sharp enough to cut paper. Shoulders that stretched the fabric of a charcoal Tom Ford suit jacket in ways that suggested the tailor had wept with gratitude. He stood surrounded by three bodyguards—mountains in black suits—but he was the one commanding the room. Six-foot-three, maybe six-four with green eyes that flicked with equal parts amusement and boredom as the concierge stammered apologies.
"Mr. Vane, we're so sorry, the previous guest left the suite in unacceptable condition, we're having it deep-cleaned as we speak—"
"Deep-cleaned." Johnathon repeated the word like it was a foreign concept. "I'm paying forty thousand dollars a night to wait while you mop floors?"
Erotica smirked into her martini. 'Classic rich boy tantrum.'
She'd come to New York for a goddamn vacation. Three weeks away from the TenderLions, away from Chief Stroganoff's bellybutton-piercing alerts, away from Howard and Bernard's endless gadgets. Three weeks to be nobody. Just another gorgeous blonde in a pink crop top and pale blue jean shorts, heels clicking on Manhattan pavement, shopping bags dangling from manicured fingers.
Haah. This was the life.
The tattoo on her lower back itched and her tits perked sometimes when trouble was near. Right now it was silent. As a result, Erotica sipped her drink and watched the show.
"Sir, if you'd like to wait in our presidential lounge, we'll have refreshments brought immediately—"
"Fine." Johnathon waved a hand, dismissing the concierge like a king releasing a peasant. "Twenty minutes. Then I'm calling your corporate office and buying this hotel just to fire you."
The bodyguards fanned out, professional and watchful. One guard scanned the lobby with the dead-eyed efficiency of ex-military. Another positioned himself near the elevators. The third stayed two steps behind Johnathon, a human shield wrapped in Armani.
Erotica returned to her martini. Not her circus, not her monkeys.
'Aw, you have got to be kidding me.'
…okay, it wasn't like her tattoo was magical. Really, it was her tits. They could act as a lie-detector, and when they got perky, they could act as a Spider-Sense. She straightened on the barstool, fingers going still on the glass. Thank god she wore a bra under her pink crop top.
But—
Boom!
The lobby's glass ceiling exploded. Woah! Shards rained down like crystalline hail, and through the gaping hole descended six figures on humming hover-platforms, chrome limbs glinting, optical sensors burning red.
'Robots!?'
Humanoid, sleek, and armed with what looked like compact energy rifles attached to their forearms. The robots heads swiveled in unison, targeting systems locking onto the blond man near the elevators.
"Johnathon Vane," one of the robots intoned. "You will come with us."
Screams erupted. Guests scattered. The bartender fled.
The bodyguards were no slouches, fortunately. The ex-military guy drew a sidearm, the other two formed a wall in front of their charge. Unfortunately, the robots had far greater firepower. Energy bolts seared across the lobby, punching into marble columns, and shattering a grand piano. Talk about shitty aim.
The bodyguards returned fire. Conventional rounds pinged off chrome armor like pebbles.
Johnathon ducked behind an overturned couch. "Somebody want to tell me what the fuck is going on?!"
Erotica sighed. Erotica hopped.
'Can't ignore this…!'
She slipped behind the bar, crouching low as a stray bolt vaporized the mirror above her head. Broken glass tumbled into her hair. She ignored it, hands working fast, unbuttoning her jean shorts, shimmying them down her legs, revealing the sky-blue panties beneath. The pink crop top came off next, tucked into a crevice behind the bar. From her oversized shopping bag, she pulled a compact bundle wrapped in silk.
The bundle unfurled a blue mask, a short blue shirt that ended just below her ribcage, a blue skirt that would barely qualify as a belt, and blue thigh-high heel boots reminiscent of polished sapphire.
The blonde big titty baddie dressed in fifteen seconds flat. The transformation was a ritual she'd performed a hundred times. The mask settled over her eyes, clinging to her cheekbones. The shirt hugged her breasts—large, full, the kind that made men forget their own names—and left a generous strip of midriff bare. The skirt swished against her thighs.
Stripperella rose from behind the bar.
One of the robots had Johnathon by the collar, dragging him across the ruined lobby floor. The bodyguards were down. Thank the gods, however, they were not dead; stunned, she noted, twitching on the marble with their weapons scattered.
But for Stripperella, guns were not needed. Not at all.
The five robots formed a perimeter, energy rifles sweeping the room.
"Gentlemen," Stripperella called out, her voice carrying that particular lilt she'd perfected, sweet like honey, sharp like a blade. "Nobody taught you it's rude to crash a vacation?"
Six chrome heads swiveled toward her.
Stripperella was too fast for them. A cartwheel off the bar, thighs spreading, the movement purely gymnastic. Her heel connected with the nearest robot's optical sensor, and she felt the satisfying crunch of delicate electronics giving way. The robot staggered, blind, and she used its shoulder as a springboard, launching toward the one holding Johnathon.
"What the—"
Johnathon's green eyes went wide as she descended on his captor like a blue-and-blonde thunderbolt.
Stripperella's thighs clamped around the robot's head. Her signature move, one she'd perfected on the pole at the TenderLions, except here the target wasn't a paying customer but a homicidal machine. She twisted her hips. Metal screeched. The robot's neck joint gave way with a shower of sparks, and its grip on Johnathon slackened.
The billionaire tumbled free, landing on his ass on the marble floor.
"Stay down, playboy," Stripperella ordered, already spinning to face the remaining four.
They advanced in formation, energy rifles charging with an ominous whine. Stripperella dropped into a split…yes, on the marble floor, in those impossible boots. She swept the legs out from under the nearest one. The robot toppled, rifle discharging into the ceiling, raining more plaster and glass.
