by Alexis Angel
But after numerous sex tapes, countless scandals, Presidents who marry their stepmothers, and a host of other situations, the sexual mores of Americans have changed. They're not scandalized by my fucking the shit out of Mandy.
They're appreciative.
At least, that's what the cheers are telling me! Literally, people are standing up and cheering me on!
Okay, you got me. I was worried for a fucking second. I was worried that people were going to start to do the same old bullshit and call me a bad role model.
But wait, I forgot. I'm Magnus fucking Davion. I can do any fucking thing I want.
With a roar, I push against the glass door that leads out to the terrace. Part of the renovation took some of the floor-to-ceiling glass wall and made it into a door and added a small terrace.
The door swings open and the tint from the glass goes away on the Jumbotron. The camera zooms in and I'm larger than life looking down on the stadium at 150,000 fans who are screaming and swooning.
I raise my heavily tattooed arm and point out at the stadium.
The crowd goes fucking wild.
Mandy opens her eyes and looks out the window. The first thing she sees is herself bent over a table except now her face is 30 feet by 110 feet.
"Oh God," she moans, "Everyone can see us!"
She whimpers and the thought of being so public makes her body spasm and convulse and I know another orgasm has just ripped through her.
I don't fucking blame her. I'm about to cum myself.
But something seems incomplete as thoughts of cum race through my head.
I figure it out.
Why cum into a condom when I'm in front of this many fucking people?
That's right. I need something dramatic.
I pull out of Mandy.
Already the crowd is beginning to chant, as if they realize what is about to happen.
"Cum on her! Cum on her! Cum on her!"
Little fucking grandmothers with foam fingers are pointing at me, telling me to do my fucking job as a man.
Mandy knows what's going on, and as if in a trance, she slides down to her knees and faces my cock. She does not put her back to the crowd and they can still see her as she pulls the condom from my cock and flings it off the terrace onto the fans below.
If this isn't like being a fucking god, I don't know what is. Mandy wraps her lips around my tip and sucks.
I groan.
"Cum on her! Cum on her!" the crowd continues to chant.
I see Mandy staring at me as she removes her mouth and begins to stroke my shaft.
Those slutty eyes are the last things I see as my mind goes blank and a seizure of pleasure grips my balls, and electricity jolts through my body.
Arcs of white, hot, thick cum race out of my cock and onto her face.
A thick rope splashes her on the chin. Another hits her neck. Her beautiful, slutty eyes are staring at me and milking me as two shots cover her forehead. Cum starts to drip down her. She opens her mouth and a shot of ropey, thick cum goes in. Another few shots hit her tits and cover her with semen.
The crowd goes wild, cheering me on as I finish spraying the cheerleader before me with my cum.
She begins to scoop it off her tits with one finger and bring it to her lips. I groan as I see her take one long swab of cum on her index finger and bring it to her lips.
My cock twitches again.
The Jumbotron captures it.
The crowd starts to chant my name. I wave and take Mandy’s hand and lift her to her feet. We both bow.
The crowd goes fucking wild; the roar is deafening.
Welcome to my life.
Want to keep reading?
I guarantee you, if you do, you'll be following me into something that makes this seem like a boring walk in the park.
But you won't know till you come find out.
2
The New York Daily Journal
It’s Time for Us To Come Together!
Gossip Central on Page Eight. From the Desk of Vicky Durner - All the gossip you never even knew you needed to know!
Good morning Gotham!
Hope you enjoy a nice spraying of cum on your face with that coffee and toast! Because that's exactly what we got yesterday with Magnus Davion at the New York Nailers arena.
In case you just spit out your coffee reading the above line, fear not, brave denizen of New York City. You did read that correctly.
Billionaire real estate mogul Magnus Davion was so happy with his recent purchase of the New York Nailers that he went ahead and began to celebrate by having sex in the skybox of the stadium—during a home game.
I know that in the Tri-State region we try to give billionaires their due. After all, they've managed to accrue all this money so it's only natural that we give them an opportunity to enjoy it. But honestly, if you're going to be enjoying it by sticking your giant rod into the head cheerleader of the team that you bought in the skybox of the stadium where there is a game going on, maybe think about closing the blinds?
Because it didn't take long for the cameras to find Magnus. And when this showman found himself on the JumboTron, did he shy away?
Of course not.
He doubled down.
And sprayed the cheerleader in the face with his love gun. To the cheers of over 50,000 fans.
I'm sorry, but I thought I was going to stadiums to watch football games. I didn't realize I was going to Nailers Arena to watch the live re-enactment of Debbie Does Dallas.
Is this really the kind of environment we want our kids to grow up in?
Do we really want the next generation of New Yorker men to aspire to one day shoot their ejaculate onto a woman's face in front of 50,000 cheering fans?
Because that's exactly what we're doing by rewarding such gross and boorish behavior from Magnus Davion.
How exactly are we rewarding it you ask, my fellow Gothamites?
Consider our tax dollars that we pay to the city of New York. Those tax dollars are being used to procure services from real estate developers.
