The Billionaire's Bet

Conventional rules probably would have suggested that Mojo stand on seventeen. But Mojo was a man who had always gone against conventional rules. Yes, gambling was serious business, but the last hand of Blackjack Mojo would ever play was a win-win, because win or lose, he and Scarlett were going to be half a million dollars richer. The only thing he stood to lose was the ability to keep a billionaire from between his wife's legs. And even the thought of that wasn't necessarily a loss in Mojo's mind.

Las Vegas was the place Mojo and Scarlett decided to spend their five-year anniversary. Technically, there were two dates to celebrate, as the last weekend of August would also mark the three-year anniversary of their decision to upload their first sex tape to the Internet. It was an impulsive decision that would change their lives forever.

Uploading their sexual escapades was a brave move, a move not without risks, as they took no care to conceal their identities—that was part of the appeal. It was uncharted territory and it was thrilling, and that taste of taboo would pave the way for many more videos to follow, would plant the seed for something larger, something very profitable. Sending their sex videos into the maw of the web became as common as stopping for fast food.

It was Scarlett who suggested the website—it was she who suggested recording themselves for the very first time, because she thought it would be hot. Mojo had agreed (he wondered if there ever existed a man who has actually scoffed at such a suggestion?), and because he knew that camera was watching them fuck, he was able to stay hard and come twice, something that had only happened once before in his life. The video was originally intended for personal use, but one day Mojo asked Scarlett what she would do if their video accidently wound up online. She considered this for a moment, then said, "Probably freak out, then fuck your brains out."

And the rest, as they say, was history. And so was their financial turmoil.

Scarlett told Mojo that there was a fortune to be made with adult websites—whether she really knew that or not at the time she suggested it, Mojo didn't know, but it turned out she was correct. When searching for online porn, one might expect to find women overdramatizing to big cocks, or distracting circus music in the background, or ridiculous amounts of semen covering overeager faces, or the excessive use of the word "daddy". But Mojo and Scarlett always enjoyed their porn served basic, grounded in at least semi-reality. Real people and real reactions was what got them really hot—in the world of online adult entertainment, this would label the two of them as fans of "amateur" material. They hoped there were others out there who wanted to watch reality, who understood that sometimes you don't always scream when you fuck.

Lucky for the adult website entrepreneur that when it came to sex, there was a demand for literally everything—every sexual act has its audience, no matter how bland or how extreme. And Mojo and Scarlett discovered that in short order, you could manage a successful website just with a few unorthodox positions, some provocative ensembles, and a pair of 34 F breasts.

Pay-per-click advertising, a strong fan base and Scarlett's breasts ignited the site OurMojo.com within a month. Scarlett was far more computer literate than Mojo, so she took on the role of webmaster. She was also the obvious hook for visitors, plastered on the preview page in provocative positions above Click here with your free hand to have all of our mojo that you can handle! Curious potential dollar signs could gawk at her topless for free, but they would have to contribute to lining her pockets if they wanted to jerk off to the rest of her. And it turned out that many people wanted to jerk off to the rest of her. Memberships mounted and comments flooded the site in response to each video, ranging from complimentary to perverse to unspeakable. $16.95 for a month, $50 for three months, or $130 for a whole year meant that the electric bill (and every other debt owed) would be paid in full and on time, and it wasn't long before Scarlett had quit her day job so that she could manage the site—had to, really; upkeep was crucial to the cash flow, and the volume of members demanded frequent updates. After all, it was an ultra-competitive market, and people could find many other options with their free hands, just a click away.

Mojo had the easy part. His main role was to get hard, stay hard, and eventually come in or sometimes on his wife.

Though his features might not have been chiseled out of stone, Mojo regarded himself as a fairly handsome man. He wasn't exactly in contention to grace the cover of any men's fitness magazines, but he did work out regularly (even before he had to consider his appearance more with the creation of the website), and he did have a relatively impressive physic, at least compared to most of the men in the majority of the homemade adult videos he had seen—the hairy slobs with beer guts who won't shut up and who elicit nothing from the viewer except sympathy for the poor woman on the receiving end.

