The Rich Girls' Club

by HoneyB

Genres: African American Women's Fiction

Synopsis

When money isn't enough for Brooks Kennedy, Morgan Childs, Storm Dangerfield, and Hope Andrews, the women decide to take over the governor's house in...

THE RICH GIRLS' CLUB

California has never had a female governor and Morgan Childs is determined to change that with the help of her friends. Gathering the backing of the wealthiest women in California, she convinces her best friend, Brooks Kennedy, to run for governor.

Morgan's campaign strategy is nontraditional, but she knows her plan to sexually blackmail each of Brooks's opponents is virtually foolproof. Once she convinces the team of her tactics, they do whatever it takes to get incriminating evidence on Brooks's opponents.

One by one each candidate is forced to withdraw from the governor's race, and Morgan couldn't be happier, until someone attempts to kill Brooks. With so many enemies, Brooks has no idea who wants her dead.

When a secret is revealed, Morgan feels betrayed and will stop at nothing to get revenge. Now, Brooks doesn't know who to trust and the women stand to lose more than they bargained for.

Release date: March 26, 2013

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 304

Sample

Chapter 1

You’d better fuck this good pussy or I’m going to fuck the shit out of you.”


She bounced on his dick, the way she’d done when riding her award-winning thoroughbred. The mayor’s ass slammed against her mattress. Problem was, the rhythm between them was solely created by her fading enthusiasm.

“Fuck me harder, you filthy bastard…harder…harder!” she pleaded, staring down at him.

She’d never talked that way to her horses. But men were different from stallions, harder to train, nearly impossible to have follow commands. Grinding her pussy into the depths of his shaft, she desperately tried to make herself cum all over his nuts.

His lips tightened as his eyes closed. She watched in amazement as his brows moved closer together. His dick hardened, butt cheeks lifted, then contracted.

“So it’s like that, huh?” she said, slowing her pace.

Lazy fucker. I swear the more successful this man becomes, the harder it is for me to get him to get me off. He’s laying here letting my hard-earned sweat drench his body and he’s seriously trying to ejaculate on the under. I know him too well. When I’m done exhausting myself for his pleasure, he’ll brag about how he gave me the dick so good I couldn’t take it anymore. Or say something selfish like, “I thought you came.” Forget this. I’ve got something special for him today.


Red platform stilettos dug into the mattress as she rode him one last time, then stopped. “Okay, I’m not doing this again this morning. It’s too damn early for me to be sexually frustrated. I quit. Go fuck your wife.” She slapped his face, dismounted him, then paced the floor beside her canopy sex bed.

Opening his eyes wide, he held his jaw. “Ow! What’s wrong, babycakes? I was almost about to give you the grand prize.” Limp dick in hand, vigorously he started stroking himself.

Yeah, like the useless surprise in the bottom of a box of caramel popcorn with peanuts. “If I’m not busting a big O up in this bitch, neither are you. Get your lazy ass up,” she demanded, pushing him to the floor. He was lucky she didn’t use all of her one hundred and twenty-two pounds to jump up and down on him.


He landed on his knees in a praying position. Braced his elbows on the edge of the mattress. “For a little woman you’re strong like a man.”

All she wanted was one head-to-toe orgasm…one. Somehow she doubted he cared enough to fulfill her deep desire to have her pussy explode with pleasure. She shouldn’t have to have a boy do a man’s job. Her twenty-one-year-old boyfriend Chancelor was nine years younger than her with the stamina of her favorite racehorse. That’s the kind of man she needed.


Lying on the bed, she spread her firm thighs wide. “You see this here pretty pussy?”

The mayor exhaled, stared into her eyes. His lips tensed. He didn’t blink.

She scooted closer to him. The brief pause between each word was due to her Asian accent. “Look at her when I’m talking to you.”

Placing her five-inch heels over his shoulders, she parted her lips for him to see how dry her pink flesh was from the constant friction. “All that riding and my pussy is dryer than stale rice.”

Dragging the tip of her finger up her pasty engorged shaft, she felt the swelling expand then pulsate. With a little saliva and masturbation she could make herself cum but that would defeat the purpose of having him there. And doing herself would make her madder at him.

She released her ponytail, fingered her brow-length bang. “You might be in charge when you’re running the city of Los Angeles, but there’s only one boss and one bitch in this bed. Got that?”

