Page 2 of Daddy's Bad Girl
“My mom’s just being a drama queen, per usual. She’s getting divorced and I think it’s the stupidest thing ever.”
My eyebrows go up.
“Why?”
Minnie rolls her eyes.
“Because Joelle’s such a narcissist. She’s a hot blonde piece even at forty, don’t get me wrong. But my stepdad is insanely handsome and rich, and it’s clear why she married him: for the sex, and for his money. I guess that’s not enough though because now they’re getting a divorce. Initiated by my mom too,” she says in a resigned tone.
“Does your mom have a career of her own? Is she going to be alright financially? Or does she have a boyfriend already? I know it’s sketchy, but sometimes divorced folks have overlap between their relationships.”
My friend scrunches up her nose.
“Honestly, I have no idea about the boyfriend, but yeah, Joelle has her own job. She’s a nurse and it’s lucrative, don’t get me wrong. Especially since what she’s doing is basically getting people high.”
“What?” I screech with laughter. “What are you talking about?”
Minnie rolls her eyes again.
“My mom’s a nurse anesthetist, so she’s out giving patients laughing gas and other such drugs.”
“I’m sure she does more than that,” I say in a wry tone.
“Yeah, definitely,” my friend replies. “I bet there’s ketamine in the mix too, in addition to good ole IV narcotics. But her salary doesn’t even compare to my stepdad! That guy’s loaded, and so Joelle’s going to plummet back to earth with a hard thud once the divorce is done. Plus, my stepdad is H-O-T too, like sizzling to the touch. If my mom doesn’t want him, then I’ll take him.”
I have to roll my eyes at that comment.
“Really.”
“Yeah, really!” Minnie says with a naughty smile playing about her lips. “It’s not like Joelle and Brad have kids or something, and I’m not biologically related to him either. It’ll be taboo, but you know I love that forbidden stuff. My romances are all taboo reads with the craziest hook-ups you could possibly imagine. Like professors with their students, the MILF babysitter, and my most recent favorite ... grandpas with their step-granddaughters. Oooh, that super-age gap stuff is so raunchy!”
“Grandpas?” I practically shriek with laughter. “With their granddaughters!?!?! OMG, I have no words.”
My buddy winks naughtily.
“I’ll forward you one of my ebooks. You’ll love it, Ems. The hot grandzaddies are the best,” she proclaims. “The stories are total mind candy and the sex scenes are out of this world. Trust me, the grandzaddies can still bring it, and you’ll feel so relaxed afterwards.”
I have to laugh because my buddy is hysterical at times.
“Serious Min, I don’t need romance novels for stress relief because I get it another way.”
My friend immediately straightens in her desk chair as I head over to our shared closet. Yes, our dorm room is so small that we literally share a closet, and it’s jam-packed to overflowing with sweaters, skirts, dresses, jeans, and god knows how many pairs of shoes.
“Oh my god, you’re going there, aren’t you?” Minnie whispers, her eyes wide. “OMG, OMG.”
I reappear from the depths of our closet with a black mini-dress. It’s not much bigger than the size of a handkerchief, but the polyester material is incredibly stretchy. It’ll cover all my important spots – just barely.
“Yes, I’m going to Club Z,” I say in a nonchalant tone while stripping off my sweater and jeans. Then, I survey my curvy figure in the full-length mirror before making a face at myself. Damn, those three bags of Cheetos worked fast because I swear, I’ve put on ten pounds over the last week or two. Mentally, I curse the orange puffs, but then remember how much happiness they brought me. I swear, the manufacturer should start a special membership club because I’d definitely sign up for free giveaways of the weirdly orange cheese puffs.
But that’s by the by because I’m headed out tonight for my very own stress relief, and it’s called Club Z. It’s a relatively new outfit in the Minneapolis area, and no, it’s not a dance club, rave, nor warehouse party. Club Z is an exclusive place for wealthy men to enjoy themselves with no holds barred. They pay an exorbitant fee for access to the physical club itself, which is an elegant building located in a discreet neighborhood on the outskirts of the city. But of course, it’s what happens within its walls that sets Club Z apart because there are no female members. Instead, all women at the club are “hostesses,” serving as waitresses, bartenders, masseuses, as well as female companions, should a male member desire that particular type of attention.
It’s not exactly sex because that would be déclassé and too low-brow. Instead, it’s a luxurious atmosphere where women teeter about wearing next-to-nothing, their breasts and pussies on display, while billionaire relax among the plush leather banquettes and velvet-covered sofas. Of course, what happens at the club is sordid, taboo and would make for the best kind of romance novel because these things really do happen behind closed doors – for an exorbitant price, of course.
But this is where I find my particular type of stress relief because being pre-med is driving me crazy. I can’t keep staying awake all night while studying for MCATs, and downing bags of Cheetos in the process. I can’t keep putting on weight at a crazy rate because I have no time to exercise. Worst of all, my usual go-to for stress relief, Redline and Roses, hasn’t been doing it for me lately. I’ve set aside time for jewelry-making, but unfortunately, I’m still jittery and on-edge, not to mention irascible and perpetually grumpy.
So as my roomie watches, I pull on the black mini-dress before adjusting the fabric in the mirror. The material barely covers my huge DD tits, and the hem falls to just below my pussy. I’m a little pale from never seeing the sun, but hopefully, the low lights of the club will disguise that. Then, I fluff my long blonde hair over my shoulder before leaning forwards to apply a vampy red lipstick.
Minnie wolf-whistles.