At the age of 39, Mojo had managed to hold love handles at bay and still had a full head of hair, and that was doing just fine by his account. He had never received any complaints about the size of his manhood from the any of the thirty-three women he had fucked over the course of his life, including his wife, but this was something that he also gave more thought to when they embarked on their new business venture. Mojo had seen bigger cocks on the Internet—some of them not rubber props— but Scarlett had assured him that he was above average in size. And Mojo knew that his wife knew from experience, because she had never been withholding about her younger years, about her promiscuity of which he had been a part of. But then again, Mojo wondered if there was a woman out there who was really into a guy and who would actually admit it to him if he didn't measure up to expectations?

At 37, Scarlett had more sexual experience under her belt than many women achieve throughout their entire lives, and she still had plenty of sexual zest, felt she was just now tapping into a whole new sexual level. Before Mojo, she had done all kinds of things in all kinds of places. She blossomed early, embraced her sexuality early. She learned how to influence behavior with her body as early as the 8th grade. When she was a freshman in high school, she made a boy cream his jeans behind the baseball diamond. Scarlett worked him through his jeans, felt him rigid underneath, rubbed until he made a strange, guttural sound, and then she felt the warm wet denim. Then she asked him if he wanted to feel her tits, and he did, but without much fervor. It was then that Scarlett learned girls should ask boys to do something to them before making them come.

With the exception of her first time, with the boy who lost it in his jeans earlier on, Scarlett was usually in the driver's seat when it came to sex. It wasn't so much the pain of losing her virginity—which was made out by her friends to be the equivalent of giving birth (as if they would have known)—but the awkward and out of control feeling as she lay under him, feeling his frantic and hasty thrusts, as if he would lose his cock if he kept it in too long. The second time they fucked, Scarlett rode him. Again, the greedy boy was too focused on his own pleasure, so she grabbed his hands and moved them where she wanted them. She wanted to know what it felt like to have her hair tugged while she was fucking, so she told him to do it. He pulled too hard; she clawed his chest hard enough to draw blood.

Scarlett fucked three boys in high school. It was nothing extraordinary, except the size of the cock on one of those boys. Maybe she hadn't had been around the block enough to really make an accurate comparison, but she didn't need experience to know how huge it was. It was the first cock she took in her mouth, not because she really wanted to taste it, but because she wondered how much of it she could take. She took most of it. Then, after he struggled with the condom for a couple minutes, she took all of it while he fucked her from behind, struggling and grimacing all the way, the first time she was grateful that boys came fast.

During the summer of graduation, Scarlett began dating a guy who she had met at the grocery store where she worked. Mike Bigger was buying a pack of smokes and a Mountain Dew, left with those items and the cashier's phone number. Mike was twelve years older than Scarlett, and that intrigued her. She was out of his league, but he was handsome enough, and he had a genuine presence about him that Scarlett attributed to either a man who was raised how to properly treat a woman, or a man who has been alive long enough to really hone his bullshitting skills. But it was his age that really compelled Scarlett to pursue him—his age, and the fact that he had looked her in the eyes before looking at her breasts, something that rarely happened and something only those belonging to the Large Affections Club could understand.

Mike wasn't exactly bad in bed—he didn't come nearly as fast as the other guys she had been with— but he was too hesitant, too unsure, too safe. It was as if he knew he was out of her league, this much younger, voluptuous redhead who most men his age would kill for just to have her for five minutes. It was as if one false move in the bedroom on his part would send her back into reality, a reality that surely her equally young friends had begged her to return to. And though he did teach Scarlett some things about sex, the thrill of being with an older man grew stale, largely due to the overly cautious behavior. And besides that, there was an entire field that needed playing.

And Scarlett was working her way around every position on the field, right up until she met Mojo during her third threesome. There was something different about him, a feeling she didn't get with any of her other partners. She knew it as soon as she saw him, knew it by the instant attraction and the easy vibe between them. By the time she had his cock in her mouth while simultaneously riding his buddy, Scarlett knew that there would be no more one-night stands with strangers met at the bar, no more impromptu sex acts with hotel attendants, no more eating pussy without a heads-up.