The mayor should’ve been at his office preparing for his nine o’clock meeting but sexing her was a standard Wednesday appointment he hadn’t missed in half a decade. She had more money than he did; he had more political power than she did. His influence had helped many of her people become United States citizens, including his wife.

The mayor’s trophy Mrs., the same age as Storm, was one of those stay-at-home, go-to-every-PTA-meeting-and-soccer-game-for-their-kid kind of moms. No one in LA seemed to care that the mayor was twice the age of his beautiful second wife. The woman had probably spoiled him in many ways, including allowing him to lay on his ass while she did him and all the household chores. And while the Mrs. kept decent watch over her husband, he still managed to find time to cheat on her.

Most evenings, after leaving the office, his time was consumed by dinner meetings that made late nights impossible for him to steal away without being missed by his wife and kid. So one day a week, like clockwork, he showed up at her door at the break of dawn with an erection and a wide smile. But he’d better not confuse fucking his wife with their sexing one another, or he’d start taking his ass straight to work on Wednesday mornings.


Pushing him backward, she lowered her legs, stood over him, and commanded, “Get your ass up.”

He sprang to his feet, straightened his spine, then saluted her. “Yes, captain. Whatever you say. You’re the boss and the bitch, right?” Holding his stomach, he laughed.

She didn’t need to confirm what he already knew. She shoved him onto the thousand-thread-count, sky blue sheet, opened the pleasure chest at the foot of her bed and pulled out an eighteen-inch, double-headed dildo. She stood beside the bed and repeatedly slapped the dick against her palm. His smile faded into a frown.

“I’m not playing with you. No more letting you lay in my bed and leaving me with a wet ass.” She was ready to end their weekly affair and focus all of her attention on her boyfriend. What she was going to do to the mayor would make their breakup his idea.

Slowly her tongue circled the silicone tip, then spiraled down the shaft. His eyes widened with excitement. If he knew what she was going to do with the dick in her hands, he’d head for the door, get in his car, and drive off.

“You like watching me take this dick into my…wet…hot…juicy mouth, don’t you?” Suctioning one side into her throat a little at a time, she took in a few inches as she stroked the other end while keeping her eyes on his growing erection.

The mayor held his penis tight, then began massaging himself as he watched her slip the silicone in and out of her drooling mouth. “Damn, you are so freaky,” he said, panting with his tongue hanging out. “This is why I can’t stop fucking you.”

His last comment made her eyes roll toward the ceiling, then back to him.

His chest heaved high, paused, then flattened as he closed his lips, then exhaled through his nostrils like a bull. “Come here, Storm Dangerfield.” He leaned forward, reached for her. She shoved him back on the bed, then stepped away as he begged. “I want your sexy juices rolling down my cock. Damn it, I want you to do to me what you’re doing to that. This here is real, babycakes.”

Inches from his face, she paused. Wiggling the head out of her mouth like a rattlesnake’s tail, she positioned her tongue over his balls, then spat on his dick.

“Oh, yeah. That’s it. Treat me like the dog I am. Spit on me again,” he pleaded.

Storm raised the dildo above her head, then lowered her arm. Smack!


“Ow! What the hell was that for? Don’t do that again!” he protested, cupping his erection. “You almost hit my cock.”

She whispered, “I missed on purpose,” then told him, “Shut the fuck up and listen.” She grabbed his ankles and pulled his body to her. She slammed his feet against the edge of the bed where they dangled off the edge.

“What’s gotten into you, woman?”

Waving the eighteen inches in front of his face, she calmly said, “One of these dicks is going to fuck me the way I need to be fucked. I’m tired of doing all the work. And I haven’t forgotten those lies you were shoo-shooing in my ear at campaign headquarters when I helped you get re-elected. ‘Baby, I want to eat your pussy forever until you cream all over my face. I want to bury my face in your double-Ds and bite your nipples until you cream. Then I’m going to drink your juices, and screw you so good with this big cock you’re going to gush all over me, then fall asleep with a smile on your face.’ So far you’ve proven to be a real politician. All smoke and mirrors. Because we both know you haven’t made me cream, gush, or put me to sleep with a smile. And your cock ain’t bigger than my dick. So make me cum or shut up and roll over. Somebody’s getting fucked in here this morning.”


And no one would hear him scream.

