10 Commandments

by Angel, Dark

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons is entirely coincidental. This work is intended for adults only.

  Aidan

  "Welcome to the 2017 Romance Authors Guild of America Awards Ceremony," some stupid fucking idiot is announcing on the other side of the curtain. "If you’ll raise your glasses in a toast, I’d like to introduce you to your hostess for the evening."

  Yeah, I don't fucking know who the fuck is out there introducing the hostess. I don’t really fucking care at this point in the game. Why, you ask?

  "Oh, fuck, baby, that’s it," Susan moans lewdly in front of me as she juts her ass out at me and I plunge into her with my 12-inch cock. Her elegant black dress is hiked up and her thong is on the floor. My trousers are at my feet and I’m pounding her ass mercilessly. Just as the bottom of her dress is hiked up, the top of her dress is lowered, giving my hands no obstacle as I reach over and squeeze her tits, pinching her pink nipples and making her throw her head back in ecstasy.

  That’s fucking why.

  "It’s my deep honor to introduce you to USA Today Bestselling Author, Alyssa Moore," that unnamed twat on the other side of the curtain that separates me from the stage continues.

  Wait a fucking second. Alyssa Moore?

  I look over the backside of the woman that I’m fucking. She’s got long dark brown hair. Fuck, her pussy’s not tight in the least, but it’s getting the job done. Her face isn’t much to look at. I guess I can grab her ass – she does have an alright ass. But when you’ve gotten as much fucking pussy as I have, this girl doesn’t really seem that fucking special.

  But wait one moment. I need to ask her something.

  "Susan," I say as I keep thrusting in and out and even time my words with my thrusts. At least that’s what it seems like. "What’s your last name again, love?"

  That’s a pretty fucking horrible question to ask a broad as you’re fucking her, isn’t it?

  Well, it’s a damn sight better than asking her what her first name was—and yes, I’ve had to fucking do that before—so don’t judge me too fucking harshly. But why would you judge me at all? You love this shit. You wish you were right here with me, so I could fuck you with my thick, hard cock, don’t you?

  Don’t you?

  Don’t fucking lie to me.

  I’m 6’ 3" of raw animal lust in a gorgeous fucking body. I have tattoos up and down my left arm. My muscles are cut with the precision of a diamond drill. My 8-pack abs and my pecs and deltoids showcase a body that’s crowned by my lean face and mysteriously dark brown eyes. I have close-cropped brown hair. And let’s not forget the monster 12-inch cock that’s ravaging this pussy right now. One foot of pussy pleasing power added onto a body of a fucking god.

  If you don’t wish I was fucking you on the backstage of an awards dinner with the Who’s Who of the romance writing world, then I would seriously suggest that you rethink your priorities, love.

  But enough about you and I. Let’s go back to her.

  "What. Is. Your. Last. Name." I say the words with each thrust. They seem to drive her fucking crazy.

  "Mo…unnngnhh," she attempts, but my cock goes inside of her and pleasure courses through her body.

  "Try again," I gasp. I can’t fucking help it. I’m getting close to cumming.

  "Mo….Moore," she finally manages to gasp in between shudders.

  Oh fuck. It can’t be.

  "Do you have a sister named Alyssa?" I ask, my ears perking up to what the lady on the other side of the curtain is saying. Luckily, people are still applauding and she’s just saying thank you to the folks.

  "What? Yeah, I have an older…unghh…sister. Unghh…Alyssa. Why?" Susan asks. Remarkably, I haven’t stopped pounding her. But I can multi-task during my fuck – see love, you thought I was just some dumb stud with a 12-inch cock, didn’t you? I’m Aidan Stone.

  That’s right.

  You knew there was a good reason you were attracted to me from the very first word in this chapter.

  I am THE Aidan Stone. I’ve graced hundreds of romance novel covers around the world. You have, and will, and probably are, fucking touching yourself as you look at my body on the books by Eddie Cleveland or Simone Sowood.

