Chapter 2
2
Ashley
I see him as soon as he walks into the room. He’s tall, dark, and dominant with black hair, piercing blue eyes, and a commanding air. Everything about him practically screams money, from the perfectly-cut suit to the blindingly white shirt and chunky silver watch peeking out from beneath his sleeve.
Perfect.
After all, I’m here to hunt. I look like an innocent young girl, and in some ways, I still am. I’m all of eighteen and arrived in the City of Sin with stars in my eyes. I was invited by the Las Vegas National Ballet to be a founding member of their company, and my excitement was through the roof.
“Can you believe it?” I asked when I got my job offer in the mail. “They want me, Ashley Finnegan, to join the ballet corps! Oh my god, I never thought this would happen!”
Miss Lazarus, my old instructor, merely smiled as she gripped her cane.
“You were always going to make it, my dear,” she said in a voice cracked with age. “I knew you would.”
“Yes, but I’m big!” I said, still staring at the letter in my hands. “I mean, bigg er ,” I corrected hastily. “You know that ballerinas are so tiny and that many companies prefer a lean look, whereas I definitely have junk in the trunk.”
Miss Lazarus merely smiled kindly.
“Yes, but times change,” she intoned. “And in my opinion, the change has been long overdue in our discipline. Full-figured girls can be graceful, lithe, and enchanting, and it’s time for you to shine. I’m so excited for you, sweetheart.”
I smiled tremulously, tears on my lashes, because it was a fantasy come true. I’ve been dancing since I was a little girl, and it’s always been my dream to be a professional ballerina. But I never thought it would happen because as soon as I hit eleven or so, my body began to develop, and I lost the skinny weightlessness of a child. I became curvy and voluptuous with big breasts, thick thighs, and a round booty. Suddenly, my leotards were far too small, and I had to order the special kind with thick straps and a reinforced bust to hold my girls in. I could hardly button my tutus around my waist, and even my pointe shoes seemed to shrink overnight.
But now, the Las Vegas National Ballet has invited me, Ashley Finnegan, to join their new troupe, and I was beyond myself with joy. I dropped out of high school, packed my bags, and flew to Sin City within the next month, excited to start my new job. We curvy girls were going to rule the stage, and show the world that voluptuous women can dance with the best of them.
At first, it was even better than I expected because I moved into an apartment complex where a lot of the other ballerinas lived, and we were an exciting bunch. There were tall girls, short girls, thin girls, curvy ones, and even a girl with only one leg. I immediately befriended Belinda, and we spent a couple nights chattering about choreographing an asymmetric routine to highlight her unique disability.
The male dancers were also wonderful additions, from countries as far flung as Thailand and Denmark, although of course, most of them were gay. Still, the group of us had fun together and there was palpable excitement in the air from embarking on a new venture together.
But things went kaput almost immediately. Instead of a dedicated dance space like they’d promised, we had to commute to a puny rehearsal studio downtown that hardly had enough room for all of us at the barre. Even crazier, management didn’t have a rehearsal schedule set up. Instead, we were getting together to do warm-ups to stay in shape, as opposed to working deliberately towards a specific routine. But the shit really hit the fan when management didn’t make our first payroll. That’s right. Thirty dancers showed up in Vegas, excited to join a new troupe, only to find out that the money wasn’t there.
Predictably, everything went to hell in a handbasket. How were we going to afford rent? Food? Medicine? How were we going to pay for PT and routine check-ups when there was no health insurance? Immediately, the girls began looking for other jobs. A couple became costume designers, while two ladies left to try and get their old positions back. Marlene signed up to work for Delta Airlines, but that still left a bunch of us grasping at straws.
That’s when Club Duality set in. It’s a new gentleman’s club in Vegas where billionaires do whatever they want. My understanding is they operate in a secret location, and that all sorts of debauchery goes on. Drugs, gambling, and drink are par for the course, but allegedly, their biggest vice is girls. Ladies from all over the world are auctioned to the highest bidder at Club Duality, and it’s not as bad as it sounds, from what the other girls tell me. After all, the club isn’t some humdrum strip joint with flickering neon lights. Instead, it’s luxe, exclusive, and very hush-hush, with membership offered only to the most handsome, eligible billionaires. Yes, I said billionaires. Rumor is that you have to prove ten-figure net worth to join, and that the minimum reserve at auction is a cool million. It’s crazy luxe and over the top.
