This is my first time writing erotic fiction. I hope you enjoy it, as these scenarios have been floating around in my head for a while. Be aware, this series will include a variety of adult situations, including bisexuality, interracial sex, incest, group sex and other taboo subjects that not everybody may be into. If any of these subjects bother you, there's an entire site here filled with things you may prefer more. In any event, thanks for reading.
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It was half past nine on Saturday morning. I met Mom for a quick breakfast in her rooms, Sol was already in his office working, and Mom and I went downstairs for the drive to the Tribune Review's offices together. Biggs and Lionel escorted us. I had thought Gillian would be attending but Mom said it was rare for the PR person to sit in on an interview.
"Nobody wants to be the third wheel," she said.
The Escalade turned onto Las Vegas Boulevard and headed downtown. We passed the North Strip, where the empty lots were that could soon hold Empire Luxe's Amor Luxe hotel, if Romano was actually going to build it. I noticed a sign saying "coming soon" with a red rose symbol, but no other obvious signs of activity. Registering a trademark and reserving a website were cheap, much cheaper than starting construction, and I thought it was still too early for us to be that concerned with what they were doing. It would take a few years before the place was built and ready for occupancy, right? Be that as it may, Mom said the word was out that Romano was about to take us on directly, and it had spread far and wide, attracting other casino owners to consider opening their own boutique sex hotels. While it looked like Romano's hotel was just in the starting phases, there could be knew Elysium rivals springing up out of the sands here everywhere. One rival we could probably deal with, but the hotel was still on shaky ground, even if we were very profitable now, and any kind of destabilization in the market or damage to our reputation could be fatal. It was weird, being in so strong yet fragile a position. Like a heavyweight boxer with a devastating right hook but a glass jaw, we had to be very careful how and where we got hit.
"Don't let me forget," Mom said, cutting in on my thoughts as we were driving. "Sol wants a family dinner tonight, probably to talk over how things go today."
"Ciel Bleu or in his rooms?" I asked.
"Neither. He's in the mood for sushi, so we'll do it in the private room at Kazoku," she said, saying 'Kazoku' like I should know that name.
"Kazoku?" I asked, puzzled. I knew there were plenty of restaurants in the Elysium, but I was only familiar with Ciel Bleu.
"Yes, it's our Japanese restaurant, down on the ballroom level. I love their sushi. It's amazing. Sol brought the head chef over from Osaka. You'll love it, especially the way Sol likes to do it," she said, looking at me slyly.
I guess it was raw fish for dinner.
"Wait, we have a ballroom? How the hell does that work?" I was surprised. I hadn't even considered we'd have that kind of facility with how strict we were in letting folks in the Club so they could access the hotel.
"Of course, silly, every hotel of our size has ballrooms. The only thing we didn't do is a full blown convention center, because it would be hard to book full sized conventions, given the restrictions on staying at the hotel. But we get plenty of moderately sized groups full of men and women who meet Club standards who come and use the ballroom level facilities. The fetish conventions are the best. You should see some of the leather get ups they put together," she laughed. "We're hosting the AAFI awards in February, too."
I knew what the AAFI was - the American Adult Film Industry. They gave out the "Pornies," the porn equivalent of the Grammys or Oscars. I would be back in school back then, but I might need to come home that weekend, just saying.
The Tribune Review's offices were in a dumpy old 1980s era high-rise nestled in the middle of downtown. Biggs and Lionel dropped us off out front, and we went in together. I was wearing a suit with a blue tie, and Mom was in a conservative dark blue suit with a white blouse and white skirt that went down to her knees. She looked like a lawyer and I looked like a college kid pretending to be an executive.
Well, maybe I looked better than that, but that's what I felt like.
At the front desk we were directed to the 20th floor, where we were greeted by some newspaper flunky and were ushered into a conference room. It was interesting being in a modern newsroom - it was much calmer than I expected it to be. The floor was completely wide open, with dozens of desks with multi-monitor set ups. The floor was ringed with offices and a few conference rooms, as well as some glass booths with a computer set up and a door that closed, ostensibly for holding private phone conversations. The room was sparsely populated. Whether it was because it was Saturday or because the newspaper business in general wasn't doing well - although there had been a brief renaissance over the last few years, as newspapers in general were considered one of the few legacy media markets that hadn't completely lost the trust of most people. The incessant cable news wars of the 2010s and 2020s had decimated that industry, and most people got their news from the web or newspapers, rather than TV anymore. Primetime cable news was lucky to get the same viewership as PBS. And good riddance, as far as I was concerned. Nobody I knew watched that shit anymore.
The views from this side of the building were boring - just a shot of the northern part of Las Vegas and the desert beyond. Mom and I sat down, and the staffer asked if we wanted water or coffee. Mom said nothing and I accepted the coffee. It was cheap, but it had caffeine and that's all I really cared about.
