Sex Mogul                                                                                                                                                    

                                                                                                          Volume 1


   Money Over Everythang…


Amaun scanned the thick crowd from atop his perch in the VIP section and picked her out of the crowd like a well-trained sniper. Her famous rear end projected her onto a pedestal, fading other women into the background as if they weren’t fit to be in her world. Her shiny weave cascaded down her back in luxurious curls, stopping just above the opening of her brown, sheer one-piece bodysuit. With each strut of her thick legs, her perfect a** jiggled loosely around her white thong, caving onto the thin fabric mercilessly. Even from a distance, Amaun couldn’t deny it. She was fine. Real fine.

          Too bad she was a straight slut.

          Navaho was a woman that amassed her dimes lying on her back. A stripper-turned-porn star-turned video model-turned hostess, Navaho used her body for profit, hustling her curves like good dope. This was only her third hosting gig in her new venture and she was already commanding fifteen grand just to come through the club to talk on the mic and party with the people.

           Amaun’s new promotion company, Renaissance Promotions, hired Navaho to host his right-hand man’s coming home party. Pretty Ricky had just come home from pulling a dozen years in the South Carolina Department of Corrections, and all he could talk about was the porn star named Navaho with the humongous backshot that had the joint going crazy. From Kershaw to Perry, from Walden to Wateree, nearly every swinging d*** in prison was infatuated with Navaho. Amaun personally thought she was a slut, and wasn’t too thrilled about being in her presence, but whatever his man wanted (and wherever the paper trail led him), he would oblige.

          “Yo, yo, yo, that’s the b**** right there!” Pretty Ricky yelled, pointing over Amaun’s shoulder, leaning with a cold bottle of Ace of Spades clutched in his other hand.

          Amaun pumped his hands. “Chill brother, you playing yourself,” he replied in a low tone, barely decipherable above the Jeezy track rumbling the club. “She’s just another chick.”

          “N****, that’s Navaho!” Pretty Ricky insisted.

          “No, that’s a hoe!” Amaun declared. “The chick done had more wood slung in her than a lumberyard, on cam, and you going crazy over her?” Amaun shook his head in disgust.

          “Well, I ain’t like you, Mr. Cool. I like my b****** nasty, with a big fat a** that they can sit on my face while they s*** my d***,” Pretty Ricky shared without shame, never removing his eyes from Navaho as she made her rounds through the club hugging men and women alike. It was rumored she was only gay for pay, but observing how she lingered a little longer with the female patrons would raise eyebrows of doubt. “I’m going to say hi to her,” Pretty Ricky decided.

          “Handle you, player,” Amaun urged, eager to get rid of his personal sycophant.

          Amaun watched Pretty Ricky navigate his way through the crowd to Navaho while mentally scoffing at his man’s weakness for the flesh. All the beauties in the house and he sweating this ho, Amaun thought. He didn’t go for loose women. A walking contradiction, Amaun preferred his women more virtuous. Never mind the fact he had a cemetery of slain women in his path. To him and his ego, only special women shared his bed. Navaho had been ran through like I-20; she didn’t qualify with his standards. He objectified her as mere flesh.

          Amaun peeped his Gucci watch. 11:30. His eyes flitted to the door, mentally tallying up the throng of people eagerly standing on line to get in and rub shoulders with their fantasy. Judging from the hundreds of people inside, and the people waiting to get in, Amaun assessed that he would easily make the return on his $10,000 investment. Not bad for picking someone up from the airport and showing them around town. He had rented the club at a reduced rate in exchange for the owner getting half of the bar. The door was all his.

          Satisfied that his money was in the bag, Amaun brushed imaginary specks of lint off his black slacks and V-neck pullover sweater, then ventured to mingle with the crowd.

He had just made it to Navaho and Pretty Ricky when a slight commotion garnered his attention near the thick beauty. Apparently, a local thug took what he viewed on video as reality and thought that he could just smack Navaho’s fat a**. Her personal security guard – a beefy six-and-a-half footer – thought different. Luckily, Amaun arrived just in time to regain order.

          “Whoa, whoa, whoa, be easy fam,” Amaun advised the local thug, stepping in between him and the hired muscle. Amaun had seen him around town before, and knew of his rep as a small-timer who thought he was bigger than he actually was. “What’s going on here?”

          “Man, this n**** right here trying to save this ho!” the thug ranted.

          “Whoa fam, you can’t disrespect the lady right here in her face. Come on now,” Amaun chuckled, tickled at his own hypocrisy. “Plus you gonna f*** up my money man! A lot of people coming here to party with her tonight. You feel me?”

          To Amaun’s left, Pretty Ricky seemed to be chomping at the bit, anxious for some action to show the streets he had not gone soft while inside. To his left, Navaho gazed at the whole scene, seemingly unaffected. Just as the thug seemed to be acquiescing, Navaho’s bodyguard reached over Amaun’s head and smacked spit and blood from his mouth with one hand. The thug’s head (and pride) flew one way, and his snapback flew the other. Before he could recover, the bodyguard fired off on him again, crumpling him to the ground in a heap of expensive streetwear.

          Then all hell broke loose.

          The thug’s homies rushed to his aid, taking shots at the bodyguard with anything that wasn’t nailed down. He was a big man, but the little homies tore into him like a pack of wild hyenas, nibbling him down to size. Before the melee got out of control, Amaun snatched Navaho by the arm, and rushed her to the club manager’s office with Pretty Ricky hot on their tail. He wasn’t trading his principles for a cape; just protecting his investment.