But the club worked out for some of the ballerinas because they met wealthy and generous benefactors while performing at Duality. In fact, my friend Haley is now expecting twin boys as a result of a long-term arrangement. She was sold to a domineering alpha male at auction who paid for her live with him at his mansion, but then the unexpected happened: Haley also met his stepson, and began a menage with both stepfather and stepson. I know, it sounds so fucked up, right? But it works for Haley and her boyfriends, and all three are over the moon about the babies to come.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t perform at Club Duality because I have a bum ankle. Ballet is rife with injuries, and unfortunately, I’ve had nagging ankle pain since like forever. Years of PT, rehab, icing, heat, and stretching sometimes take the edge off, but rehearsing in that tiny space downtown was asking for it. I hit my ankle against the mirror one day because we simply didn’t have enough space, and the injury throbbed back to life. An MRI (which I couldn’t afford) showed a hairline fracture, and my doctor ordered me to stay off it for six months. Walking is okay, but there’d be no ballet, no dance, and definitely no going en pointe . As a result, I couldn’t partake in the billionaire auctions because the club wants the girls to dance in order to show off our lithe, flexible bodies. Ha! At this point, I’m practically limping around like an old lady.
But I’ve always been resourceful, and I took matters into my own hands. Bored one day, I wandered into one of the casinos off the Strip. They’re fun, actually, because they may not have the glitz and glamor of the Bellagio or the Palms, but there are a lot of solid card games and some real money to be had. I saw a bunch of drunk frat boys at a table, and like a woman in a trance, I sat down. Sure enough, I took those boys for everything in their wallets and walked out with five hundred bucks burning a hole in my pocket.
That was the beginning. I graduated from the low ante tables to middling ones with geezers who were gambling their social security money away. Drunk frat boys became sober frat boys, which became gainfully employed corporate drones. Slowly, I moved up, refining my technique while honing my game. My presentation became more seductive too because high-ante games don’t exactly take place under fluorescent lights with country music twanging in the background. Instead, they’re exclusive, invitation-only events in private backrooms with top shelf alcohol on free flow. The men are clad in tuxes, while select women swan about in evening gowns cut down to there and up to there. But I don’t care about the clothes or the setting. All I care about are the chips on the table because there’s money to be made, and I need that cash to survive.
But I’m not playing today. I’m merely surveilling the Degas because there’s going to be a tournament here later in the week, and I want to get my bearings. Of course, I’ve been in the hotel before, but only at the public tables. The high-stakes poker I’ll be engaging in later this week is in one of the private rooms, and I’ve made it my mission to steal to the back and surveil the space even if it’s not open at the moment.
I look down and go over my outfit. Perfect. I’m dressed in a silky white blouse and a slim pencil skirt, with pantyhose and black high heels. A ladylike purse completes the outfit, and I’ve also put on some expensive earrings and my best gold necklace. The Degas is an upscale place, and it’s of utmost important to blend in, seeing that I’m basically casing the joint. I pat my gleaming blonde hair and take a deep breath before putting a smile on my face. Then, I stride towards the entrance with a bouncy step, and sure enough, a doorman immediately opens the double glass doors.
“ Mademoiselle ,” he greets while bowing slightly. “ Bienvenue à l'H?tel Degas .”
“ Bonjour ,” I lilt back with a smile. “ Merci .”
That’s about the extent of my French but it’s enough because I know the doorman doesn’t care about what language I’m speaking. What he and all men care about are my elegantly sheathed curves; my long legs; and the plush pout of my pink lips. Oh, and the fact that I don’t look like a criminal one bit.
“ Bonjour ,” I greet various staff as I stroll to the elevator bank. They smile in return because I appear as a beautiful, innocent young woman likely joining her man for an afternoon date at one of the elegant restaurants in the hotel. But then, I see him. There’s an elegantly appointed man is standing next to reception with one black brow raised in an amused arch. He seems to know what I’m up to despite the fact that I’ve done nothing to give myself away.
I turn my face, suddenly flustered. Is my plan already blown?
Stay calm, Ashley , the voice in my head whispers. He’s no one. Just a random stranger. Don’t lose your cool.
Reassured, I begin walking again without a backwards glance at the gorgeous alpha male. But I can feel him watching me. I can feel those crystal blue eyes sear my curves, and my insides go hot and wet in response.
Stay calm , the voice warns again. This is no time to lose your shit. There’s too much at stake.
Taking a deep breath, I resolve to continue on my path. Smiling sunnily, I step towards Le Café Fleur like it’s my final destination, but instead of entering the cute bistro, I swerve left at the last minute as if I’ve decided to go to the powder room. My blonde hair swishes as I disappear into a long, narrow hallway, and that’s when the intrigue begins.
