by Amy Brent
“Do you remember the tip of your cock hitting my hymen, then breaking through?” I put my hands on his chest and squeezed his nipples as I slid my hips up and down the length of his cock that would fit inside me. Sweat dripped down my nose onto his chest. My body was already burning up on the outside. Now, the inside ignited to catch up.
“I remember the scent of your pussy,” he said, breathlessly. “I could taste you on my tongue. I could smell you for days. My old man was furious that he couldn’t get the smell out of the car, but I fucking loved it. Your pussy walls seemed to grip my cock like a thousand little fingers.”
“Oh… fuck…” I moaned as he slid in and out. “God… I love fucking you…”
“And I love fucking you,” he said. His fingers dug into my sides and he started lifting me up and down. “Now, fuck me faster.”
I took a deep breath and started pummeling my cunt down on his cock. I could feel him hitting my cervix. Fuck, it was almost like I could feel him in my throat. The orgasm came quickly. My body was tingling from head to toe. My big tits swayed on my chest. Cole leaned up to take a hard nipple between his teeth and growled like a wild animal.
“Fuck... Cole… I’m cumming…holy fucking god… Cole… cum with me… cum with me now…”
I don’t know how he did it, but Cole could literally cum on demand. He tightened his grip on my hips and pushed me down hard, filling every inch of me with his manhood. I felt his hot milk flowing within me as my juices washed down over his cock and balls. We jerked and grunted and moaned for a moment, then his grip on my hips loosened and I opened my eyes to see him smiling up at me.
“Just like that night,” he said with a smile.
“Better,” I said, my tongue hanging out. “I love you, Calvin Walker.”
“I love you back, Lucy Walsh.”
“Walker and Walsh,” I said with a grin. “We never got to be side by side in the yearbook like you said.”
“Is that your only regret?” he asked with a tentative smile.
“It is today,” I said, leaning down to kiss him. “It is today.”
THE END
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Sample of Filthy Boss
Description
CANDICE CARLSON:
Men are douchebags! I’m sorry, but there’s just no other way to put it and they can’t deny it. They only want one thing from us, girls. Then, just as you’re about to give it to them, they dump you like a hot rock because their mommy says you’re not good enough for their little boy. Seriously, bitch? I’ll show you not good enough with my fist in your nose.
Then I get assigned to work for Tanner Wright, the bad boy billionaire CEO who thinks his money, good looks, and big bulge in his jeans can get him whatever he wants. And what he wants at the moment is to get into this girl’s pants. What he doesn’t know is, that’s a place where no man has gone before.
The guy’s a billionaire douchebag and I’m a reluctant virgin. That combination could make for a very interesting workplace, indeed.
TANNER WRIGHT
It’s a lot of pressure, living up to a reputation like mine. You just try being a billionaire bad boy CEO for a week and see how you handle things. I’ll bet you end up in the press more than I do!
When you have the looks, money, charm, and bedroom skills that I have, the world is your oyster. So many mansions to buy, exotic cars to drive, yachts to captain, and so many women to… well… you know what the ladies want from Mr. Wright.
So, when Candice Carlson is assigned to work on a project for my company, it’s only fitting that I give her a shot at the brass ring. She’s young and brilliant and beautiful. And there’s something mysterious about her that draws me to her like a moth to a flame.
She can try to resist all she wants, but when Tanner Wright wants something, you can bet the bank that he will get it; one way or another.
Candice Carlson
I was sitting at my desk munching on a take-out salad from the cafeteria downstairs, when the email from my boss came through. I glanced at the large computer monitor sitting to my left, but didn’t bother opening the email. I already knew what it was.
I had been expecting the email since earlier in the day when my boss told me that our company, Goldman & Stern Management Consultants, had won a ten-million-dollar management consulting contract with Wright Enterprises, and that I would be one of the management consultants on the team.
I chewed a mouthful of lettuce and leaned over to read the subject line: Confirmation of Meeting Scheduled with Tanner Wright at Wright Enterprises.
I clicked the link that would automatically add the meeting details to my electronic schedule and went back to eating my salad.
A year ago, I would have been jumping up and down at the thought of meeting with billionaire entrepreneur, Tanner Wright, and his team. Now, this would be just another in a long line of boring meetings with rich douchebags who used Goldman & Stern’s management consultants – like me -- to do their dirty work.
Wow, sometimes I was amazed at how tarnished I had become in just one short year at Goldman. I don’t remember what I expected this job would be, but this wasn’t it.
Still, it was better than slaving away at a non-profit for twenty-grand a year. That was more fulfilling, but this allowed me to buy a lot cooler stuff.
I sighed as I stabbed a cherry tomato and bit it in half with my front teeth. I had already Googled Tanner Wright in anticipation of the meeting. Not that I didn’t already know who he was. Everyone in business knew who Tanner Wright was because he was the stuff of legend.
Thirty-five years old, single, tall, dark, and handsome; with the build of an athlete and the brain of a Rhodes Scholar.
