Chapter 5

Ethan gripped the steering wheel of his Tesla Model S, the San Francisco skyline fading in the rearview as he navigated toward the luxury car dealership on the city’s outskirts. Krissi-May Johnson, his 23-year-old former stripper girlfriend, bounced in the passenger seat, her bleached-blonde hair swinging as she cranked the stereo’s trap beat. Her excitement was infectious, though Ethan braced for chaos.

She’d been a whirlwind since moving into his penthouse six weeks ago—twerking at his college friends’ dinner, giving a lap dance at his tech happy hour, riding a glittery flamingo at the condo board cocktail party, and derailing an interior design consultation with a neon “Krissi’s Krib” sign. Each disaster had cost him, with Vanessa Steele, his PR fixer, charging hundreds of thousands to scrub viral videos and bribe witnesses. Krissi’s antics humiliated him, yet her seductive apologies—sloppy blowjobs, frantic fucks—kept him hooked, his naive optimism clinging to her raw charm.

Today, Krissi was electric, her West Virginia drawl thick with glee. “Sugar, I ain’t never had a new car in my life! Back home, I drove a rusty ol’ Civic with a busted muffler. Sounded like a lawnmower fuckin’ a chainsaw!” She laughed, tossing her hair, her fake tan glowing under the morning sun streaming through the windshield. “Now I’m gettin’ some real wheels, somethin’ to match my badass vibe!”

Ethan glanced at her, his jaw tightening. Krissi looked like she’d stepped out of a strip club VIP room. Her outfit—a skintight silver lamé crop top and matching micro-skirt—barely contained her perky, medium-sized breasts and toned ass, both honed by years of pole dancing at The Pink Pony. The top’s plunging neckline revealed a rhinestone-encrusted bra, its straps glittering against her orange-tinted skin. Her long dancer’s legs, bare except for a jangling rhinestone anklet, ended in six-inch platform heels studded with pink crystals. Heavy eyeliner and hot pink lipstick framed her heart-shaped face, her butterfly tramp stamp peeking above the skirt’s low waistband. She chewed gum loudly, snapping it between words, her cheap vanilla perfume filling the car.

Ethan had tried to enforce a wardrobe pre-approval rule after her sequined halter dress fiasco at the cocktail party, but Krissi had a knack for dodging it—hiding outfits in moving boxes or “forgetting” his texts. Last week, he’d caved, scrapping the rule in exchange for her promise to let a new designer redo his penthouse tastefully. He wasn’t holding his breath.

“Krissi, remember,” Ethan said, keeping his voice steady, “we’re sticking to a $150,000 budget. Something practical, okay? A BMW sedan, maybe a Lexus SUV. No custom jobs, no crazy mods. We’re keeping this simple.”

Krissi pouted, crossing her arms, which pushed her breasts higher. “Practical? Sugar, I ain’t drivin’ no mom-mobile! I need somethin’ hot, somethin’ that screams ‘Krissi Kane’ when I roll up!” She grinned, using her stripper alias, then leaned over, her hand brushing his thigh. “Don’t worry, Big Daddy. I’ll make you proud. You’ll wanna fuck me right on the hood.”

Ethan flushed, his cock twitching despite his nerves. “Just ... behave, alright? No scenes. This is a high-end dealership, not The Velvet Veil.” Krissi had returned to stripping at the upscale club a few miles from Ethan’s place, but her gaudy ideas—glitter cannons, hot tub stages—kept getting shot down, fueling her restlessness.

She winked, snapping her gum. “I’m gonna be so good, you’ll wanna buy me two cars, baby!”

The dealership loomed ahead, a gleaming glass fortress of chrome and polish, its lot packed with Porsches, Ferraris, and Range Rovers. An attached custom shop, known for $500,000 paint jobs and diamond-encrusted rims, was mercifully out of Ethan’s budget. He parked, and Krissi was out before he could unbuckle, strutting toward the showroom like a runway model, her micro-skirt riding up her sleek legs with each step. Ethan hurried after her, his tailored Armani suit feeling stiff against his lean frame, his wire-rimmed glasses slipping as he jogged.

