Alpha (Book Collection)

by Robin Fate

  Monroe’s thick cock slid up my chest as he straddled me. I felt my breasts press together as he firmly grabbed each one and slid his cock between. Moans echoed throughout the large room as I watched him tilt his head back in pure ecstasy.

  My pussy wet, I felt him withdraw his cock and slide it down between my legs, leaving a trail of pre-cum the whole way. His cock flicked up and down, tensing in excitement. My eyes caught his. A devilish grin spread across his face as he placed his body over mine.

  His skin touched and pressed against me. Two bodies moving together in perfect harmony. Then penetration. He pushed himself inside.

  The glacial movement from earlier turned into a fiery inferno as he started to move faster and faster. Each thrust brought a new level of pleasure as I laid there with my body spread wide open for him to use. Pumping against my body, I felt the carnal desire he felt. He needed me, and I needed him. We were at one with each other. A synchronized force to be reckoned with.

  Sounds of the bed slamming against the wall intensified as he hammered into me with his thick cock spreading my lips wide with each powerful push.

  His hands gripped the front of the bed as his mouth pulled on my neck. I couldn’t hold back any longer. My walls clenched tight onto his cock and held him firmly deep within me. If there was ever a way to hold a man, this way the way.

  He slowed his thrusting as I felt myself cum on his cock. I reached the pinnacle of the mountain. Groans of pleasure filled my ears as the world spun around me. His hand grabbed onto my neck and squeezed. The pain spiked the intensity to a level I had never experienced. Had I really been missing out this entire time?

  Monroe smiled as he quickened his hips once again. His hand clenched tighter around my neck with his other hand holding the back of my head. Breathing heavily in my ear, I knew he was enjoying himself.

  His shaft tensed once, twice, then finally exploded inside me. Pumping his hot cum inside, I could feel his entire body turn to rock in moments. Grunting with each slow thrust, he kept going till every drop was inside.

  “Oh Jess… how you turn me on,” he whispered into my ear as he rolled to my side.

  The stinging sensation in my wrists returned as I felt him unbind my hands then feet. It quickly disappeared as my sex high took over.

  My words jumbled around in my head as my mouth opened to speak, “I… I… Wow, I’m sex stoned,” I barely managed to say as I rolled over and cupped the back of his head and pulled him towards me.

  Monroe smiled as he turned his legs to the side of the bed and stood up. “Welcome to my world. Please stay with me here. We’ll figure something out.”

  I watched him dress himself as he pulled his cock back inside his pants and button up his shirt, then finally wrap his jacket around himself.

  “I’ll think about it,” I said in a foggy haze.

  Without a doubt in my mind, I knew I wanted to stay. I just didn’t know if it was possible. Wouldn’t his bitch wife and mother-in-law have something to say? What if this affair caused a divorce and left him with nothing?

  My mind suddenly clearing, a single question popped into my mind, “Why did the media say you were a swinger if you were always waiting and taking care of me?”

  Monroe looked at me, “That’s just the media. I do bring women home with me from time to time, but it’s only to confuse them, my mother-in-law and my wife into thinking I’m a swinger. If they think I’m a swinger, then they will think no feelings are involved. I’ve always known who you were, and always tried to fill in the hole that was left when you said no. Finally I realized I had waited long enough and reached out to you. I’m glad you came.”

  I could only imagine what my expression was at that time as I replied, “Me too. We’ll figure something out.”

  Monroe nodded and opened the door to leave.

  “I’ll see you tonight,” he said with a devilish grin.

  The Billionaire – James

  I slam my book shut and look up at the clock. 7:03pm. Monday nights are always the slowest. I start my shift at 3:00pm and things are hectic for about an hour, but then it all just ebbs away. Once the sun goes down and nightlife picks up, everyone forgets about the public library with the yellowish overhead lights and the warped windows. I’ve been working here since my freshman year at Montclair University. I had been accepted to a few schools across the country, but after all was said and done, Montclair was the farthest I wanted to be from my parents in Millville and the closest I wanted to be to Manhattan.

