I had heard that Lewis Hart had checked into the Las Vegas Mandalay Bay, but I didn’t really believe it until I saw two luscious babes, one blonde and one a redhead, cooing over an old guy at the hotel pool. He could have been anywhere between seventy and a hundred and seventy. It wasn’t that he looked a wreck, but that he looked like he’d been totally replaced a couple of times over in his lifetime. That was Lewis Hart, the head of a pornographic magazine empire. Rumors had gone around at one time that he was gay, but, if so, he put up a really good show with the young women he kept on a string. I’d always assumed that the rumor had just been floated by his competitors.

He was known to keep at least two young girls on the leash at a time, and I recognized the blonde as last year’s Miss July, and the redhead quite possibly was the following November. I had to laugh at seeing the highly and obviously very carefully preserved Lewis Hart in the flesh—or maybe better said in the plastic—with those young girls, because I remember having jacked off for the first time to “reading” the photo spreads in his signature magazines in my parents’ basement after having discovered why my dad stole off into the basement from time to time and came back upstairs looking so satisfied with himself. Knowing how old those magazines were, I bet some of Hart’s girls from that time—who were known as just that, Hart’s Girls—were grandmothers now.

As I watched the three of them by the pool—the LBs—luscious babes, as I couldn’t help from thinking of them—codling the thin old guy in the chaise lounge between them, I couldn’t help but wondering if the other legend about Hart was true—that he had a twelve incher and was able to keep his girls happy with more than his money and a promise of glossy photo coverage in a high-circulation skin magazine. Couldn’t tell now, though, as he was wearing pretty roomy wild-colored boxer swim trunks. He wasn’t in bad shape, however, and I certainly hoped I’d be able to manage his muscle tone if I was lucky enough to reach his age. Of course, to do so I’d probably have to make the sort of money he did and keep a closet full of plastic surgeons handy.

More important than size, though, I wondered if a man his age could get it up anymore. And, if not, I wondered if either one of those babes cooing over him needed some handholding on the side. I decided to assume that they did.

My eyes went on to the LBs, not only because I was now thinking if they might be lonely behind those smiles but also because they were wearing next to nothing and left nothing to the imagination of how well they were toned up—which was quite nicely.

The blonde reminded me of Sheryl back in Tennessee, who was one of the biggest reasons I was out here in Las Vegas. She had nice knockers like that and the sweetest smelling cunt. If I’d just been caught fucking her under the bleachers at our junior college, I would have been hailed as a stud across campus, but since Tad, the football team’s quarterback was humping me at the same time, I quickly gained a reputation of being perhaps a bit too cosmopolitan and free and easy for the sleepy southern town I was living in.

Someone told me that Las Vegas was the “anything goes” town, so I drifted out here and looked for a job that would give me casual access to lots of fun folks and a variety of sex. Joining the wait staff at a major casino hotel fit the bill perfectly, and the clientele at the posh Mandalay Bay Hotel was great on the pocketbook. I’d ball some filthy rich widow or be balled by some corporate CEO in the afternoon in their hotel suite and, depending on how grateful and generous they were, I’d be able to hit the casinos or the swinger or gay bars of the old downtown area in the evening.

I wasn’t really on duty, but I hadn’t taken off my uniform yet, so I grabbed up a tray from the bar and went over and asked if there was anything they needed in the way of drinks or snacks or quick fucks or anything. Luckily for me the redhead was thirsty—and I’m happy to say that both girls gave me the look over and appeared to be pleased with what they saw. I happily replenished their drinks and even more happily took note of their suite number when the redhead signed for the charge. The man himself just laid there and looked hard at me. I think he was smiling, but I’m not sure he knew he was—with the amount of plastic surgery he’d had to look like Cary Grant, I don’t think he could feel his face at all.

I went over to the other side of the pool and sat under the thatched roof of the bar kiosk and watched the three of them at play. The more I watched the more I wanted to take Lewis Hart’s position between the LBs—and to have them paying the attention to me that they were paying to him. I had tried various combinations in sex before, but I hadn’t yet balled two babes at once. I wasn’t even quite sure how the logistics of that worked. But I certainly was willing to give it a go.

As I watched, Hart grew more animated at the attention he was getting. I kept an eye on the crotch of those wild-colored swim trunks to see if there was any evidence that he was alive down there, but I didn’t see any. He certainly seemed able to play kissy face, though, and his hands were roaming in some pretty interesting places among the LBs. It was getting pretty interesting and moving well beyond a G rating when Hart said something to the girls and they started gathering up their considerable paraphernalia. As they headed for the hotel elevators, I raced to the central kitchen and sat beside the room service call-in board.

I still was off duty, but the kitchen staff never turned down extra help or a bit of money under the table now and again. And by now they knew I was one of the “fringe benefit” staffers in the hotel—one of those willing to make a certain type of well-heeled hotel guest happy without being too picky. Room service orders were the quickest way to hook up with a guest whose idea of room service included the waiter. I figured I could fuck or be fucked by almost anyone as long as the tips were good and the hotel kept those nifty blackout curtains on its guest room windows.

I sat by the board and, sure enough, an hour later the Oriental Suite light lit up, and a call came in for two bottles of champagne and a cheese tray and three glasses. I snatched up the ticket when the order was ready and stopped by my own room before going up to brush my teeth and hair and grab up a handful of condom packets. No reason not to be prepared, I thought.

The lounge was empty when I passkeyed into their suite after discreetly knocking and receiving no reply. But I heard murmurings from the bedroom, so I plowed on through, almost not believing my luck and hoping I’d find them still at it. They were in the king-sized bed, all of them, when I entered the room. The redhead smiled at me with a sardonic smile when I entered. “You the only one working the drinks service throughout the hotel today?” she asked.

“Yes, just about,” I answered. “That OK with you?”

“Yes, more than all right,” she answered. She was wearing a nice, welcoming smile and nothing else. I could feel myself going hard at the mere thought that I was having a “the weather’s nice, isn’t it?” type of conversation with two naked LBs in bed stretched out on either side of a naked octogenarian. I took my time setting the champagne and cheese tray up. And as nice as the four tits winking at me were, I must admit that my curiosity went to verifying that legend about Lewis Hart’s dick. And, sure enough, the legend was true. There must be about a foot of him lying there against his thigh. It was soft now—and one curiosity was replaced with another one: had he been able to get it up at all for whatever playtime the three of them had had in the last hour? Something must have made them thirsty. I could only hope that it was unfulfilled lust for the two LBs—which I would be more than happy to help them with.