Cindersmellya: A Dark Comedy Fairytale Romance

by Alexis Angel

  I come like that; Drake hasn’t even slid his cock inside my pussy and I’m already screaming like a banshee, the fires of hell devouring every shred of sanity that ever existed in me.

  “So good… It feels so good…” I pant as I feel my insides burning, the orgasm pulling me down into the depths of pleasure land. And that’s when Drake thrusts; he angles his cock slightly upward and, with one hard thrust, it parts my folds and goes all the way inside my pussy.

  I go on tiptoes as his enormous length pierces me, and the scream that leaves my mouth is so intense that I become dizzy for a few seconds. Without even letting me catch my breath, Drake digs his fingers into my ass cheeks and starts to ram his cock into me violently, the sound of his thighs smacking my ass filling my entire apartment.

  “As hard… as hard as you can,” I tell him, somehow finding a hidden reserve of strength; I start thrusting back at him, my whole body moving in a flowing motion as I match the coming and going motion of his cock. The sound of flesh on flesh grows even louder, and I simply lose all control.

  “Fuck me as hard as you can, daddy. My pussy is now yours,” I find myself saying, and that drives him completely mad: he takes his hands to my waist and, grabbing me by the hips, he starts to thrust so fiercely that I have to make one mighty effort not to crash against the wall.

  “That’s it…” I urge him, having no idea how I’m getting the words out. He’s not fucking me right now, he’s ravaging me, destroying my pussy with such a fury that I don’t even know if I’ll ever be able to use it again. I know that women can push a baby out without causing major damage, but Drake’s cock is so huge that it has me doubting the healing capabilities of the human body. I mean, there’s only so much a woman can take.

  Drake’s cock, the clamps, the bullet—it’s all too much, and there’s no other option left for me except to come my brains out. Which is exactly what happens.

  “FUCK!” I shout at the top of my lungs, my scream sounding like the cry of some wild beast. “FUCK,” I repeat, my consciousness stretched so thin that I don’t even know what’s real and what’s not. Pleasure spreads from my nipples, ass, and pussy to the rest of my body, infusing every single cell with a sensation so wild and intense that it’s a miracle I still haven’t passed out.

  And Drake keeps on pounding me; even though I’m coming so hard that I might melt away, he hasn’t stopped thrusting. In fact, I’d say he’s going at it even harder, if that’s possible. His thrusts are so fast that I can’t even tell when he’s going in or out of me; all I know is that he’s ravaging me like no one has ever done. And it’s simply glorious.

  “Oh God, oh God, OHMYGOD!” I blurt out, another orgasm exploding on top of the last one. My muscles are no longer spasming; they’re shaking so intensely that it looks like I’m having a seizure. And I guess I am having a seizure, to be honest; what I’m experiencing right now is so outside the realm of what I thought to be possible that I don’t know any other word to label it.

  “Seems like you were woman enough for me, after all,” I hear Drake say, but his voice seems like it’s coming from some far corner of the universe. Finally, he stops moving, slowing down thrust by thrust, and then he pulls his cock out of me. I collapse on the floor almost immediately.

  I reach for the clamps and, with trembling fingers, I take them off my nipples. I go for the bullet and pull it out from my ass, and only then do I take a deep breath, sitting up on the floor and leaning back against the wall.

  “Am I still alive?” I ask him, forcing my eyes open and looking up at him like an idiot.

  “You’re still alive,” he responds with a smile, the shadow of his huge mast falling over my face. Allowing instinct to take the steering wheel, I go up to my knees and grab his cock with both my hands. I start stroking him immediately, moving my hands back and forth over his shaft; the rhythm starts slow, but it’s only a matter of seconds until I’m stroking him so fast that the muscles in my arms and shoulders complain from the effort.

  “Now here’s your reward,” I tell him, leaning in and using my tongue to jab at the tip of his cock. “I want you to come in my mouth,” I say, and then just wrap my lips around his cock. This time I give him my all, bobbing my head back and forth as fast as I can right from the start. I use one hand to stroke him while I suck, and I take the other one to his balls, caressing them as I drive him to the edge of pleasure.