Think of the Equinox Tower, one of the most iconic and celebrated building projects in the world. Once it's built in three years, it'll be the tallest building in the world.
And right now, the City of New York, which is the landlord for the site, is considering a host of developers to carry this project forward. The chief contender?
Yep. You guessed it.
Davion Development.
It's time for us to put a stop to this.
It's time for us to draw a line in the sand and say that we're done with the filth washing up into our homes. We're done rewarding bad behavior.
I call on all New Yorkers today to join me in telling the city and the state to pull all contracts and refuse to do business with any business entity that's controlled by Magnus Davion.
Start sending him a message that it's not okay to be so focused on yourself that you don't care about anything else.
That it's not okay to be the baddest boy on the block.
That it's time to join the human race.
Let's bring our voices together, New York. And let's be heard.
Until then, keep your ears to the ground, New York. I'll be listening!
3
Penny
Monday morning. Most people hate it, but not me.
I think there’s something exhilarating about the start of a new week. New challenges, new opportunities … you’re probably rolling your eyes at me right now. I know, I know—I’m one of those people lucky enough to have a job that they love. What can I say? I fell in love with words when I was young, and that love kept on growing and growing until I became a reporter.
Ever heard of Gossip Central? Of course you have; I bet you don’t miss a single column. Well, I’m the gal (or, well, one of the gals) behind the keyboard. I know the byline under each column says a certain Vicky Durner wrote the piece, but that’s just part of the show. It’s a pen name, you see? A nom-de-plum if you w
ant to be fancy about it. Because I, Penny Wright, am the one cranking out these columns. Okay, I’m not the only one working under the name Vicky Durner, but I sure as hell am the most prolific.
I’m only twenty-one and, now fresh out of Yale, I want to prove to the world how good I really am. That’s why I work so hard, and that’s why I’m this cheery on a Monday morning.
I know the name Gossip Central might have you rolling your eyes again, but don’t get too hung up on the name: there’s serious journalism in these pieces. Gossip is fun (I’m not above a good afternoon of it), but I also care about this city where I grew up, and I hope that shows in what I write.
“You’re early,” one of the new interns yawns, stretching out his arms as I walk inside the main floor of the New York Daily Journal office. “I’ve heard the boss wants to see you,” he adds, attacking the cup of coffee in front of him with lazy movements. There are bags under his eyes and, judging by the way he’s slumping over his desk now, I’m betting he was on call the whole night, doing edits and re-edits on articles that are supposed to be buried deep in the newspaper. I remember my days as an unpaid intern during the summers, and I can sum them up with two words only: not fun.
“Thank you, Hank,” I reply with a smile, reading the name from the ID card hanging from his breast pocket. He throws me a half-asleep smile, and then he’s back to his laptop, his fingers lazily banging at the keyboard.
I stroll toward the Editor-in-Chief’s office, the one at the end of the main room, and make my way through the dozens of still-empty desks filling the whole place. I rap my knuckles against the door, and a heartbeat after that I hear a familiar voice replying.
“Come in!” I hear my mother say, and I push the door open and step inside. Yep, you’ve heard it right; my mother, Rhoda Wright, is the ‘boss’ around here. But don’t think I’m working here just because she’s my mother. In fact, that’s one of the reasons behind the fact that I work so hard: I don’t want to live under her shadow.
She’s sitting behind her massive desk now, a monstrosity made out of oak that dominates the whole room, and goes up to her feet the moment I get in.
“G’morning,” I greet her, “I heard you wanted to see me and I --,” I trail off as I see a woman sitting in front of her desk, forgetting what I was about to say. She turns around on her seat to face me, and I can’t help but be surprised as I realize that the woman right in front of me is the Mayor of New York City herself.
“Penny, this is Laurel Trask, the mayor,” my mother introduces her (as if someone like Laurel Trask needed an introduction), and the mayor gets up from her seat with a polite smile and offers me her hand. I take it in mine, still surprised, and shake it.
“It’s an honor,” I say, and I mean it. It takes a tough woman to get to mayor in this city, and Laurel Trask is all that, and some more. No wonder, though; it seems that there’s a do-or-die quality in her family. She is, after all, the sister of the former mayor, Parker ‘Pleasure’ Trask, now a senator (and right on his way to the presidency).
I was still months away from graduating when Parker Trask entered on a collision course with the Governor, and I still hate the fact that I wasn’t yet a journalist when that battle for New York began. Can you imagine how exciting those times must've been for a journalist? I can.
“Likewise,” Laurel replies, shaking my hand firmly and yet softly. She’s still young, probably in her mid-thirties, and she looks as beautiful as any catwalk model. I guess the Trask family seems to be on good terms with the genetics of beauty. “It’s also an honor to meet the daughter of the woman who turned the New York Daily Journal into what it is today. Your mother tells me you show great promise.”
“Thank you, you’re very kind,” I respond with a smile as my mother waves us both to the seats in front of her desk. “So, to what do we owe your visit?”
“Well, Laurel here has read your latest article about Magnus and his antics at the Nailers’ last game.”
