by Ana Starling
Send Nudes
A MMF Bisexual Romance
Ana Starling
Real Hot Romance
Send Nudes
A MMF Bisexual Romance
By Ana Starling
Copyright 2018 by Real Hot Romance
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.
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Created with Vellum
Contents
Description
1. Kane
2. Diana
3. Derek
4. Diana
5. Kane
6. Derek
7. Diana
8. Diana
9. Derek
10. Kane
11. Diana
12. Derek
13. Diana
14. Derek
15. Diana
16. Kane
17. Diana
18. Kane
19. Diana
20. Kane
21. Diana
22. Diana
23. Diana
24. Derek
25. Kane
26. Derek
27. Kane
28. Diana
29. Kane
30. Derek
31. Diana
32. Kane
33. Diana
34. Diana
To Chloe
Description
Derek and I were created to be gods.
Powerful and wealthy.
We take what we want, as is our right.
Then we find the one woman who can tame us.
And now we want her both...
Diana.
A model who suddenly found fame.
But then her picture went viral.
She broke the Internet.
Now we both want her to be the face of our companies.
No one has ever told us no.
We’ve built two competing companies.
We do battle while others cower.
But in this woman, we may have met our match.
She’s achingly beautiful.
With a body made for sin.
And she doesn’t want to share.
Well, it turns out we don’t want to either.
Not with her.
Whoever gets Diana to model for their company will beat the other.
She’s that much of a gamechanger.
Now the only question is:
Can this model’s catwalk handle us both?
1
Kane
I twitch slightly in my chair as the blonde girl—what was her name again?—rams her mouth over my ten-inch cock. She’s well-hidden underneath my large desk, gripping my cock and ravaging it with her tongue.
I almost wince as she begins tonguing my tip.
Fuck me! I want to scream but bite my lips instead.
I moan lightly. Then, I quickly mutter “hmm” to cover up as the girl before me gives me a quizzical look as she struts along.
For the past half hour, several girls have paraded before me in my luxurious high-rise office, showcasing new lingerie designs for my company. But instead of fucking taking note of the girls or leering at them as they catwalk up and down, my focus is split in two. Fuck that, in three—the blonde girl between my legs taking two out of the three.
By now, you might be asking, what fucking gives me the right to fucking have my dick sucked like this?
My name is Kane Stone, and I’m a motherfucking badass. That Kane Stone? you may ask. Yes, I’m that Kane Stone, the CEO of Lush.
My company makes all that shit women adore—the same shit that gives me power over them—perfumes, soaps, shampoos, clothing, etc. But we focus more on lingerie—the kinkier stuff. What’s life without the kinky stuff, eh?
I’m a fucking superior specimen. I’m what women dream about at night.
I’m what girls picture when they plunge those vibrators into their pussies. I’m formed like a god.
I’m broodingly handsome with a sharp chin and high cheekbones, not to mention, tall with huge biceps and bulging abs. My cock is a fucking anaconda when asleep and the fucking Empire State Building when aroused.
My life is like a fairy-tale. I own five mansions, three on the East Coast, one on the West Coast and one in the Mid-West. I have a private jet, and I have the lease on a fast cruise liner, which I use once a year when I’m cruising the Pacific with booze and women, not necessarily in that order.
I run one of the most successful lingerie producing companies in America. I’m a cutthroat business man, and I’ve all the money and shit to prove it.
You don’t attain the kind of success I have by taking shit from lesser humans. Because of this, I’ve made my own fair share of enemies.
Some want to see me fail. Some want to see my company declare bankruptcy. Some want to see me dead.
Well, they’re all fuckers, because I ain’t going anywhere—not now, not ever.
I’ve been described as an arrogant son of a bitch many times by rivals, colleagues, and even the dailies. Are they even allowed to print such scandalous words? Fucking pansies.
But, hey, who gives a fuck about them? As long as my company makes a boatload of cash every quarter, and the girls keep coming, I don't give a fuck.
Despite what people think, I know I’m a charmer. Anyone with skirts and tits can have my attention. I rarely get told no, especially by the ladies.
How can they tell? Who can resist the charm? Who can resist the wads of cash?
Sometimes, I like to prove my dominance by doing fucking crazy shit, like fucking a model for Sinful—a rival company.
What’s the fucking blonde’s name? Sky! That’s the blonde chick’s name!
I have a personal policy, and, that is, I don’t mess with my employees. I don’t like to fuck them. Too many legalities and loopholes. I have to be smart and avoid sexual assault charges and shit.
But that doesn’t mean I don’t stroll by the mailroom once or twice looking for hot, newly employed chicks hungry for a promotion and willing to please their new boss.
