I sit on the back of the couch, leaning against the wall. Four people are crammed into the seats, three gorgeous women and one of my buddies. From my perch on the back of the couch, I’m lord of all I survey. It’s good to be the king, and tonight, I am the king.
It’s the third night of our trip, and I’ve gotten us access to a special birthday party in the dance club on the top floor of the casino. Dave’s night of debauchery at the five-star strip club on our first night in Vegas was up to his usual high standards. Joey’s casino night was fun, I made a little money at the craps table. Neil’s plans for tomorrow are still under wraps. I want to make Saturday memorable.
The birthday party is for a reality TV star. A very notable, famous one. It’s not a Kardashian, don’t worry. It is a big deal, though, cameras for the show will be filming, and it seems like everybody under age 30 wants to be there. Back home, before we left, I told the boys to pack clothes suitable for a club. They laughed, we are not a group that went to dance clubs at 25, they don’t want to start now. I ask them to trust me, and they do.
Our car service drops us at the main door, and there is a line. I ask security if this is the VIP line, and he says no, follow this line inside, the VIP table is to the left. We go in, the couple dozen folks outside wondering if we are famous. Joey and I walk through the glass foyer, Neil and Dave behind us, and the line stretches ahead, as far as we can see. There are hundreds of people dressed for a club night stretched along the casino floor. As we stride past them, we hear a couple bratty girls complain “what makes them so special,” and a guy loudly say “I think the big one was a hockey player.”
It’s a long queue. I’m amused at how many people are lined up to be in the background on reality TV, while a guy who doesn’t want to be famous at all is skipping the wait. After crossing the clanging casino floor, we get to the check-in. A pair of frantic women are overwhelmed working the general admission table, while a very professional lady sits at the empty VIP table. “Aaron Bloom and guests,” I state as she looks up.
She asks for ID and credit card, staring at me as I hand them over. She makes a “Hmmm” sound and crosses my name off the list, “I thought you were shorter.” She is about to run my card, and stops. “Your reservation is for four, but there are seven in your party, are you paying for them all?” There must be another group behind us that she’s mixing up, but as I turn, I see Dave wink, a stunning girl on each arm. A third girl is with Neil, Dave’s lifelong wingman, and Neil has a shit-eating grin plastered across his lucky face.
I turn back to the table, looking the lady in the eye, half a smile on my face, trying to be charming. “Seven it is, ma’am. We are one short if you’d like to join us.” She pretends to think about it for a moment, raises an eyebrow, then hands me my cards and receipt. She shoos us along to the elevator, but we exchange a smile as my group departs.
The seven of us get on the elevator. The operator swipes a card and hits 51, one floor short of the big dance club on 52. Dave introduces the girls, all of them about twenty-five, all of them very grateful to get into the party and out of the long line. They are very pretty, but Nikki, the gorgeous one, slinks up to me and grabs the lapels of my blazer, pulling me down low enough for a whisper. “Thank you, you’re the best. You can get us on TV, right? I just want my opportunity.” I don’t lie, leaning in and replying, “we will be in the right place for it.” As I say it, I glare over the girl at Dave, who smiles and shrugs. I don’t know who the girls think I am, but Dave has them thinking I’m important.
That’s my third mistaken identity of the evening, and not the last. Girl at the table was right, the powerful and very wealthy Aaron Bloom is shorter than me, and a good bit older. He’s a known name with a less known face, and it happens to be the name on my drivers license. My face and height? Ten years earlier, I’d occasionally get a beer on the house, a bar patron buying me a drink and swearing I was a hockey player, even though the barkeep would tell them that I wasn’t. I can’t even skate, but the dude in line was an echo of those days. Now these fame hungry girls think I’m Hollywood reality TV connected. I need a drink.
It’s a long ride to 51, and Joey is odd man out, no girl. Dave introduces the girl on his arm, Lauren, to Joey. Based on the walk across the casino floor, the fact that Joey and I are good friends, Dave paints a picture that Joey must also be an influential guy to know, he’s tight with the big fella. The girl is suddenly intrigued by soft spoken Joey, and now has a grip on his arm and a big smile. Neil’s new friend, Allison, seems happy enough, and Dave is now solo. No one feels bad for solo Dave, it never lasts long.
The elevator dings at 51, and the doors open to an opulent private club. Dark woods, deep leather couches, a grand piano with a cover on it. It is a classy contrast to the clanking noise and the tracksuit clad gamblers in the casino. A hostess meets us as we leave the elevator. She looks at my receipt, then up at me, and at the receipt again. She calls over another hostess, hands the new girl the receipt, and we follow her to our spot.
