B.I.L.F.: A Brother In Law Romance

by Dark Angel

  “If you’re out there in the audience, Aidan Stone, I just want you to know that I will do anything to get you back,” Alyssa says into the microphone. Even I can hear gasps go through the hushed room. I mean, what would Alyssa say if she knew I was just a few feet from her, fucking her sister – only separated by a curtain in a section of the stage that’s closed off and only accessible by sneaking in? “I can’t go on without you, Aidan.”

  Okay, I’m fucked.

  But if I’m fucked, it just fucking does something else to Susan.

  “Oh fuck, she’s talking about you!” Susan screams and turns her head back to me and begins thrusting her ass into my crotch harder. It’s as if fucking me while her sister is begging me to take her back is turning her on.

  Sometimes I just don't understand fucking women.

  “Oh fuck baby, you're fucking me so good, just like you used to fuck Alyssa,” Susan moans out. It sounds so dirty that my cock can’t help but twitch inside of her. I have no idea if anyone can hear us, but I sure as fuck hope not.

  “Keep it down, babe,” I whisper at her. But it’s no use. Susan has succumbed to the curse of my cock – and she’s begun to cum. Hard. And loud.

  “Holy fuck Aidan, I’m cumming!” Susan literally yells and now I know that people can hear us because I hear Alyssa yell out, “Who’s back there?”

  But I can’t do anything about it. Nothing.

  Because I’m trapped on the verge of my own giant orgasm.

  Susan is whimpering now, her body convulsing and shaking. I see her knuckles go white. Her entire body is in the throes of a mind numbing orgasm. Her pussy clenches around my cock several times before she relaxes. I can feel aftershocks of orgasm go through her.

  “Open the curtain! Now!” I can hear Alyssa command.

  Fuck. Do I even have time to cum?

  Susan seems to make up my mind for me because she pulls away from my cock and swivels around to sink to her knees. She pulls off the condom on my cock and throws it to the ground without a second thought and takes my tip into her mouth.

  She bobs her head twice and begins stroking my 12-inch flagpole before removing her head and looking at me. “Cum for me, Aidan. Come for Alyssa’s little sister.”

  And that’s when the curtain lifts on the stage. It happens much faster than I was expecting and within three seconds I’m getting my knob polished in front of a roomful of international glitterati. Romance authors. People who write fucking for a living. But the most shocked person in the room isn’t them. It’s a very horrified looking ex-fling.

  But Susan doesn’t care. She expertly pops her mouth off my giant tip and roughly gives me two swift strokes and before I know it, I’m paralyzed.

  Because I’m cumming.

  Despite the nearly five hundred shocked people in the hall and the very, very shocked Alyssa who is walking over to me, I can’t help but shudder at the pleasure that courses through my body as my cock starts to erupt.

  Cum shoots out of me. Thick ropes of white, gooey semen. Susan milks me expertly. And with each spurt, I’m helpless to do anything as it lands on her face. It splatters her tits. She opens her mouth and lets a shot sail in. I get some on her forehead and it dribbles down her face. Oh fuck. Despite myself, this looks fucking hot.

  Eventually, I stop cumming and tiny dribbles come out. Susan gives me one final stroke and brings her mouth onto my cock again for one last suck, taking everything with her.

  Then she turns to Alyssa, who stands looking at the both us in horror.

  “He’s mine now, sis,” she says.

  And with cum dripping down her body, she smiles for the cameras.

  Fuck. The fucking cameras. I can feel them flashing as they capture my handiwork for all eternity.

  It’s not just the photographers. The television networks were filming this. They were gonna put this on the fucking local news. Maybe 15 seconds. Talk about how romance as a genre was becoming its own force within the book world. How it wasn’t just about erotica anymore. How it was a real high brow literary genre. Well, no way they can put this on the local news. Maybe they can sell it to Vivid Video or another porn distributor?

  There's only one thing to do in this situation. I bend down and pick up Susan’s thong. She looks at me and I take it and wipe my cock.

  Now both sisters look at me with undisguised shock. I pull up my pants, and aware that I have an audience in the millions, zip up. Then I turn toward the authors.

  Nearly everyone has their cell phones up. They’re filming. To post on Twitter. Facebook. Google. Show their kids. Show their friends. Prove that they were here.