Don’t look at me that way. I’m the motherfucker in charge, and I can fucking well do whatever the fuck I want to. And if I say I want to fuck some newly employed, hot-as-fuck chick, I’m very well going to fuck some newly employed, hot-as-fuck chick.
Most of the time, however, as I said earlier, I love to fuck models for rival companies. It’s like my ace in the hole (both literally and figuratively)—really—my trump card. Aside from obviously getting me off, I do it to make a statement: I fuck your model, I own your company. I fuck your model, I fuck up your company.
So, still asking what gives me the right?
I’m Kane fucking Stone, and that’s what fucking gives me the right to fucking have my dick sucked like this! Welcome to my fucking world.
As the last model turns and leaves my office through the open door, I grab the blonde’s head and ram it on my cock harder. I feel the pleasure course through my veins like tendrils.
It penetrates my body, causing me to vibrate. I begin to feel the buildup.
Sensing we’re momentarily alone, the girl begins to moan out loud. It’s the hasty, painful kind of moan that tells me I’m nailing her hard.
Feeling that egotistical boost, I ram faster, tightening my fist around her blonde mass of hair. She groans again, panic filtering into her voice.
It does nothing but spur me on, my dick throbbing hard.
I’m about to cum, I can feel it. My hands tremble hard. My eyes seem to spac
e out as I’m overwhelmed with pleasure.
A sigh escapes my lips. I am on the verge.
Another model then waltzes into my office at about the same time Sky begins to twist her mouth around my cock, tightening it.
That does it for me.
I cum with a violent trembling. “Holy fuck!” I boom uncontrollably. “I love those thongs,” I add immediately, pointing at the shocked model before me, a deliberate, twitchy smile splitting my lips.
Beneath the table, my hot load erupts out of my cock. It gushes out like a fountain under my table with full force. The blonde chick revels in the sea of cum, drinking the fountain of life. Watching her bathe in it just makes me horny all over again.
After what seems like hours, the gushing torrent begins to wane until it’s just sputters. Sky starts to lick up the dripping cum from the sides of my ramrod straight cock.
No other model comes into my office. My earlier gleeful outburst must’ve given the impression that I wanted the team to go with those thongs.
Sky continues to groan as she makes a slippery sucking sound on my dick. I lean back and shut my eyes for a moment, allowing the jolts of pleasure to spark in my bones. It feels so good to release all that energy, that pent-up fire and stress.
I may carry myself about with zero fear and a hundred and ten percent confidence, or look like nothing bothers me and the world is beneath my feet. But the truth is, I’m worried.
Sales haven’t been what they used to be. Every other month, the sales team regales me with declining numbers. The singular cause of this problem, they tell me, is that Lush doesn’t have a model that could be the face of the company.
Sinful, on the other hand, seems to be as strong as they’ve always been. Headed by Derek Hemsworth, Sinful is one of our fiercest competitors. Though Derek and I were friends in college, all that’s left between us is a deep-seated rivalry.
Hell, I fucking hate the guy. I hate his guts and everything about him. I hate that his company is on the verge of crushing mine.
Truth is, if I don’t do anything about my company’s problem of not having a top model, Sinful is definitely going to crush us. And, in this line of business, anyone that’s crushed, stays crushed.
“I’ll call you sometime,” I promise Sky as she finishes, and I send her on her way. I take one look at where she has been under my table, and all I see are white splashes of semen everywhere: on the side of my table, on the floor, even sliding down the legs of my chair.
I smile in conquest. I’m pretty sure Sky must be wondering how one man can have so much cum up his cock.
I make a mental note to have my secretary come clean it up. By now, she’s used to things like this.
As my door is closed shut, I zip up, stand from my seat, and walk over to the floor-to-ceiling window. I stare at the high-rises all around me, wondering what to do next about Lush’s impending destruction at the hands of Sinful.
2
Diana
I see myself in the mirror, and I smile at my own reflection. Everything looks great. After all, I have the banging body of a social media model: perfect frame, perfect height, and perfect face.
Behind me is a kitchen counter and a window, overlooking a nice neighborhood. But I’m not in my home. You see, before me is complete madness: wires tracking the floor, paparazzi chatting to each other, and a camera crew setting up.
It’s noisy as well.
My boss, Maurice, is leering at one of the female members of the camera crew. The bastard does that a lot. The petite woman cowers at his intense gaze, and I can only imagine what torture he’s going to put her through after.
I’m not one to hate on people, but Maurice really is a disgusting man. A pervert par excellence, he doesn’t care what people think, and I doubt he knows the meaning behind the words sexual harassment. Every time I look at him, I can’t help but feel the need to take a shower.
