by Dark Angel
“Okay, now that’s done,” I whisper to myself, piling the last box on top of the other ones. I look around the apartment, hands on my hips, and I realize that I’ll probably have to rent an office space and maybe hire some people. Business is booming, and I don’t think I can keep up if I do it all by myself.
It’s booming so much apparently, that I just got a major order from Penny Worlein Toys. They’re one of the largest distributors of direct marketed sex toys. And their order is roughly four times my annual volume.
I’m going to need an office. A manufacturing team. A factory. A crew.
I’m going to need financing. More than I have on my own.
Success. It comes with its own set of problems.
It seems like I tapped into some hidden market; women all around the world can’t have enough of what I produce. No wonder, though, my sex toys have pretty much revolutionized the industry. I have toys you can use while sexting, others you can use on a one-on-one sweaty session, and even a few geared toward women like me: voracious romance readers.
Stretching lazily, I saunter over to my balcony, the warm New York sunset painting the world with its sharp orange glow, and lie down on the patio recliner. Thank God it’s Summer; for a California girl like me, the winter cold here is almost intolerable.
Still, even though New York City isn’t a particularly warm city, the first thing I did when Dirty Lil’ Angels turned a profit was buy this apartment, and I chose it because of the large balcony. What better place to think about how awesome your life is than the top of the world? Because, right now, lying here while the New York denizens go about their daily lives hundreds of feet underneath me, I really feel like I’m on top of the world.
I reach for the table on the side, grab my Kindle, and power it up. Nothing better than a steamy read after a hard day’s work, wouldn’t you say? But there’s a trick to how I do my reading, and it has everything to do with the small box by my side. I reach for it, open it, and snag a small silvery bullet from the inside.
Now here’s the fun part: I bite on my lower lip, slide one hand under the hemline of my dress and take it all the way up to my thong. I flick it to the side and then sigh heavily as I push the small silver bullet inside my pussy.
I pair it wirelessly with my Kindle and then let the whole world around me fade away. The bullet inside me is so tiny I can barely feel it now, and that allows me to dive straight into the book I’m reading without getting distracted.
Now, you’re probably thinking that this isn’t as good as the real thing, right? Well, you’re wrong. My toys are top of the line, and I’ve tested them (intensively) to make sure that you can have as much fun with them as you’d have with a real man—perhaps even more. Okay, if you have one of these perfect men you seemingly only find in romance novels, my toys won’t quite cut it, but then again, these men only exist in fantasy land, right?
I could say I’ve never seen men like that, but that’d be a lie. All you have to do is take a look at my family—well, stepfamily, but who cares? I was in college when my mother married one of Wall Street's titans, Drake Carlton, and that not only gave me a stepdad, but a stepbrother as well.
Drake “the Shark” Carlton—if you keep up with the news, you’ve probably heard of him. Too bad I never really had the chance to meet him. Before that could happen, his marriage with my mother went belly up, and that means I never got to see him up close.
As for my stepbrother, you’ve probably heard of him as well. He’s the CEO of a venture capital company, and from what I’ve heard, he is a complete degenerate. There are only two things that he cares about: pussy and money.
Even though Drake and Sloane aren’t blood related, Sloane’s the son of Drake’s first wife, you’d never guess it. They both thrive in the finance world, and they’re competitive as hell. Which also means that they don’t get along. Not that I care, though; it seems that no one gets along in this dysfunctional family.
But enough of all this family talk. I want to get hot and bothered right now, and I can’t do that while thinking of family, can I?
I turn to the chapter I was reading; I stopped last night right before a sex scene, and grin as the words start unfolding before my eyes, my imagination pulling me down into dreamland.
I feel my whole body warming up, my pussy becoming wetter and wetter as my eyes run up and down the screen. And that’s when the bullet starts to vibrate.