  I’ve always found Manhattan to be a romantic city. Everyone there seems to have a love/hate relationship with it. What is romance without conflict, anyway? I’ve never trusted myself to live there, though. Apart from the monumental rent, I worried I’d fall in love with the city so much that I’d never find the time to fall in love with a man. I go across the bridge when I can, but never stay too long. Like diving into an ocean, I fear I might not know when to come up for air.

  So I sit here behind the large, L-shaped composite wood desk at the dusty Bellevue Avenue library reading romance novels until my eyes bleed to keep my mind off of the romance missing from my own life. And the sex. Oh God, do I miss sex. It’s been three years since I’ve had great sex. It was my junior year of college and with my TA. Now, the fact that he was my TA was reason enough, but he was so spiritual, so selfless. He made love the same way he took pictures. Every shot was more than what it seemed, told a story, and captured a moment that seemed to live on the longer a person looked at it.

  He had asked me to pose for him as part of his master thesis. It only took three photos for him to join me on the velvety leather couch, our hips moving to the beat of our own hearts, fluttering like butterflies in the wind. He was in impeccably good shape, tanned and muscular. My creamy white skin meshed well with his. He clutched my hand, our fingers intertwining with every thrust. I took every inch of him inside of me and felt completely and utterly whole. I climaxed three, maybe four times, and each time a coy smile stretched across his face. I felt free.

  I never saw him after that night. Rumor had it I wasn’t the only student he had “pose” for him. He was asked to leave Montclair the next day after allegations started to build up against him. The betrayal that coursed through my veins from that point on drove me into the bed of every well-endowed co-ed on campus. I spent the next year and a half being passed around at parties, sneaking into dorm rooms, fucking quietly with roommates sleeping in the next bed. I went for young guys, mostly. They were always less offended to find out I was using them.

  I always felt deadened afterwards, like I had been staring into a bright bulb for too long and the world was still too hazy to see. It was on my graduation day that I made a promise to myself never to sleep with another man just because I could. I wanted to feel something again. I wanted to feel that wholeness, the safety that comes when sharing a bed with someone who feels as passionately about you as you do him.

  So here I am, twenty-six, single, sexually frustrated, and working at a deserted library on an early spring night in New Jersey. Lucky for me, there’s only an hour left of my shift. I turn to the book drop bucket poised at the slot connecting to the brisk air outside. There were only three books inside: a copy of To Kill a Mockingbird, some doorstop on Russian literature, and volume of early-18th century British poetry. With a big sigh, I check the books back into our system and throw them onto the shelving pile. I return to my book.

  “She felt herself flush at the thought of reconnecting with the strapping man that took her virtue in the barn so many years ago. She had never divulged the event to anyone in her life, for fear she would be blasphemed as a common street walker, but she never forgot how her heart and loins throbbed when she thought of him, spoke his name softly to herself as she faded off to sleep in hopes he would visit her in her dreams. Perhaps this was a dream and his face looked familiar because she was willing it to. How she longed to feel his arms around her again, his rough cheek pressed against her own, feeling his memb
er grow silently, pressed hard against her inner thigh.”

  The bells chime to signal someone has entered the library. I throw my book down and look to the door. It is sluggishly closing, but there is no one in sight. I tousle my hair from my face in an attempt to look busy as I bury my romance novel under the desk. Just as employing a bell to announce someone’s entrance, I feel it strange and oddly rude to shout “hello” into the silent rows of books. The clock reads 7:32pm. Who would be coming into the library at this time? Someone without much of a life, I assume.

  The only solution I have to finding the mysterious consumer is to pick up the stack of books needing to be shelved and heading out into the wasteland of forgotten memoirs. My first stop is International Literature to drop off the giant Russian. It slides easily into place. I dart my eyes around the corner to look down the alley. Not a soul. I straighten up a bit and walk confidently to the next row: School Curriculum. While I don’t agree that To Kill a Mockingbird should belong in such a general area, it is on most curriculums and it is only ever high school students that check it out.

