The Lesbian Billionaires Club, page 1
THE LESBIAN BILLIONAIRES CLUB
KC LUCK
Copyright © 2019 KC Luck Media
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are
products of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual events, locales or persons—either living or dead—is
entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions
thereof in any form whatsoever.
20190914
CONTENTS
FOREWORD
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ALSO BY KC LUCK
Thank you for your interest in The Lesbian Billionaires Club
. I sincerely hope you enjoy the story. It was a pleasure to
write. If you find time, a review, or even better, a referral to
another reader, is always appreciated.
Please enjoy!
KC
1
Standing at the bar in the lavish penthouse apartment, I
slowly make myself a scotch over ice. Not just any
scotch. Glenlivet. Aged longer than the fifty-one years
I’ve been alive. Life is too short to drink shitty alcohol.
Besides, I could afford it. Easily. Twenty-seven years as a
puppet master pulling the strings behind Roseland Media,
and I am worth 1.3 billion. Maybe more considering how
well the stock market is doing. Some of the biggest acts in
entertainment answer to me. I am the manager to the
managers of superstars of music, film, and a little of
everything else. No one makes money without me getting a
cut. A large cut.
Smiling, I sip the scotch and turn back to the room. The
lights are low, just the way I like them at night, casting
shadows across the sleek lines of the black and chrome
furniture. An Asian inspired design. Clean, minimal,
nothing unnecessary in its function. Whenever I come to
Chicago, I stay at the International Towers along the city’s
Miracle Mile and in this space. They know me here, but
then again, don’t, because I use a name other than my own.
The world is too small a place to be anything but discreet.
Besides, one of the rules of the club I belong to is no
names, no titles, no acknowledgment of who any of us are
aside from the richest lesbians in the world—a small,
exclusive cadre of wealth and power.
In the morning, we will meet. Not everyone who
qualifies will make it, but I’m confident most will as there is
something invigorating about being surrounded by so much
power. Of course, there's always some posturing; too many
type-A personalities to have otherwise, but for the most
part, the group lets me relax, as if we ‘get’ each other.
Besides, we always have a bit of fun. Someone will always
challenge another to a wager or two. It’s funny how bored a
person gets when they can buy absolutely anything in the
world.
But that is all for tomorrow, and I want to focus on
tonight. Moving across the room to the coffee table, I tap
my phone to check the time, and my smile widens. Any
second and the front desk will discreetly let a friend of
mine have access to the top floors of the tower. In fact,
knowing her and her promptness, she is probably on her
way. Thinking of her impending arrival, I feel a flutter in my
stomach. The woman is another thing I always partake in
when I come to this city. As if conjuring her from thin air,
there is a quiet buzz at the door. I could have let the
penthouse’s butler stay and had him get the door, but not
tonight. No staff tonight.
I sip the scotch giving myself another moment to enjoy
the smoky flavor across my tongue. My guest will wait; all
night if I choose. After all, I paid handsomely for her time,
but the twitch of anticipation inside me convinces me to
open the door. When I do, I pause to appreciate the beauty
of the creature before me. My eyes travel her body, and she
remains perfectly still, without a word, as I assess her. Her
cascading black hair and mocha-rich skin are a perfect
contrast to the blood red dress she wears. The one-
shoulder design is as elegant as it is sexy, fitting her petite
body like a glove. For a fleeting moment, I think that is a
shame, because it's likely I will tear it when I rip it off her.
Finally, I let my eyes travel back to her face. Delicate
features. Hazel eyes. Full lips under red lipstick to match
her dress. Our eyes meet, and in them, I see a desire as
strong as my own. We've never discussed it, but I know I
am her favorite client. She prefers women, but not many
can afford her, and so my appointments are a treat. When
her pussy clenches my fingers, and I feel her body tremble
as she comes, I know it is no act. I think she would visit me
even if I didn't pay her, but that would change the dynamic.
There is no room in my life for a girlfriend—not even one
who fucks as good as she does.
Stepping aside, I nod toward the apartment’s living
room. “Please come in.” I’m always polite. Some of the
women in the club are Doms, and I appreciate how easy
that would be to embrace, but I'm not interested in
controlling a woman's every thought. Although I will always
be in charge, the butch in me will accept nothing less, I like
a natural response from the women I sleep with. Free will
is essential, even in bed.