  I do the only thing I fucking can think of in this situation.

  I take a bow. An elegant, graceful bow.

  And then I straighten up.

  “I’m Aidan Stone, male cover model. You can find me on Instagram, folks,” I say. And wait.

  It takes a full five seconds and then I hear it.

  One lone person clapping.

  Then another. And another.

  And finally another.

  Until there are tables that burst out in applause. Some even stand up to give me an ovation.

  What the fuck are they clapping for? Why would they be celebrating what I just fucking did?

  Because people are fucking sheep. Put a lot of them together and you can manipulate them like animals.

  Alyssa, and now Susan, are staring at me. They’re not sure what to make of this.

  But I’m done with them. I toss Susan back her black lace thong, which is dripping with my cum, and turn around to walk off the stage as the applause and ovation continues.

  If you think this was insane, and you can't believe it, then welcome to my life.

  But if you liked what you saw, and want to see where it goes, you’re in for a ride, babe.

  All you’re gonna have to do is flip the page.

  Set foot into a world that’ll defy reality.

  It’ll make you wet. It’ll make you moan.

  You’ll pant.

  But it’ll be the best fucking ride of your life.

  Think you can hold on?

  Then follow me.

  Abby

  Maybe for the fifth time in the hour I refresh my screen.

  I don't really know what I'm hoping for.

  Somehow maybe the large groups of readers that roam the marketplace will realize that oh hey, Abby Cleveland has just released a book, we need to buy it?

  Yeah, that can only happen if the people are made aware that I released a book. And right now, honestly, I'm having trouble believing that I wrote a book—and I'm the author.

  I know I should trust my publisher, but I just can't help but second guess myself and wonder if maybe my publisher even cares.

  I mean, I know the book is good. And honestly, if it isn't good, I'm okay with reviewers telling me it's crap. I'm not one of those authors who's getting their panties in a twist because they got a 1 star review. Some of my favorite authors are gonna get 1 stars because not everyone is gonna like everything. And that's okay.

  But it seems that no one else is being given the opportunity to even give me a 1 star review. Because no one is reading.

  And you want to know the worst thing, hun?

  This isn't even the first time this is happening. This is probably around the third flop I've got. This entire series has just flopped. Hard.

  Like a limp fucking dick.

  Sorry. You just met me and I'm more worried about my declining book sales than anything else.

  Let me take a moment to introduce myself.

  My name is Abby Cleveland and I'm a 23-year-old single woman who lives in New York City. I graduated from NYU about a year ago with an English degree and a boyfriend. I kept the boyfriend but really didn't use the English degree as much. That's because my boyfriend went right to work for Bad Boy Publishing—one of the largest book publishers to come out of the carnage of the publishing world, and he got me a contract with them to be an aut
hor.

  And for like about the first year, everything went super. I was writing a book a month and people were liking what I was writing.

  I write primarily contemporary romance. I focus on bad boys. The badder the better and the more the merrier is what I've always said.

  Sure, what I write is sexy. I mean, there isn't a lot of sex in my books. Not as much as some of the people I look up to. And there's no way I'm as good a writer as some of my heroes and role models that got me into the game—like Eddie Cleveland and Alexis Angel. But yeah, I enjoy what I do and the weird part is that I was so young and got a publishing contract.

  So yeah, I'm traditionally published, getting advances and making enough money to live in a one-bedroom apartment in New York City.

  Except until the last three months.

  Where I had flop after flop after flop.

  I swear it was like everyone who ever wanted to read my book decided that they were done reading about my bad boys. That they wanted, for some reason, to move on. I honestly don't understand it and I can't quite place my finger on it.

  Every other indie author I've talked to has been telling me that it's not me; it's my publisher. But I can't just leave my publisher because they're the reason I'm even here in the first place.

  So instead, I've been hoping for the best.

  It doesn't help that last month in an effort to actually get more work done I rented an office here in Midtown. I know it was a bit of an extravagance, but rather than write at home, I wanted to commute form the Upper East Side to Times Square. The hope was that I'd be able to focus.

  Well, that was the hope.

  In reality, all that's happened is I'm paying for an office in a serviced office setting while my book is bombing.

  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."