It’s barely noticeable at first, but I programmed it to be smart; it picks up the vocabulary I’m reading, analyzes the sentences and paragraphs, and adjusts the intensity by itself. As the action becomes hotter on the page, the bullet vibrates more fiercely. Smart, uh? Yeah, you don’t revolutionize the sex toys industry without thinking creatively.
But I can’t think about business right now. Oh, no, not at all.
I’m reading Eddie Cleveland. I picked up his Bad Boy Collection and I’m only on Chapter One and already the words are getting the bullet worked up. I swear his book is so hot that the bullet is buzzing hard, sending tiny ripples of pleasure over my inner walls, and it’s picking up the pace with each passing second.
“God…” I whisper, closing my eyes for a second and throwing my head back. Noticing that my endorphin levels are up, the bullet kicks it up a notch and vibrates harshly, sending a jolt of pure ecstasy up my spine. I squirm in the recliner, opening my eyes again and forcing my tired brain to focus on what I’m reading.
Grabbing the Kindle with one hand, I slide the other one under my skirt and then flick my thong to the side. Pressing down on my clit with two fingers, I start rubbing myself as the bullet pulses steady inside of me, each time it vibrates making me feel as if I’m stepping on a live wire.
Tired of keeping the fabric of my thong out of the way, I take my fingers out of my clit and push my underwear down my legs. I let it fall on the floor and, spreading my legs, I go back to my clit.
The sex scene I’m reading has two tall, gorgeous men fucking a woman, their huge cocks filling her holes. I grit my teeth, breathing hard as I imagine it happening to me, and I feel a sickening pressure building inside my skull. My heart pumps boiling blood fast, and I’m so wet right now that my fluids are dripping down my inner thighs and staining the recliner.
“Oh…” I moan, swallowing hard as my insides start to clench, my inner walls becoming tighter around the vibrating bullet.
As good as this is, I can’t help but imagine how it would be for the scene I’m reading to turn into reality. Bring me a sex genie right now, because I already know what my three wishes are going to be.
“Oh, fuck, fuck,” I breathe out, the Kindle slipping out of my fingers and falling between my legs. I grit my teeth harder and, closing my eyes, arch my back as the bullet sends thunder and fire up my spine.
I squirm in place, pressing my legs together as I imagine two huge cocks hardening just for me, ravaging me so hard that I can’t even think straight. I rub my clit as fast as I can and the bullet reaches the zenith of its intensity, sending a jolt of ecstasy straight into my brain.
“OH GOD!” I moan loudly, not caring if any of my neighbors can hear me right now; I make sex toys for a living, it’s not like I have a reputation to safeguard. My muscles twitch and spasm, my back arched as I burn from the inside out.
For a moment my mind goes blank, not a single thought disturbing the here and now. Pleasure blankets me, wrapping itself around me like a long-lost lover, and I finally sigh heavily, my body relaxing at once.
I laugh to myself, opening my eyes and looking at the New York skyline, its jagged buildings casting their shadows over the grid of streets underneath them. I gaze at the rectangular glass slits on the skyscrapers, wondering how many people are having sex right now. How many of them are masturbating? And how many of them are using my toys?
I once read somewhere that around 250 million people have sex per day. That’s a lot of sex, if you think about it, but right now I’m thinking about the countless women that don’t ha
ve a man (or have a subpar one). They’re the reason I founded Dirty Lil’ Angels, because every women needs a friend called Pleasure.
I go up to my feet and walk over to the edge of the balcony, resting my hands over the rails. I close my eyes and breath in the New York atmosphere, feeling as alive as I’ve ever felt.
It feels good to be in control of my destiny, to be the one in charge of my own life. But there’s something in the air, as if the breeze carries the whispers of destiny straight into my ears.
Your life’s going to change, the wind seems to say. And you know what? I believe it. I really do.
Sloane
SLAP!
That's the sound that reverberates throughout the room as my hand makes contact with the fleshy ass cheek of Cindy.
Why did my hand make contact with her ass cheek?