  In a sea of Charlotte’s Webs and Fahrenheit 451s, our umpteenth copy of Harper Lee’s meal ticket is now resting soundly with its brothers. I hear a whispered dialogue, not far away, and my skin tightens. I absently shelve the British poetry book among the stacks in an attempt to listen in.

  “I’m telling you, they don’t have it.”

  “I’m sure they do. Why wouldn’t they?”

  “It’s truly sad that I have to explain to you why they wouldn’t have a copy of Playboy at a public library.”

  “But it’s a public library! They should have titles that appeal to the public, not just the prudes.” A shuffle. The voices belong to two men, possibly in their thirties, and devastatingly handsome—that is, if a voice can tell you anything about a person. “I’m going to look for someone.”

  My heart stops as I look down at a copy of “Men’s Health Magazine” waiting to be returned to the rack. I flip my hair once more, straighten out my shirt and make sure my breasts look nice. They are, statistically, the first thing men notice, anyway. I almost jog to the magazine rack and bend down low to find the right spot for the lifestyle periodical. Above “Cosmopolitan”, but below “Time”. My eyes glance at the “Time” cover. Two very handsome, strapping young men.

  “Billionaire Bromance,” the cover says.

  I linger for a moment and sigh. I know the duo, but not by name.

  They are this year’s Napster inventors, only instead of pirating music, they had invented a new form of social media where users can send voice messages using clips from movies. So, like, if you wanted to say, “Hey, sexy, you look great”, their database would produce a message of five different characters from five different films that have been spliced together saying your specific line. It sounds dumb when I explain it, but it’s actually pretty hilarious. It seems they sold to Facebook earlier this year and are now reaping the benefits.

  “Excuse me, Miss?” I look up and see a towering demigod above me. He’s wearing a nice, fitted suit with a green shirt that compliments his marble jade eyes. He smiles at me, almost curious, and fingers his longish brown hair behind one of his ears.

  “Uh, yes?” I respond, trying to sound too cool for my job.

  “Do you have a copy of the Marilyn Monroe edition of Playboy?” he speaks with a self-awarded sense of importance. Every 80s, Wall Street yuppie lives within him at this very moment.

  “No, I’m sorry.” I turn back to the magazines and freeze. I didn’t see it at first, but the man on the left of the “Time” cover looks mysteriously like the man lurching over me.

  “Now, why do you think that is?” he asks, coyly, looking at his friend. His friend looks at me as if to apologize, but I miss it entirely as I can’t stop staring at his boyishly handsome face and his sandy blond hair. It almost looks fake, it’s so perfect, frayed out beneath a New Jersey Devil’s hat. I take inventory of the rest of his outfit: faded linen button down, tattered cargo shorts, and dirty Vans without socks. A far cry from his suited and manicured misfit friend. There is no mistaking it, though. These two are the “Billionaire Bromance”.

  I have two options here. To either respond to the question as I would have initially by giggling and shaking my head only to return to the oak desk to rot or I can answer how any normal girl in need of some satisfaction would.

  “Probably because no one wants to admit they look at porn,” I reply with a cheeky smile on my face.

  “Good answer,” Yuppie responds while chuckling. “My name is James. And you are?”

  “Emma.” I look over to Boho chic.

  “That’s Ethan. So, Emma, do you look at porn?” James looks devilish, his interest piqued.

  “I’m not sure that’s an appropriate subject for a billionaire to be asking about.” My face begins to flush as I wonder if that was boring or enticing.

  “So, you do know who we are.” James’ eyes become slits on his long, slender face. His cheekbones are the most prominent I’ve seen on a man and his eyebrows, while perfectly sculpted, seem sinister. “You’re cute. I like you.”

  “Thanks,” I say, haphazardly. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

  “Come on, James, let’s go,” Ethan’s mouth opens for the first time in my presence. His voice is caramel.

  “What? Things are just getting good!” James laughs and leans against the magazine rack, but it teeters on its IKEA legs and tumbles over, magazines splaying themselves across the worn carpet. Without thinking, I let out a low groan. “Whoops! Sorry. You’ll clean that up, right?” James pops a piece of gum into his mouth and chuckles. Ethan slaps him in the arm and bends down to help collect the magazines.