Inside, the showroom sparkled under LED lights, cars gleaming like jewels. Krissi clapped, her heels clicking on the marble floor. “Well, hot damn! I’m here for a badass ride to match my badass vibe!” she announced, her voice echoing. Three male salesmen—mid-30s, slick suits, hungry grins—converged on her like sharks, their eyes locked on her glittering curves. Ethan lingered back, his smartwatch buzzing with work emails, figuring her flirting was harmless. At least she wasn’t twerking on a hood. Yet.

The first salesman, a tanned guy with a man-bun, stepped up, extending a hand. “Welcome, miss! I’m Derek. You looking for speed or style? We got a Porsche 911 Turbo S, 641 horsepower, zero to sixty in two and a half seconds. Perfect for a ... vibrant lady like you.” He winked, eyeing her cleavage.

Krissi giggled, shaking his hand longer than needed, her nails hot pink and studded with rhinestones. “Ooh, speedy! I like that. But does it come in pink? I need somethin’ that pops, sugar.” She twirled a lock of hair, leaning forward to give him a better view of her appealing cleavage.

Before Derek could answer, a second salesman, broad-shouldered with a Rolex, elbowed in. “Forget the Porsche, sweetheart. I’m Vince. You need luxury with attitude. Range Rover SV Autobiography, full leather interior, 557 horses. You’d look killer behind that wheel.” He flashed a smile, handing her his card, his fingers brushing hers.

Krissi beamed, tucking the card into her bra. “Leather? Now you’re talkin’! Can you make it leopard print? I’m all about that jungle vibe.” She swayed her hips, her skirt inching higher, and Vince’s eyes followed like a predator.

The third salesman, a wiry guy with gelled hair, jumped in, holding up a tablet with a virtual tour. “Hold up, you’re a star, right? Let me introduce myself. Name’s Chad. You need a Lamborghini Urus. 650 horsepower, top speed 190, and we can custom-wrap it in glitter vinyl. You’d steal the show.” He angled the tablet so she had to lean close, his arm grazing her shoulder.

Krissi squealed, clapping. “Glitter vinyl? Chad, you get me! But I’m thinkin’ ... maybe add some fur on the seats? Like, pink fur, real fluffy.” She turned, sticking out her ass as she “examined” a nearby Mercedes, and all three men stared, nodding like idiots.

Ethan cleared his throat, stepping forward, his face heating. “Gentlemen, we’re looking for something practical. Under $150,000. No custom wraps, no fur.” His voice was firm, but the salesmen barely glanced at him, their focus glued to Krissi.

Krissi spun, pouting at Ethan. “Big Daddy, don’t be a buzzkill! These boys are helpin’ me find my dream ride!” She winked at each of the men in turn, playing them like a seasoned hustler. “Y’all gotta outdo each other, though. Who’s got the hottest deal for Krissi?”

Derek recovered first, gesturing to the Porsche. “I’ll throw in free ceramic coating, make that 911 shine like you do. What’s your number, so we can talk details?” His grin was pure sleaze.

Vince scoffed, stepping closer to Krissi. “I’ll do better. Full detailing package on the Range Rover, plus a year of premium service. You and me, we’ll take it for a test drive, just us.” He lowered his voice, winking.

Chad, not to be outdone, tapped his tablet. “Lamborghini’s the move. I’ll get you VIP delivery, red-carpet style, and my personal cell for ... anytime you need me.” He smirked, handing her another card, which she slipped into her bra with a giggle.