Walking fast but not too fast, I make my way down the hall before pushing on an emergency exit door. As expected, the air stays silent because a lot of hotels don’t actually alarm the first floor exits. There’s too much traffic to have alarms going off every hour of every day, and it would disturb the folks gambling away their life savings in the casino.
Then, I make my way into the deserted hallway and steal down the narrow corridor. This is definitely reserved for staff only because there are no adornments. Fluorescent lights glare against bare cement walls, and to my dismay, there’s a security camera at the approaching door, the black half-dome ominous and silent. Oh shit, what do I do?
But confidence can work wonders. I lift my chin and smile brightly, like I have every reason to be here. My hair bounces as my shoulders straighten, and with a smile, I stride with sure steps past the camera before pushing on the next door and exiting the corridor. Whew! That was a nerve-wracking experience, and who knows how many more security cameras I’m going to face? But determination puts a spring in my step because I’m going to take them one by one. Surely, no one will call the cops on a lone blonde walking through the service corridors of the hotel?
Smiling like Miss America, I make my way into another maze of hallways, which again, are bare and unadorned. They’re almost eerie because they’re so silent, but it’s fine. According to blueprints I reviewed at the assessor’s office, I’m just about at my destination because the high roller rooms are right next to the auxiliary kitchen, the better which to dispense food and drink. It makes sense. Rich men don’t want to wait to be served; they want their appetites to be taken care of now .
Finally, I open a door leading to a small space with a heavy kitchen table in the middle and cabinets which look full of dish ware. To the right is said auxiliary kitchen, and to the left is another doorway. Ah ha, I must be in the butler’s pantry, which is a room that a server uses to make final touches to the food and drink before it’s presented. Perfect.
Gently, I pull open the door to the high rollers room, and there it is. It’s a luxe space which is large, but not over-sized. It’s double height with a second-floor gallery on top, where men go to relax when the game’s not on. A huge chandelier hangs from the ceiling, throwing sparkles in the dim gloom. Luxe carpeting covers the floor, and of course, in the center is a table with a flocked red surface surrounded by high-top chairs. But I know these aren’t regular chairs. These are special ergonomic chairs designed to look as if they’re made of wood, but in fact they’re constructed from a special synthetic material to provide the utmost back support and leg relief. After all, the casino wants to make money, and keeping a billionaire at the table for as long as humanly possible ensures that the dough keeps rolling in.
Quickly, I steal into the room, my heels soundless on the plush carpeting. A smile comes over my face as I pull a laser measuring tool from my bag and begin taking the dimensions of the space. Most laser measurers look like a walkie-talkie, but this is a special one that’s about the size of a large pen. It’s handy and compact, and I nod with satisfaction as a red beam shoots out from the end to stop on the other side of the room. Perfect. The space is sixty-one and a half feet on this side, give or take a bit. The pointers are accurate to about an eighth of an inch, so I’m in good hands, although I’ll have to circle a bit to get multiple measurements, seeing that the space is a bit oddly shaped.
But there’s a reason for my detailed analysis, and it’s because I like to get the lay of the land before sitting down for a serious game of cards. In poker, spatial awareness matters more than you think, and even something as innocuous as a mirror, or a particularly bright light, can throw a player off his game. For me, it’s of the utmost important to get familiarized with my surroundings before the game starts. Like a golfer, I always try to know the terrain, and to understand the topography of where I’ll be before actually placing any bets. It’s a comfort thing, and as a professional, there’s real money on the table. Losing isn’t an option.
Quickly, I move about the room, taking multiple measurements while logging them into my phone. A particularly sparkly crystal chandelier located above a mini-bar catches my eye, and I frown. Again, unwanted light can get in a player’s eye during the game, and distract him or her from the intensity of the situation. Hmm. Not great.
The chandelier isn’t too far up and I reach up to ping one of the crystals with a finger. To my surprise, it drops from its setting and rolls onto the ground.
“Oh shit!” I exclaim in a hushed whisper before getting to my knees to pick it up. But then, another sparkly gem drops onto my head before falling to the floor, and then another. What is going on? Is it raining crystals?
I look up with confusion and see that one of the wire chandelier’s arms has come loose, and as a result, the gems are literally slipping off the iron rod. Another crystal comes plinking down as I kneel on the carpeted floor, hitting me on the cheek this time, and I blink as it rolls on the ground, brilliant with internal fire.