  “Sorry, Emma,” he almost whispers, and it hits every nerve in my body. I shake, visibly, and clear my throat.

  “That’s alright. I knock this thing over all the time.”

  “See? She knocks it over all the time.” James reaches down and wraps his spindly fingers around my arm. “Don’t bother with that, hon. We can hire someone to do that.”

  “Knock it off, alright?” Ethan keeps busying himself with the magazines as I stand up. James pulls me closer to him, our chests almost touching.

  “So, Emma”—his voice isn’t as pleasing, but his lips are plump and soft—“what is a girl as hot as you doing in a library at this time of night?”

  “Working, thank you very much.” I smirk.

  “Oh, oh, I see. You don’t think I know what it’s like to work?” He’s being very playful, though I can’t be sure if it’s a ploy for something deeper. “I know how to work. I’m working right now.”

  “What are you working for?”

  “I’m working on finding a girl for a little get-together we’re having this weekend. A small affair. You wouldn’t be interested, would you?”

  I look at Ethan, who is staring up at me, almost hopeful. “What kind of affair?”

  “Business.” James releases his fingers from my arm, but lets his fingertips trace a line from my elbow to my wrist. They linger, and I feel tingles all over my body. “We need a girl to serve drinks to clients. Topless.” My nipples get hard at the thought. This could be a great gig. Hell, they could be paying. I mean, I’ve already posed nude. What’s wrong with walking around topless?

  “You can think about it,” Ethan sheepishly contributes as he stands. “I think you’d be perfect for it.”

  “And what makes you think that?” I ask, smiling at him, begging him to keep talking.

  “Well, you seem playful, which is a plus. And strong. Independent, even.” Ethan inches closer with every word and suddenly, I feel like I’m drowning in a pool of sex and mystery. I feel as though I’m a character in one of the romance novels I pour myself over every night.

  “And you’re hot. Let’s not forget that.” James pipes in.

  “Does it pay?”

  “Oh, very well,” James soothes. “It pays very, very well.”

&nbs
p; “Do you two do this often?” I ask, trying to diffuse the obvious tension.

  “First time,” Ethan admits. “Emma, you smell delicious.”

  “Oh?” I lift my wrist to my nose and take a deep breath. “It’s French Lilac. I buy it from the farmer’s market that comes in every weekend.”

  “I don’t know about farmer’s markets,” Ethan begins.

  “But I don’t think it’s lilacs we smell,” James finishes, the yellowish lights overhead glinting off of his perfect, white teeth. I imagine what my panties might look like torn off between them. I can feel myself gushing at the thought. James’ fingers are dancing wildly across my wrist and down into my palms, as Ethan delicately brushes my long, brunette locks behind my ear. I’m hit with an urge to rip my clothes off and show them what I’ve got to offer, but my body is trembling to the point where moving at all isn’t an option.

  “Don’t be nervous.” Ethan takes one step closer. I can feel his breath on my neck. James pops his gum and watches on in amusement. I can feel pressure on my right breast and warmth washes over it. Ethan’s lips hit my neck and they’re soft, nipping at the skin below my earlobe. My eyes lock with James’ and it’s sexy as hell. I’ve never been into voyeurism, but this is something I could get very used to.

  “Let’s see what we’re working with, Ethan,” James instructs and winks at me. Ethan, on cue, unbuttons the top button of my blouse. James exhales sharply, almost as if he wasn’t expecting my breasts to be as big as they are. I fancy myself to be average, but I’ve been told by multiple men that I have the perkiest and fullest Cs they’ve ever seen. “One more.” Ethan unbuttons the next button and I feel my breathing begin to shallow. My shelf tank-clad breasts pop out from behind the button down. James seems delighted.

  “Nice.” Ethan smiles at me, rubbing my breasts with his hand as if inspecting melons at a supermarket. He lifts my right and drops it, allowing it to ripple and roll around with gravity. My nipples are definitely hard and can be seen through the thin fabric of the tank top, but I don’t care. I’m not embarrassed.