by Alexis Angel
Kicking back in my chair, I prop my feet on the desk, crossing my feet at the ankles, and clasp my hands behind my head.
“Fuck yeah, it was. Best episode to date. I dare those fuckers to question my skills now.”
Toby pulls out a tablet and starts tapping away on the glass, no doubt ready to give me a breakdown of the show stats. We do this every night.
“Man, the viewers loved it,” Toby says. “Fucking amazing. More people tuned in for this than any episode ever according to our analysts.”
I arch an eyebrow at him and flash a smug grin. “Obviously. Did you have any doubt?”
“Obviously not since it was my fucking idea in the first place, asshole,” Toby laughs.
“You wish you were genius enough to think of showing me actually going down on the guest.” I love giving Toby a hard time. He reminds me a lot of a younger version of myself. He certainly doesn’t have any problem getting pussy on his own. He’s got enough of an ego to attempt giving me a run for my money with this show if we weren’t actually friends.
He just rolls his eyes. “Whatever, old man. Without me you’d still be fighting off the trolls on Twitter.”
“Fuck you,” I say with a laugh. “Old man, my left nut.” He’s, like, only five years younger than me. “You just stick around and maybe some of my skills will rub off on you.”
“Speaking of Twitter,” his eyes are back on the tablet, obviously seeing something interesting enough to tear him away from our favorite pastime of giving each other shit, “we’re trending.”
“As usual.”
“Yeah, but tonight it’s all about how the show put it all out there.” Toby frowns a little, and I take my feet off the desk and rest my elbows on it as I lean forward. “Everyone has something to say about how we got everything on camera.”
I shrug. I’m used to it, and I don’t care. The pearl clutchers are always gonna have something to say. Fuck ‘em.
Actually, that’s probably half their problem. They’ve never had a good hard fucking. I should take the high road and offer them an opportunity to come on my show. Maybe these prudes out there just need to know how fucking awesome sex is. I laugh out loud at the idea.
“Dude, seriously,” Toby says, cutting his eyes at me briefly before returning to scrolling through whatever shit Twitter is offering up about my tongue and I. “We’re probably going to get a fucking huge fine from the FCC.”
“Whatever,” I scoff. “I can afford it. Besides, there’s no such thing as bad publicity, right? All this is going to do is give us even more viewers because we’ve effectively shut down all the cynics.”
Toby looks at the tablet a few more seconds, then shuts it off and tosses it on my desk. “If you say so.” Then he gives me a taunting grin. “So, when are you going to step aside and hand over the reins of the show to the younger, more virile generation? And by that I mean me.”
As if I had any doubt who the fucker meant. “Whenever I get tired of women screaming my name, asshole.”
Toby guffaws and lifts his brows. “Maybe they’re just playing the part. Did you think about that? I mean, they're coming on live TV to have an orgasm. They could totally be faking it.”
“And that cum all over my face every single night? They’re faking that too?” I point my fingers at him like two guns and wink. “Think again. Those pussies gush all over me like a fucking geyser.”
“Fuck. You are one lucky Bastard, Jake.”
I am. Not gonna lie. I’m a fucking billionaire because I’m a master at making women come, and I have them lining up begging me to eat them out night after night. Doesn’t get much better than that. “Maybe one day you’ll reach my level, man,” I joke.
Toby and I go back years, and even though he works for me and we have a bit of a mentor/apprentice type relationship, he’s one of my closest friends. We give each other hell just for the fun of it.
“One day? How about right the fuck now? And let’s make it interesting. A grand says I can pick up any woman out tonight before you.”
I’ve never been able to resist a good bet. “You’re on. Loser not only pays up, but has to buy the beers as well.”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way.” Toby thrusts his hand out and we shake. "Hope you brought your credit card, bitch.”
I laugh as I stand from my desk and we make our way out of the studio. I may have just had the best show of the entire A Cunning Linguist run tonight, but I’m still dealing with a fucking chub and it’s past time to find someone and get it taken care of.
