Some called it White privilege or affluenza. All that Jackson knew was he was a rich White kid who had a lot of money and time.
It also made him feel invincible and untouchable.
He grew up watching many of his classmates grow up to become reality stars or famous in some other aspect. Whoever didn’t become famous, became lawyers, doctors, or executives.
And then there was Jackson—rich and bored. His MIT-worthy intelligence could’ve gotten him into any prestigious school in or out of the United States and his trust-fund wealth would’ve kept him afloat forever. Jackson didn’t want to be like everyone else. He just didn’t know what it was that was his passion.
He could vividly recall the moment his life changed forever. One of his friends became a world-famous actor, and hired Jackson to be his personal assistant. Jackson ran errands and did whatever his friend wanted; from grabbing lattes to picking up designer suits for award ceremonies to making late-night drug runs. In exchange, Jackson had unlimited access to other celebrities. He quickly discovered that behind the stage makeup, designer wardrobe, and numerous awards were people who were broken and battered, fragile egos damaged by horrible childhoods and haunting career choices.
He also discovered the same people had kinks that needed to be met.
It was one night after a sex marathon with a Hollywood starlet that a new untapped resource was born. “Jackson,” the young woman moaned and writhed beneath him as he kneaded his hands into her supple flesh, “you have the hands of an angel. I would pay to keep you around just to massage me.”
It was an idea Jackson wished he’d thought of sooner. He loved sex and he loved massages. What better way to combine them both?
So it began—a quest to make his prostitution business legit. First, he would have to become certified in massage therapy. Then, he would have to find the perfect women. They would have to be weak, down on their last dollars, and desperate. Mentally-strong women wouldn’t do because he didn’t want to keep a rotation. No, he wanted these girls to need him and be their brain when they didn’t want to think. He would also have to approach these girls as someone who would legitimately help and not hurt them.
It was by luck that he looked like a Ken doll—blond hair, cobalt blue eyes, a muscular, tawny build, and a schoolboy charm that would make any woman want to drop her panties for him. Many of the items he owned—clothing, cars, and expensive trinkets—were given to him for free, simply because of his looks.
No woman would look at him and think he was a fast-talking pimp who had hoes on a corner. Instead, they looked at Jackson as the guy next door. He was convincing, letting the girls know that he was only trying to help, and if they wanted to leave, they could anytime they wanted. He was the shoulder to cry on, the counselor whenever there was a problem, the disciplinarian whenever there was an issue with the girls. With the perfect smile and soft dimples in his face, Jackson looked endearing and safe.
Of course, being reckless in bed didn’t hurt, either. Jackson had a reputation of bringing his conquests to multiple orgasms and making them sore for days long after a night with him. His oral skills were as legendary as his cock, making a woman sing as she held his face down in her nectar and rode his tongue to many orgasms throughout the night.
He wasn’t a pimp. He was a stockbroker, if you will. Just as a person would watch the stocks to see how their money is doing, Jackson eyed his girls to make sure they acted right. To him, he was merely a protector of his investments.
And his investments were managing his personal massage business. High-class executives, Hollywood actors, musicians, athletes, and regular Joe Schmoes would call up Jackson’s service to set up an appointment. The girls would go to the client’s house, render any services, and return home to Jackson, with a large wad of cash in tow. It was always discreet and untraceable, especially back to Jackson.
He was sure some person in a white coat with a couple of letters at the end of their name would tell him that his issues with women were related to his mother and the massage business was a fuck you to her in some form. They were probably right.
Daddy’s Angel is available now in ebook form.
Jackson and Liane, Part 2, will be available next month.