She kicked upward, boots-first, catching the second robot in the chest plate. The impact sent it skidding backward into a pillar. The third lunged for her with chrome fingers splayed, and she arched her spine, letting those metal digits close on empty air while her own hand found its elbow joint and twisted.
Pop! Spark!
The arm detached, clattering uselessly to the floor.
The fourth and fifth flanked her. Stripperella's breasts jiggled which Johnathon smiled at pervertedly. She didn't notice or care. This was business as usual, the short blue shirt doing absolutely nothing to contain them.
She doubted her tits were why she caught a momentary flicker in the robots' optical sensors. Probably because she wasn't in the plans. Their target was Johnathon and he was alarmed. This was a bit of an AI flaw. Ha.
Stripperella used the half-second of confusion to drive her heel into the fourth robot's knee joint, buckling it, then grabbed its descending head with both hands and smashed it into the fifth robot's chest.
Both went down in a tangle of chrome limbs.
Silence fell across the lobby, broken only by the crackle of damaged electronics and the distant wail of approaching sirens.
Stripperella stood among the wreckage, breathing steady, a strand of blonde hair falling across her mask. She tucked it behind one ear with a flick of her fingers. "That all you brought?" she asked the downed robots, knowing they couldn't answer, not really caring.
Behind her, Johnathon Vane got to his feet. Slowly. His suit was torn at the shoulder, dusted with plaster, with a smear of something dark across his pant leg. His blond hair had fallen across his forehead and made him look even more like a goddamn Calvin Klein ad.
Johnathon stared at her. She could feel his gaze traveling the length of her body: the mask, the shirt, the bare midriff, the impossible skirt, the thigh-high boots that added four inches to her already statuesque frame. She knew what he was seeing. She knew what every man saw.
But his voice, when he spoke, wasn't slack-jawed.
"You're Stripperella."
"And you're welcome." Stripperella nudged a robot carcass with her boot. "Any idea why the chrome brigade wants to kidnap you?"
Johnathon raked a hand through his hair, dislodging plaster dust. "I've got a dozen political opponents who'd love to see me disappear. I'm backing legislation that would kill a major defense contract. Some people stand to lose billions." His jaw tightened. "This isn't the first attempt. It's just the first one with fucking robots."
"Language," Stripperella chided, smiling.
"Forgive me." He didn't sound sorry. He stepped closer, navigating around the debris, and she noticed he moved with the easy grace of an athlete despite the situation. "Look. I, uh, know you're not from New York. I know your territory is Los Angeles. But I also know you're the best at what you do."
"Flattery."
"Truth." His green eyes held hers. "I need protection. My security team is obviously outmatched. Whoever sent these things won't stop here. I'm willing to pay whatever you want. Name your price."
Stripperella considered him. The playboy billionaire. The cocky, entitled, absurdly handsome man who moments ago had been threatening to buy a hotel just to fire the staff. Hrn.
"I'm on vacation," she said.
A smirk. "I'll make it worth your while."
"I'm sure you would."
She turned away from him, scanning the lobby. The sirens were closer now. Police would arrive within minutes, along with paramedics for the bodyguards—who were groaning awake. The robots were disabled, not destroyed. She needed to be gone before the authorities started asking questions she didn't feel like answering.
"I'll keep an eye out," Stripperella said over her shoulder. "That's all I'm promising."
"Wait—"
But Stripperella was already running, a blur of blue and blonde, slipping through a service door and into the hotel's back corridors. His voice faded behind her, swallowed by the building's labyrinthine guts and the police sirens.
She made it to her room on the fourteenth floor without being seen. Stripped off the mask, the shirt, the skirt, the boots. Changed back into her civilian clothes—the pink crop top, the jean shorts, the heels, the casual vacation-girl armor she wore so well.
Her tits were a little perky from battle. Haah.
"I really should go out…"
***
Erotica was Stripperella, but she was also a woman.
After the police did their thing, Erotica came down to the hotel lobby and exited the hotel like she didn't totally save the day. The rest of her day passed retail therapy. She was a woman and Fifth Avenue was famous for its shopping culture. She went to a tiny coffee shop in the West Village where she drank an overpriced latte and watched New Yorkers hurry past the window. She bought a dress she didn't need, earrings she'd probably never wear, a pair of sunglasses that cost more than her hotel room.
Strippers made good money, people.
By the time Erotica returned to the hotel, the lobby had been restored to its former opulence. Fresh flowers in crystal vases and the piano replaced. The broken pillars were in repair, however. Still. Compared to Los Angeles, money moved fast in this city.
Erotica took the elevator to the fourteenth floor, rode it in silence, the day's purchases dangling from her fingers.
Her room was exactly as she'd left it. King-sized bed with sheets so white they hurt to look at, a window overlooking the Manhattan skyline, the distant sparkle of the East River catching the last light of sunset. She kicked off her heels, peeled off her shorts, and crawled between those too-white sheets in just her panties and crop top.
Sleep came fast. The city hummed outside her window, a lullaby of distant sirens and traffic.
"Help! Help!"
Until that.
"Ngggh…!"
Erotica woke to the sound of a man crying out for help and breaking glass. Aaaand it was coming directly from above. Literally, one floor up.
Erotica sat up, suddenly and completely alert, her tits already erect like erasers. The penthouse. Johnathon Vane's forty-thousand-dollar-a-night suite was directly above her, and something was wrong.