Ethan’s stomach churned. Krissi’s flirting was spiraling, her charisma turning the showroom into her stage. She strutted between the cars, trailing her nails along their hoods, the salesmen trailing her like puppies. “Ooh, I dunno, boys! Porsche’s fast, Range Rover’s fancy, Lambo’s flashy ... I need to test ‘em all!” She climbed onto the Porsche’s hood, crossing her legs so her skirt rode up, flashing a bedazzled thong. The salesmen froze, mouths open, and Ethan’s phone buzzed—a Twitter alert with #DealershipDiva trending, a grainy video of Krissi’s pose already circulating.

He groaned, rubbing his temples. This was supposed to be simple. Krissi caught his eye, blowing him a kiss. “Relax, Big Daddy! I’m just warmin’ up!” Her laugh echoed, and Ethan braced for the chaos he knew was coming, his affection for her surging despite the looming disaster.

An hour later, Ethan slouched in the backseat of a Range Rover SV Autobiography, his Armani suit wrinkled, his smartwatch buzzing with unanswered emails. Krissi, in her silver lamé crop top and micro-skirt, sat behind the wheel, her rhinestone-encrusted bra glinting as she gripped the steering column. Vince, the broad-shouldered salesman with a Rolex, leaned close from the passenger seat, his grin pure sleaze.

This was Krissi’s third test drive—first a Porsche 911 with Derek, then a Lamborghini Urus with Chad—each salesman indulged with a spin around San Francisco’s streets. Ethan had climbed into the backseat of the Range Rover despite Vince’s hopeful glance, the salesman clearly wishing for alone time with Krissi. Ethan’s $150,000 budget felt like a distant memory, his stomach knotting as Krissi’s flirtations spiraled.

Vince, guiding Krissi’s hot-pink-nailed hand to the gearshift, let his fingers linger. “See, sweetheart, this baby’s got a V8, 557 horsepower. Shift it like this—smooth, like you move.” His voice was low, eyes locked on her cleavage.

Krissi giggled, tossing her bleached-blonde hair, dark roots stark under the sunlight. “Ooh, smooth like me, huh? I like that, honey.” She mirrored his touch, her fingers brushing his wrist, her platform heels tapping the pedals. “This thing’s fancy, but I need to feel it, ya know?” She revved the engine, a deep growl filling the cabin, and cranked the sound system, blasting a trap beat that rattled the windows. Her hips swayed in the seat, her micro-skirt riding up to flash her bedazzled thong.

Ethan cleared his throat, leaning forward. “Krissi, focus. We’re testing the car, not ... performing.” His voice was tight, memories of her cocktail party thong flash and viral video—and the expensive fix—haunting him.

Krissi winked at him in the rearview, snapping her gum. “Relax, Big Daddy! I’m just gettin’ a vibe!” She turned to Vince, batting her heavy eyeliner. “So, back at The Pink Pony in West Virginia, I used to dance to beats like this. Made hundreds a night, slidin’ down that pole. Now I’m at The Velvet Veil here in town, strippin’ Thursdays and Fridays. You oughta come see me, sugar.” She leaned closer, her breasts nearly spilling from her crop top, and whispered, “I give real good private dances.”

Vince’s jaw dropped, his face flushed. “Velvet Veil, huh? I’m there, sweetheart. Name the time, and I’ll bring ... uh, VIP cash.” He fumbled, smitten, then recovered. “This Rover’s got massage seats, panoramic roof, the works. I’ll throw in free detailing, custom rims, whatever you want.”

Krissi squealed, weaving through traffic, the SUV’s growl matching her energy. “Custom rims? Now you’re talkin’! Maybe some pink chrome, like my nails?” She revved again, laughing as pedestrians stared, her vanilla perfume thick in the cabin. Ethan sank lower, his glasses fogging with stress. Her Pink Pony stories were a lawsuit waiting to happen, and Vince’s puppy-dog eyes weren’t helping.

They looped back toward the dealership, Krissi still swaying to the trap beat. She parked, pouting at Vince. “This truck’s hot, sugar, but it ain’t me. I need somethin’ louder, flashier, somethin’ that screams Krissi Kane’s pure badassed-ness. These cars are cute, but they ain’t turnin’ my head like I turn yours.” She winked, stepping out, her heels clicking, skirt barely covering her ass.