We pass through a pair of rooms with small groups of party-goers in front of enormous bottles of booze, bottle-service parties within the bigger party. No one in the first room notices us, but everyone in the second room stops what they are doing and looks at us. “Who are they?” “Do you recognize them?” Someone even snaps a picture of Joey and I and the girls on our arms. I’m confused, until we leave the second room and enter the opulent bar area.
The main bar area is mahogany and brass, crystal and LED light. The walls are curtained, and there are pods of couches lining all of the walls. Three tables are on the small dance-floor, for the guests of honor.
I look around the room, it is uncrowded. I recognize a pair of stand-up comics, one who’s been in a couple movies. A sports team owner holds court with his group of guests. A pair of NBA players has a gaggle of girls around them. One gets up as we approach, taller than me. He gives me a handshake/ back pat, and says “good to see you, brother” as the hostess hustles us by. The girls are impressed, I turn to Joey and mouth “what the fuck?”
We arrive at our pod, a pair of couches and a low table, with the back of the couch for the next pod making a U shape. As we settle in, Dave disappears. Yet another hostess pops up, two waiters behind her with trays. We get bottle service as part of the admission. I choose Vodka, and the hostess opens and places a towering bottle of Grey Goose on the table with an array of mixers. We have been comped another round of bottle service, do we want another vodka? I want gin, everyone, even the girls, makes a face, and moments later another huge bottle of Goose joins the one on the table. It is a fuckton of booze.
Dave returns, another pair of hot ingenues on his arms, his deal with the devil apparently still working. We settle in, only one of the girls joining the four of us for a raw shot of vodka to remember an old friend. Then Neil starts mixing drinks. Vodka-cranberry or vodka-redbull for each of the girls. I’d enjoy a martini, but with the intimidating bottles on the table, my “don’t die” reflex kicks in and I opt for a weak vodka-tonic.
After the bro-hug from the NBA player, Nikki is now thoroughly convinced I am worth knowing, and she’s got a death grip on my left arm. She gives the two new girls Dave brought a scowl, warning them off. I feel bad, I’m not some producer. But all she wants is to be on camera, and I’ve gotten her into a room full of celebrities. She knows it, and keeps an eye peeled for camera crews and microphone booms. One of the new girls asks “Oh my god, who are you guys? We are twenty feet from the main table, are you friends with the star?” The questions continue on, and Nikki mistakes my honesty for modesty as I say “We are nobody, don’t worry about it.”
After fifteen-twenty minutes, as we mix another round of drinks, she leans in and kisses me, claiming me, marking territory for the other girls to see. Nikki is gorgeous, a lithe 5’8”, athletic, tan, toned. She’s wearing a shift dress, mostly sequins, and I’m pretty sure the dress is all she’s wearing. No bra straps, no bump on the back of the dress where hooks would be. She’s got lovely medium sized boobs, and she’s young and fit and firm enough to skip a bra tonight for her chance to be on camera.
She’s immaculately made up, her stunning face accented perfectly. She has long brown hair with subtle shading, and a near flawless physique. I do not end up with girls who look like models, my “type” skewing to quirky, or tall, or busty, or bookish. Tonight, there is a wannabe actress on my arm. She’s not there for me, she’s there for the Hollywood guy, or the hockey player, or the billionaire, whichever will get her on TV. I’m not those guys, but it doesn’t matter. I’m going to get her on TV regardless. I look up, and see the camera crew arrive.
When the cameras pan the dance floor upstairs later, everyone screams and raises their arms. Here, it is restrained. The comedians say “hey”, the basketball players make a peace sign. I give a thumbs up with a raised eyebrow, Nikki flashing a perfect smile by my side, the rest of the group briefly “in the shot” as the camera pans in. Fame is Nikki’s aphrodisiac, apparently. As the cameras move on to the next group, she kisses me, then swings a leg over to straddle me and kiss me harder, a few howls of “get a room” from the group.
A half hour later, the guest of honor arrives, and people stand, offer toasts, the comics make jokes, all in service to the hunger for story in their show. I’m urged forward by one of the hostesses as the cake is brought out, “in shot” with the other celebrities singing happy birthday. Nikki is beside me, she has almost dug trenches in my elbow with her nails. The VIP treatment, the cameras, the access, it’s far more than she dreamed.
As we get back to the table, everybody is happy, some are shit-faced and happy. Dave has cycled a near parade of girls through our couple of couches, only Allison remains of the original crew. Four new girls are mixing drinks with Dave and Neil, Joey lost to the dance floor upstairs, dragged away by some half-drunk girl. Nikki leans into me, and asks “can we go back to your room?”