"Ugh, fine!" Grumbling, she was out of bed and into her Stripperella gear in under a minute. The window slid open with a whisper of cool night air, and she swung herself out onto the building's exterior, fourteen stories of sheer glass and steel plunging below her.
So what? She was a superhero! Don't underestimate Stripperella!
Her thigh-high boots found purchase on the narrow ledges between windows. Her fingers gripped the stonework, the seams between panels, any protrusion she could find. She scaled the building. Professional climbers would weep from their own inadequacy.
'I'm coming!'
The penthouse occupied the entire top floor. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around its perimeter, and through them she could see a sprawling interior: modern furniture, abstract art, a staircase leading to what must have been a rooftop terrace.
She reached the terrace level, hauling herself over the railing with a silent flex of muscle. The rooftop was a private oasis. Lounge chairs, potted palms, a bar, and the pool itself, a long rectangle of turquoise water steaming gently in the night air.
It was also where the noise had been coming from.
Five figures surrounded Johnathon Vane in that pool.
Women. All of them. Dressed in sexy bikinis, different colours. One holding a garrote wire another holding a curved blade. The remaining three circled the pool's edge like sharks.
Johnathon was in the water, shirtless, his swim trunks the only thing between him and modesty. His chest was broad, muscled, defined in ways that spoke of personal trainers and genetics working in perfect harmony. His blond hair was wet, plastered to his forehead, and he was bleeding from a cut above his eyebrow.
He…had run away to the pool. Had he been inside before this? Was that how she heard him? They attacked, he panicked, and ran up to the terrace?
"Ladies," he was saying, his voice strained but still carrying that infuriating playboy charm, "I'm flattered, really, but I don't do group sessions without a signed NDA."
The one with the garrote lunged.
Stripperella flung from the terrace railing like a thunderbolt, boots-first, driving both heels into the shoulders of the assassin with the garrote. The woman crumpled, her wire spinning away across the tiles. Before the others could react, Stripperella was spinning—an aerial pirouette that brought her skirt flaring around her thighs—and her elbow connected with the knife-wielder's temple.
The blade clattered. The woman followed it.
Three left. They fanned out, abandoning their focus on Johnathon to address the new threat. Stripperella dropped into a fighting stance, her breasts rising and falling with the exertion, the short blue shirt doing nothing to contain the bounce and sway.
"You know," Stripperella said, "I've heard New York is dangerous, but this is getting ridiculous."
The assassins attacked in unison. Oh, no question about it, they were trained, coordinated, and deadly. But please. To her, fodder. She ducked under a roundhouse kick, her spine arching backward until her blonde hair brushed the tiles. Her leg swept outward, catching the attacker's supporting ankle. The woman went down, and Stripperella's follow-up heel strike to her solar plexus kept her there.
Two left. One came at her with a stun baton crackling with electricity. Stripperella caught the woman's wrist mid-swing, twisted, and used her momentum to send her tumbling into the pool with a spectacular splash. The other lunged with bare hands—a grappling specialist, by the way she moved—and Stripperella met her with a move straight from the TenderLions stage.
She dropped into a split on the wet tiles, her thighs spread wide enough to make a gymnast weep. Her hand shot upward, grabbing the assassin's collar, and she used the woman's own forward momentum to flip her over her head and into the pool to join her companion.
The splashing settled. The two women in the water were already swimming toward the far edge. Already sluggish. Already defeated in her mind.
Stripperella rose from her split with the kind of grace that made the motion look effortless. Her breasts had jiggled. Always did, always would with every twist and impact, and now they settled into the inadequate confines of her blue shirt, nipples visible through the thin fabric thanks to the night chill and the exertion.
Johnathon was staring at her from the pool. Oh, and not at her face. At those lovely double-Ds.
Stripperella cleared her throat. "You're bleeding."
"Heh. I'm also extremely grateful." Jonathan wiped blood from his eyebrow with the back of his hand. "And extremely confused about why my evening keeps getting interrupted by beautiful women trying to kill me…and one beautiful woman saving me."
Stripperella scanned the terrace. The bikini-assassins were retreating, hauling their unconscious comrades toward some exit she hadn't identified yet. She let them go. Sorry, but, uh, her style wasn't lethal, never had been. They'd wake up with headaches and a story to tell.
"Where are your bodyguards?" Jonathan demanded.
Johnathon shifted with a flicker of embarrassment. "I, ah. I sent them away."
"Who gave you that bright idea?"
"I was going to have company." He gestured vaguely at the pool, the lounge chairs, the bottle of champagne chilling in a bucket near the water's edge. "Female company. Multiple female company. I'd rather not have security detail watching. Or listening."
"Those women were coming to kill you."
"Those women were coming to fuck me. At least, that's what I assumed when they showed up in—" He stopped, rubbed his face. "Fuck. That was my mistake. I thought they were the escorts I hired. They were wearing the best bikinis and I just…" He heaved a breath, water streaming down his chest. "Haah. I'm an idiot."
Stripperella opened her mouth to deliver a scathing remark about rich boys and their inability to keep it in their pants, and then her gaze dropped.
She saw it.
'Yeah, no wonder he can't keep it in his pants!' came the surging thought. See, the swim trunks were plastered to his body, wet fabric clinging to every contour, and beneath that thin layer of material was something that made her brain stutter.
Massive didn't cover it.
The bulge ran down his left thigh, thick as her wrist, a heavy column of flesh that seemed to defy biological probability. The length of the hog pressed visibly against the fabric, a distinct ridge that made the swim trunks look obscene. And below that impossible shaft, the heavy curve of his balls—Jesus Christ, his balls—each one the size of a fucking plum, pressing against the wet material with an weight that made her own thighs clench involuntarily.