He started Wright Enterprises as a little computer fix-it service in his parents’ basement fifteen years ago, and the company did six billion in revenue last year.
Wright was in to everything now: from computing to networking to cyber-security software to fiber optics. But it took more than generating a ton of revenue for a guy to impress me these days. In my mind, I already had him pegged as just another billionaire playboy who thought he could buy the world and everyone in it.
I took a sip of the watery iced tea that came with the salad and looked out the twentieth-floor window at the hazy Chicago skyline.
“I’ll bet he’s a major douchebag,” I heard myself say.
I couldn’t help it.
Whenever I thought about men these days the word “douchebag” automatically came to mind.
In fact, the word “douchebag” was becoming synonymous with the word “man” in my mind.
Man, douchebag.
Douchebag, man.
Call me jaded, but in my mind, they were one and the same.
I took another bite of the lettuce and munched as I sighed. Why do men have to be such douchebags, I wondered. Aren’t there any good men left in the world? Surely, they’re not all gay or married.
Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating just a little bit. Maybe not all men on planet earth are douchebags. Maybe it’s just the males of the species that I have personally met over my twenty-four years on the planet were douchebags.
They didn’t all start out that way, of course. Some of them were perfectly nice in the beginning. They seemed to evolve into douchebags after they met me. Maybe that was it. Maybe I was the common denominator. Maybe I took perfectly nice guys and turned them into total douchebags. I was patie
nt zero!
I licked the dressing from my lips and reached for the tea. Maybe that was my special power, I thought. I had the power to turn perfectly nice guys into douchebags.
Nah. Who am I kidding.
I don’t have special powers.
Men are quite capable of becoming douchebags all on their own.
They certainly didn’t need any influence from me.
The most recent douchebag in my life was my ex-boyfriend, Scott, who dumped me after dating for five years because his mother didn’t think I was good enough for him.
He actually said those words to me.
“I’m sorry, Candice, but Mother doesn’t think you’re good enough for me.”
“I’m not marrying your mother, Scott,” I shot back. “The question is, what do you think?”
The prick didn’t hesitate. He looked me dead in the eye and said, “I think Mother is probably right.”
And with that, he turned and walked out the door and never looked back.
I was like, are you kidding me, mother f*cker?
I’ve dated your douchebag ass since freshman year at college, saved my virginity for our wedding night, and two months before the wedding, I’m not good enough for you?
Seriously?
F*ck you!
And f*ck your mother!!!
I felt my cheeks getting hot. Even though it’s been over a year since Scott dumped me, it still makes me fume.
Granted, I didn’t come from money like Scott’s family did. The Carlson family was lower middle class at best, but I worked my ass off to get through college and then graduate school. I graduated with an MBA from Harvard last year and was recruited by Goldman & Stern to join their management consulting group before the ink on my diploma was dry.
I have a windowed-office in a Chicago high-rise, and pulldown one-fifty a year plus bonuses. I have a killer apartment downtown, and am on the fast track to make partner within five years. And I’m not good enough for your piece of shit son?
Again, dear mother, f*ck you!
I frowned at my own thought. I never used to cuss like this. Granted, this conversation is only going on in my head, but now I have the vocabulary of a drunken sailor.
And I blame it on Scott and his mommy.
Scott said his mommy thought I was a bad person. She didn’t like the way I treated her little boy.
Fine. Whatever. Sure, I can be a little abrasive at times, and maybe I bossed Scott around a bit, but come on, the guy could barely wipe his own ass without mommy’s help.
If he didn’t have me telling him what to do he would have spent most of his days bouncing through life like a pinball.
Not good enough for your son.
F*ck you, you old bat.
Your son wasn’t good enough for me!
I chewed on a chunk of lettuce and scolded myself for even thinking about this stuff. I mean, it had been over a year since I last saw Scott. Why was this still sticking in my craw?
And why didn’t I want anything to do with men in general now?
Had Scott scarred me for life?
Was I destined to be an old maid?
Or maybe a lesbian?
Hmm, no, I didn’t swing that way.
At least not yet…
I was young, healthy, and horny as the next girl. The fact that I was still a virgin irked me a bit. After all, the whole “saving myself for Mr. Right” crap flew out the window the day Scott dumped me. I’d jump Mr. Wrong’s bones if given the chance.
It’s not that I haven’t had opportunities to have sex. Jesus, you can’t walk down the hallway here at Goldman & Stern without running into a swinging dick. It’s just that I don’t want to be bothered by a man at this point in my life.
And as I said, men are douchebags.
I’d never had a cock inside of me, so maybe I didn’t know what I was missing. But I had long, nimble fingers and the foot-long vibrating dildo I bought online that I called “George Clooney”. George was always waiting for me in my nightstand. What the heck did I need a man for?
No, better for me to focus on my career rather than my love life. I was only twenty-four. I still had plenty of time left on the old biological clock, although some days I could hear it ticking louder than others.