She didn't fuck Mojo the night they met—he came in her mouth, and though she didn't prefer the taste, she swallowed every drop just to impress him—and almost an entire month passed before they had intercourse. Of course, they wanted to fuck after their first official date, but the decided tease each other, to see how long they could take the Tantric approach, just for fun. It was a maddening game, but when they finally had sex, they both came so hard that it almost hurt.

Mojo had once told Scarlett that he loved her because with her, it wasn't all about sex. He said it with a straight face, but they both knew it was a lie. They were both well aware that everything was based on sex, that if you took the sex away, you were left with roommates. And even if it hadn't been about sex at first, it would be in the future.

For Mojo's last birthday, Scarlett brought a friend home as a present. Molly wasn't for him, but the show the two women put on was. He was told to sit and watch, was not even allowed to pull out of his pants, but just to watch. So Mojo did as he was instructed, his cock surging before the show got on the road. He watched them kiss, their sly, conspiring smiles fading quickly as they began to get lost in each other—becoming not so much about the birthday boy, but about what they were doing to each other. They pulled their shirts off, and a moment later tossed their bras—a 34 F and a 34 C respectively— into Mojo's lap, four laced cups over his aching muscle. The girls went over the arm of the couch in a burst of laughter and a tangle of red and blonde hair, pale skin on golden skin. Molly was gripping Scarlett's ass in two fleshy handfuls, keeping their close-trimmed pubic hair meshed together, when she turned her head towards Mojo and said, "Who do you think will come first? Wanna place your bet?" Then she slid a hand down and between their bodies and began working Scarlett's clit, eliciting a soft moan. Mojo didn't place a bet; he just stared stupidly at the two of them, like a teenager that has just discovered his dad's Victoria's Secret catalogue under the bed—a new world unfolding before his very eyes. In the end, Molly came first, and if there had been a wager on who would ejaculate first, Mojo would have bet the house on Molly.

The City of Sin was the clear (if not cliché) choice for a couple who made a living the way Mojo and Scarlett did. They knew the destination, but not what would happen there, at least not beyond the things that are mandatory when you visit Vegas—drinking, gambling, fucking. As always, they were willing to let the city take them by the hand, to take the initiative. Planning was for vacations, spur of the moment was for adventures. They hoped for the unexpected, especially in a place like Sin City. After all, if you didn't leave that city with something to hide, you visited that city wrong.

They left early Friday morning, making the trip from Salt Lake City in less than eight hours. By 1:30 pm, they had checked in at the Palazzo. The plan was to hit the first casino after lunch, but they delayed lunch and Circus Circus in favor of making a video on the king size bed. Mojo fucked his wife from behind, zooming in on his glistening shaft as it disappeared into her and reappeared, disappeared again. Scarlett tossed her fire-red hair and went down on her elbows. Mojo's stomach was growling, so he quickened his pace, deciding at the last second to pull out and shoot on the small of her back, zooming out while he glazed her small sunflower tattoo.

After they finished, Mojo retreated into the bathroom and returned with a cream-colored hand towel to clean his wife with, but she had rolled over onto her back, arms spread across the comforter, wearing a slight smile that for some reason made Mojo feel slightly unsettled. He couldn't quite put a finger on it, but he thought it might have been sadness.

It was always hard for Mojo and Scarlett to tell when they had been made by someone who had visited their website. They had been in a few cities outside of Utah, including several trips to Seattle—the one and only place where Scarlett was not only recognized, but actually asked for her autograph by some awestruck teenager— and there were always people who stared a little longer than what would be considered normal, maybe trying to place one or both of them, maybe knowing instantly, maybe just caught off guard by a pair of huge tits. If people did recognize them, it would stand to reason that they would be hesitant to approach someone they knew from a porn site.

Of course, Scarlett was the face of OurMojo.com. It would be understandable if someone spotted the hot redhead with the huge tits, but it would likely only be assumed that the guy with her to be the lucky asshole who got to fuck her in the videos. Scarlett had a unique beauty, a face you could remember and place fairly easily, while people were more likely to recognize Mojo's cock (pending an erection) before they would his face. Still, it was conceivable that there were a few hubby fans out there.

