Chapter 22

Author’s Note: Thank you all for reading. I hope you’re having as much fun as I am with this. There’s a lot more dirty fun to come!

“He’s going to Mexico for four nights,” Kat said. “Isn’t that long for a bachelor party?”

“Honestly, I don’t care,” I said, “and I don’t really need to hear about it.”

“Sorry,” she said, “the stress of planning is just getting to me. I’ve got the planner and his mom and my mom all jumping down my throat.”

“The only person who should be shoving stuff down your throat is me,” I said.

She laughed, shaking off the stress. “You’re right, though,” she said. “My perspective is off. Can we do a getaway while he’s gone?”

“I’m three steps ahead of you, Kitty Kat,” I said.

Time was going by in a blur. We were just a few months away from Kat’s wedding. Invitations to 500 people had gone out. The menu was set. The cake had been ordered. Her dress was nearing the final fittings. We would be almost two years into our affair by the time she walked down the aisle.

As Kat planned her wedding, I had two schemes of my own going. First, and for my own amusement, I began a campaign to get invited to the blessed event, knowing there would be second and third rounds of invitations after the initial wave. And I wanted her fiance to be the one to suggest I get the invitation. Second, I knew his bachelor party would be an opportunity to put together an over-the-top trip for Kat and me. I loved our increasingly dominant-oriented relationship, but I wanted to cement it even further with a grand gesture, one that would underscore the depth of our connection.

It was easy getting to know James a little bit. Bankers liked to run together, so overlapping at events was a breeze. I used our past meetings as a hook to talk to him. It led to a couple happy hours, always in a group setting. Then a couple boys’ nights, also in group settings. I didn’t need to make him a confidante. That would have been a disaster. And I wasn’t doing this because I had something against him. I wasn’t going to out the fact that I was fucking his soon-to-be wife. It was a game. I liked secrets. I wanted to befriend him -- not too much, just casually enough -- so I could get the rush of using his woman as a fuck toy. I wanted him to see me and think of me as a friend, or at least someone who was a cool dude. I wouldn’t mind if he thought of me that way while my dick was still wet with her pussy juice.

So I fanned the low flames of friendship with James, all while still fucking Kat three or four times a week. And I thought about the best possible destination for Kat and me during his bachelor party. That decision also was easy. It had to be Las Vegas. Kat and I, it became abundantly clear as our relationship developed, shared a special affinity for Sin City. We had both created a lot of memories there. We both felt a license to do whatever we wanted there. With only a few days together and the relatively short flight from Houston, it was an ideal place to get away and live it up without any remorse. But it couldn’t simply be a redux of our first trip together. It had to be something over the top, even for Vegas.

I prepared for it methodically. To make Vegas really special? You needed access to things that ordinary people couldn’t reach. Every experience needed to be something that wasn’t even VIP -- it was beyond. Something off the books you could only enjoy if invited. Kat made no secret of her love for the Bellagio. It was where she and Kelly had usually stayed. So I did something I hadn’t ever done before. I consolidated my gambling at a single casino for the six months leading up to our trip. I only played at the Bellagio, which didn’t make my Wynn host very happy, but I had a goal. I spent thirty days in Vegas over a period of six months and gambled like a junkie. All told, I was down $75,000 and had ridden the highs and lows of a degenerate. It all served the singular purpose of pushing my theoretical loss as high as possible, maximizing my comps.

Even then, I needed a little help to get what I wanted. And what I wanted was a villa for Kat and me. That’s where my Bellagio host, Nicole, came into play. Before I moved my play to the casino, I asked some of my truly Vegas degenerate friends who the host was that a bachelor and hard partier should ask for. Nicole was the universal recommendation. She was in her late 20s and had been a host at Bellagio since her graduation from UNLV. She was a Vegas girl through and through, even spending her off hours hanging out on the Strip. Someone who embraced the Vegas lifestyle like that was precisely on my level.

But one of my good Vegas buddies gave me the real tip about Nicole. She had a habit of partying with her players. As he put it to me, being a host was her way of accessing a lifestyle she wouldn’t otherwise be able to afford. His only warning, however, was that he believed she was looking to make the transition to trophy wife at some point sooner than later.

I set up a $250,000 credit line through Nicole, and made a couple trips to test out just how accommodating she could be. It quickly became apparent the answer was “very.” She was an attentive, thoughtful host and came off as professional. On my third trip, I decided to push the boundaries. As she checked in on me at the blackjack table one evening, I asked her if we could privately discuss some weekend plans for me. Alone, I said that I planned on staying at the tables most of the weekend but needed some help staying up to play as long as I needed.

She didn’t even bat an eye. “You know, they don’t call me Nicoke for nothing,” she said in her sultry voice.

The dam broke from there. She hand delivered an eight ball to my room, and I admired the pure disregard for normal host etiquette. Nicole did what she wanted. She put a sample of the coke on her fingernail and offered it to me. I snorted it and smiled. The numbness hit me almost immediately.

“That’s good shit,” I smiled and licked her finger lightly. I gave her cash for the coke.

“I aim to please,” she said, sensuality dripping off her lips. She crossed her tan legs, her plain black business skirt riding up her hips slightly. The white button-down shirt she wore gaped at her fake breasts, showing the underside of a lacy white bra.

“Would you like some, Nicoke?” I said and laughed.

“I don’t usually when I’m on the clock, but I’ll make an exception,” she said. I was Vegas savvy enough to know the lie when I heard it. I handed her my room card key and watched her cut four lines with practiced ease. I rolled up a $100 bill and passed it to her.

“Hold my hair back?” she asked.

I gathered her thick, brunette hair and pulled it to one side, exposing her delicate neck. She put the bill in one nostril of her button nose and sniffed hard. The other line followed just as quickly. She got up and stood very close, holding her chin up.