by Dark Angel
But there's nothing I can do by looking at the Rainforest.com store ranking right now. I need to find out why nothing is being done to promote my book.
I call Grady.
Oh yeah, remember the boyfriend I mentioned? The one that I brought with me from NYU?
That's Grady. He manages my account over at Bad Boy Publishing.
And as usual, he's not answering.
Whatever, my serviced office is only really a two-minute walk from him; I'm in one end of Times Square and he's a block from me on 42nd and 8th.
And I have nothing better to do, so I shut and lock my door and head down the building.
It takes me almost no time to cross the street and go into the building that houses Bad Boy Publishing.
They're on the 5th through 10th floors, and Grady has his own office on the 7th floor.
He's always going on and on about how proud he is at his level of advancement at Bad Boy Publishing. I get that he's proud of his job, but he's an account executive still. Sure, he's climbing the ranks, but sometimes it's hard not to roll your eyes when he acts like he's the CEO.
I mean, if he were the CEO, he'd have a secretary or administrative assistant outside of his office, but he doesn't. Which means that despite the fact that his door is closed, I can still knock and go inside.
And that's when I freeze.
Because Grady is in his office alright.
But so is someone else.
She's got long blonde hair and a set of perfectly fake tits that have to be at least a C cup. She's anorexic thin and she's bent over the desk. Grady is naked from the waist down and he's pumping into her.
I smirk.
Grady pumping his cock into her as she's bent over his desk?
I mean, can she even feel him?
No offense to my boyfriend or anything, but sex really isn't his forte. Not with the 4-inch cock that God blessed him with. I mean, to Grady, those 4 inches are equivalent to about 16 on a regular human being, but to any regular woman, they're equivalent to about 0 I've always thought because whenever he's penetrated me, the first thing I've wanted to ask is, "Is it in?"
But of course I didn't. I mean that would be such a bitch move to do.
"Grady, you're fucking me so good, don't stop baby," the girl moans and all of a sudden I think I know who it is.
That's Alyssa Moore.
She's the model and author that recently had that whole thing with her ex-boyfriend fucking her sister at the RWAA convention.
It looks like she's moved on.
I guess she's come to Bad Boy Publishing instead of whatever publishing house she was at.
"Your cock is so big," she moans.
So they don't see me yet. Which is fine.
I clear my throat. Nothing.
"Grady," I say, knocking on the open door.
That's when he turns his head around.
Seriously, it's hilarious because his eyes go wide and he pulls his tiny baby dick outside of Alyssa who whimpers at it leaving.
Seriously, I've heard of women playing it up and pretending that a guy's cock is really big to inflate his male ego, but she actually seems like she's missing his cock.
Could she think his cock is big?
I mean, she's anorexic skinny and come to think of it, that's the only kind of woman Grady could probably satisfy at this stage in his life.
Yeah, I think this relationship is pretty much over at this point. I mean, it was nice while it lasted, I guess.
But I never expected that I was going to spend forever with him. God knows I didn't love him.
So, whatever, you know?
But Grady doesn't know that. I mean, he could be a little bit more dignified about it. Because all he's doing now is hopping from one foot to the next.
I look at him with curiosity.
"Abby!" he yells, and I see Alyssa turn around, her mouth turned into a perfect O.
Yes, I'm still a big name author in the publishing world. I may not have had many successes lately, but people still know who I am.
"So this is why you're not answering your phone, Grady?" I ask, putting one hand to my hip. "Because you're too busy with a new client?"
"It's not like that, babe," Grady tells me, running over to me.
I back off slightly. His cock is swinging. But it's not even like a big swinging dick. It's a little tiny sausage link that's waving its tail like a little Dachshund.
I make a face and Grady steps back.
"I thought you were writing, too!" he yells at me. "What're you doing here?"
I look at him with a mix of confusion and absolutely fucking puzzlement.
"So because you thought I was off writing, you thought it's okay to fuck another author?" I ask him, my voice rising. "And her?"
I'm pointing at Alyssa. Don't get me wrong. I have nothing against models and authors. But seriously, Alyssa Moore?
She never writes anything. She just puts her face on the cover in a skimpy bra and gets author credits.
I don't know if I'm more upset that he was fucking another woman or he was fucking her.
"Alyssa and I have been talking for a while, babe," Grady says, trying to explain it to me. "I'm sorry."
"No, Grady," I tell him coldly. "I'm the one that's sorry."
And then, the fateful words. "Consider this visit my termination visit for any arrangements with Bad Boy Publishing."
I turn around. Really, that's all I really need to do here. Very simple. Very civilized way of saying fuck off.
"Abby, you can't fucking leave," Grady says, his voice reaching ever higher octaves.
I turn around to look at him.
Don't get me mad, Grady. Please don't go there.
"We had a deal," he tells me. I look at him to see if he's really being serious.
He's not joking.
"You can't back out now," he says to me.
"Really? I can't back out of an arrangement that specifically says I can back out at any time?" I ask him, cocking my eyebrows.
"If you back out now, then it'll look very bad for my career, babe," he tells me, completely serious.