Layla
Standing in front of my boss’ door, I lift my hand and knock. I have no idea why Lori is calling me into her office this early. I mean, I’ve barely had time to grab coffee and turn my computer on.
“Come in,” Lori’s clipped voice comes through the thick wood.
Wondering what kind of mood she’s in, I turn the knob and enter her office. It’s not that she’s a bitch. Not exactly, though some people would probably view her as one. She’s just worked really damn hard to get where she is. Working for the FCC can be fucking hard, and Lori’s had to prove herself every step of the way.
I actually admire her. She’s pretty much reached the pinnacle of her career. She’s the top in her profession. I hope to one day be like her.
Looking around the office, I find Lori sitting up straight behind her desk, looking perfectly polished and put together. This office could be an advertisement for organization. Everything has a place, and it’s always exactly where it belongs. I almost wonder how she gets anything done because her office looks so unworked in. But that’s Lori. She’s the poster child for a government official, a bureaucrat that is orderly to a fault.
Lori doesn’t break the rules.
Which is probably how she’s climbed to such heights with the FCC.
“Good morning, Layla,” she greets me with a smile. For all her official-ness and nothing but business attitude, she’s still friendly with me. Probably because I work my ass off too.
“Morning, Lori,” I say, crossing to her desk and sitting down gingerly on the chair across from her. It’s a bit stiff and uncomfortable, and I end up sitting as rigidly as Lori because of it. She probably chose the chair on purpose. I can just see her not wanting anyone getting too comfortable or making themselves at home. “What can I do for you this morning?”
She dives right in.
“Have you heard of A Cunning Linguist?” Her eyes narrow and her gaze sharpens as she scrutinizes my face. It’s like she’s trying to get a read on me.
I nod, not sure where she’s going with this, but sure it has something to do with the FCC. Because I have heard of the show, and I can’t imagine Lori asking me to come into her office for some water cooler chat about a late-night talk show about sex.
“I have heard of it, but I can’t say I’ve ever watched it.”
Why would I? ACL is more of a self-help show than a talk show, and my sex life is just fine. I don’t need dating or sex advice. While I don’t really have time to pursue an actual relationship because my job keeps me so busy, I do get out and date. And I know what I like and I know how to get it. So yeah, my sex life is perfectly satisfying. I can have casual hookups whenever I want without the complication of anything else. I definitely don’t need advice on how to have better orgasms, so I can’t say I’ve actually watched the show. Though the self-proclaimed sex guru, Jacob Kent isn’t hard on the eyes. If I ever did watch the show, he’d be the reason.
“Well that’s good to hear,” Lori says, pursing her lips, looking for all the world like the mere idea of me watching the show is enough to make her nauseous. “That show is downright obscene.”
I press my lips together, trying not to smile. I don’t know if obscene is the word I’d use, but Lori’s stance on the matter is clear.
“They’ve gone too far this time, Layla.” She reaches up to pat her perfectly coiffed bun at the nape of her neck. I wonder what she’d look like if she let her hair down—literally and figurative
ly—once in a while. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her without that severe bun pulling at her temples. “Look at this.”
Lori turns her computer monitor to face me and clicks the little arrow to make the YouTube clip of what must be A Cunning Linguist start playing. Her mouth tightens into a firm line.
“This was last night’s episode.”
I glance at her and wonder for the hundredth time if she’s always been wound up this tight. She used to be married, from what I hear, but as long as I’ve known her she’s just been married to her work. If she’s this offended by a talk show about sex, I can’t imagine her sex life with her ex was all that exciting. I feel a bit of sympathy, but in the next second I forget everything else except what I’m seeing on the screen.
I almost can’t believe my eyes. My mouth drops open. Because OMFG. Jacob Kent isn’t just going down on his featured guest of the night like he supposedly does every episode. He’s full on clam diving, and every fucking bit of it is on display for the world to see.
Holy shit.
As I watch the Cunning Linguist himself eat pussy like he’s starved, I can’t deny that there’s a little tingling going on between my own legs. Yeah, the man is sexy as sin, but the way he’s making that guest scream and moan makes me wish for a minute it was me he was getting a taste of.