  Basically, I parlayed my looks into something fucking real—a fucking enviable portfolio of book covers and modeling gigs. And besides, I have goals. Professional goals that I’ve been trying to get to. What are they?

  Wait a fucking second. I’m gonna cum soon, and I want to rip off my condom and cum all over this bitch. We’ll get back to this history lesson in a few minutes, alright love?

  Besides, it turns out that I’m fucking the sister of the girl I used to fuck. How fucking crazy is that?

  That’s right. Now you want me, don’t you? Because I fucked Alyssa Moore – USA Today and New York Times Bestselling Author who goes around as the Champion of fucking Humanity. I don’t even know if she writes as many books nowadays. She spends most of her time trying to save the world from blowing itself up. Goes around the world with her curvy fucking ass and big fucking tits and dick-sucking lips and talks about how we should stop using fucking land mines or some shit.

  Yeah, I fucked her for two weeks. I thought it would help me get a cover from her publisher. That I’d get an introduction so that I’d be on the cover of a Sinful Reads book. I’d get some pussy from it too, and I wasn’t complaining. I mean that horny bitch jumped my fucking bones the day she met me. Knocked on my hotel room door and without a word got on her knees and began to suck my cock. Used to love it when I sprayed my thick cum all over her body. She used to scoop it up with her fingers and make a purring noise as she would swallow my semen.

  How long ago did I meet her?

  That’s the fucking rub.

  Two fucking weeks ago. That’s right. I sent her a text today – this morning as soon as my private jet touched down in New York City. I figured she lives in New York and I have to be here for this awards show that they’re having so why not kill two birds with one stone and break up with her before the fucking dinner.

  So I dropped by her place. I needed to find her. It was obvious that Sinful Reads wasn’t going to be giving me a cover. It became even more apparent that I wasn’t gonna get a fucking cover when Alyssa decided to drop Sinful Reads as a publisher a few days ago. So yeah, when I got into New York, I was ready to talk to her at long last about what I really wanted from her—not her pussy, but her covers. What I didn’t know was that she lived with her fucking sister, and that her sister was a slut as well. I mean, a little bit of banter with the sister and all of a sudden I have a date for this Romance Author awards dinner. And not even a single glass of wine and she’s dropping her panties and hiking up her skirt and I’m fucking her from behind.

  Go fucking figure. Only problem is that along the way, I had to end things with Alyssa. So, I sent her a text.

  Don’t fucking look at me like that. When she first showed up, I told her this was temporary and it would probably be over in two weeks. She seemed okay with it at the time. And every time I mentioned it, she would brush it off. Well, I wasn’t fucking lying, love.

  "Yeah, babe," I say to Susan, not sure how to broach this subject. I continue my thrusting. "That’s your sister out there emceeing."

  Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything to her. Because she turns her head and tries to listen.

  "…I just want to thank everyone who has ever supported the causes I believe in," Alyssa speaks. "But I also want to take a moment to reach out in the world to a man tonight. This man is incredible and I can’t get him out of my head. He has literally taken me to a new level when we’re … together."

  Oh, fuck. This can’t be good. I slow down my thrusting into Susan as I listen to her sister speak. I’m getting close to cumming and I don’t want to ruin it by having to listen to Alyssa. I mean, sure she was fun, but that’s a
ll she was. I mean, I was trying to get to her publisher after all. She wasn’t anything fucking special and I made sure she knew that from the first day. Truth be told, she was a bit of a fucking princess. As a male model, it’s easy for me to say, but I hate people who have all this entitlement about them.

  Then what about me? Yeah, I’m a fucking asshole too. I freely fucking acknowledge that, love. I’ll even say it again. Fucking asshole. Me.

  But let’s get back to Alyssa because she starts talking again.

  "If you’re out there in the audience, Aidan Stone, I just want you to know that I will do anything to get you back," Alyssa says into the microphone. Even I can hear gasps go through the hushed room. I mean, what would Alyssa say if she knew I was just a few feet from her, fucking her sister – only separated by a curtain in a section of the stage that’s closed off and only accessible by sneaking in? "I can’t go on without you, Aidan."