I swear to God, Grady has made thinking only about himself an art form.
I reach down and grab his pants and his boxers and bunch them up. I take Alyssa's short skirt. I bunch all of it together into a tight little ball.
"I can't leave?" I ask him, walking toward him.
"Not if you want to keep your end of the bargain," he says to me, sagely.
I smile and go toward his window that's cracked open slightly. The cold New York City air is coming in. Helps the building save on air conditioning.
Then without a second glance I stick my hand out the window.
Alyssa gasps because this is the hand that has her skirt, her thong, Grady's pants, and his boxers.
And I let them go.
They flutter in the wind, dropping down toward the ground.
"That's what I think of my fucking end of the bargain," I tell him. "And it looks like you have a bigger problem at work than worrying about losing me as a client."
And that's it.
My exit. I head to the door.
"You're going to regret this, Abby," Grady says to me.
"Fuck off and die, asshole," I say without turning back. "You're the one that'll regret it if you come after me."
Don't look at me like that babe.
I may be an angel most days.
But fuck with me, and I'll go from sweet and cute into the Angel of Death.
Aidan
"Un-fucking-believable," I say, releasing my grip from the pull-up bar.
A bead of sweat rolls down my temple and I wipe it off. "Did you call the right people?" I ask.
My PA, CJ, looks at me like I’ve grown a second head.
"What kind of a question is that? Of course I did, and I'm not going to lie," CJ replies. "The situation is bad. I made over a hundred calls yesterday. That's a hundred and counting Aidan! Do you know how long that takes
? And not a single person wanted to work with you. The numbers aren't good. I'm beginning to get worried."
"What about the author I modeled for last week?" I ask. None of this makes sense. Not after the fucking applause I received at the RAGA conference. Say what you will, but the audience fucking loved me.
"That author's moved on, mumbled something about wanting to take her book covers in another direction," CJ replies.
"That's a fucking joke."
"Joke or not, we need to figure something out, and quick. Your reputation in the Romance book industry isn't good."
I jump back up on the pull-up bar and proceed through another 10 reps. So what? I may have fucked more women than I can count, and sure, I may have burned a few bridges, but those fucking flames are just lighting the way for others. People should be thankful, really.
"Can you just stop for a second? This is important," CJ says, her hands on her hips. The look on her face is all business, and the way the sun hits her auburn-red hair makes her look fiery. She's always been blunt with me; that's what I fucking love about her and why I fucking pay her the big bucks to be my agent. She's kind of like an over-protective older sister. But if she thinks I'm going to stop, she's wrong. Time is money, and because I get paid to make girls' panties wet, I can't afford to skip a few crunches.
"I'm listening," I say through exhales.
"The only gigs you're getting paid for now are erotica covers."
"Is that a bad thing?"
"Was that your plan all along? Erotica is limited; if we're gonna get you more gigs, we need to expand," CJ says matter-of-fact. "We really need to stay in the Romance market. That's where your real money will be, and always has always been."
"How hard can that be? I mean, look at me," I say, flexing and planting a kiss on my right bicep, and then my left. I watch as CJ rolls her eyes.
"It's hard, Mr. Muscles, if no one wants to work with you. The shenanigans you pulled at the RAGA didn't help."
"Give me a fucking break," I laugh. "What do you mean by that? Are you remembering the fucking applause I received?"
"Oh, don't act surprised. Everyone knows. Do you think cumming all over Susan Moore in front of a sold out crowd at the RAGA won you any favors? And in front of her sister, Alyssa Moore, no less; what were you thinking? Were you begging to be blacklisted from the entire Romance market?" she asks.
"All I'm saying is that there has to be someone willing to hire me. Some people fucking appreciated the performance."
"Is that what you're calling it now? A performance?" CJ thinks for a moment. She's looking out the window, watching the sun bounce off the city skyline. "Well, no one seems to want to work with you, but … there may be one option," she says.
"What's that?" I ask.
"I've heard rumors that there's a former top ranking author who's looking for a model for her book covers. She's had a dip in sales lately, but she's hungry to be in the top spot again. You could make a pitch to co-write a book with her."
"No way," I say, dropping down and doing a few pushups.
CJ gives me a serious look. "Beggars can't be choosers."
"I'm far from a fucking beggar."
"Not yet … but if we don't line up new gigs, that could change."
"I'm also not an author," I say in between pushups. "I'm the guy who gets girls to open up a fucking book in the first place."
"I think you'd be great … and it's a good way for you to get your foot back in the door … gain some respect back," CJ smiles, like she's had the most brilliant fucking idea on the planet. But I think it sounds like a disaster.
"I think you should make more calls," I say, dismissing her idea as crazy. How does her mind make the leap from model to author?
She shakes her head. "Look, all I'm asking is that you take a meeting with this author. How hard could that be? You never know what'll come out of it."
"I don't think so."
"You must really like doing pushups then," CJ nods, shrugging her shoulders.
"What does that mean?"
"It means that if you don't take this meeting, you might find your self back in the gym … permanently. You may have to go back to being a personal trainer full time."
Those words stop me dead in my tracks.