Her nearest neighbor was a half mile downhill. Tall evergreen trees surrounded the front of her mansion. A high, sparkling, gold-toned electronic gate guarded the entrance. Two six-foot-tall golden dragon statues with hidden cameras inside the eyes captured his goings and comings, so if the mayor ever tried the unthinkable, she had enough proof to make his life miserable. Open backfields stretched for an acre, housing her stable, swimming pool, Jacuzzi, and tennis court.

He sat on the edge of the bed facing her. His hand rested on her thigh. “Look here. I forgive you. Just suck me off and I promise I—”

The silicone in her hand plugged his mouth, forcing him to swallow words she didn’t care to hear. “This is non-negotiable. When I pull this dick from between your lips, you’ve got exactly five seconds to start fucking me or your ass will wish that you had.”

Chapter 2

She lived for Saturdays.


Not because it was her day off from the five-star hotel she owned in the heart of Beverly Hills. Not because her husband worked for her, managing Angels Hotel and Spa, or that he stayed overnight at her establishment on weekends. Having their house to herself Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays made her appreciate seeing her husband on Mondays and happy to kiss him good-bye on Friday mornings.

She loved Magnum but being with him seven days a week irritated her. Listening to him debate trivial things that didn’t make any sense forced her to either challenge his point of view or totally ignore him. Morgan didn’t love her husband any less but her decision to give him something constructive to do three days a week had worked exceptionally well over the last four years of their eight-year marriage.

The reason she loved Saturdays so much was because every Saturday her girls, the exclusive members of the group she’d founded—the Rich Girls’ Club—came together to have fun, talk shit about men, and discuss ways to make more money. Today she was hosting their most important meeting ever.

Glad she lived far from the congested city’s smog, Morgan opened the front door and filled her lungs with fresh air. Stretching her arms to the rolling mountains, she said, “I need all of you to back me up on this one.” Admittedly, she didn’t label herself as a Christian but she was a believer in the higher power and prayed all of her neighbors would support her on what she was about to unveil. She took another deep breath before going inside and sitting on the bench in the foyer as she waited for her girls to walk in.

Brooks was the first to arrive. Strolling in wearing elegant, winter white wool slacks and a powder-blue, buttoned-up cashmere sweater, her best friend struck a diva pose.

“Hey, girl, you look fabulous as always. Fresh tan?”

Morgan smiled then nodded at Brooks. “I could save a lot of money if I were born with your complexion.”

“Mz. Bronze and Blonde—tanned or not—you’re always flawless.”

All of the girls were stellar, on the outside.

Proudly, the Rich Girls flaunted their wealth and their wisdom. A smart woman afraid to speak her mind underserved everyone around her. The confidence each of the girls exhibited was the reason Morgan had handpicked them from the most elite women’s-only establishment in Beverly Hills, where the membership fee was one hundred thousand dollars a year. Money could gain the right woman access to the Beverly Hills group, but membership into the Rich Girls’ Club was limited to the four of them and closed for life. Any other women desiring to start their own RGC had to do just that.

Brooks sniffed the air. “Umm,” she moaned, inhaled long and slow, then continued, “It smells delicious in here, girlfriend. The scent alone makes me feel guilty for what I’m thinking about eating. What’s that sexy-ass cook of yours making?”

Giving Brooks a kiss on the lips, Morgan said, “You know Bo; he’s in the kitchen preparing his special crepes, homegrown apples with fresh ground cinnamon, his version of grilled smoked pineapple chicken sausage, and lots of other fresh goodies using vegetables that he hand-picked from my garden this morning. He’s amazing. That’s why I keep him on payroll.”

Bo was so fantastic with his culinary skills he deserved his own cable television show. Morgan was appreciative to have him prepare their brunch each week. He was the best chef she’d ever hired and the most handsome black man she’d ever laid her jade-colored eyes upon. Well, second most attractive African American. Her husband was the first. Like Michael Jackson sang, “It don’t matter if you’re black or white.” She’d also dated white, Cuban, Latino, Iranian, and Egyptian men.

Though the two men—Magnum and Bo—had never met, Morgan knew she had to make sure they never did. One look at Bo and Magnum would fire him on the spot. Men didn’t like to admit it but they were jealous of attractive men, the same way most women were jealous of gorgeous women, who were hired to work inside their home.

Interrupting her thoughts, Brooks said, “If I weren’t already—” then abruptly stopped.

Morgan stared at her friend. “Already what, girl? Don’t stand there with your mouth hanging open. Say it.”