Our interview was scheduled for ten, and at quarter after ten, I could tell Mom was getting agitated. She didn't like to be kept waiting. I didn't mind - the longer we sat there, the less nervous I became, getting used to my surroundings. But I could tell Mom thought this was some kind of a tactic to knock us off our game.
"Just remember what we talked about, stay on message and don't let them rattle you," she said to me. I had a feeling, though, she was really just talking to herself. She was getting worked up and this worried me. I took her hand, and looked at her.
"Chill, Mom. You don't want to go on tilt in front of a reporter, right? We've got time. It's Saturday," I said. "It's not like we've got work to do."
She visibly calmed, and then smiled at me. "You're so smart, Jack." She pulled me in and gave me a kiss on the cheek.
Of course, it was at this moment, that the door opened and three reporters came in. One was an older gentleman who reminded me of Mister Magoo. He was short, but not too big around, with a bald pate framed by a corona of silver hair, a pudgy face with deep set eyes that probably vanished when he smiled. He was wearing thick, coke bottle lens glasses. This was obviously Dudley Postlethwaite, the entertainment page editor. He was followed by a tall, lanky kid - he couldn't have been more than a few years older than me - with a face that was an Accutane advertisement. If we had been living in the 1880s instead of today, I'd say he was covered in smallpox scars, but smallpox was long eradicated, and his pock-marked skin had to be from acne alone. He had black, greasy hair that hung limply from his head, and he too was wearing glasses.
And following the two of them was Avery Locke.
Mom and I had been right. This was a fucking ambush. I could see Mom tense up as she sat back down in her seat, like she had been caught red handed doing something naughty, I tensed up as well, my heart started beating faster, and I took a sip of my coffee to get the moisture back in my mouth.
If I am going to be bluntly honest, the heart beat and dry mouth were not simply caused by my fear of what was coming next. Avery Locke was even more gorgeous in person than she was on TV. Her black hair fell in a long cascade that covered her ample chest, in waves that most women would have paid thousands for. Her olive skin and dark eyes, her smokey mascara and hint of pink on her lips was enticing in a way I couldn't believe. This woman had snuck into Vespers, had taken photos of me and Mom in a compromising position, had actively destroyed one politician's career and was trying to do it to another and here I was fantasizing about what it must be like to be her panties. She looked at me, and I thought I saw her start a bit, like she wasn't expecting someone like me to be here, and her features softened for a split second before adopting a hard, vacant look. She started at Mom, long and hard, and began to ignore me completely.
I knew I needed to concentrate or these guys were going to eat me alive.
"Are we interrupting a tender moment?" Dudley asked, his faint voice had just the touch of an aristocratic southern accent.
"Not at all, Dudley," Mom said. "Just a proud mother talking to her son," she replied. Dudley raised his eyebrows, and then came around the table to shake my hand.
"Good to see you again, Mrs. Fisher," Postelthwait said. "Son, I'm Dudley Postelthwait. My friends call me Lee, and your mom calls me Dudley Do Little," he said. Mom barked a laugh. "That's okay, because we've known each other a while. These are my colleagues, Milton Schaefer," he gestured to pizza face, who shook my hand with limp wristed gesture that lowered him even more in my estimation, "and this is Avery Locke, our crack investigative reporter."
I took Avery by the hand, and I felt an electric shock run through my body. Her eyes widened a bit, and I wondered if she felt it, too. Her hand felt warm and dry, soft and pliable, and I may have held it just a bit longer than was customary. I honestly didn't want to let it go. But I did, and she sat across the table from Mom and me. I guess Lee and Milton - he looked like a fucking Milton - did the same, but I only had eyes for her. I noticed none of the reporters tried to shake Mom's hand.
"Congratulations on your engagement," Avery told Mom. "Have you all set a date yet?"
Mom looked at Dudley and asked, "Are we starting the interview now? Is this all on the record?"
Dudley nodded. "Yes, Emily. This is all on the record - anything you say we can quote and attribute to you. Because this is on the record, there won't be any talk later about anything being on background or off the record, understand? If we do run a story about you, we don't want any claims later that we were told things in confidence."
"I understand, Lee," Mom turned back to Avery and gave her a winning smile. "We haven't set the date yet, but we're hoping it will be sometime in the summer, after Jack graduates from Georgetown."
"Ahh, a Hoya, huh?" Dudley looked at me, squinting. "My nephew went to American," he said. "I always loved DC, especially in the spring."
"I've enjoyed it, but I can't wait to get back to Vegas," I said. "We're doing a lot of big things at the Elysium and I can't wait to be a part of it." I was pretty proud of that answer. I was staying on message, and I knew Gillian would be pleased.
"We understand you're a Vice President with the Sinclair Group now," Milton said, his voice strangely high pitched compared with the way he looked. This guy was the one of the most awkward people I'd ever seen. No wonder he worked for a newspaper - TV and radio weren't going to be friendly to him. "What exactly do you do there?" he asked me.
Shit. I'd been on the job for a day. I had no idea what my job was going to be. Mom jumped in and saved me.