I had my entire future all mapped out. I would find a man after I made partner, probably when I was thirty or so, squeeze out a couple of cute babies by the time I was thirty-five, and find a nice French nanny to raise them for me while I went back to work.
A solid plan, if I do say so myself.
Why would I let a man screw that up?
I finished the salad and wiped the dressing from my lips, then clicked on the email to find out when I’d be meeting with Tanner Wright, who I knew would be a douchebag, albeit a douchebag worth billions of dollars.
Tanner Wright
“I don’t give a damn what it costs, Barry! Just buy the fucking thing! And stop calling me every five seconds. If you miss out on this deal because you’re on the phone with me, I’ll rip off your balls and feed them to my Doberman! Now go!”
I slammed down the phone and balled my hands into fists. I shook them at the ceiling and growled. “Christ, why does everything have to be so fucking hard?”
Henry Costas, my best friend of ten-years and Executive Vice President of Business Development at Wright Enterprises, sat on the other side of my desk with a mild look of concern on his pleasant face.
“Is there a problem?”
I shook my head at him. “I sent my car guy out to the Barrett-Jackson auction in Vegas to bid on a 1961 Ferrari 250 in mint fucking condition, and he’s calling me every ten seconds to update me on the bids. I’m like, for Christ sake, just buy the fucking thing!”
“What was the last bid?” Henry asked.
“Fifteen million,” I snapped. “The catalog estimated that it could go as high as twenty-five million and I’m like, just fucking bid twenty-five million, Barry, and get it over with! I don’t understand the problem.”
I caught Henry grinning at me. When we met, I was in grad school at MIT and he was my business management professor. I didn’t have twenty-five cents to my name back then, and here I was a decade later throwing a temper tantrum over a twenty-five-million-dollar car that I would probably never drive.
“Billionaires do have their own particular sets of problems, don’t they?” Henry said with a sigh.
He crossed his legs and brushed lint from his knee. Henry wasn’t a billionaire, but he’d gotten rich when Wright Enterprises went public five years ago. He could have easily spent twenty-five million dollars on a car, but he would never do so because he felt it was an overindulgence and a complete waste of money.
I remember him asking me once, “Why buy a fifty-thousand dollar Rolex when a fifty-dollar Timex tells the same time?”
My answer, of course, was, “Because a fifty-dollar Timex won’t get you laid!”
The truth was, I had more money than I could ever hope to spend. Wright Enterprises was now one of the largest conglomerates in the world, with business holdings in practically every country on the planet.
I had made billions of dollars and could buy anything and anyone I wanted. And at the moment, I wanted that fucking Ferrari GT!
“We need to talk about the Anderson acquisition,” Henry said as the humor melted from his face. That was Henry. Enough frivolity! Back to the salt mines!
He reached into the briefcase that was sitting next to his chair and brought out a thick folder detailing our impending acquisition of Anderson Telecommunications, a regional telc0 in Arizona that had fallen on hard times.
We were going to acquire Anderson for pennies on the dollar. We’d either fix it if we could or tear it apart if we couldn’t.
It would be our first foray into telecommunications, so Henry was edgy. And rightfully so. I paid him to worry about such things so I didn’t have to.
“Is there a problem with the acquisition?” I asked, watching him balance the folder
on his knee. He set a pair of reading glasses on the tip of his nose and opened the folder. He removed the first page and looked down his nose at it.
“I’m looking to prevent problems,” he said, sliding the page across the desk at me. “As we discussed, since this is our first telecom acquisition and neither of us are experts in the industry, I thought it would be a good idea to get an expert set of eyes to look over Anderson’s financials and interview the management team before we signed the final deal.”
I kept a red rubber ball sitting on my desk. It was supposed to be a stress ball, you know, a rubber ball you squeeze whenever you’re feeling stressed. The truth was, I rarely felt stressed. But I had the attention span of a tsetse fly and if I wasn’t constantly doing something with my hands, I had a hard time paying attention.
I squeezed the ball in my left hand and picked up the sheet of paper in my right. It was a letter of engagement from Goldman & Stern, the company who would handle this part of the due diligence.
I held out the paper and summed up my take on it. “So, we’re going to pay Goldman & Stern ten million dollars to do the due diligence on Anderson? Tell me again why we can’t do all the due diligence in-house? Why isn’t our corporate legal department handling this?”
“We are doing the lion’s share of the due diligence in-house,” Henry said. “But as I said before, some details that are specific to the telecom industry are out of our wheelhouse. Paying G&S ten-million to uncover skeletons in closets and mistakes on balance sheets is money well spent.”
I wouldn’t hesitate to spend twenty-five million on a car, but hated wasting a dime when it came to my business. It was mostly a formality because the acquisition was pretty much a done deal, but Henry was a stickler for covering our asses and I was grateful for it.
I scanned through the project description and a list of the people who would be doing the work. I sailed the paper across the desk at him, then leaned back in my chair and tossed the ball into the air.