GIRLIFIED: 15 BOOKS MEGA BUNDLE

by Nikki Crescent

  Her heart was pounding, and she could feel Andy’s heart pounding as he lay on top of her. Her head was spinning—she still hadn’t processed everything yet. She still couldn’t figure out how she ended up with two well-endowed men making love to her body. It was especially crazy seeing as she had woken up a virgin that morning.

  But she embraced it. She held both men close to her and she let them kiss her, suck her, fondle her, and squeeze her. She found herself in a sort of pretzel, with legs over her and under her, and a cock in each hand. Grant’s cock was now close to her face, and his face was still down between her legs. He was deep-throating her erection expertly and without hesitation. Now Andy was lower, sucking her nipples, with his bare erection pressed against her side. He was naked—and so was Grant—and so was Sarah. Somehow, all of their clothes had ended up on the floor.

  “I want you inside of me,” she said, but she wasn’t sure who she was saying it to—maybe to both of them. She was scared but excited. She was nervous but she couldn’t imagine not getting fucked. She’d already been fucked once that day, but she knew this was going to be more intense. She knew she wouldn’t last long once a throbbing member was deep in her body. And she couldn’t wait to feel warm cum all over her body.

  Someone spread her legs and held them up high. Someone else straddled her chest and pressed her tits together. She had her eyes closed and she was too afraid to open them, though she wasn’t sure why. She felt a cock sliding in-between her breasts, and then she felt a cock press up to her tight hole. A moment later, she was penetrated. She clenched but she was still stretched wide from earlier, in the movie theater—clenching didn’t stop the thick cock from travelling deeper.

  She knew the cock in her asshole belonged to Grant—it felt different than Andy’s. It was longer and thicker, and the veins throbbed harder. It was curved slightly, pushing to the left, which felt strangely amazing. She tried to squirm as euphoria began to overwhelm her, but the two men had her pinned. Grant held her legs firmly in the air as he sunk his cock in deep, while Andy thrusted his cock between her breasts. It all felt so good—she didn’t want it to end. But she knew she wouldn’t last long, so she knew the men probably wouldn’t last long either.

  “She’s so tight,” Grant said.

  “I want you to come inside of me,” Sarah said—and she couldn’t believe she’d actually said it aloud. “I want you both to come inside of me.”

  It was a second later when Andy got up and stepped off of the couch. Grant stayed where he was, gently thrusting, getting her warmed up for the real fucking. “Hold her up,” Andy’s voice said, and then she felt Grant’s hands slip underneath her. He lifted her as if she was a blow-up sex doll, and Andy squirmed underneath her. Grant then put her down on Andy’s chest.

  She opened her eyes and looked down. Grant was reaching down—he grabbed Andy’s erection and lined it up with Sarah’s butthole. Once he had his first inch inside of her, he let go. Andy continued to push in. Then, Grant took his own cock and pressed it up to the same tight hole, which was already stuffed—the men were going to try and get both cocks inside of her at the same time. Was it even possible? How badly would it hurt? Would her asshole ever look the same afterwards?

  She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “Do it,” she said. She was scared. She knew it would hurt—at least at first. But she somehow knew it would be worth it. Grant started to push in. It took a moment of pushing before he penetrated.

  Sarah screamed, and then she covered her mouth. She bit down on her fingers and looked down again. She watched as Grant slowly pushed his cock in, on top of Andy’s cock. It did hurt—she could feel her skin stretching, like it was about to tear, but she remained strong and brave. She watched as that cock sunk deeper and deeper, and then she let her head fall back. Andy reached around and cupped her tits. Grant reached down and held her hips. A moment later, both men were gently thrusting.

  And with each thrust, that pain was going away. Her asshole felt less and less like it was going to tear. She reached down and grabbed her cock firmly and began to stroke it. Euphoria began to fill her body. Her legs started trembling and her chest started heaving. It felt good—too good. She didn’t know pleasure like this was possible. She bit down on her tongue in an attempt to stop herself from moaning, but it was a futile attempt. She started moaning like a wild animal. She could feel both cocks inside of her ass, sliding in and pulling out.

