Pretend Daddy: A Fake Marriage Romance

by Amy Brent

  “Yes… fuck… I’m gonna... cum…” Holden said, biting at my ear. He started fucking me harder, harder, harder, slamming me against the wall, the head of his cock battering against my cervix, making me grunt with every thrust.

  “Cum with me… baby… cum… with me…” I held my breath and tightened my grip around his neck as my entire body tensed. I could feel his cock everywhere inside me, filling me up and making me hot and making me cum and cum again. I tensed my pussy muscles around his cock and milked the thick shaft for all it was worth. I screamed loud enough that the nosy neighbor across the street probably heard me.

  “Cum… Holden… cum… with me… cum… nowwwwwww…”

  I felt Holden’s body get hard as a rock. His cock jackhammered in and out of me, slamming me back and forth into the wall. Pictures fell off the wall. I bumped my head but didn’t care. Holden shoved his cock inside me as far as it would go and howled like a wolf baying at the moon as he filled me with his white-hot seed.

  “Yes… fuck… yessss….”

  Our bodies shuddered into one another like two shifting plates beneath the surface of the earth. He grunted. I moaned. He growled. I screamed. He jerked. I shook. And a moment later, we were covered in sweat, cum, and juices, laughing as we tried to catch our breath and keep from toppling over.

  “I’m glad you came back,” he said, pressing his forehead to mine.

  “I’m glad you waited,” I said. “And thanks for the therapy session. It really helped.”

  “Dr. Moss is here anytime you need to unload or load up,” he said with a smile. “You doing okay now?”

  “Oh, I am better than okay,” I said as I wrapped my arms around his neck and rested my cheek on his chest. “I am just fine.”

  * * *

  We spent the evening fucking our way around Holden’s house.

  The living room on the sofa.

  The kitchen table.

  The bed.

  The floor next to the bed.

  The shower.

  Back to the kitchen for pizza and more sex.

  The time passed quickly and before we knew it we were both a sweaty, stinky mess. Even with the quick shower thrown in, we looked and smelled like we had run a marathon. So, when Holden suggested we take a nice hot bath and relax, I thought it was a perfect idea.

  Holden lit some candles, then went to find us something to drink while I filled the tub with steaming hot water and some lavender bubble bath I had found in the bathroom closet.

  I knew Holden had never purchased bubble bath in his life. Guys don’t take bubble baths. It was obviously left behind by one of the many women who had been lucky enough to spend time with Holden over the years.

  Most women probably would have been jealous, but I totally wasn’t. I was not the jealous type. You couldn’t be promiscuous like me and expect things you would not give in return, like commitment and monogamy, the two things that led to jealousy.

  I was not a one-man-woman and I knew Holden was not a one-woman-man. We’d had that discussion already. Neither of us was looking for anything more than what we had at that particular moment. There might be love in our future. There might be “in love”, who the fuck knows, but for now, we were both content having a great time enjoying each other’s company.

  Likewise, neither of us was the possessive type. If Holden wanted to keep seeing and fucking other women that was perfectly fine with me. I cared deeply for Holden and knew he cared deeply for me, but we weren’t wired like so-called “normal” folks. There was no pretense between us. No commitment. No need for monogamy. I was not looking for Mr. Right and Holden certainly wasn’t done playing the field. We’d spend time together, have a fucking blast (or a blast fucking), and if it led somewhere waaaay down the road, great. If not, there would be no regrets.

  I was soaking in the tub when Holden came in wearing nothing but a smile, dangling two empty wine glasses in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. I soaped up my tits and neck with bubbles as I watched him pour us each a glass of wine from the fresh bottle. I grinned as his long cock swung back and forth as he stepped into the tub and handed me a glass before settling into the bubbles at the other end of the soaker tub.

  “Mmmm, this is good,” I said after taking a sip. “I don’t think I’ve had it before. What is it?”

  “It is a Cabernet Sauvignon from Napa Valley, California,” Holden said officially, taking a sip and smacking his lips. “My friend Wynn just brought it to me.”

  “Your friend…”

  “Is there room in that tub for one more?”

  The sound of another man’s deep voice echoed off the bathroom walls, nearly startling the shit out of me. I looked toward the open door and there stood one of the most handsome men I’d ever seen.

  Tall, tanned, blond surfer good looks, a smile that would charm the habit off a nun. He held a glass of wine in his right hand. The thumb of his left hand was hitched atop his belt buckle.

  He was wearing an expensive suit, and a white button-down shirt open at the collar. I recognized him right away from the photo I’d seen on the back of his book and various photos Holden had sitting around the apartment.

  Beneath the warm bath water, I felt my own hot juices begin to flow.

  “Jude, I’d like you to meet my best friend,” Holden said proudly, holding up his glass of wine. “This is Wynn Driver. And we share everything.”