My room is halfway across town, I’m not staying in this hotel. Before I answer, I wave over one of the VIP hostesses who patrol the room. I tell her I’m a bit woozy and need to compose myself, do they have a private place available to rest. She looks at me, at horny Nikki, and back at me, seeing right through my weak ruse. It doesn’t matter, VIPs needing a room in the middle of a party is a thing they are prepared for. “Of course sir, I’ll have someone escort you.” I flash Dave three “tens” with my hands, signing that I’ll be gone for a half hour as yet another hostess introduces herself.
A short elevator ride later and the hostess swipes us into the room, handing me the room card. I tip her generously as she leaves. Nikki whistles as she takes it all in. The room is much, much nicer than my “pretty nice” room at the Venetian. A king bed dominates the room, the furniture is leather. The far wall is all window, with a glass door to a balcony, overlooking the city, the Vegas Strip twinkling in the distance.
“You are the best. All I wanted was to be on the dance floor near a camera, to be seen. I’m going to be on TV in the VIP, standing between you and a movie star singing happy birthday. Thank you.” She lowers the straps of her dress off her shoulders, and with a shrug, the satiny, sequined shift slides to the ground at her heels. No bra, that much I knew. No panties either, just that loose dress hiding this perfection.
Nikki is a knockout, framed in front of those windows, that view of Vegas, a magazine cover waiting to happen. She steps over her dress and preens, posing, seducing. Her black heels stay on, and her long tan legs are toned, shapely calves and slightly curved thighs drawing the eye up, to her ass. With heels and a slight bend forward at the waist, her behind is a work of art. The cute butt sweeps and curves into a slim lower back, the curves enhanced by the little circular dents where the muscles meet.
Her ass tapers into a narrow waist. She’s toned, and her frame is slim. The long torso is flat, but unmuscled, no visible abs, but no extra padding. Her breasts are beautiful, perfect and firm mounds, a small C. The nipples are a deeper tan than her skin, almost brown, tilted up. Even the curve of her collarbone into her shoulder is graceful, as if sculpted by a master, every detail important. Perfect features, gorgeous body, flowing hair, and plainly eager.
“Do you like this?” she asks. I’m sure that she has never heard anyone answer “no” to that question, but I can hear doubt. I tell her she’s beautiful, and I find the source of her doubt “Come on, you’ve been with models, actresses…” I stop her, and tell her, honestly, that she’s perfect. She smiles and crosses the room to me, and begins unbuttoning my shirt. Once removed, she kisses my chest, up to my shoulders, demure and aggressive at once.
I lean down to kiss her, my hand on the small of her back, lifting her slightly. She stretches up, forearms resting on my shoulders, fingers entwined around my neck. She breaks the kiss, and walks to the window. Placing her hands on the glass, she gives me a show. She bends gracefully, her perfect behind on display. She curves herself forward, flexing her elbows, pressing her breasts to the cool glass. Her nipples harden, and she shivers.
I approach her, kicking off my shoes and undoing my belt as I walk. She turns, and slides my pants to the ground. As she rises, she says, “Jesus, you’re a billionaire and you have a big cock? That’s almost not fair.” Now I know which mistaken identity she’s latched onto, no wonder she thought I slept with models. She traces her fingernail across my shorts, along the length of my dick, making little shapes, teasing. She stands, and presses herself into me, and peels my shorts down and off. My cock springs out, and she grabs hold. First with one hand, then barely wrapping her other hand around it, still with space below and above. It throbs, and reddens, in her hands. “That’s not big, that’s huge” she whispers.
I pull her close, hands on her ass, cock pressed against her belly as we kiss again. I lift her, swinging around and laying her on the bed. She looks down at me, between her legs, and says “you don’t need to do that for me, I’m already …” the next word was probably “wet”, but it’s lost behind a little grunt as my tongue finds her clit. I feel her thighs on my ears, and her hips thrusting up, wanting more. I trace lines and circles on her, working her button then sliding my tongue along the crease of her lips, then back to her clit. In moments, I feel little tremors, she’s having an orgasm, shaking, whispering “wonderful” at the end.
I ask her to go back to the window, it was very sexy, and she says she’s got a better idea. She opens the door to the balcony, and beckons me to follow. She grabs the rail, and shakes her ass at me. It’s not cold out, but it’s windy up here, her hair blows behind her as she turns her head to say “take me.” I approach her from behind, squeezing her ass, sliding two fingers into her, eliciting a soft moan. I wrap an arm around her from behind, pulling her up to me, kissing her shoulder and neck. My cock rests on the shelf of her behind, pressed into her back. She whispers over her shoulder, “fuck me, now.”