Her mouth went dry. Actually, clinically dry. Saliva production ceased entirely.
This man was a fucking stud. She'd noticed before, in passing—broad shoulders, defined chest, the kind of torso that belonged on a romance novel cover. But now she was noticing with a kind of hyper-focused intensity that made everything else fade. The water streaming down his abs. The way his hip bones created a perfect V that disappeared into the waistband of those inadequate trunks.
"See something you like?"
His voice snapped her gaze upward. Johnathon was smirking. Actually smirking, the cocky bastard, despite the bleeding eyebrow and the attempted assassination.
Stripperella felt heat rush to her cheeks. Beneath her blue mask, she was blushing. Actually blushing. Her, the superheroine who'd faced down supervillains without flinching, who'd saved Los Angeles a dozen times over, who could make men drool with a single pole dance—blushing like a virgin at a frat party.
"I was assessing you for injuries," Stripperella lied. Hopefully, she came out steadier than she felt.
"Uh-huh." Jonathan pushed himself out of the pool, water cascading down his body, and good fucking God the angle only made the bulge more pronounced. "And what's your assessment?"
"That…that you're concussed and talking nonsense."
The playboy laughed. "I'm perfectly lucid. A little blood loss, maybe. But I know what I'm looking at."
"And what's that?"
"A beautiful woman who just saved my life for the second time today, who's pretending she wasn't staring at my cock."
He said it so casually. Cock. Like it was just another noun, another piece of his playboy vocabulary, entirely unashamed.
Stripperella's blush deepened. She could feel it spreading down her neck, across her collarbones, beneath the edge of her blue shirt. "I wasn't—"
"You absolutely were." He grabbed a towel from a lounge chair and began drying his hair, his biceps flexing with each movement. "It's okay. I'm used to it. Comes with the territory." He gestured at himself; the body, the face, the bulge, all of it. "Genetics and money. I lack nothing."
She rolled her eyes. It showed with her head motion but not with her eyes. "Modesty, apparently."
"Modesty is for people who have something to be modest about." He wrapped the towel around his waist—thank God, or maybe damn it—and approached her. "I'm Johnathon Vane. We weren't properly introduced earlier, what with the robots and the fleeing."
"I know who you are."
"Everyone knows who I am." He stopped an arm's length away, close enough that she could smell him—chlorine and expensive cologne, with an undertone of blood from the cut above his eye. "And you're Stripperella. The, ah, Sexy Superhero of Los Angeles. I've read about you. Watched the news footage. The real thing is considerably more impressive."
The thing being her tits? What a perv. She crossed her arms under her bust.
"Right. You just survived an assassination attempt. What is your next move?"
"Two attempts." He held up two fingers. "In one day. Which makes this the most eventful Tuesday I've had in years, and I'm a billionaire playboy who owns a Formula One team." He tilted his head, green eyes glinting. "But I'd rather talk about you."
"You…" She wanted to pinch the bridge of her nose. "...should be talking to the police."
"I will. Eventually." He stepped closer, and she didn't step back. That was the problem, she didn't step back. "But first I want to talk about the fact that you scaled a building to save me. Twice. In one day. That's either extraordinary dedication to heroism, or something else."
"It's my job."
"You're on vacation. You said so yourself."
Fuck. He'd been paying attention.
Stripperella re-crossed her arms beneath her breasts. It was a defensive gesture she hated, because it inevitably pushed them upward and made them even more prominent, but she couldn't help it. "I was in the neighborhood."
"Perhaps you're staying at this hotel?"
"...maybe."
He laughed again, and damn him, it was a good laugh. Almost like he found her genuinely amusing rather than just fuckable. Though, she noted with another unwanted glance at the towel, he was clearly both.
"Look," he said, the humor fading to something more serious. "Someone is trying to kill me. The robots this morning, the assassins tonight. They're not going to stop. My security team is good, but they're not equipped for this level of threat."
"So hire better security."
"I'm trying." He spread his hands. "I'm trying to hire you."
Stripperella studied his face. The bleeding had stopped, a line of drying crimson tracing down his temple. His eyes were clear, focused, intelligent beneath the playboy veneer. This wasn't just a rich idiot who wanted in her pants, though he definitely wanted in her pants, the bulge beneath the towel was evidence enough of that. This was a man who understood the danger he was in and was smart enough to look for the best solution.
"I don't do private security," Stripperella said.
He stepped closer again, and this time she did step back—but only because the pool was at her heels and she didn't want to end up in the water. "Stay. Just for a few days. Until we figure out who's behind this. Oh, and I have a suitcase of a million dollars for you."
…yeah, okay. A million bucks for a stripper?
Stripperella pretended to think about it. She looked outward at Manhattan spread out like a jeweled carpet. The view was spectacular: the Empire State Building lit up in the distance, the bridges spanning the East River like necklaces of diamonds, the whole city glittering and breathing below them.
"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Johnathon followed her gaze. "I've stayed in penthouses all over the world. Dubai, Tokyo, Paris. But New York at night is something else."
"…."
"Heh, come on, is my offer working?"
"...kind of."
"Then here's the cherry on top." He reached past her, his arm brushing her shoulder, and picked up the champagne bottle from the bucket near the pool. "Dom Pérignon. 2008. I was going to share it with the bikini babes, but they left early. Seems a shame to waste it."
Stripperella watched him pop the cork, pour two flutes. He handed her a flute. Their fingers brushed. His were warm, the champagne chilled.
"Come on, Stripperella." He raised his glass. "To unexpected rescues. And a million dollars!"