  Okay, I’m fucked.

  But if I’m fucked, it just fucking does something else to Susan.

  "Oh fuck, she’s talking about you!" Susan screams and turns her head back to me and begins thrusting her ass into my crotch harder. It’s as if fucking me while her sister is begging me to take her back is turning her on.

  Sometimes I just don't understand fucking women.

  "Oh fuck baby, you're fucking me so good, just like you used to fuck Alyssa," Susan moans out. It sounds so dirty that my cock can’t help but twitch inside of her. I have no idea if anyone can hear us, but I sure as fuck hope not.

  "Keep it down, babe," I whisper at her. But it’s no use. Susan has succumbed to the curse of my cock – and she’s begun to cum. Hard. And loud.

  "Holy fuck Aidan, I’m cumming!" Susan literally yells and now I know that people can hear us because I hear Alyssa yell out, "Who’s back there?"

  But I can’t do anything about it. Nothing.

  Because I’m trapped on the verge of my own giant orgasm.

  Susan is whimpering now, her body convulsing and shaking. I see her knuckles go white. Her entire body is in the throes of a mind numbing orgasm. Her pussy clenches around my cock several times before she relaxes. I can feel aftershocks of orgasm go through her.

  "Open the curtain! Now!" I can hear Alyssa command.

  Fuck. Do I even have time to cum?

  Susan seems to make up my mind for me because she pulls away from my cock and swivels around to sink to her knees. She pulls off the condom on my cock and throws it to the ground without a second thought and takes my tip into her mouth.

  She bobs her head twice and begins stroking my 12-inch flagpole before removing her head and looking at me. "Cum for me, Aidan. Come for Alyssa’s little sister."

  And that’s when the curtain lifts on the stage. It happens much faster than I was expecting and within three seconds I’m getting my knob polished in front of a roomful of international glitterati. Romance authors. People who write fucking for a living. But the most shocked person in the room isn’t them. It’s a very horrified looking ex-fling.

  But Susan doesn’t care. She expertly pops her mouth off my giant tip and roughly gives me two swift strokes and before I know it, I’m paralyzed.

  Because I’m cumming.

  Despite the nearly five hundred shocked people in the hall and the very, very shocked Alyssa who is walking over to me, I can’t help but shudder at the pleasure that courses through my body as my cock starts to erupt.

  Cum shoots out of me. Thick ropes of white, gooey semen. Susan milks me expertly. And with each spurt, I’m helpless to do anything as it lands on her face. It splatters her tits. She opens her mouth and lets a shot sail in. I get some on her forehead and it dribbles down her face. Oh fuck. Despite myself, this looks fucking hot.

  Eventually, I stop cumming and tiny dribbles come out. Susan gives me one final stroke and brings her mouth onto my cock again for one last suck, taking everything with her.

  Then she turns to Alyssa, who stands looking at the both us in horror.

  "He’s mine now, sis," she says.

  And with cum dripping down her body, she smiles for the cameras.

  Fuck. The fucking cameras. I can feel them flashing as they capture my handiwork for all eternity.

  It’s not just the photographers. The television networks were filming this. They were gonna put this on the fucking local news. Maybe 15 seconds. Talk about how romance as a genre was becoming its own force within the book world. How it wasn’t just about erotica anymore. How it was a real high brow literary genre. Well, no way they can put this on the local news. Maybe they can sell it to Vivid Video or another porn distributor?

  There's only one thing to do in this situation. I bend down and pick up Susan’s thong. She looks at me and I take it and wipe my cock.

  Now both sisters look at me with undisguised shock. I pull up my pants, and aware that I have an audience in the millions, zip up. Then I turn toward the authors.

  Nearly everyone has their cell phones up. They’re filming. To post on Twitter. Facebook. Google. Show their kids. Show their friends. Prove that they were here.

  I do the only thing I fucking can think of in this situation.

  I take a bow. An elegant, graceful bow.

  And then I straighten up.