That’s when an alarm goes off in my head. Crystals are beautiful, but they’re generally a bit cloudy and often very white in color. But when I pick up the new gem and hold it up to my eye, the rock flashes and burns, as if lit from within. Could it be...? No way. I squint with confusion because I’m no gemologist but this doesn’t look like crystal to me – it could be a diamond .
The thought makes me sit back on my heels. How is that even possible? Why would there be a diamond chandelier in the Degas? Who even makes diamond chandeliers to begin with? I can imagine Napoleon ordering a luxe chandelier to hang in the Palace of Versailles for his love Josephine, but I can’t imagine that a Vegas hotel would be at the same level. What in the world is going on?
Quickly, I realize that I may have a fortune on my hands. I could sell these diamonds and stop playing poker! Hell, I could make so much from the proceeds that perhaps I could even help the other ladies of the Las Vegas National Ballet, seeing that some are still unemployed. I begin collecting the stones and stuffing them into my purse, but the problem is that my clutch is a small thing that only fits six or seven gems max. There are at least ten on the floor, and I want to get them out of here to be evaluated before anyone realizes how precious they are.
I look around again, hoping to see a velvet bag, or hell, even a plastic one. But there’s nothing in sight because the space is luxe, not to mention immaculate. There are no garbage cans visible, and my guess is that any trash is transported immediately to the butler’s pantry for disposal. What should I do?
Suddenly, inspiration strikes. This is so naughty, but I have to try. I might have millions at my fingertips, if I can just get the diamonds out of here to safety. With wobbly knees, I get to my feet again and then reach up to hitch my skirt around my waist. Oh my god, this is so wrong! How can I even be contemplating the act?
But I bite my lip and gently pull down my sheer pantyhose to my knees, before slipping my panties down as well. This is an awkward situation, not to mention a bit embarrassing, and thank fuck there are no cameras in the room to capture my illicit act.
Then I lift one of the diamonds to my mouth and blow on it gently, warming it up. The facets mist with the moisture from my exhale, and I huff a bit more before trailing it down to rub against tiny pussy hole. Okay, here goes. I push the gem into my snatch, and it slips in easily. The rock is of a middling size, but it’s fine. The question is: can I handle seven or eight of the precious jewels buried deep in my secret space?
I lean over to pick up another diamond, but when I shift around, a wince crosses my features because the rock inside is unexpectedly sharp. The facets cut into my tight channel and I grimace again. Ugh. What to do? Maybe use my pussy juices as lube?
The idea takes hold and I take a deep breath because frankly, I don’t have many other options at this point. I need to walk out of here with a straight spine and confident posture, instead of wobbling with bow-legs and an oddly curved spine.
As a result, I pop the next diamond into my mouth to get it wet, but at the same time, I also unfasten my blouse and pull down the cups of my bra. My big tits come swinging out, the peaks already pink and stiff. With one hand, I begin to stimulate my nipples, pulling and tweaking the hard nubs while sucking hard on the diamond. Ahhh, that feels so good!
Then, I reach my other hand down to stimulate my clit. Oh shit, I’m wobbly in my high heels, and quickly I kick them off before discarding my skirt and hose too. Fuck it. I might as well lose all of my clothes, and soon, my blouse and bra are on the floor as I take to all fours on the carpet, knees spread. My big breasts dangle as I eye the stash of diamonds before me, still sucking on one of the jewels. How many can I fit into my twat? I don’t know, but I’ve always adored penetration, and this is no different from dabbling with ben-wa balls. In fact, it could be even better knowing that my secret stash is actually worth millions.
With that, I spit the second diamond out before trailing it down between my big breasts and gently nudging my little hole with it. My clit’s stiff and throbbing and I pause to twiddle it a bit before gently pushing the second diamond into my clutching cunt. Oooh, that feels good! A slight moan vibrates from my throat as my eyes close with pleasure. My head tilts back as I insert the second stone in firmly to sit next to the first, and I squeeze my pussy muscles just to see how it feels. It’s a delicious sensation, and I waggle my hips a bit, jiggling them to see if anything’s loose or uncomfortable. Unfortunately, the facets of the stones still cut a bit into my channel, making things uncomfortable. The only solution is to get myself really aroused to manage the walk out of here.
With that, I fish the two stones out of my twat, letting them drop silently to the carpet. Then, I take my laser pointer and suck on the tip to get it good and wet. Yes, I’m really going there, and I only hope this works because things are getting a little crazy. Still, desperate times call for desperate measures, and with a small sigh, I remove the pointer from my lips before dragging it down to push at my pussy hole.
