Big Dick Energy

"Look, you haven't got anything to worry about. I fix problems like this daily. It's what I do." I hang up the phone and toss it onto the passenger seat of the Mercedes as I pull up to the entrance to Lola's mansion, looking up at her name embossed in gold across the 10 foot gate. A burly Samoan glares at me, his arms folded. Sauntering over slowly. I just take off my sunglasses and flash a 100-watt smile his direction.

"Oh, I'm sorry Mr. Becker. I didn't recognise you." he stammers, dashing over to the button to let me in as fast as his 300 pounds will allow. I just shoot him a thumbs up and rev the car's V8, waiting for the gates to swing open and allow me up the long, winding driveway.

Passing the enormous gardens, I glance out at the people dotted around the estate. Particularly at the backup dancers rehearsing on the grass, their bodies glistening with sweat as they practice grinding against one another in the California sun.

I pull right up to the front door of the house - huge, modernist, hideous. A giant white stucco eyesore atop Beverly Hills, visible from miles around. It must have cost millions, but these pop girls have never had good taste. The door is left open, so I kill the Mercedes' engine and waltz right on in.

Most rooms are empty - huge, high-ceilinged places with uncomfortable looking 'stylish' furniture - but in the hallway I catch a glimpse of someone I recognise. Amy. Lola's manager, tapping away on her tablet and looking stressed.

Tall, blonde and formidable. Amy must be in her mid-forties by now, but it's clear from her figure that she doesn't have all those gym memberships just to fuck the trainers. Her tight black dress hugs her figure, her shoulders and impressive arms on display. Her eyes hidden behind some enormous Tom Ford shades.

She flashes me a patronising smile and coos "Brucey!" Her arms outstretched for a hug, I lean in. One hand on her toned back and the other gently cupping her firm, perfect ass. She doesn't seem to mind. "To what do we owe the pleasure?" she beams, her grin seeming insincere.

"Look Amy, don't fuck me around." I reply. That's all I had to say. Amy drops the smile and stiffens up. Suddenly transforming into an icy bombshell businesswoman, which only makes her appear even more attractive.

"We were sure we'd sell out the arenas." Amy says, her voice a low and level tone.

"But you didn't. So now my clients are wondering why Lola's losing money on the tour and I don't have any answers. So here I am."

Amy grabs my arm and tugs me. "Come with me."

She guides me, pulling herself close to my arm. On her high heels, Amy is almost taller than me, but lacks an inch or two. I check her out again as I allow her lead me outside to a balcony overlooking the swimming pool.

"This is not a good time," she hisses, nodding down over the balcony. "Vogue magazine is here today."

Alarms start blaring in my head. As soon as the press hears about a failing career the sharks start circling. I glance down by the swimming pool. It’s a very professional setup, cameras and assistants and lights all around.

And in the centre of it all is Lola. A slender, perfectly-proportioned natural blonde in her early twenties - the biggest popstar in the world. And it’s easy to see why. She sways her hips for the camera, revealing her legs, her toned stomach, her petite but perky cleavage, she moves like an expert. Putting veteran supermodels to shame and eclipsing Britney Spears, Rihanna and Madonna with ease. She switches from innocent smiles to intense, smouldering gazes right into the camera lens without hesitation. Hands roaming all over her tiny Japanese-style kimono, a black choker around her throat with her own name embossed in silvery letters. It’s almost amazing the cameraman hasn’t blown a load in his pants already. He must be gay.

I smirk to Amy, “She looks like a whore, doesn’t she?” But the older woman gives me a judgemental glare back.

“She’s not a ‘whore’, she’s a slut. And slut-shaming is against our principles.”

Standing off to the side of the set slightly and shouting encouragement, is Lola’s childhood-friend turned personal assistant Riley. A slightly awkward East Coast brunette, she wears a professional looking pencil skirt and blouse that barely closes over her huge, heaving tits. With her horn-rimmed glasses and clutching a clipboard close to her, she calls out to Lola how sexy she is and how perfect all these photos are going to be. She glances up and notices me watching and smiles shyly, waving to me and unintentionally setting her perfect breasts bouncing.

Distracting me from the busty brunette, I feel an elbow jutting into my ribs as Amy tries to get my attention. Pointing off to a deck-chair by the swimming pool, she whispers “That’s the journalist Vogue sent.”

I glance over and follow her finger, noticing a girl laying out across the sun lounger in a dress that fits snugly to her hourglass figure. It’s a tall, beautiful trans girl, enjoying the sun while she waits for the photoshoot to finish. Unusual for neither Amy nor I to recognise a music journalist for a company like Vogue, I make a mental note to stop by and see what she’s about.

But before that, I need answers. Why is Lola’s tour failing? Is it down to Amy mismanaging her client’s fame? Maybe Riley is holding Lola back. Or perhaps Lola just isn’t trying hard enough. Whatever the cause, I’ve been sent to fix this situation, and that’s what I’ll do.