“I did, and from that piece alone I can see you’ll make a name for yourself if you keep at it, Penny,” she adds, crossing her legs and staring at me.
“Thank you, but I still don’t understand what --”
“You see, Penny,” Laurel cuts me short, reaching for me and placing one of her delicate hands on top of mine, “some men are more dangerous than what they seem to be, and Magnus is one of these men. While the public loves him, he’s like a disease that has settled deep inside the bones of New York, and it’s my job to stop him before he rots this whole city.”
I nod, looking straight into her eyes and seeing a pleasant fierceness burning there. She doesn’t like Magnus, that much I can see. But, then again, how can anyone like someone as self-centered as Magnus? He’s a disgrace to this city.
“We can’t have him profiting off our city while he steps on our morals and values,” she continues, and I find myself nodding at every word she says. “As it is, I want to ban him from doing any construction business in the city going forward.”
“Even the Equinox Tower?”
“Even the Equinox Tower, Penny.”
“Well, that’s not going to be easy,” I whisper, more to myself than to Laurel. The Equinox Tower is supposed to be the tallest building in the world, and Magnus managed to secure the contract for it—a $120 billion dollar contract. Yeah, $120 billion dollars, feel free to reread it. Aside from the legal implications, the city has also fallen in love with this playboy wannabe, and so taking him out is going to be an uphill struggle.
“No, it’s not going to be easy. And that’s exactly why I’m here. His last stunt at the Nailers’ stadium has caused a few of my fundraisers and people whose money I need to start questioning him and his methods, and now is the right time for us to make our move. If we manage to bar him from building the Equinox Tower, his business is going to be crippled … and he’ll have no choice but to fade away into nothingness.”
“Where do I fit into all this?” I ask Laurel, but it’s my mother who answers.
“Well, I rely on my fundraisers and high net worth individuals for the money to become governor,” Laurel says. “And we’re relying on you to show the world what they already know.”
“You’re the key to all this, Penny. You’re probably the best reporter I have, and we need you to do some digging on him. If we find something juicy enough, the public will turn against him and it’ll be a walk in the park for the city to pull his eligibility for all future contracts.”
“He has slept with a lot of women, so maybe this won’t be hard. Maybe a sexual harassment suit? That’d be enough to get the ball in our court. You’ll probably have to find a way into his personal life, and I know you probably don’t want to, but --” I don’t let Laurel finish her sentence, determination welling up to the surface and turning into sound as it climbs up my throat.
“Yes,” I simply say, looking from Laurel to my mother, “I’ll do it.” If they need my help to bury Magnus, they’ve come to the right person.
Now, there are two things you probably need to know about me, and I’m going to tell you what they are. The first one is, I hate Magnus with a passion. The second is that he’s my stepfather.
Yes, you read that right: Magnus Davion is my stepfather.
My father died when I was only three, and it took my mother long enough to find love again. I was over the moon when she told me she’d be remarrying. I was eighteen at the time, and I barely knew the kind of man she had decided to tango with. You see, even though their marriage didn’t last for long, he still managed to hurt her badly. The bastard cheated on her at every opportunity he had, making her life a living hell. He was lucky I was away for college at the time; I’d have kicked him in the balls so hard that he’d still be whimpering now.
So, yeah, if I’m offered a chance to make Magnus Davion feel all of the pain he caused my family and New York, there’s only one possible answer: a resounding yes.
“We’ll get him,” I tell both Laurel and my mother, a dee
p certainty making my heart pulse steadily.
I’m coming for you, Magnus.
4
Magnus
“Fuck, where is it?” I grumble under my breath, trying to find my boxer briefs. I know they’re somewhere in these sheets, but I can’t seem to—ah, here are the fuckers! Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I put on my boxers and then bend over to pick a pair of discarded jeans from the floor. I wriggle myself into them and then go around the bed, grabbing my phone from the bed stand.
Fuck, I overslept. It’s already 9:30, and I was supposed to meet my lawyer at 9. I’ll never hear the end of it now. Joyce is always harping about punctuality, and she lives and dies by it. That woman needs to get laid, that’s my two cents on the whole punctuality debate.
“Alright, ladies,” I say to the three naked woman sprawled on my bed, their curves calling to me. “This breaks my heart, but I gotta go.” One of them stirs in her sleep and rolls to the side, and I feel my cock twitch as I see her large tits coming into sight. My fingers twitch, and I’m already walking toward the bed when a moment of clarity suddenly grips me.
I’m late for the meeting, which means …
“No fucking pussy for breakfast,” I whisper regretfully, and make my way out of the bedroom, careful enough to shut the door softly. They might be strippers, but that doesn’t mean they don’t need a restful sleep. Especially after last night—I really fucked them to exhaustion. Maybe I should’ve brought one or two extra strippers home with me last night. At least that way I could’ve kept the party going for an hour more.
Hey, I can hear you fucking snickering right now.
You’re probably thinking that I’m too full of myself, aren’t you?
Well, you’re welcome to pay me a visit, and then we’ll see who’s too full of himself.