          Once they were tucked safely inside the cool confines, Amaun tore into Navaho. “What the f*** is up with your man?!” Amaun roared, his nostrils flaring.

          “What do you mean?” Navaho replied innocently.

          “Why he swing out on little man like that? I almost had the shit under control!” He brushed his face with his palms. “You know how much money that little stunt just cost me? All because he touched your a**? You’ve had your a** touched before, I’m sure.”

          The room went eerily silent as everyone huddled around the bank of television screens to watch the action unfold through the club’s cameras. Navaho’s bodyguard was catching the bad end of a vicious beat down, as bottles, stools, and Chuck Taylors repeatedly rained down on him. Through slivers of open space between the haze of bodies, it appeared he had long stopped moving.

          “Oh my God! They’re gonna kill ‘im!” Navaho cried. “Can’t you do something?”

          “That little stunt he pulled killed my money for the night. So, in my mind, we even.”

          Navaho turned to Amaun with disgust. “Is that all you care about? Money?”

          Amaun’s eyes never diverted from the screen. “Yep.”

          On the screen, security finally managed to regain control of the situation and ushered the rowdy patrons out the door. Then they helped the hired muscle to his feet. He grabbed his head, staggered, and toppled back to the wet floor, out cold again.

          Amaun turned to Pretty Ricky. “Go get Kenny Rich for me. Tell him I’m waiting in his office, need to talk to him.”

          Pretty Ricky disappeared like a magic trick, meanwhile Amaun zeroed in on the camera, struggling to decipher a semblance of clarity from the ruckus. Navaho eased up behind him and leaned over his shoulder to get a closer look at the screen. Her soft flesh brushed Amaun’s shoulder and ignited a spark that he never saw coming. He was aware of her femininity now. As much as he wanted to abhor her, she was still a woman, estrogen still emanated from her pores, enticing him to acknowledge her nature. He bashfully stole a peek over his shoulder and his gaze settled right on her hardened n******, easily visible through the sheer fabric.

          “What do you see?” she whispered. Her fresh breath breezed past his ear and sent chills down his back right to his hardening tool. She placed a hand on the table to balance herself and Amaun noted her perfect French manicure. This impressed him, for Amaun always inspected a woman’s hands. Hands revealed a lot about a woman, from her level of hygiene, to the journey of her life, to her sophistication.        

          “I can’t really tell,” Amaun croaked. Being in such close proximity to Navaho was thieving his cool visage.

          “Let me see.” She leaned in closer. Her hard n***** grazed his neck, the light, rich scent of her Haiku perfume sizzled inside his nose, rattling him further. Under ordinary circumstances, Amaun would’ve been buried nine inches deep inside of Navaho by now, right inside of Kenny Rich’s office.

          But this wasn’t ordinary, and neither was Navaho.

          After a few more seconds of watching the monitor in silence with abated breath, the paramedics finally materialized on screen wheeling a gurney for Navaho’s hired muscle. Amaun was also able to decipher Kenny Rich’s shiny face through the shadows talking with a Horry County Sheriff’s deputy. His deflated body language told a tale that rendered words unnecessary. The results were clear.

          The party was over.

          “S***!” Amaun swore, and stomped his black Margiela sneaker. He stood and turned from the screen.  “They shutting us down for the night.”

          “But what about Carlton?!” Navaho cried, her eyes still glued to the monitor. “Is he okay? What’s going to happen to him?”

          Amaun threw a dirty glance her way that echoed his mood. Before he could shut her down with a thunderous reply, the office door flung open, and Pretty Ricky hurried in with an update.

          “They just shut down the party, man,” Pretty Ricky confirmed. “Kenny Rich say he gotta handle some business with the sheriffs, then he’ll be in to holla at ‘cha.”

          “What about my bodyguard?” Navaho inquired. “What’s going on with Carlton?”

          “Oh dude?” Pretty Ricky chuckled. “They taking him to Grand Strand Memorial. Say he kept passing out so they taking him in to run some tests.”

          “Okay. ‘Preciate it, fam.” Amaun said, dismissively. Pretty Ricky took his cue, and exited the office, leaving Amaun and Navaho in deep thought.

          Amaun clasped his hands behind his back, pacing a hole through the carpeted floor, as he searched his mind for a $10,000 answer. That was his loss: ten bands, maybe more when he tallied up the portion of money he would have to refund just to keep his name good in his new business foray. He scoffed aloud at the thought of hustling backwards.

          “Are you okay?” Navaho asked.

          “Hmm? Oh. Yeah. Just thinking, that’s all,” Amaun whispered.

          “About the money you losing tonight?”

          “Busted.” Amaun chuckled. “It’s hard to be cool when you losing bands.”

          “Hmm. . .” Navaho removed herself from the monitor, and faced Amaun. “Maybe all is not lost,” she suggested.

          “What do you mean?”

          Navaho paused a moment. She placed a slender finger beside her mouth. “I have an idea,” she proposed. “A way we can both end the night happy.”

          Amaun sized Navaho up from head to toe. Her body language suggested she was ready to work off some of the bands her bodyguard had cost him, reconcile the debt with her lethal sexual prowess. She did look stunning, standing there with her hips flaring out. The muscles in her thick thighs flexed through the sheer fabric, and her p**** print bulged out through the thin material. Her plump lips were glossed up and shining harder than the chrome rims on Amaun’s new Z07 Vette.

          But Amaun admired the dough he needed, more than the dough he could knead.

          “Well,” he said, eager to shoot down anything she proposed that didn’t involve getting his green squared away. “Let’s hear it.”

          Navaho smiled and licked her thick lips. “Well . . .”



To Be Continued…

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