“Oooh, yes!” I moan as the stiff cylinder slips in. “Mmm, yeah stretch me out!”
I pause for a moment, trying to catch my breath as my body adjusts to the penetration, but then I begin moving again. Reaching between my legs, I push the pointer in all the way until it’s completely buried in my swollen folds with just the red light peeping out. Then, I reach for the end again before pulling the pointer from my aching pussy and inserting it again.
“Oooh!” I moan deliriously, my eyes closed as hot ripples run through my body. “Mmm, mmm, mmm!”
I’m ashamed to say, but I’m beginning to drool, both front and back. I’m so horny now that saliva literally slips down my chin as my pussy weeps hot fluids. But that’s exactly my motive. I need to get myself so aroused that transporting diamonds in my snatch is no problem. With that, I begin fucking myself with the pointer in earnest, the red laser beam dancing wildly about the room as I strain and squeal on my hands and knees.
“Mmm!” I shriek, my spine bucking. “Oh oh oh! Unnnh, Daddy yesssss!”
With that it happens. Hot jolts surge through my cunt as my eyes roll up in the back of my head. My pussy clenches down hard on the stiff shaft within before dissolving into violent spasms. I scream and drool some more while fucking myself through the climax, my back arching so violently that I must resemble a contortionist.
“Oooooh!” I scream once more. “Mmmm, mmm, mmm!”
Three more hard fucks gets me through the best of it. Hot ripples continue to flow through my snatch as I pant, my head dropping forwards like a flower too heavy for its stalk. But there’s work to be done and despite the fact that I’m a hot mess, I have to get these diamonds out of here stat. Quickly, I pull the slimy laser pointer out of my snatch before reaching for three glittering gems. Then, I pop them into my cunt one by one, easy-peasy. The slide is delicious and I moan with pleasure as my snatch is crammed full once more.
A few more diamonds, and I’m almost done. Hurriedly, I scramble to my feet while throwing the rest of the stones into my purse with scrabbling fingers. There must be a fortune here! I’ll be rich! But to my dismay, the clutch is just too small and there’s one stone left after everything’s said and done. I try to force it into the silk purse, but the darned thing won’t even close because it’s literally bulging with diamonds now. Should I leave the lone stone? It’s better not to be greedy, after all.
But then a little voice in my head whispers. You’re poor, Ashley, it reminds me. Take it with you. In your mouth. In your snatch. In your rear end, if you have to.
Oh my god, is this for real? But a girl has to do what she has to do. I reach for the lone gem and eye it for a moment. It’s not too big, not too small, just perfect. I lick it a bit, getting it lubed and warm, and then reach around myself to test my rear end. My back pucker immediately contracts, sensitive and tight, but I wet my hand and massage the pleats gently. My anus contracts and then relaxes, and I push the stone against my small opening.
Thankfully, it goes in and I breathe a sigh of mixed pleasure and relief. This is going to be a tiny bit awkward, seeing that I have precious rocks in both my front and back holes, but a lot of the girls in my ballet troupe are in desperate straits right now. I’m doing it not just to help myself, but to also help my friends.
With that, I quickly dress and pat my hair before slipping on my heels. To be sure, my cheeks are flushed and my breathing is elevated, but hopefully it’s not obvious. Hurriedly, I glance about the room once more. Everything is silent and still, and I let out an exhale of relief. Even better, there are no cameras because management would never allow for video in a room reserved for high stakes poker. Still, an odd tingling feeling runs down my spine, as if someone’s eyeing my curves at this very moment.
Stop it, the voice in my head scolds. You’re just being paranoid. There’s no one watching you.
Biting my lip, I duck my head and pick up my purse, even as the tingling intensifies. This time, it runs down my spine and all the way to my pussy, making me clench a bit with pleasure.
Stop, because it’s all in your head, Ashley , the voice repeats scornfully. You’re playing mind games that are serving no good purpose. Now, get out of here before someone comes in for real!
With that, I scurry towards the door before shooting one last backwards glance at the scene of the crime. Nothing looks amiss. The chandelier dangles, sparkling lights bouncing about because there are so many crystals dripping from the wire frame that the missing gems are undetectable. The table is still and unmoving with chairs placed in neatly spaced intervals around it. Otherwise, the room is silent and dark, with nothing amiss. Taking a deep breath, I exit the room before beginning a casual stroll out of the hotel. I just committed the perfect crime without anyone witnessing my misdeeds ... or at least, I think.