  “I think I’m going to come,” she said.

  “Me too,” Andy said.

  “Me three,” Grant said. No one was lasting long—it was impossible to last long with so much stimulation. It was amazing Sarah managed to last as long as she did, with two thick cocks pressing into her prostate.

  Sarah groaned. She strained to look down, just as her cock spewed white streams across her chest. A couple shots hit the backs of Andy’s hands. The rest, Andy wiped upwards, onto her tits. Then Sarah felt the warmth blasting inside of her—one of the men was coming—or maybe it was both of the men. She could feel blast after blast after blast. She felt so full, like she was going to burst. Both men were groaning—so surely she was feeling a double creampie filling her up deep.

  Both men pulled out at the same time. She tried to clench her anus shut, but she was too stretched out, so all of the cum came pouring out, down her butt cheeks and onto the couch. Sarah was exhausted. Her arms and legs were trembling and she couldn’t move. She had the biggest smile stuck on her face. Andy and Grant were slow to get up to their feet. Grant stumbled back as he tried to catch his breath.

  Both men had proved that they really did want her—but Sarah still wasn’t sure who should get her. But they were looking at her, waiting for her verdict. So what could she say? How could she make them both happy while making herself happy too?

  “Now what?” Andy asked. He looked down at his legs, which were covered in cum—some of which probably wasn’t his own, but it all came out from Sarah’s butt.

  “Now, I guess Sarah decides who she wants,” Grant said. Both men looked back at her.

  “I don’t want to choose,” Sarah said.

  “You have to,” Andy said.

  “Then I want Grant,” she said. And she was shocked to hear herself say it so suddenly and so confidently. But it was true—Grant liked her more. Grant had put in all the work. Andy was a good friend, but Sarah could tell that Andy was struggling with her trans identity. “Andy—we used to be great friends, and I still want to be friends. But I think Grant really cares about me.”

  “I understand,” Andy said. He looked disappointed, but he truly looked like he understood. Sarah couldn’t help but feel that Andy was only interested because he didn’t want Grant to take away the precious memories of his childhood. But Andy needed to learn to grow up. He needed to accept that things change—people change—and that doesn’t change a person’s memories. Whenever Sarah mentioned their childhood, Andy’s face would turn white and his mind would drift away. Whenever she looked into his eyes, she could see hesitation. He just wasn’t ready.

  Sarah slept in Grant’s room that night. She woke up in his arms, warm and relaxed and happy and excited for the life that lay ahead of her. She was happy to see Andy in the kitchen after she got up. He was cooking breakfast, for her and Grant as well as himself. He had the strangest smile on his face, and he was whistling like a man with a new lease on life. “What’s up with you?” Sarah asked.

  “I just had a chance to think about things last night, and I’m glad the way everything turned out,” he said. And then he turned back to the stove and continued smiling and whistling. Sarah wasn’t sure what kind of revelation he’d had, but she was happy he’d had it. That afternoon he applied for jobs, and the next morning, he went in for an interview with a big company. He got the job. That same week he cleaned up his bedroom and packed up his video games. And then he went up to Sarah and said, “Thank you.” She had a good idea why he was thanking her.

  She moved out at the end of the mont
h, and Grant went with her. They got a nice two-bedroom apartment near downtown, not too far from Andy’s place. And everything seemed strangely perfect—because everything was perfect.

  THE END

  PICTURE DAY

  John, an amateur photographer, is desperate for work after being short on rent for the third month in a row. He decides to advertise his photography services on a local job board, and he’s surprised when he gets a call so quickly.

  A school is in desperate need of a photographer for picture day. The pay is good, so John doesn’t hesitate. And the day goes smoothly enough, until one final student comes in at the end of the day. She’s stunningly beautiful and amazingly photogenic. And she’s got a special request for John: a private weekend photo shoot. John has his reservations but he accepts the gig. But his reservations only grow when he finds out the beautiful young woman isn’t listed as a student at the school.