I think the better question you want to ask yourself is why Cindy, my intern, is bent over my desk. Why her panties are casually strewn on the floor, and her short little skirt unzipped and on the floor. Why my pants are around my ankles with my fucking boxer briefs.
And why is my cock going in and out of her at a furious clip, making her gasp and moan like a fucking whore.
Don't roll your eyes at me, darlin'. Those moans coming out of her mouth are positively whorish.
"Oh fuck yeah, baby, fuck me just like that," Cindy groans out right at this moment. See? I told you. Is that the way younger interns talk to their managers nowadays? Is that just the new culture for kids these days?
Then, to leave no doubt in mind, she lets out a loud, "Unghhh, your cock is stretching my pussy out so good."
I seriously can't fucking make this up. Instead, I focus on pistoning my thick cock in and out of her.
Don't be shy. You can take a look if you want. Yeah, that's my cock. All men have them, so you can stare. But make sure you open your eyes wide, baby, because while all men might have cocks, they don't have what I'm packing down there.
See how it's slicked with pussy juice? Well, that's because my cock has literally ravaged Cindy's pussy with pleasure. In a few more minutes she won't be able to do much more than grunt and groan. She'll be a quivering fucking mass of flesh because of my cock. It's 12 fucking inches of lust muscle. Pussy pleasing power. Fuckpole.
Whatever you want to call it, I got it.
Of course, if you were in this room, you'd be staring at my cock and touching yourself. But you know what would really be getting you taking off your panties and sitting down on the couch across from my desk, spreading your legs and showing me as you stroked your pussy?
My fucking body.
I'm 25 years old. Blonde haired. Piercingly blue eyed. Washboard fucking 8-pack abs. Perfectly fucking sculpted body. Rugged face. Broad shoulders. I look like a fucking God amongst men.
And, no, I'm not being arrogant. I'm being real. I mean, look around you. I'm Sloane Hardman. CEO of Hard Times, the most efficient and leanest venture capital firm on the East Coast.
I built this company with my bare fucking hands. Every fiber of my being is infused into the walls of this firm.
So yeah, I'm definitely proud. Of my accomplishments. My immense wealth. My body. My cock.
Everything.
Get you a little wet there, darlin'?
Because everything that I just described—everything above—I use to give women the greatest pleasure they've ever experienced in their lives.
One fuck with me, and you don't just give me your fucking number. You ask for my autograph. You end up proposing to me. Because you'll never be treated the way I'll treat you. And not just the sex. Everything.
There simply won't be anyone else in our universe. It'll be just the two of us. No one else. And every single action will be focused on giving you the most intense pleasure you've ever experienced in your life.
Every. Single. Time.
That's how you'll get addicted. You won't be able to stop. You'll forget everything else. If I told you to quit your job, drop out of school, move to another city—you'd do anything just for me.
I'm fucking serious.
But when I stop answering your texts, you'll start to call.
When I stop picking up your calls, you'll visit my work. Camp outside my condo. You'll spend the night in Central Park to catch me as I walk out of One57 in the morning.
What you won't understand is that I don't do relationships. I won't do just one woman and stay there.
The funny thing is that I'll have told you this at the beginning. That's right. I'm not a complete fucking douchebag. I'm not going to lie to you—promise you the world or anything like that.
In fact, I'll be the one to tell you that I don't do relationships. Hell, that I don't even do breakfast the next morning.
But you'll be so enamored with my fucking body that you won't care initially when I tell you. You'll give up anything and compromise anywhere just to get a chance to run your lips on my fine body.
It's only afterward that you'll realize that to have me, you never listened in the first place.
They call me a player for that. They say I'm a playboy.
Whatever. If that makes them feel better, I really have nothing to say to that. And I'm not going to wrack my brain trying to come up with excuses, darlin'. Mainly because I'm fucking Cindy right now.