Vince scrambled after her, promising, “I’ll find you somethin’ louder, sweetheart! Maybe a custom exhaust, neon underglow—” His voice cut off as Krissi froze, her jaw dropping. Across the lot, at the back of the custom shop, a massive monster truck was being offloaded from a flatbed. Its giant tires loomed, chrome rims gleaming, its body a hulking black beast with red flames painted on the sides. Krissi’s eyes lit up, her jaw practically falling to the pavement.

“Holy fuckin’ shit, that’s my ride!” she shrieked, sprinting toward it, her platform heels wobbling but not slowing her. “Look at that beast! It’s like my Blinged-Out Monster Truck Rally dream come true!” Her rhinestone anklet jingled, her crop top bouncing as she reached the truck, hands trailing its massive fender.

Ethan jogged after her, heart sinking. “Krissi, no! That’s way over budget—probably half a million! We agreed, $150,000, practical!” His voice cracked, but Krissi was already peppering the maintenance crew—two burly guys in coveralls—with questions.

“How fast’s it go? Can you paint it pink? Ooh, what about fur seats, like leopard? I need this truck to slay!” She climbed the side, her skirt flashing her thong again, and leaned into the cab, her ass wiggling. The crew stared, one fumbling his wrench.

A new salesman, older with a salt-and-pepper beard, approached, drawn by the commotion. “Ma’am, that’s a custom Ford F-450 Super Duty, lifted, 800 horsepower. It’s already sold to a client, I’m afraid. But I’m Greg, if you’d like to talk about what we have available right now, or something we could order custom just for you.”

Krissi spun, hopping back down to greet him, batting her lashes, her voice syrupy. “Oh, Greg, honey, you can’t do me like that! This truck’s me—big, loud, badass! Can’t you make an exception for Krissi?” She leaned close, her breasts brushing his arm, her pink lipstick gleaming. “I bet you could pull some strings, big shot.”

Greg hesitated, glancing at Ethan, who shook his head frantically. “Well, there’s a $100,000 fee to jump the line, plus the truck’s $450,000 base price,” Greg said. “If you’ve got the cash, we can talk.”

Krissi clapped, turning to Ethan. “See, Big Daddy? Just a little extra, and it’s mine! You can cover it, right? This truck’s gonna look so fuckin’ hot with a Krissi-style paint job—pink chrome, glitter flames, maybe a neon sign on the roof!” She ignored Ethan’s protests, climbing into the driver’s seat, her heels dangling as she fumbled with the dashboard.

“Krissi, get down! We can’t afford it!” Ethan shouted, his face red, but she was already turning on the sound system, blasting strip-club-style dance music—thumping bass, sultry vocals—that shook the lot. She slid onto the hood, strutting like she was on stage at The Velvet Veil, her silver lamé outfit flashing, her hips grinding, breasts bouncing as she shook her ass. “Yee-haw, this is my throne!” she whooped, tossing her hair, her fake tan shimmering with sweat.

The maintenance crew whipped out phones, filming, and Ethan’s phone buzzed with Twitter alerts—#MonsterTruckMinx trending, a video of Krissi’s hood dance already at 500 retweets. Greg watched, half-smirking, as Krissi blew him a kiss, still dancing. “Come on, Greg, make it happen! I’ll give you a private show at the Velvet Veil!” she teased, bending over to flash her thong again.

Ethan groaned, dialing Vanessa Steele, his PR fixer, who answered with a sigh. “Another Krissi video? I’m on it, but it’ll cost you, Ethan. Control your glitter tornado.” He hung up, staring at Krissi, her chaotic dominance overwhelming the lot.

She caught his eye, winking, her dance slowing to a seductive sway. “Ain’t it perfect, Big Daddy?” she called, oblivious to the viral storm.