"...fine."
He smirked and Stripperella clinked her glass against his. The champagne was perfect, crisp, bubbly, expensive enough to taste like liquid starlight. They drank in silence for a moment, the city humming below them.
"But," Stripperella emphasized, "I'm not your employee. I'm not your bodyguard. I'm doing this because—" She paused, searching for a reason that didn't involve the outline of his cock. "Because two attacks in one day suggests something big. I also want to know what's going on."
"And not because you find me charming? Or my money?"
"And because you have a very nice penthouse."
"I'll take it." Jonathan smiled, and it was the kind of smile that had probably gotten him into a thousand pairs of panties. "Guest bedroom is through the main suite, past the living room. You'll have your own bathroom, walk-in closet, views of the park."
"I have my own room."
"Yep. I bet wherever you stayed before this, it wasn't as great, was it?"
Yeah, it wasn't. Stripperella considered arguing but ultimately decided against it. He was right—staying in the penthouse made tactical sense. If another attack came, she'd be close. And the guest bedroom sounded considerably nicer than her hotel room.
As for her things…eh, might as well leave them there.
Stripperella finished her champagne in one long swallow and set the flute aside. "Show me the guest bedroom."
"Eager."
"Tired. It's been a long day."
Johnathon led her down the stairs and through the penthouse; down the terrace, through sliding glass doors, into a living room that looked like it belonged in an architecture magazine. White couches, glass tables, art on the walls that she suspected were originals rather than prints. The guest bedroom was at the end of a hallway, and it was, as promised, absurdly luxurious.
"Bathroom's there." Jonathan pointed. "Closet's there. If you need anything, I'm down the hall. The master suite." His smile turned crooked. "Door will be unlocked if you get scared."
"Hey, I'm the one who saved you."
"Twice. I remember." He lingered in the doorway, backlit by the hallway lights, and she was reminded again of just how stupidly handsome he was. "Goodnight, Stripperella."
"Goodnight, Johnathon."
He left. She closed the door, leaned against it, and let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding.
What the fuck was she doing?
"Right, a million dollars." Then she huffed. "And to save a life. Yeah."
***
Morning arrived golden and intrusive, pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse living room. She had slept surprisingly well. The guest bed was a cloud disguised as furniture.
Alas, as much as she wanted to wear her normal clothes, to continue her secret identity, she wore her blue sexy costume. She emerged as Stripperella, not Erotica.
Johnathon was already up. Of course he was. He stood at the kitchen island, shirtless—because of course he was shirtless—pouring fresh orange juice into a glass. The morning light caught the planes of his body, the ridges of his abdominal muscles, and she had to physically force her gaze elsewhere.
"Good morning, beautiful." Johnathon didn't look up from his orange juice. "Coffee's fresh. Pastries from the French place two blocks over."
"You're awfully chipper for someone who almost died twice yesterday."
"I almost die with some regularity. You get used to it."
She poured herself coffee, ignoring the way his eyes tracked her movements. His gaze was casual, appreciative, utterly unashamed.
"I'm going to need to do some reconnaissance today," she said. "Figure out who sent the robots and the assassins."
"I have people for that."
"You have people who let assassins into your pool."
"Fair point." He bit into a croissant, flakes of pastry dusting his chest. "But I'd rather you stayed close. Whoever's targeting me clearly knows my schedule, my locations. They'll try again. I'd feel better if you were here when they did."
"I'm not a decorative bodyguard."
"You're a decorative superhero. There's a difference." He grinned, and she wanted to throw her coffee at him. "Besides, I have a fundraiser tonight. Black tie. Lots of political donors. I'm expected to attend, which means I'll be a very public target. I could use a date."
"A date."
"A security detail in the form of a date. You'll need a dress. I know a place."
Stripperella sipped her coffee and considered the proposition. A public appearance would draw out the attackers, give her a chance to identify them, maybe even trace them back to their employer. It was tactically sound. The fact that it involved wearing an expensive dress and attending a fancy party on Johnathon Vane's arm was incidental.
Entirely incidental.
"Fine," Stripperella said. "But I'm not wearing heels lower than four inches."
"I wouldn't dream of it."
The day passed in a blur of preparations. Johnathon's people brought her things up from her hotel room. A stylist arrived with an array of gowns, all of them obscenely expensive. Johnathon hovered, offering opinions, his presence a constant low-level distraction.
"That one," he said, pointing to a midnight-blue dress with a slit that went high enough to be scandalous. "Matches your mask."
He flirted constantly. Relentlessly. A comment about her hair. A lingering glance at her legs. A casual brush of his fingers against her lower back—right where her butterfly tattoo sat—that sent an involuntary shiver up her spine. He did it so smoothly, so naturally, that she almost didn't notice how calculated it all was.
Almost.
By late afternoon, the penthouse felt less like a fortress and more like a very expensive cage. She was not yet dressed but everything was in her room. While going, the door to the master suite was fully open.
Steam billowed through the gap, carrying the scent of sandalwood soap. The shower was running. Ah, and…Johnathon was singing. Badly, tunelessly, some pop song she vaguely recognized.
The superheroine should have kept walking. Should have continued down the hall, found her new dress, and changed.
Instead, she glanced through the gap.
The master suit was fully open and the bathroom door was ALSO fully open. The shower was glass-walled, transparent, utterly un-steamed despite the billowing vapor. And Johnathon Vane stood beneath the waterfall showerhead, water cascading down his body, his hands working shampoo through his blond hair with casual, unself-conscious movements.
Her gaze dropped. Because of course it dropped.