  CHAPTER I

  It was picture day—the day of the week when I posted a new photo to Instagram. It was a Tuesday, to be more specific.

  All of the greatest Instagram photographers only posted one photo every week, and I wanted to be one of the greats. Larry Fischer, Toby Ronson, Gayle Meeker—they were all killer and no filler: hundreds of posts without a single stinker. I wanted to be just like them. I wanted to be in a class of my own, with each photo getting a week’s worth of proper attention. I didn’t want to be another aspiring photographer posting twenty photos a day, getting my likes through sheer quantity. I had to be one of the greats if I was going to be a photographer at all.

  That Tuesday, my new photo got six likes—six measly likes. I sat on my couch and stared at my phone in a state of disbelief, though I wasn’t surprised. It was actually an improvement over my last photo, which only received six likes after an entire week. At first I thought there was something wrong with my phone, and then I started to wonder if there was something wrong with my Instagram settings. I must have spent three hours searching through settings, trying to find some hidden adjustment so that the world could see my photos. I even made a second Instagram account, just so I could search for my own photos, to make sure they were actually visible to the public. And they were visible to the public—the problem wasn’t my phone or Instagram.

  I’d been at it for four months. I almost had twenty photos posted, with hardly one hundred likes across all of them. I had eight followers, and a total of two comments: one thumbs-up emoji and one advertisement for discount sneakers. I squirmed looking at my pathetic numbers, and the thought that I’d spent thousands of dollars on my equipment—never mind the two years I spent at photography school.

  I’d spent quite a bit of time in denial, trying to convince myself that I wasn’t the problem—it was my audience. Surely they just didn’t know what a good picture was. Surely they were just tasteless pigs, just looking for pictures of naked girls and cute puppies. And then I found myself back on the pages of Larry Fischer, Toby Ronson, Gayle Meeker, and my other heroes. Their photos were stunning, and their likes and comments reflected that. When I compared my profile to theirs, it became obvious that I was the problem. My photos really weren’t that good. Most of them were pretentious—stupid shots of buildings taken at strange angles. There was something clearly missing, but I couldn’t put my finger on what.

  I was staring at my phone, trying to convince myself that my photos weren’t so bad, when there was a knock at my door. I put my phone down and answered the door. It was my landlord. “Rent,” he said, reaching his hand out.

  I checked the date on my watch. It was the first of December—rent really was due. I’d lost track of the date. I’d been unemployed for three weeks. When you’re unemployed, you tend not to keep track of the time or the date, seeing as it’s mostly irrelevant… until rent is due. “I’ll go get it,” I said. I went to the cupboard where I kept the cash for my rent. My landlord had stopped taking cheques from me, because so many of them had bounced. I returned with the white envelope I had set aside. “Here you go.”

  He counted it in front of me, which I thought was rude, but I didn’t say anything. “You’re short,” he said. “There’s only six-hundred here.”

  I grabbed the cash from him and counted myself. I didn’t fully trust him. He had the eyes of a snake and he was always snooping around. But he was right—I was short one hundred dollars. So I fetched my wallet, thinking I had some cash in there. But there was only forty bucks in my wallet. “I’ll get the other sixty today—I just need to run to an ATM,” I said.

  “No later than the end of the day,” he said before turning around and walking away. He didn’t say goodbye. He hadn’t said goodbye or hello to me since my first rent cheque had bounced, which was only two months after I’d moved in.

  Before leaving for the ATM, I checked my phone, to see if a deluge of likes had suddenly appeared on my new photo. But there were now only five likes—someone had gone back and un-liked my photo. My gut turned but I didn’t get too worked up, seeing as it wasn’t the first time. I’d heard of bot accounts that go through and like photos and then un-like them an hour later—something to do with growing followers.

  I wasn’t into all of those tricks. I didn’t even like to use hashtags—they seemed so gimmicky and cheap. I wanted my photos to stand on their own. I didn’t want to go and follow thousands of people I didn’t care about, and I didn’t want to go through Instagram liking photos that I didn’t actually like. My Instagram philosophy was simple: post a photo and let it take off on its own… Though apparently simple wasn’t working for me yet.