She’s wet. She’s very, very wet, her orgasm from the oral adding to her ready state. She has her hands on the rail as I briefly tease her lips with my head. The wind whips by as I push into her, a quiet moan taken from her lips to the sky. I work my way into her slowly, methodically, enjoying the moans, listening for any negative sounds or reactions. I’ve learned to be careful, but Nikki has other thoughts. She reaches back, hand on my hip, and says “all of it”. I change from my short and deepening strokes, slidIng out nearly all the way.
With one hand on her hip and the other on her shoulder, I slowly drive my cock all the way into her. She’s wet, and very willing, moaning louder as my fat cock fills her. “Oh god damn you’ve got a big one” she says into the wind. She wriggles her ass, then yells “stay still!” With her heels planted firmly on the balcony, her hands on the rails, she slides forward. The arch of her back exposes her tits for the world to see, not that anyone is looking at the 47th floor. Then she slides back onto me, a long hard stroke, grunting at the end. Again, slowly, she slides forward and slams back, finding a rhythm, grunting with the effort, moaning with the rising pleasure. She is a thing of beauty, a work of art, repeatedly and needfully impaling herself on my fat red cock.
She cries out, and lowers her torso, changing the angle. I have to take a half step back, but she has a new rhythm, a new urgency, finding a deep connection she wants more of. I grab her hips, helping her drive down and reach a place inside her that is working for her. She screams, a long “ohhhhhhhh” out to the world, not caring who hears. “Oh fuck, goddamn, that was amazing.” She slides forward, disengaging with a filthy wet noise. As she turns to me, my wet dick brushes her taut belly. “Jesus, that didn’t make you come?” She grabs my cock and drags me inside to the bed.
We lay down together, and she kisses me before rolling on top of me. Her bright blue eyes look through me with lust and more as she perches on me. She’s still perfect even after the hard balcony fuck. I realize she’s chosen positions to keep her hair and makeup from being mussed too much. No missionary, no doggy. I admire her high perky boobs and the taut tendons of her upper thighs as she positions herself. She leans forward, and guides my cock deep into her. She slides all the way down, and then straightens upright. She starts to bob, short strokes, taking my full length each time, smiling.
She asks for my hands, and I raise my arms. She locks her hands into mine. With the leverage, her strokes are longer, she knows what she’s doing. Her smile adjusts, less glee and more determination, driving toward her own orgasm, and mine. Her pert breasts wobble each time she slams down onto me, her fingers hold tight, intertwined through mine. I feel my blood rise, my own urgency, I’m close. She’s close too. A deep growling moan escapes her lips and she clenches her hands, digging nails into the backs of my hands. After the exhaling moan, she drops onto me, all of my cock deep inside as I explode into her. She’s let go of my hands, leaning back slightly, propped on my legs, no longer riding. She’s still coming, riding her wave, her eyes lost and rolling. I feel my own final spurt, one last throb. I look down and see a trickle of our mixed love on the top of my cock, below her lips.
“Oh fuck. That was supposed to be my thank you, I didn’t expect *that.* Fuck me, that was good.” She’s still on me, chattering away as my erection flags, spent. Finally, she pops off, and heads to the restroom, still talking. “Do you ever get to Denver? I’d love to see you again.” I hear the water run. A moment later I join her, looking for a towel. As I’m cleaning, she grabs it again, giving it a kiss. “Hopefully I won’t be in Denver for long, I’m sure you get to LA, right?” Nikki is career focused, I will give her that. I tell her I’m always happy to help someone out, keeping myself technically honest. After we clean ourselves, and dress, I dial for a hostess and Nikki kisses me some more, still trying to show her appreciation without falling back into lust again.
We get back to our VIP pod, Joey and Dave drinking with a new group of girls, our “party” now commingled with the NBA players in the next pod. Their side pieces and groupies are hot in entirely different ways that our reality wannabes, it’s quite a mix.
Nikki promises to come back after she finds Allison and Lauren. She will find her friend just after she finishes giving Neil a stairwell blowjob, the relationship they began in the elevator coming full circle hours later. Lauren is out on the dance floor, the only one of the three having the night they planned.
One of the girls on our couches hands me a fat cigar, out of a box that was “sent to Mr. Bloom” while I was away. All the seats are taken, so I climb to the back of the couch, and sit. I bite off the end of the cigar and chomp on it, unlit, waiting for Nikki’s return.
Most nights I’m just a guy, the big fella, but just a guy. Tonight, I’m a VIP, sharing camera time with celebrities, bro-hugs with pro athletes, and still glowing from my time with the work-of-art woman. I’m a king in this room, not just a guy, at least for tonight. It’s good to be the king.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/aw8717/bar_in_the_sky_exhibitionism_mf