Mojo and Scarlett collectively lost $1,900 their first night on The Strip. They didn't exactly regard their loss with despair; they reacted the way you might when you realize you left your car window down during a rain shower. It was damn shitty luck, you might smack your forehead or cuss at best, but you'll throw something down on the seat and drive on. It was a far cry from the time when the two of them didn't have $1,900 to their names combined, let alone have it to lose so nonchalantly.

They cut their losses and went back to the hotel, ordered champagne and uploaded their latest video to their website, added a caption they thought summed it up best: What happens in Vegas, can be seen on our website!

Yes indeed, a couple grand lost on a few bad hands could be recouped with an erection, a handheld video recorder, a webcam, and a hot wife with 34 F breasts.

On Saturday, Mojo and Scarlett tried their luck at The Palms. The plan was to try to see some good hands and hit a nightclub or two, maybe find a female friend for Scarlett to bring back to the hotel. But their luck had not checked in yet—the slots were not kind, likewise the roulette wheel, and Scarlett suggested they resign to the fact that winning just wasn't in the cards on this adventure, and make for the nightclub. But Mojo wanted another shot at Blackjack before they waved the white flag.

They had a played several hands with no more luck, when a man wearing a retro Minnesota North Stars ball cap approached the table and took a seat to the left of Mojo, making it a foursome. The newcomer tossed some cash to the dealer and received his stack of black chips. Mojo was talking to the dealer, but he was aware of Scarlett leaning forward slightly to have a look at the new player—an older man, maybe mid-forties. He was wearing jeans and a faded t-shirt that was supposed to look old and worn, and a pair of Converse shoes that would have looked great with the soles on top of a skateboard. The man was either trying to look younger or trying too hard to be just another person.

The man seemed disinterested, in the game at least. He kept his eyes down and his fingertips on the table, as if he were about to play the felt like a piano. "My name is Zeek," he said. He might have been introducing himself to the dealer, Mojo, or the table itself.

Mojo wanted to laugh at the man's alleged name, but he quelled the urge because he had not yet consumed enough alcohol to be rude. Instead, he exchanged pleasantries. "Mojo," he said, offering his hand. "How's your luck running today? We aren't doing so hot this weekend."

"I see we both go by nicknames," Zeek said, ignoring the question. "But believe me, Zeek is much less absurd than my birth name. He met Mojo's eyes when they shook hands, but only for all of a second before his eyes shifted to Scarlett.

Zeek had the chiseled features that Mojo lacked. His strong face and blue eyes looked like they belonged on a face in a hard-on commercial, the ones where the man and woman dance in the middle of a plowed cornfield around a claw-foot bathtub just the way absolutely no couple ever has in real life. A tuft of black hair stuck out under the front of his cap. Mojo thought that Zeek couldn't hide his age, but that he didn't need to.

After the salutation between the two men who both went by nicknames, there were no more words spoken, all attention on the game. The arrival of Zeek seemed to change Mojo's luck, because he started winning. His stack of chips grew, while Zeek's stack shrunk.

Take that and fuck you, Mr. Chiseled Features, Mojo thought.

The three crossed paths again in the Rain nightclub, where Mojo was well on his way to a proper drunk. Scarlett had been nursing her second Long Island Iced Tea, but had left it on the bar so she could squeeze into the packed dance floor. Recognized from the website or just noticed for her looks and rack, Scarlett now had that attention of practically every swinging cock in the club. That's why she went to the dance floor—because she knew a woman like her alone on a dance floor would be hit on every six seconds, and that turned Mojo on, almost as much as it turned her on.

The air around the dance floor was stifling from the combination of close bodies and fire effects shooting out over the writhing crowd. In the sweating, gyrating mass, Scarlett could feel the constant eyes on her, belonging to both men and women. People bumped into her on purpose, some trying to get close enough to smell her scent. She felt like a piece of raw meat waiting to be devoured by this pack of alcohol and rhythm-fueled wolves. And she liked it. She wanted them to devour her, the men and the women. She wanted the men to fight for her, each one eventually able to find purchase in her and stake their claim to her.