I cross my legs to relieve some of the growing pressure in my now throbbing clit as the guest’s eyes literally roll back in her head and she passes the fuck out.
What the hell did I just watch? And why am I so turned on by it? It’s not like I haven’t seen something like that before—in much more graphic detail. But the skills that man must possess to actually make a woman pass out? I can’t even imagine. I have to admit, I’m impressed.
Though from the look of disgust on Lori’s face, I certainly won’t admit it to her.
“It’s obscene,” she rants again. “We have to bury ACL in fines immediately. They are in clear violation of FCC regulations. This show needs to be canceled.”
God damn, this woman is the picture of self-righteous right now. I force myself not to look back at the screen that’s now paused on an image of the woman passed out, Jacob Kent’s face still buried between her thighs. And I hope to God Lori can’t tell that I’m a tad bit horny after watching that.
I nod wordlessly.
“This show could ruin marriages, Layla. Do you understand that?” I don’t think I’ve ever seen Lori this worked up. Her polished exterior is slipping slightly, and I start to wonder again just why she’s so uptight—apparently even more so when it comes to sex. Sex is meant to be fun, to be enjoyed. I’m not intimately familiar with Jacob Kent’s show, but he’s famous enough that I know he spouts off rhetoric about how much women deserve good sex and killer orgasms like it’s the gospel truth. I can’t say I disagree.
Lori, however? Not so much.
“This is bad for families,” she continues. “We just can’t have this. We’re going to slap them so hard with fines that they won’t have any choice but to cancel the show.” Lori levels me with a stare. “I want you to take the case, Layla.”
My eyebrows fly up. I didn’t expect that. Typically Lori takes on all the big cases. I sit up a bit straighter as a smile spreads over my face. Perhaps I’ve finally proven myself and she’s ready to trust me with something major.
“Really?”
Lori nods once. “Yes. This could really help your career. I think this is exactly what you’ve been waiting for to take your career to the next level. What do you say? Do you think you can handle it?”
Even though I don’t have near the amount of disgust for ACL that Lori obviously does, this is an opportunity I can’t refuse. “Absolutely,” I say with confidence. “You might as well consider ACL canceled.”
Layla
Flashing my FCC badge as I breeze by the security buffoon standing at the door that goes backstage at the studio where ACL is filmed, I glance around. This place is posh, even backstage. I can hear Mr. Kent’s voice as it reverberates through the studio. It’s even sexier in person. I’ve only heard him a couple of times on interviews. The deep timbre almost sends a shiver through me.
God, Layla, pull it together. I am so not going to be some stupid horny fangirl for Jacob Make-You-Pass-Out-With-My-Tongue Kent. Nope.
I thought I timed my arrival at the studio just right, but apparently I’m just in time for yet another epic pussy licking. Not quite sure how I feel about that, but I’m determined to remain professional.
Walking further backstage, I’m suddenly intercepted by a tall buff dude with a headset on and a tablet in his hands. He almost looks like a slightly younger version of Mr. Kent. (I’ve taken to calling him that in my head, hoping it will help me remain more aloof when I meet him face to face after the show is done filming.)
“Can I help you?” he asks, his eyebrows drawing together suspiciously. “Do you have a backstage pass?”
I reach for my badge, but before I can get a chance to say anything, this guy gives me a knowing grin. “Did you sneak back here to try to get Jake to yourself? You know, he’s a busy guy. But I might be free later if you’re in need of some expert assistance. I’m Toby.”
The guy extends his hand as he takes his time looking me up and down. When his eyes finally make it back to my face, I tilt my head and arch an eyebrow. “Hmm. Looks like Mr. Kent has a little protégé.”
Toby smirks. “Nothing little about me, baby.”
Fighting the urge to roll my eyes, even though this guy is pretty sexy—any other time I’d probably take him up on his offer—I flash my badge. “I’m with the FCC.”