And she saw it.
Eight inches of dick.
Maybe more.
"Oh my goodness…"
His cock hung between his thighs, thick and heavy, a pale shaft that seemed to defy proportion. Even soft—and it was soft, she realized with a jolt that made her stomach clench—it was enormous. The head was a distinct ridge, a darker pink than the shaft, peeking from a perfectly retracted foreskin. The shaft itself was veined, thick veins running along the underside, pulsing gently with his heartbeat.
Below it, his balls. Heavy. Full. Each one the size of a large egg, hanging in a sac that was dusted with golden hair, swaying slightly as he shifted his weight beneath the spray.
She couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't look away.
Her pussy clenched. Actually clenched, an involuntary spasm that she felt all the way to her toes. She'd seen cocks before. She'd seen plenty of them—the TenderLions wasn't a convent, and superhero work brought her into contact with plenty of naked, grateful men. But this was different. This was a masterpiece of the male penis. The biggest cock she'd ever seen in her life, attached to the biggest balls she'd ever seen in her life, and it was just hanging there like it was nothing special, like every man walked around with a third leg between their thighs.
Johnathon turned, and the movement made his cock swing. Swing. Like a pendulum. A heavy, pendulous, magnificent pendulum.
She made a sound. She didn't mean to. A tiny, strangled gasp escaped her throat without permission. His eyes opened.
The hung playboy saw her in the mirror's reflection. Saw her standing frozen in the doorway, eyes fixed on his crotch, mouth slightly open, face flushed crimson. His lips curved into that familiar, infuriating smirk.
"Like what you see?" he called over the water's roar.
Stripperella fled.
She retreated down the hallway, her heels clicking rapid-fire on the hardwood, her face burning, her heart pounding. She made it to the guest bedroom, slammed the door, pressed her back against it.
"Fuck," she whispered to the empty room. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
From down the hall, she could hear Johnathon Vane laughing.
A minute passed and she opened the door to take herself to the living room. For herself, for peace, she did it.
As she sat on the white couch, her pussy throbbed. Actually throbbed, a deep, insistent pulse that made her press her thighs together. The image was burned into her retinas: eight inches of pale, veined cock swinging between those powerful thighs, those heavy balls, that infuriating smirk when he caught her looking.
"Fuck," she whispered again.
The shower cut off.
Her tits perked up.
Footsteps in the hallway. Wet footsteps. Padding across hardwood.
Erotica lifted herself off the couch, scrambling for composure, for something to do with her hands, for anything that would make her look less like a woman who'd just been caught ogling a naked billionaire.
Too little, too late. Johnathon Vane arrived. Naked. Completely, utterly, unapologetically naked.
Water droplets still clung to his skin, tracing rivulets down the carved landscape of his chest. His blond hair was dark with moisture, swept back from his forehead. The cut above his eyebrow had scabbed over. His body was everything she'd seen last night by the pool but more—more defined, more present, more there in the unforgiving morning light.
And his cock.
Jesus Christ, his cock.
It swung between his thighs with every step he took into the room, a pendulum of flesh that seemed to defy physics. Eight inches soft—she'd seen it, catalogued it, couldn't stop thinking about it. Even now, even soft, it was a monument. The head peeked from its sheath of foreskin, a darker pink than the shaft. The veins she'd noticed in the shower were still there, thick cords running along the underside. His balls swayed beneath, each one the size of a plum, heavy and full and utterly obscene.
He was looking at her with those green eyes, that smirk still playing at the corners of his mouth.
"You ran away," he said.
"I didn't—I wasn't—" Stripperella couldn't form sentences. Couldn't form thoughts. Her gaze kept dropping, snapping back up, dropping again like a magnet drawn to true north.
"My eyes are up here." He pointed at his face, grinning.
"I'm, I'm aware of where your eyes are."
"Could've fooled me."
He stepped closer. His cock swung. She watched it swing. Fuck.
"Johnathon." She tried to make her voice firm. Tried to summon the superheroine who'd faced down robots and assassins without flinching. "You're naked."
"Am I?" He looked down at himself, feigning surprise. "So I am. Must've forgotten to grab a towel."
'B-bullshit.'
He grinned. "Still looking, aren't you?"
She was. God help her, she was still looking.
"Most women look," he continued, his tone conversational, like they were discussing the weather. "I'm used to it. Comes with the territory. But you—" He stepped closer, close enough that she could smell the sandalwood soap on his skin, the warmth rising from his body. "You're not most women, are you, Stripperella?"
He inched closer and closer and…she suddenly found her back against the wall now—when had she moved against the wall?—and her heart was pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat.
"Don't we need to get ready for the fundraiser?" Stripperella managed. "I need to—I need to change."
"Change? Just wear nothing." He stepped closer again, and now he was within arm's reach, so close she could see the individual droplets of water clinging to his balls. "I'd prefer nothing."
Her pussy clenched hard.
"Y-you're…"
"Naked, insufferable, and hung like a horse." Johnathon grinned. "Three out of three, Stripperella. You can't deny the evidence."
She couldn't. The evidence was right there, swinging gently between his thighs, thick and heavy and impossible to ignore. And now…his lips were near hers.
"Beautiful," he murmured. "Absolutely—"
His hand went forward and she expected him to squeeze her ass. Instead, his palm cracked against her ass.
Erotica gasped, her hand flying to the stinging spot. The impact radiated through her, a shockwave of sensation that went straight to her pussy—her already aching, already throbbing, already desperate pussy.
"Did you just—did you fucking spank me?"