  PART 2

  Description

  I was diagnosed as a nymphomaniac by a therapist who ended up being my lover, but I’ve never been with two men at once before.

  Two men in one day, sure, lots of times, but never with two men at the same time.

  Then I became Professor Holden Moss’ lover— Teacher’s Pet—so to speak, and an entirely new world of sexual adventure opened up to me.

  Holden makes me think things and feel things and do things that I have never before even imagined. Things that make me yearn to go even deeper into his world…

  Enter Dr. Wynn Driver, world-famous author, sex expert, and Holden’s best friend. They share everything, I’m told, even the women in their beds.

  At first, I’m terrified at the thought of having them both at once.

  Then I’m intrigued. And finally, I’m excited to become the pet of two of the sexiest teachers on the planet.

  The anticipation alone is making me so hot I can barely breath.

  Can I separate sex from emotion like the guys do and just enjoy the ride, or will my deep feelings for Holden and now Wynn, get in the way?

  CHAPTER ONE: Professor Wynn Driver

  I never set out to write a book called, What’s Your Vagina Thinking. Hell, until that pivotal moment when it occurred to me that a vagina might actually affect a woman’s thought processes (not to mention a man’s), and the resulting actions she takes, I would have laughed my ass off at the thought of a book that delved into the psychology of the vagina and its effects on the human brain and society as we know it.

  Honestly, I still chuckle at the silliness of the title sometimes, especially when I’m sitting at a book signing with a few hundred women with vaginas of their own, clutching my book to their breasts like found treasure, lining up to get their copy signed. They want hugs. They want selfies. Of course, they want sex, but I have to draw that line in the sand. I mean, I can’t screw every woman that wants to screw me. There just aren’t enough hours in the day.

  So, yeah, the title makes me laugh.

  Only now, I’m laughing all the way to the bank.

  The whole thing still seems a bit like a dream. Me, Professor Wynn Driver, a midlevel psychology professor at a small midwestern university, getting filthy rich and filthy famous off a book about pussy, of all things. Well, not pussy, per se, but the psychology of the most unique organ of the female anatomy. It’s hard to explain. Just buy the book. Find me when I’m in your town and I’ll sign it for you. And if you’re in the mood and I have time, maybe we can get to know each other a little better. Maybe.
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  Why does it all seem like a dream? Because less than two years ago I was a nobody professor teaching clinical psychology at a middle American university and bouncing around from this one-night-stand to the next. I had a shitty car, no money, and lived off the good humor and generosity of my friends. Now I live in a beach house in Malibu and hobnob with Hollywood elite and make more in one week than I used to make in a month teaching. And it’s all because of a book I wrote with a very silly name.

  Don’t get me wrong. It’s not all about the money. I’m proud of the book. What’s between the front and back covers the damn thing is crammed full of rock solid information and observations, one-hundred-percent backed up by reputable clinical studies and interviews with dozens of women. It’s a damn fine book. The title is just the hook for marketing. Keep reading and you’ll understand.

  Let’s go back in time a bit so you get the full picture.

  First off, I was totally shocked when I sent the finished manuscript—which came in at a thousand pages and took almost two years to write—off to literary super agent, Doreen McCallum, and was immediately contacted by her assistant. A week later, I was sitting in her New York City office signing with her to be my agent.

  Second of all, I was again totally shocked when five or six of the big New York City publishing houses started battling over the rights to the damn thing. I mean, who would have ever thought such a thing? It’s not like I was Dr. Phil or Oprah, for petesake.

  I was shocked again (I know, I shock easily I guess) when Doreen ended up selling the manuscript at auction for nearly half a million bucks. That’s right, I said: A HALF A MILLION BUCKS! Hell, I had never made that much money over the course of my entire life, much less in one chunk. It was just freakin’ surreal.

  And third of all, I was shocked (yet again) when I was called into a meeting with the publisher that had bought the rights to the book, Hadley Press, to find that the team assigned to get my book into print were all smoking hot women. I couldn’t believe my eyes (or good fortune) when I walked into the room. It was like a fucking hot babe smorgasbord. All shapes and sizes and colors and variety of hotness.

  There was a shapely blonde with big tits, a tall brunette with big blue eyes, a skinny redhead with cute freckles across her nose, a goth girl with jet black hair and a pierced tongue, and a gorgeous African-American with lips that I couldn’t keep my eyes off of.

  All smoking hot.

  All looking at me. Checking me out, up and down. Licking their lips. Locking eyes with me. For a moment, I felt a little like a lamb being led to slaughter. A week later, after I had fucked every chick in the room except Doreen (she’s sixty-five and a lesbian) I was the one who felt like I had just worked my way through a pussy buffet.

  But I digress…

  When I suggested the title during the first meeting with the group, it was done so as a joke. The working title had been Psychological Effects of the Vagina on Modern Society. I know. Yawwwwn. When Monica Biggs, the aforementioned tall brunette and editor in charge of the project—and giver of one of the best blowjobs I would ever experience—suggested we take a more creative approach that would help market the book, I blurted out, “How about, What’s Your Pussy Thinking?”