Ethan sighed, his cock twitching despite his dread. Krissi’s unfiltered charisma—her slutty strut, her fearless hustle—kept him hooked, even as his $240 million startup empire teetered. He braced for the fallout, knowing Vanessa’s fix was only a bandage on the chaos Krissi brought to his world.

Krissi’s dance on the monster truck’s hood slowed, her silver lamé crop top glistening with sweat, her micro-skirt barely clinging to her hips as she struck a final pose, one hand on her breast, the other blowing a kiss to the maintenance crew filming her. The strip-club music thumped from the truck’s sound system, her bedazzled thong flashing with each sway.

Ethan stood frozen, his phone buzzing with Twitter alerts—#MonsterTruckMinx now at 1,200 retweets—his financial status teetering under Krissi’s chaos. She caught his eye, her pink lipstick gleaming, and hopped down from the hood, her six-inch platform heels clicking on the pavement. Her fake tan glowed, her bleached-blonde hair with dark roots bouncing as she strutted toward him, her rhinestone anklet jangling, her vanilla perfume cutting through the diesel fumes.

“Big Daddy!” Krissi squealed, throwing her arms around Ethan, pressing her body against his. Her perky breasts crushed into his chest, her toned thigh sliding up to grind against the growing bulge in his Armani slacks. “This truck’s fuckin’ perfect! It’s callin’ to me, sugar, like it was made for Krissi Kane!” Her voice was a husky purr, her hips rolling subtly, the friction of her thigh sending a jolt through Ethan’s cock.

Ethan groaned, his hands hovering awkwardly, torn between pushing her away and pulling her closer. “Krissi, we can’t—it’s $450,000, plus a $100,000 fee! Didn’t you hear that? That’s way over our budget!” His voice cracked, his glasses fogging as her heat enveloped him. The maintenance crew and Greg watched, smirking, while Vince and the other salesmen lingered nearby, still hoping for Krissi’s attention.

Krissi pouted, her hot-pink nails trailing down his chest, stopping just above his belt. “Oh, Big Daddy, don’t be like that. This truck’s my dream! I’ll make it so worth your while, you’ll be thankin’ me.” She leaned in, her lips brushing his neck, planting soft, wet kisses up to his cheek, her tongue flicking his earlobe. “Picture me drivin’ this beast, all blinged out, makin’ you proud.” Her voice dipped low. “I’ll fuck you so good, baby, you’ll forget the price tag.” Her thigh pressed harder, rubbing his cock through his pants, the bulge now undeniable.

Ethan sputtered, his face red, his cock throbbing despite his panic. “Krissi, stop—it’s not just the money! The condo board, my investors—they’ll lose it if you roll up in that thing!” His words faltered as she ground against him, her breasts heaving, her vanilla scent dizzying. Her seductive power, honed at The Pink Pony and maintained at The Velvet Veil, was relentless, and his resistance crumbled under her touch.

Krissi pulled back slightly, her eyes wide, pleading. “Please, Big Daddy, just a test drive? I ain’t askin’ for the whole truck—yet!” She giggled, then turned serious, her West Virginia drawl thickening. “I seen trucks like this on TV growin’ up, at the state fair every summer. Me and my cousins would sneak in, watchin’ ‘em crush cars, dreamin’ of ridin’ one. I never thought I’d get close to a real one, but now I’m here, sugar. Can’t I at least drive it? For my little-girl dreams?” Her voice cracked with rare vulnerability, her hands squeezing his biceps, her thigh still teasing his cock.

Ethan’s resolve wavered, his heart twisting at her story. Her trailer-park roots and her hustle to escape them made her chaos oddly endearing. “Fine,” he sighed, rubbing his temples. “A test drive. That’s it. No buying, no custom paint jobs, nothing.” His cock ached, betraying his surrender, and he adjusted his slacks, hoping no one noticed.