"Smacked," he corrected. "Spanking implies punishment. That was appreciation." He was still standing there, still naked, still smirking. "You have an incredible ass, you stripper slut. It deserves to be appreciated."
"You—" She couldn't finish. Her face was burning, her ass was burning, everything was burning. "You can't just—"
"I just did." He crossed his arms over his chest, which had the effect of making his biceps bulge in ways that were frankly offensive. "What are you going to do about it?"
Stripperella should have punched him. Should have flipped him onto his back, pinned him to the floor, demonstrated exactly why she was the Sexy Superhero of Los Angeles.
Instead she was staring at his cock again. Which was no longer soft.
It was swelling a-and lengthening. Rising from between his thighs like a fucking cobra from a basket, inch by impossible inch. The foreskin retracted fully, revealing the glistening head; a broad, blunt crown that was already slick with a bead of moisture. The veins along the shaft pulsed with his heartbeat, thickening, engorging. His balls drew up tight against his body, heavy and full and straining.
Eight inches became nine. Nine became ten.
Ten became eleven.
Eleven became—
"Twelve inches," Johnathon said before her brain could. "Give or take. I've never measured properly, but I've been told."
Her mouth went dry. "Who—" She swallowed, tried again. "Who told you?"
"Every woman who's ever seen it." He stepped closer, and his cock—his massive, impossible, twelve-inch cock—bobbed with the movement, the head glistening, a pearl of precum forming at the tip. "They all say the same thing. 'Jesus Christ, Johnathon.' 'That's not going to fit.' 'You're going to split me in half.'" His green eyes met hers, and there was something dark in them now, something hungry. "But it always fits. Eventually."
Two days of knowing this man and it was like she was in a spell. Her pussy was drenched, her panties soaked through, her thighs slick with arousal.
Johnathon stepped closer again. His cock was inches from her now—inches from the crotch of her skirt, the thin denim barrier the only thing between his flesh and hers.
"You want to know what I think?" he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.
"What?"
"I think you're tired of being the superhero. Tired of saving everyone else. Tired of being in control." His hand came up, cupped her chin, tilted her face toward his. "I think you want someone else to take over. Just for a little while."
"Nn…."
"I know you're wet." His thumb traced her lower lip. "I can smell it."
Fuck. Fuck, could he actually smell it? She was wet enough—soaked enough—that it was entirely possible.
"I know you've been staring at my cock since last night," he continued in a proud growl. "I know you risked your life to save me twice. I know you agreed to stay in my penthouse even though you don't do private security." His thumb pressed against her lip, parting it slightly. "And I know you're not pushing me away right now."
Stripperella wasn't. She wasn't pushing him away.
His cock—his massive, twelve-inch cock—pressed against the crotch of her skirt. First it slid up to the belt, then down to where her cunt would be. That glorious aim and size, could feel the heat of it through, pressing right where her clit was, right where she was most sensitive, right where she needed it most.
"Tell me to stop," the billionaire bastard whispered. "Tell me to put on a towel and walk away and never mention this again. I'll do it. I'm a cocky bastard, but I'm not a monster. Say the word and I'm gone."
He was giving her an out. A choice. A chance to be the superhero, to be in control, to walk away from this with her dignity intact.
Stripperella kissed him. Fuck it, right? Those pink lovable lips surged forward, her mouth crashing against his, her hands fisting in his damp hair. The kiss was desperate, hungry, all teeth and tongue and weeks of tension releasing at once. He tasted like champagne and something darker, something masculine. His hands found her hips, gripping hard enough to bruise, and his cock pressed harder against her skirt, a rigid bar of heat that made her moan into his mouth.
"Bedroom," she gasped against his lips. "Now."
"Thought you'd never ask."
They stumbled down the hallway, a tangle of limbs and desperate mouths, knocking into walls, nearly tripping over a rug. His cock slapped against her thigh with every step, a wet, heavy sound that made her pussy clench. By the time they reached the master suite—a sprawling room with a bed the size of a small country—she was already tearing at her clothes, her skirt coming off and her panties following.
All that was left was her mask and blue thigh-high boots.
She stared down at him. Johnathon was already stretched out on the white sheets, his cock jutting upward like a flagpole, the head glistening, the shaft pulsing. His body was a landscape of muscle and golden skin, his green eyes dark with desire.
"Fuck…" He licked his lips. "You're beautiful."
Stripperella climbed onto the bed and positioned herself over him. Facing away from him—reverse cowgirl, because she wanted to make him see that big, fat cock disappear inside her. Oh, and of course, as a stripper, she wanted to control the angle and the depth and everything about this moment.
Her pussy was bare, waxed smooth. She positioned herself over his cock, the head pressing against her entrance, and paused.
"Condom?"
"As if. I'm gonna nut in you as many times as I need to."
Stripperella stuck her tongue out. "Perv."
She lowered herself. Just the head—just that broad, blunt crown—and she gasped. Gasped and moaned and had to stop, had to breathe, had to adjust. This billionaire dick was massive. Stretching her in ways she'd never been stretched, filling her completely even with just the tip.
"Fuuuck, you're tight as fuck, aren't you?"
"Of course I am~!" She took her time and lowered herself inch by agonizing inch, feeling every ridge, every vein, every pulse of his heartbeat through his cock. Her pussy stretched to accommodate him, wet and willing but still overwhelmed.
Four inches inside her. Five. Six.
"Hnnnhh…"
"Fuck, fuck, you slut! You big titty stripper hero slut!"
"Haaah~!" Her head fell back, blonde hair cascading down her spine. "Ah~! Oooh~!" Loud, desperate moans that she couldn't control, that she didn't want to control. Her breasts bounced downward, jiggling a little upon the stills.