“Nothing. It’s not like my dickless life matters to anyone except me.” Brooks’s eyes rolled toward the ceiling, then back to Morgan. “Maybe I should buy me some good dick of my own that’s attached to a real man, girl. It’s not like I couldn’t afford to take care of one…or two.” Brooks laughed then shook her head.

“There’s nothing wrong with being dickless for a few weeks, but it’s been years,” Morgan said. Reaching between Brooks’s thighs, she strummed her girlfriend’s clit.

Brooks jumped back, swatting Morgan’s hand away. “Don’t do that. What if someone sees you?”

“Sorry girl, I couldn’t help it,” Morgan told her. “Besides, celibacy does have some advantages. Maybe I should add getting you laid to today’s agenda.”

One day her friend would get some good dick and get married again. Next time, to the right man. Not to some loser boasting about her success while splurging her money on a gold digger. If Magnum ever cheated on Morgan, he might not live to regret it, or she’d probably pay someone to break all three of his legs. She rattled her head, shaking away the horrible vision in her mind. She loved her husband too much to hurt him but then again she did believe in an eye for an eye.

“Go enjoy a cocktail, girl, for the both of us. I moved the bar. The champagne, orange juice, and Bloody Mary ingredients are set up near the window overlooking the pools.”

Routine bored Morgan. Sex. Business. Décor. Each week she had the furniture in their clubroom rearranged. Her bedroom was redecorated monthly with new linens, drapes, a decorative comforter, and lots of throw pillows. Her designer bath towels were changed weekly. The only thing that remained consistent in Morgan’s life was her friendship with her girlfriends and her marriage.

“Well, to the bar! That’s where you’ll find me,” Brooks said, walking in the direction of the west wing.

“Brooks, wait. Giving you a heads up, honey. I have a serious proposition for you but I’ll announce it when Storm and Hope get here. And no, I’m not going to tell you now so go have that drink and relax.”

“Morgan, trust me, with all the LA drama I’ve heard at my coffee shop this week—from basketball wives to housewives, sweetheart, I will happily wait while I’m enjoying a much needed drink,” Brooks said, resuming her stride.

Morgan sat on the bench in the foyer smiling as she watched Brooks strut down the hallway like it was a runway. There was something special about the sway in a black woman’s hips that conveyed her confidence. What Morgan had in mind for Brooks would certainly please the Rich Girls. This was the opportunity of their lifetimes and the time to implement her idea was now.

Brooks, the most conservative amongst them, hadn’t dated since her divorce five years ago. Thanks to her loyal customers, Brooks owned the most popular twenty-four hour café in LA—BK Brew. Brooks constantly met attractive eligible bachelors, so there was no reason for her girlfriend not to have a man. Netting an annual revenue in excess of three million dollars, Brooks literally had men and money at her fingertips. Brooks knew most, if not all, of the regulars by their first and last names but Morgan wasn’t sure why her friend refused to go out on dates with any of them. Had something earth-shattering happened during Brooks’s childhood? Rape? Molestation? Heaven forbid if Brooks had had an abortion and never told anyone. They’d both be devastated.

Morgan glanced up from the files in her lap.

Hope Andrews, the well-kept daughter of a billionaire Native American Tribal Leader who owned several casinos on reservations throughout California, strolled in wearing a mink shawl and a pink, knee-length, halter dress with a plunging V-neckline.

“Hey, Mrs. Childs,” Hope beamed with a wide smile. Proudly she adjusted her double-Es. “It sure smells good in here! What’s on the menu?”

A brilliant pink diamond choker complimented her pink emerald-cut earrings. From her heart to her head to her feet, Morgan loved that nothing about Hope was fake. The breast enhancements didn’t count. The way the Rich Girls saw it, the implants were an investment in Hope’s happiness.

Closing the folder, Morgan replied, “Big business, babe. You look stunning as always. Brooks is already here. Go join her. Get comfortable. Have a drink. I’ll be in as soon as Storm arrives.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Hope said, laying her mink over her arm. She jiggled her voluptuous buttocks down the hall.

The three-thousand square-foot, oval-shaped clubroom that Hope was headed toward was an area designated to fornicate and to facilitate the Rich Girls’ life-altering decisions. For years, beginning early in her marriage, the room was Morgan’s hideaway. A place where she’d escape to meditate or unwind while reading her favorite authors, like Marissa Monteilh, Pynk, and Mary B. Morrison.

Morgan refused to buy books written by reformed doggish me. . .