  I hit up the ATM three blocks from my house. It was in a small convenience store and sometimes the storeowner would give me a free little bag of chips. I think he thought that I was homeless, but I never corrected him. I stuck my card into the ATM, punched in my code, and then I asked the machine for $40.00. I waited a moment, and then I saw the message: ‘insufficient funds. Please enter a different amount.’ My heart plunged into my stomach and burned in my stomach acid. I tried again, thinking there was some mistake—maybe I’d asked for $400.00 instead of $40.00. But I got the message again. So I asked for $20.00, and then I got the message once again.

  Surely it was the machine, I thought. So I went for a longer walk down to my bank. I stood in like for the teller, and then I told her about the crazy ATM machine. She took one look at her computer screen and said, “I’m afraid the machine wasn’t wrong.” She couldn’t even look me in the eyes, as if I was too pathetic to look at. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “Where did my money go?”

  She looked at the screen again. She looked hesitant. “Well…” she said. “You had one hundred and five dollars this time last month. It looks like you put forty dollars into your account three weeks ago. Then you bought something at a place called Zimmer Cameras for sixty-five dollars, leaving you at eighty dollars. You made a payment to your phone provider, for fifty dollars, leaving you around thirty dollars. Then you spent twenty-two dollars at a place called Tassels.” I felt my face turn red—Tassels was a well-known strip-club. I’d gone in with a friend for lunch—he insisted on the location.

  Now there were people staring at me, silently judging me, waiting for me to get out of line so they could do their own banking. I took my bankcard and backed away from the counter. I don’t know why, but I thought I had more money. I didn’t realize how quickly I’d pissed away what I had left. It was only four months before when I had over ten thousand dollars in that account. Where did that money go? What did I have to show for it?

  Camera gear. I had an obsession with camera gear. Back when I was employed, I would spend nearly every dollar I earned down at Zimmer Cameras. I would buy new lenses, new bodies, lights, backdrops, stands, reflectors, tripods, remotes, light boxes—whatever they had, I wanted it. And now I was broke.

  So for the first time in almost a year, I found myself walking up to my parents’ house. I rang the doorbell. They had a giant front door that always made me feel small and powe
rless. The main answered the door. “How can I help you?” she asked.

  “I’m Terry’s son. Is he home?” I asked.

  “Terry!” the main shouted. “It’s your son!”

  I knew my dad was going to send me down guilt lane. I knew he was going to scold me for my photography hobby, and then he would try to convince me to come and work for his paper company. And I wasn’t wrong—not even ten seconds into our conversation, he managed to cover all my expectations. “Let me guess—you’re out of money and you need a hand-out. We only see you when you need a handout. And let me guess—you spent all your money on some new camera that’s probably no different from the last one you bought, or the one before it, or the one that your mother and I bought you ten years ago. Are you working? Of course you’re not working—look at your face. You clearly haven’t shaved in weeks. Shave your face and come and work for my company. There’s a desk with your name on it.”

  “I just need forty bucks to cover rent,” I said.

  “I’ll give it to you, but I’m calling it an advance on your pay. I can have you start tomorrow. You know the address—be there at nine,” he said, reaching into his wallet and fishing out two crisp twenties.

  “I’m not coming to work for you, dad. I’ll pay back the forty bucks.”

  “With what money?” he said, putting his hands on his hips and leaning to one side like a one-legged owl.

  “The money from my job,” I said. My gut turned and my chest fluttered. I knew my face was turning red—I just hoped he couldn’t tell that I was lying.

  “What job?”

  “I got a job as a, uh, photographer,” I said. “With a company. But I haven’t been paid yet—so I just need a few bucks to cover my rent.”

  “Oh,” my dad said. He nodded his head slowly. “Well you should shave. That patchy fuzz all over your face looks unprofessional. You want to be taken seriously, right? Then shave. Here’s sixty bucks—don’t worry about paying it back. Just come over on Sunday for dinner—your mother’s cooking a roast.”