I almost laugh at the way his face shifts from I wanna fuck you to oh shit we’re fucked in an instant.
Toby clears his throat. “Oh. Well. Okay. Um. Welcome to the set.” He adjusts his headset then gestures toward the stage. “Care to join me for a backstage view of the hottest show on TV?” The grin he gives me is certainly sexy, and plenty charming, but I can sense his underlying nerves, and I’m pretty sure he knows it.
I nod and follow him toward the stage where we watch the show just out of sight.
And wouldn’t you know, I’m just in time for the grand finale. Whatever Mr. Cunning Linguist was discussing with his guest has been long forgotten, and now he’s neck deep in pussy.
Despite my attempt to remain professional, I can’t help getting a bit turned on as I watch a near repeat of what I saw on Lori’s computer this morning—only this time the microphone is picking up all Mr. Kent’s slurps and moans in full surround sound. He sounds like he’s enjoying himself immensely, and I have to force myself to breathe as my blood rushes to my clit.
Before long the woman is coming—so fucking hard I almost don’t believe it. But when he lifts his head and wipes her cum from his mouth, I know there was nothing fake about that.
Holy fuck. I have no words.
He says something flippant to the cameras, and the next thing I know the director is calling, “Cut!” and Jacob Kent is striding offstage. Right toward me.
It takes all my inner strength of will to school my face into a carefully blank but pleasantly professional expression.
“Well, good evening, love,” Mr. Kent says. “Got yourself quite the show didn’t you?”
He reaches up and rubs a finger across his swollen lips, his eyes boring into mine in a way that makes me feel like he knows exactly what that show did for me. I swallow hard, my eyes dropping to his mouth, where he’s still rubbing his finger gently back and forth. Is it wrong that I’m no less turned on by the fact that those magic lips were just on another woman’s pussy?
Fucking hell, Layla! Snap out of it! You have a job to do.
“My name is Layla,” I begin.
At the same time, Toby gives Mr. Kent a tight-lipped look. “Yes, Jake, Layla here is—”
“Quite possibly the most beautiful woman I’ve had the pleasure of meeting in a long time,” he says smoothly, extending his hand to mine. When I reach ou
t to shake his hand, he flips mine around and lifts it to his lips, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. His lips are so smooth and firm that I can quite vividly imagine what they might feel like against my pussy.
Shit. Here I go again.
“I’m Jake,” he adds, his eyes never leaving mine.
“Jake,” Toby says urgently. “Can I speak to you for a moment?”
He doesn’t even bother glancing at Toby. “Did you enjoy the filming of tonight’s show, Layla? I’m sure your backstage view was quite…”
“Enlightening?” I supply, fighting a smirk. Poor Toby. He’s shifting from foot to foot, and obviously on edge that Mr. Kent has no idea who I am. Or why I’m here.
“That might be a good word for it.” He gives me a sly grin.
“Mr. Kent, I’m here tonight—”
“Please,” he interrupts smoothly, “Call me Jake.”
Of course. I fight the urge to roll my eyes again. “Okay, Jacob,” I say pointedly, determined to keep this as professional as possible.
“Jake,” Toby says again. I can practically feel his hands waving wildly behind my head as he tries to get Jake’s attention.
Jake finally gives him an irritated glance, then slings his arm around my shoulder and turns me around, tucking me against his side and effectively cutting Toby out of the picture. “What do you say we go somewhere and talk about your thoughts on tonight’s episode?”
I smile, this time in satisfaction. “You know, Jacob, I think that sounds like a fabulous idea.” I stop and turn, putting my hand on his chest and pushing back. “But I think we can take care of everything I need to say right here. Jacob Kent,” I say, pulling the paperwork from my purse and holding it out to him, “I’m with the FCC, and your show A Cunning Linguist is being fined.”
Jake
Wait, what?
I’m trying really hard to reconcile the words coming out of this blonde bombshell’s mouth with their meaning. Especially when the only coherent thoughts I’m having about that mouth have to do with my dick and what those lips would feel like wrapped around it.