  The title hung in the air for a moment like a bad fart as they all looked at me with a mixture of humor and disbelief, like they thought it was privately funny, but couldn’t believe I said the word pussy in mixed company.

  Doreen gave me a look that made me cringe, but slowly a big smile came to Monica’s face. She held up a skinny finger to indicate that a thought was forming. The other women leaned forward in anticipation. I would go on to learn that when Monica smiled, everybody smiled. And when Monica had a thought, everyone agreed.

  “I like the way you’re thinking, Wynn,” she said, eyeing me as she brought the finger to her bottom lip. “But… how about… What’s Your Vagina Thinking?” She held out her hands and glanced around the table. “Just a tad more… politically correct. Wouldn’t you say?”

  Candy, the blonde with the big tits, clapped her hands and bounced excitedly in her chair like a kid about to have birthday cake. She oozed praise with her nose firmly up her boss’ tight butt hole. “Oh, Monica, that’s awesome! Yes! Perfect!”

  “I love it!” Rhonda, the red-haired marketing exec whose carpet indeed matched the drapes, said exuberantly.

  “So, do I!” That was Allison chiming in, the girl with the blue hair and silver rings in here clit and nipples.

  “That’s… awesome,” Doreen echoed, giving me a look of relief. She would tell me later that she thought I’d screwed the pooch by tossing out that title. But as it turned out, she got a great story to tell at publishing conferences and cocktail parties. The day her cocky client suggested What’s Your Pussy Thinking for a book that turned out to be a runaway bestseller and made all of us bloody fucking rich.

  But it does make sense when you stop and think about it. A vagina thinking is no more farfetched than what we men have done since the day we first evolved to the point of having this thing dangling from between our legs. We have a brain, but more often than not, we think with our cocks.

  Think about it. It’s common knowledge that we men think with our cocks—or rather let our cocks block our brainwaves and thereby seem to be thinking for us.

  Since the dawn of man and his discovery of pussy, wars have been fought because men could not control their cocks. Empires toppled. Civilizations wiped off the map. Millions have died over pussy. All because some man with a little bit of power and an out of control sex drive could not keep his cock from taking over his brain.

  Personally, from a psychological point of view, I think men focus on pussy so much because it is the one thing they do not naturally have, the one thing they cannot buy (although surgeons keep trying), and the one thing that moment lord over them to keep them in line. Don’t believe me? Have you ever withheld pussy from a guy? Remember how fucking crazy it made him? There you go. Game, set, match.

  So, that’s how my book became a publishing phenomenon. Slap the word vagina on a book cover, a picture of a good-looking guy on the back, and get ready for the cash registers to ring.

  Monica didn’t have to, but she asked for a vote and every hand went up. “Then it’s decided,” she said, giving me the same look she’d give me later that night with my cock between her lips. “What’s Your Vagina Thinking is the title. Next, let’s move on to your thoughts on cover design.” She smiled at me with her eyes. “And before you can suggest it, we cannot put a picture of a vagina on the cover.”

  Everyone laughed.

  Monica stared at me and slid her tongue across her lips.

  My cock twitched with delight.

  I was going to enjoy this ride immensely.

  And that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

  That’s how I became the bestselling author of a book—and authority on— the psychology of female reproductive anatomy and its effect on the human brain.

  The book was published four months later, landing at number one on the New York Times and USA Today bestseller lists.

  I was profiled in Psychology Today Magazine and interviewed by the Journal of Psychiatry.

  I made the rounds of every TV show from Good Morning America to Ellen to 60 Minutes and become a national celebrity.

  Women lined up to hear me speak at conferences, and I got a couple dozen marriage proposals a day.

  All because I wrote a book on how pussy affects the brain.

  What do I have in common with Hugh Hefner, Larry Flynt, and the dude who owns The Bunny Ranch Whorehouse in Vegas? We all have big houses and fancy cars that were bought and paid for by pussy.

  Again, is this a great country or what?

  CHAPTER TWO: Wynn

  “Tell us, Wynn,” Monica said, smiling at me from over the top of her tea cup as our meeting came to a close. “How ever did you come up with the idea for this book?”

  “That’s a great question, Monica,” I
said with a smile. “I was teaching a class on psychology at Midwestern University and…”

  I let my eyes go around the table as I told them the lie. They were all watching me, animated, leaning in. Like fish in a barrel. I wondered which one I should fuck first. Monica. Sure. Start at the top and work my way down.

  The truth was, I was a professor at Midwestern University when the idea for the book came to me, but it was not during a class. It was around nine o’clock on a Saturday night, while I was in a guest bathroom fucking the shit out of the wife of my boss, Jefferson Milton, the head of the psychology department.