Besides being a pure creep, he’s also a puffy, fat-bellied pig.
He makes my life difficult, constantly hounding me and offering me his help on my career. Yeah, I know exactly what he means by that. Sometimes, I wonder why I can’t respond in kind and simply give him a hard slap.
I should be able to fight back. But then, who am I kidding?
Life sucks. I should just deal with it.
Sighing, I stand in the middle of the photoshoot set, the lights beaming in my face. I’m wearing a flimsy black dress with a plunging neckline; I’m definitely dressed to impress.
It’s sweltering hot in here, and it’s worse for me since I’m heavily made up. I look like a constipated barbie doll.
God, this weather! Outside, it’s probably a hundred and something degrees.
Maurice is trying to bring order to the chaos in the small studio apartment, barking order after order. He might be a pervert, but I can’t deny that he gets the job done.
Getting about seven junior reporters from a few mid-level news houses to cover this shoot for an advertisement is kind of amazing, I have to admit. Still, that doesn’t make up for the fact that he should be in jail, not in a position of power.
Seems like in real life the bad guys do get away with it.
Crap, I’ve to stop thinking about Maurice. I have to focus on my job. After all, complaining doesn’t pay the rent.
On the counter behind me is the bullshit appliance I’m meant to present to the cameras when they start rolling. It’s basically a blender, but that’s not what the company is calling it.
If you asked me, I’d say it’s all bullshit.
Yes, I’m going to stand before these cameras and sell you all this bullshit.
This isn’t the life I planned. I never dreamed of being a bullshit model at the lowest rung of the ladder. Nor did I dream of working for a lewd, depraved boss like Maurice, who’s more interested in what lies between my legs.
Oh, my younger days. Back then, I dreamed of becoming a top model—walk the runway of stardom and have the best of the best fall over themselves to sign me up. I even dreamed of being a big Hollywood star, or maybe the face of a major brand.
But those have remained dreams.
When you’re young, they teach you to dream big. What they don’t teach is that it makes no difference if you dream or not. Shit always happens, and that’s how life goes.
For some people, life throws a G-wagon, a Bentley, a Prada clothing line, Gucci bags, and a mansion in Los Angeles. And for others, a curve ball, lemons, and fucked up bullshit.
I got thrown the fucked-up bullshit. It’s how I ended up working for a loser like Maurice, in an oven of an apartment about to die of heatstroke.
As I watch the chaos turn to organization, I know I should say something. After all, I’ve been standing here for almost thirty minutes. I should complain.
I should yell at Maurice for having the make-up artist start out first even before the cameras were set up.
But then, I’ve never been one to complain. I’m more likely to suffer long than to say something. I’m more conscious of not getting on anybody’s nerves than trying to have my way.
Maybe that’s why I ended up here. Or maybe not. We’ll never know.
“Ready, babe?” Maurice calls from behind the set of cameras pointed at me.
He’s standing right next to the boom operator, a short, hairy man who’s no better than Maurice.
Don’t call me that, you fucking bastard! This is what comes to my mind to say.
But who am I kidding? I can’t say that!
“Yes, sir,” I croak, obediently.
I’m so dried by the high-beam lights, makeup, and hot air that I can’t even talk properly.
“Smile for me, huh?” he says, a perverted smile sliding across his lips.
He looks me up and down tantalizingly, his eyes lingering on my cleavage.
God, he doesn’t even try to hide it!
I smile for me, just like a good little puppy.
“That’s good,” Maurice tells me, like he’s talking to a submis
sive kid.
Well, that’s me. Submissive—even to a fault.
Heck, I should probably add that to my resume.
Sometimes, I wonder if I should’ve followed my parents’ advice. Become a lawyer or something. Maybe if I had done that, I wouldn’t have to deal with low lives all day long.
I wouldn’t have to take shit from anybody.
Have you ever been in a situation where all you want to do is scream?
That’s me. That’s where I am.
All I want to do is scream for all of it to stop: the disappointments, bad luck, failed relationships, and screw ups—my fucking bullshit life.
Still, life grinds on.
“Now remember your lines,” Maurice says.
I nod and pick up the appliance. It’s a bit heavy. It’s connected to a sketchy power source that looks like it was hastily thrown together for the purpose of today’s video shoot.
With the power source already turned on, all I have to do is push the button on the appliance to demonstrate how it works, that is, after saying my lines.
The problem is, I forgot the words. I know it has something to do with how this thing is a ‘versatile instrument to have in the kitchen’ and some other bullshit like that.
Ugh! I should’ve spent more time cramming the lines.
I glance at the knot of reporters behind the camera crew. They don’t seem interested in the shoot. They seem more interested in talking with each other and pressing their smart phones.