But still. Lower and lower; seven inches. Eight.
"Oh fuck," she gasped. "Oh fuck, Johnathon, you're so fucking big—"
"Take it," he growled, his hands tightening on her hips. "Take all of it. Every fucking inch."
Nine inches. Ten.
She was stretched to her limit, filled completely, her pussy clenching around his shaft like a fist. Her thighs trembled. Her boots dug into the mattress. Sweat beaded on her spine, trickling down to her butterfly tattoo.
Eleven inches.
"Almost there," he grunted. "Almost—"
Twelve inches.
She took him to the hilt. Her ass pressed against his pubic bone, his balls—those heavy, plum-sized balls—resting against her clit. She was full. Completely, utterly full. She'd never felt anything like it, never been stretched so wide, never been filled so deep.
"Fuck," she whispered. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
"Ride me," he commanded. "Ride my fucking cock, Stripperella."
"You better not regret it." Smirking, her hips lifted, the long shaft of his cock sliding out of her, glistening with her arousal. Then she slammed back down, taking him to the hilt again, her ass smacking against his thighs.
PLAP—! PLAP—! PLAP—! PLAP—! PLAP—! PLAP—! PLAP—!
Hear that?
"Jesus—fuck—" He was gripping her hips hard enough to leave bruises on any other woman, his fingers digging into her flesh. "Your pussy—your fucking pussy is so tight—"
Billionaire dick or not, Stripperella was a divine woman.
Wet, slapping fucking punctuated by womanly moans and manly grunts.
Still.
"Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuuuuck~!!!"
She didn't answer with arrogance. Frankly, she couldn't answer. She was lost in the rhythm, lost in the sensation, lost in the impossible fullness of his cock stretching her, filling her, fucking her. Her breasts bounced wildly, jiggling with every thrust. Her mask was askew, her hair was wild, her thigh-high boots were sliding against the sheets.
"CUMMIIING~!!"
And her pussy was on fire.
The orgasm came and went, and yet the second one built again. Pleasure in her lower belly that spread outward, downward, through her thighs and up her spine. She could feel it coming, could feel the edge approaching, could feel her cunt tightening around his cock like a bowstring drawn to the breaking point.
PLAP—! PLAP—! PLAP—! PLAP—! PLAP—! PLAP—! PLAP—!
"Look at you! You slut! You're my fucking slut!"
Her hands pinched her own tits. An act to heighten her pleasure, which was already at the tipping point.
"I-I—!" Moan and tongue out. Oh fuck, she couldn't stop herself from cumming. "Cumming!"
She squeezed her own boobs, gasping. That caused the stripper hero to slow down and those hands of his took control. It didn't look the case because of how fast they were fucking. But it was reality. Her pale, fat wobbly ass was getting dicked down. It was rippling and jiggling for a reason.
"I'm going to cum again," she gasped. "Johnathon—I'm going to fucking cum—"
"Cum on my cock," he growled, his hips thrusting upward to meet her. "Cum on my fucking cock!!"
Stripperella came. Came with a scream that tore from her throat, her entire body convulsing, her pussy clamping down on his shaft like a vise. Wave after wave of pleasure crashed through her, blinding her, deafening her, erasing everything but the sensation of his cock buried inside her and his hands on her hips and his voice in her ear.
"We're not stopping, you slut stripper!"
"I know! I know!"
Gasp and moan and whimper.
PLAP—! PLAP—! PLAP—! PLAP—! PLAP—! PLAP—! PLAP—!
Stripperella's hair was long and blonde. It often became a mess during missions but…not like this.
"I—I'M YOUR SLUUUUT~!!"
Never like this.
"That's it—fuck, that's it—take my cum, Stripperella—take it—"
He thrust upward one final time, burying himself to the hilt, and she felt him explode. Spurt, spurt, spuuurt, and felt the hot pulse of his cum flooding her, filling her, painting her insides. His cock jerked with each spasm, pumping more and more of his seed into her pussy, and she moaned at the obscene volume of baby batter.
Stripperella fell backwards. His cock softened inside her but didn't slip out, and she could feel his cum leaking from her pussy, trickling down her thighs, staining the expensive sheets.
"Fuck," Johnathon commented.
"Fuck," she agreed.
She twisted her head, looking back at him over her shoulder. His green eyes were glazed, his blond hair plastered to his forehead, his chest heaving. He looked wrecked. Utterly wrecked.
"Come here," he murmured.
Stripperella turned, still impaled on his softening cock, and his hand came up to cup her jaw. He pulled her face toward his, and their mouths met in a kiss. Soft now, gentle, utterly at odds with the ferocity of what they'd just done.
"I've wanted to do that since the moment you saved my life the first time," he whispered against her lips.
"Which time?"
He laughed.
"I'm gonna fuck you senseless again."
Oh, and trust that he did.
By the end, Stripperella was on the mattress, ass high up and face buried in a pillow. Thwap! The giant cock of the young male slapped atop her ass. He smirked, while Stripperella drooled. Saliva that journeyed from every angle of her lips down to the pillow.
A sign that Stripperella had been fucked senseless and defeated, while the billionaire playboy came out on top.
Her pussy was a white, creamy mess. Plop, plop, plop! A plugged up hole, really, that she would likely never be able to move on from.
Spank!
"Stripperella. Fuck, you're amazing."
Her ass jiggled one last time. Stripperella moaned to herself. At this point, she couldn't remember her real name, much less what she had been here for.
Oh well.
All's well that ends well.