Go back to being a personal trainer? No fucking thanks.
I can do without wiping up sweat puddles from the seats of gym equipment, or the overweight New Yorkers begging me to make them look like Thor, or hearing every excuse under the sun as to why a client has to skip a gym day, or the occasional weird stalker, or the weird smells, or … the list goes on.
The idea of leaving modeling for personal training doesn't sit well with me.
CJ is walking toward the door, but I stop her. "Wait."
She turns to me and I continue. "It's just a meeting, right?"
"I promise. Nothing's set in stone."
"Fine. Schedule it, and I'll be there, but I still think you're fucking crazy."
"I think you're making the right choice," CJ smiles. "I'll set up the day and time and put it on your calendar."
"Who is this author anyways?" I ask. I realize that I haven't even asked what's arguably the most important fucking question.
"Don't worry," CJ replies, grabbing her bag and walking to the door. She puts one hand on the handle and looks back at me. "I'll work it out and find out who this is."
Without another word, she closes the door behind her.
Just fucking great.
We don't even know who this author is and I've already agreed to a meeting. So much for running a Google search on this mystery person.
This should be interesting.
Want to read more? Check out 12 Inches on Amazon!
24 Inches
A MFMM Romantic Comedy
By Alexis Angel
Copyright 2017 by Naughty Angel Publishing
All rights reserved
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons is entirely coincidental. This work is intended for adults only.
Chapter 1
Logan
THWACK!
You've heard that sound before and you know what it is, darlin'.
That's the sound of the flat of my palm hitting Trisha's ass. It's juicy and plump and my cock looks amazing going in and out of her pussy as she's bent over on all fours.
"Oh baby, that feels so fucking good," Trisha moans and I can sense the lust in her eyes. She's wanted this for a long time. And I'm finally giving it to her better than any man she's ever been with. She's not going to be able to fucking walk after I'm done with her. But after I shoot her as high into orbit as I'm going to, she's not going to want to. Hell, she won't even remember her fucking name by the time I'm done.
And who the hell am I exactly?
My name is Logan Sanders. And I'm going to rock your fucking world.
That's right. You heard me. I'm that Logan Sanders. The one that showed up on the last book, Dick Juice, from Naughty Angel Publishing.
That's right baby. I'm the book boyfriend. I make him come to life on the cover. That's my abs you're licking when you run your tongue against the screen.
That's my fingers you're imagining to be caressing you when you're touching yourself.
That's my face and my eyes piercing into your soul when they decide to show my face. Seriously, I don't know why sometimes they cut me off. Not show my face. It's like, I know my face is fucking gorgeous. You're looking at at least several thousand more sales with my face on the cover.
Now now, don't shake your head. Don't roll your eyes. I know this. I have fucking Rainforest.com data to back up my claims.
Yeah, I work for Naughty Angel Publishing. They share their data with me pretty openly. You've heard of Naughty Angel Publishing. I know you have. Fuck, you're reading their book right now. You've seen the books on the charts.
I mean, shit, if you read 12 Inches, about Aidan Stone, that's my fucking boss. Aidan is married to Abby Cleveland, and together they started this operation. I used to know Aidan from our days working at the nightclub Python. Then when he started this publishing business with Abby he went ahead and brought me on. Started me as an exclusive cover model. And fuck, did my books do well. Really, really, fucking well.
That was about a year ago. Each month its been more covers. And more money. Enough money that I don't have to worry about work now. Enough that I can afford the nice suits that I sometimes pose in. We're talking several million dollars in royalties.
Yeah, the covers did that well.
I mean, come on, you read them, right? Of course you did. If you want to cum, you're reading Naughty Angel Publishing. Books like 12 Inches, DILF, Dirty Daddy, Client 5, Scandalous, Mr. President - books that will make you fucking squirt by the end. Or leaving you quivering and fucking horny so that when your significant other walks in the door you're jumping them like a crazed fucking hyena.
Yeah, I know what's going on here. Don't you blush at me or even think of flipping the page and skimming over. I'm serious. Instead, imagine yourself in my giant fucking arms - my muscles rippling as I hold you and pull you close to me.
Imagine putting your head against my cut pecs - drilled with diamond precision. Or running your hands and your tongue down my 8-pack abs. Not even 6-pack. 8. Eight. As in I'm so cut, you can tell the definition of two more ab muscles than other men.
Imagine trailing your fingers down farther. Grasping my 12 inch cock. Squeezing it. It's so fucking thick - it's got the girth of a coke can - that you might need to hands. But think about how it grows and thickens and starts to come alive in your hands as you look into my soulful blue eyes. My rugged face and strong jawline. Think about how your heart will fucking race as my cock expands outwards and then points out at you - like a lewd jib on a sailing ship.
That's right, baby girl, think about how you'd get me on my back and then look at the cock with worry. How the fuck are you gonna put something like that inside of you.
And I'd fucking guide you. Slowly. Inch by inch. Till you're fucking filled up. Till you know you'll never be more filled up in your fucking life. And then when I started to fuck you, think about how you'll fucking forget everything. You'll lose track of everyone. You'll forget your fucking name.