Enjoying the view of her subtle curves, I follow behind
her as she moves with an almost regal grace across the
space to stand by the floor-to-ceiling windows while I
return to the bar. “Champagne?” I ask. She nods without
turning to me. Now she too is a shadow, backlit by the
moon and the sparkle of lights from the city around us. I
have the champagne ready knowing she will want it from
our visits in the past. Carrying the flute, I join her in
appreciation of the skyline. Chicago is dazzling at night,
and I have a fondness for the city's vibrant downtown. She
takes the glass and sips. Although we rarely talk, she is
unusually quiet tonight. I can't decide if I want to ask why,
after all, that is not why she is here, and before I can, she
turns to me.
“This is the last time,” she whispers. “I can't see you
after tonight.” Raising an eyebrow, I consider her
statement and try to assess how I will respond. Indeed, it's
a shame as we are good together, but in the end, I don't
care. There are others. Lots of others.
“Then make tonight your best,” is all I say. In answer,
she drinks her champagne in a single swallow before
setting the flute aside. Curious, I sip my scotch letting her
lead for the moment, and I am not disappointed. Reaching
behind her, she unzips the red dress before sliding it off to
stand in front of me with nothing covering her but a lacy
black thong. Her breasts are small, but that's never
mattered, as long as her nipples are tight. In her
excitement, they are, and I already know how they will
taste in my mouth. Still, I wait. Clearly, she has an agenda.
Moving toward me, she slowly kneels and reaches for
my belt. My whole body tightens in response. There is
something so erotic about a beautiful woman on her knees
in front of me—by choice. I enjoy another small swallow of
my drink as she conquers my zipper and moves her hands
inside the fabric of my slacks to slide them down past my
hips. Anticipation inside me mounts. I know later in the
evening I will fuck her, more than once, but right now I
lean back against the window to give her access. The drop
is ninety-eight stories, but I don’t give it a thought. Nothing
tangible, like heights, frightens me. I am rewarded for my
accommodation as her fingers clasp the top of my briefs
and pull them down to give her mouth access to my swollen
clit. I am wet and hard, and her tongue almost burns me as
she licks me in a long, slow caress. She is teasing a little,
knowing I like sex to be almost feverish, but before I can
correct her, she moves in to pull me hard against her
mouth. Sucking me. The pace is no longer playful, and I let
one hand drop to her hair, where I entangle my fingers to
help guide her, while the other still holds the not quite
forgotten scotch.
“Fuck,” I murmur as my guest expertly uses her tongue
to part my lips further and flick just inside me. I realize
then I might miss her after all. She knows exactly what it
will take to get me off. The combination of her movements
from one point of pleasure to another makes me buck my
hips against her. She wraps her arms around my thighs to
keep me in place because we both know what is about to
happen. A groan of pleasure escapes from her throat, and I
can imagine how wet she is for me. Her pussy will be
swollen and need me to fuck it, but first this—first my turn.
I clench my fist in her hair to hold her in place as I come,
knowing she can taste me, and no doubt feel me throb. We
stay there a moment as I tremble slightly against the cool
glass of the window. The lingering waves of the orgasm still
roll through me as she leans back and licks her lips. I
cannot help but smile. In a moment, it will be my turn, and
I will make her scream with pleasure before the night is
over, but I savor the feeling of my body as I raise my glass
to sip my expensive scotch.
2
White clouds move into a myriad of shapes as I watch
them through the eight-foot windows of Zena’s yacht.
One minute a lion, the next a train engine, and then
into something phallic, and I smile. Leave it to me to find X-
rated amusement in a simple game. “I see you grinning,”
Val says from across the giant mahogany coffee table,
polished to such a shine I see my reflection. “You have to
share.” I look at her from where I recline on the splendidly
soft white leather of the couch. I like Val. She is old money
and has control over vast amounts of real estate in what
used to be the Soviet Union. I believe she might own an
entire country even but would never inquire. We never do.
Of course, Val is not her real name either. We never use our
given names. Just part of the security in place to keep the
club anonymous. There are too many devices built for
eavesdropping from ridiculously long distances. Even with
the wind off Lake Michigan today, which blows quite hard
for a sunny day in mid-July, we can’t be too careful. So, I
am Madison. It was my great-grandmother's maiden name,
and I always liked the sound of it. I mean, if I get to pick a
name, I might as well select something I enjoy.