That's right. You almost forgot about her, didn't you? I didn't. Not with my cock going in and out of her pussy as that ass is bent over on my desk. This is the last day of her internship, by the way. They always do this. Always come up to my office.
"Is there anything else you needed, Mr. Hardman?" they ask me as my eyes travel up and down their tight body. Cindy knew the drill. She knew what my eyes were lusting after her as she came over, and without me having to say a goddamn thing, she began to unbutton her tight silk blouse and get on her knees. I'm serious. I didn't say anything the whole fucking time. She just began to unzip my pants, gab my cock, and put it in her mouth as I leaned back.
That's seriously all it takes nowadays.
"Fuck, baby, you're fucki--ungh!" Cindy moans. She doesn't have the tightest pussy, to be absolutely honest. And I like my women a bit curvier. But whatever. Pussy is pussy, right?
I increase my strokes in and out of her. Her pussy is quivering and a string of unintelligible words are coming out of her mouth all of a sudden.
She's coming. I can feel the walls of her pussy gripping my cock. It's milking me.
She may not be tight, but she's fucking tight enough. Holy fucking shit.
I'm about to cum.
I have enough mental strength to pull out of her and pull my condom off. Cindy is still twitching and spasming from her orgasm, but I turn her over, and begin to rub my cock for the final strokes that'll unleash my fucking deluge.
That's when the door to my office slams open.
I look up in shock. Only one person would have the balls to do something like that.
My assistant, Cheryl Maddox.
She's looking at me with a disapproving yet resigned smile as I grunt and groan and my vision blacks out momentarily as my cock spasms and my nuts twist and I erupt all over Cindy.
She restrains a smile as Cindy's eyes go wide and I unload rope after rope of gooey, hot, sticky, white cum on her tits and belly.
She waits patiently even as electric arcs travel through my body and my streams of cum cover Cindy's body.
I shiver as the last of semen dribbles out onto her. Cindy is looking at me with wide eyes filled with wonder. And lust.
We could probably go again, but I'm a busy guy.
Cheryl tosses me a towel and I catch it, beginning to towel myself off.
"Cindy, darling," Cheryl says and the intern turns around, startled that someone else is in the same room. She was getting fucked so hard she didn't even realize we weren't alone. "It's time you get yourself cleaned up and exit the building, dear," she says to Cindy.
Still in a shock, Cindy nods and begins to get up.
I hand her my towel an
d zip up my pants. I don't need cum stains on my desk or floor, you know?
"What's going on, Cheryl?" I ask, sitting down and leaning back in my chair.
Cheryl watches as Cindy collects her clothes, holds them to her body, and scampers out of my office.
"Another one, Sloane?" she asks me with raised eyebrows.
I shrug. "Perks of the job, Cheryl," I tell her, and turn on my computer monitors. "Can't fault me for tasting what's being offered."
There's a deep sigh from Cheryl. "Well, it seems like you're eating too much, Sloane, and the company is suffering," Cheryl says, putting a folder in front of me. "Do you realize that Hard Times has no new products in its investment lineup after our recent investment with Arsen Hawke?"
I freeze. Venture Capital firms need a steady lineup of companies and products to invest in. Without a steady stream of investment, we're just sitting on piles of cash that earn very little interest. And with salaries to pay and overhead, if I don't make money through investments, I'm fucked.
"What do you mean?" I ask in a panic. "I thought we had two or three products lined up?"
Cheryl shakes her head. "They either pulled out or stopped calling because they thought we lost interest, Sloane," she tells me. "I just discovered this after going through next quarter's projections. You need to find some solid products to park your money in. And you need to find them fast."
Cheryl is standing there, looking at me and shaking her head. She's not judging me, but I know she knows that this is how she's going to get me to do something. Because I fucking hate how she's staring at me.
"I'll start looking today," I say through clenched teeth.
"Well, you might as well start with family dinner," Cheryl says, and drops another folder onto my desk. I look up at her. She gestures with her eyes and I take the folder and open it.