  "I’m Aidan Stone, male cover model. You can find me on Instagram, folks," I say. And wait.

  It takes a full five seconds and then I hear it.

  One lone person clapping.

  Then another. And another.

  And finally another.

  Until there are tables that burst out in applause. Some even stand up to give me an ovation.

  What the fuck are they clapping for? Why would they be celebrating what I just fucking did?

  Because people are fucking sheep. Put a lot of them together and you can manipulate them like animals.

  Alyssa, and now Susan, are staring at me. They’re not sure what to make of this.

  But I’m done with them. I toss Susan back her black lace thong, which is dripping with my cum, and turn around to walk off the stage as the applause and ovation continues.

  If you think this was insane, and you can't believe it, then welcome to my life.

  But if you liked what you saw, and want to see where it goes, you’re in for a ride, babe.

  All you’re gonna have to do is flip the page.

  Set foot into a world that’ll defy reality.

  It’ll make you wet. It’ll make you moan.

  You’ll pant.

  But it’ll be the best fucking ride of your life.

  Think you can hold on?

  Then follow me.

  Abby

  Maybe for the fifth time in the hour I refresh my screen.

  I don't really know what I'm hoping for.

  Somehow maybe the large groups of readers that roam the marketplace will realize that oh hey, Abby Cleveland has just released a book, we need to buy it?

  Yeah, that can only happen if the people are made aware that I released a book. And right now, honestly, I'm having trouble believing that I wrote a book—and I'm the author.

  I know I should trust my publisher, but I just can't help but second guess myself and wonder if maybe my publisher even cares.

  I mean, I know the book is good. And honestly, if it isn't good, I'm okay with reviewers telling me it's crap. I'm not one of those authors who's getting their panties in a twist because they got a 1 star review. Some of my favorite authors are gonna get 1 stars because not everyone is gonna like everything. And that's okay.

  But it seems that no one else is being given the opportunity to even give me a 1 star review. Because no one is reading.

  And you want to know the worst thing, hun?

  This isn't even the first time this is happening. This is probably around the third flop I've got. This entire series has just flopped. Hard.

  Like a limp fucking dick.

  Sorry. You just met me and I'm more worried about my declining book sales than anything else.


  Let me take a moment to introduce myself.

  My name is Abby Cleveland and I'm a 23-year-old single woman who lives in New York City. I graduated from NYU about a year ago with an English degree and a boyfriend. I kept the boyfriend but really didn't use the English degree as much. That's because my boyfriend went right to work for Bad Boy Publishing—one of the largest book publishers to come out of the carnage of the publishing world, and he got me a contract with them to be an author.

  And for like about the first year, everything went super. I was writing a book a month and people were liking what I was writing.

  I write primarily contemporary romance. I focus on bad boys. The badder the better and the more the merrier is what I've always said.

  Sure, what I write is sexy. I mean, there isn't a lot of sex in my books. Not as much as some of the people I look up to. And there's no way I'm as good a writer as some of my heroes and role models that got me into the game—like Eddie Cleveland and Alexis Angel. But yeah, I enjoy what I do and the weird part is that I was so young and got a publishing contract.

  So yeah, I'm traditionally published, getting advances and making enough money to live in a one-bedroom apartment in New York City.

  Except until the last three months.

  Where I had flop after flop after flop.

  I swear it was like everyone who ever wanted to read my book decided that they were done reading about my bad boys. That they wanted, for some reason, to move on. I honestly don't understand it and I can't quite place my finger on it.

  Every other indie author I've talked to has been telling me that it's not me; it's my publisher. But I can't just leave my publisher because they're the reason I'm even here in the first place.

  So instead, I've been hoping for the best.

  It doesn't help that last month in an effort to actually get more work done I rented an office here in Midtown. I know it was a bit of an extravagance, but rather than write at home, I wanted to commute form the Upper East Side to Times Square. The hope was that I'd be able to focus.

  Well, that was the hope.

  In reality, all that's happened is I'm paying for an office in a serviced office setting while my book is bombing.