Before I answer Val, Lila joins us with a handsome young
waiter in tow. As she takes a seat with her usual grace, the
young man with the tray hands out drinks. They are fruity
looking but with a hint of green, and I can’t make out what
Lila concocted for us this morning. Wary, I accept mine
with a nod of thanks to the waiter. I have no qualms about
Zena's staff knowing I am there. They are carefully vetted,
all sign ironclad nondisclosure agreements, and no cell
phones allowed onboard. Not even my own, which is mildly
annoying, since I run my media empire from it, but a break
for a few hours is welcome too. Once the man leaves, and
we are alone, Lila raises an eyebrow. “What did I miss?”
she asks, and Val nods in my direction.
“Asking what she is grinning about,” she explains.
“While looking absently out the window. At clouds.”
I know I’m not going to get out of answering so I shrug.
“One of my favorite toys, all right?” A fleeting thought of
last night’s guest straddling me on the bed crosses my
mind. My watching as she took me inside her inch by inch.
I throb as the delicious memory plays over me.
Clearly not noticing my erotic reverie, Lila immediately
leans forward to look out the window at the sky. “Is it
gone?” she asks with the playful humor I enjoy in her
company. It's incredible actually, how we all act like
ordinary people when in each other's presence. I imagine
our assistants, employees, and other minions would not
even recognize us. Letting out a deep breath, I relax and
sip my drink. This has the feel of a great visit. A wash of
something unpleasant passes over my tongue, and I
swallow with regret as I put the glass on the coaster.
“Dear God, what the fuck is that?”
Lila laughs as she adjusts the flowing folds of her
colorful skirt. “An old family secret,” she replies, a twinkle
in her eye. “Rejuvenates the spirit.” I shake my head.
Considering how vibrant Lila is, especially at her age, I
have to believe the potion works. I’m still not drinking the
stuff. I raise my hand to signal the young man standing at
attention, ready to jump to any request, across the expanse
of the recreation room. As he reaches me, I point at the foul
beverage.
“Find me a Bloody Mary and get this sludge away from
me.” While the waiter complies, Lila laughs so hard she
shakes. Val has joined in by now, and I find myself grinning.
“I see I am late to the party,” comes a deep, sensual
voice from behind me, thick with a Middle Eastern accent.
Zena has arrived. Glancing her way, I take in the serious
countenance on her face and am not surprised. Zena is the
most paranoid of the lot of us. Considering the price she
will pay if her sexuality is ever confirmed, I appreciate her
concerns. Still, we all try to help her relax when it is safe to
do so. Today, she should be especially satisfied with
security. After all, this is her yacht, in the middle of a giant
lake, with discreet, yet fully armed security onboard.
“You haven’t missed a thing,” Val assures her. “Come sit.
Lila has a special drink for us.” Zena walks with her usual
confidence to join us.
“I'm not drinking that green shit if that's what you
mean,” she says. “She tried it on me before you arrived. If
it were anyone else, I'd have cried poison.” At this, Zena
actually smiles and sits in the chair that makes up the edge
of our rectangle. Everyone who was able to come is now
here. It is a small number, only a third of our members, but
we are an elite group and breaking away for even a day, or
two is not easy. Empires could rise and fall in a day or two.
My drink arrives, as does one for Zena, the staff
obviously knowing her morning beverage of choice and
exactly where she is at every second. When we are alone
again, I raise mine toward the others. “To good fortune for
us all.” The other three join in the toast, and as we tip
glasses at each other, I notice Zena is looking me over.
“What?” I ask after taking a drink, already knowing the
answer. I hoped the woman forgot, but of course, she
wouldn't. Not only is Zena not one to ever forget anything,
but this is too great an opportunity to gloat to let pass.
“You know what,” Zena answers, her black eyes holding
me in a stare. “You lost. And to think, you could have
picked the women’s World Cup instead of a stupid boat
race.” She laughs softly and as much as I hate losing at
anything, seeing her even slight merriment is worth it.
Zena does not laugh often. I shake my head in mock disgust
and hope the price of my defeat is not too high.