  The moment I feel the first spasm of his cock, I realize that having him come in my mouth is a mistake. Well, a delicious mistake, actually; throbbing violently, he gushes a stream of warm semen into my mouth, and all it takes is a mere second for him to fill me up to the brim. Cum drips out of my mouth, drops making their way down my chin, and he still keeps on cumming.

  I move back, popping his cock out of my mouth, and a thick strand of semen hits me straight in the face. I close my eyes by instinct, and swallow the cum inside my mouth at the same time, the saltiness of it burning its way down my throat. The moment that’s done, I open my mouth and throw my head back, allowing him to empty his load all over my face, which he does more easily than I thought.

  He covers my face with his seed with two spasms of his cock, and then I just grab it and angle it down; he keeps on gushing his load, but this time it hits me in the chest, large gooey strands sliding down my breasts and making their way onto my stomach.

  “Fuck,” he groans, looking at me with a wild smile. I might've had the best sex of my life, but something tells me that the same is valid for him. I don’t know if this has anything to do with the forbidden aspect of fucking someone in your family, but the sex we had was on a whole other level. If the Greek gods were real, I doubt their sex would be half as good as ours.

  “This was fucking insane,” he tells me, blurting it out as his cock gives its dying spasms against my fingers.

  “It was so much more than just fucking insane,” I admit, peeling my fingers off his cock and closing my eyes for a whole second, exhaustion finally taking over my body. When I open my eyes again, he’s already kneeling by my side, an easy smile dawning on his lips.

  “You know,” he whispers, gently brushing my hair to the side and looking at my cum-coated face with a hard-to-read expression, “you look so hot right now.”

  Without even waiting for a reply, he leans into me and brushes his lips against mine. I place both my hands on his face and kiss him back, parting my lips and sliding my tongue inside his mouth. We kiss in complete abandonment and, at the same time, he squeezes my breasts, smearing his cum all over my naked skin.

  “Now I can say the same about you,” I tell him, pulling back from his kiss and glancing at his lips, drops of his own cum making them glisten.

  Using two fingers, I run them up from my waist to the valley between my breasts, scooping whatever cum I can on the way. Then, I take my fingers to his mouth and brush them over his lips, painting them in white.

  Moving gently, I kiss him once more, this time taking it slow and really savoring him. He does the same, our tongues dancing around one another over a blanket of semen.

  “This is so fucked up,” he finally says, his words sounding genuine and candid.

  “It is,” I admit, remembering that the man in front of me—the man who fucked me almost to the point of passing out—is actually my stepdad. Yeah, I guess that ‘fucked up’ covers it.

  But then I look into his eyes and smile, my heart beating steadily and a warm pleasant feeling washing over me. Right now, I should feel guilt, or shame, or whatever it is the prudes would like me to feel; I should regret the fact that I’ve broken one of society’s most sacred taboos. I should do and feel all these things, but the truth is that I can’t.

  Screw what society says; screw what people think. Hell, screw what that little voice inside my head keeps on whispering (this is wrong, this is wrong, he’s your stepdad!). To hell with all of that.

  I’m a grown woman and, fucked up or not, this was the best sex of my life.

  Drake


  I lean back in my leather chair, my feet propped on top of my desk. From the floor-to-ceiling windows of my office, I can see the entire New York City skyline, like a glittering necklace draped across the city. To me, there isn't much that's more beautiful than this. It signifies power, progress, and best of all—money.

  It's a testament to what man can accomplish. When the first man figured out how to put a building in the sky, that's when cities became real—when they had their individual fucking fingerprints. They had an identity.

  St. Louis can have its Gateway Arch; San Francisco can have its Golden Gate Bridge; Las Vegas can have its golden lion and Pyramid that spears a beam of light into outer space; Washington DC can have its Lincoln Memorial; and Seattle can have its Space Needle; but New York City … well, nothing fucking compares to Gotham. Sure, we've got the Empire State Building and the Chrysler Building, but this city's got something more; it's got guts because you know what? It's been reaching for the sky since the fucking beginning.

  Just then, my mid-day reverie is cut short, and my office door flies open. I look over to see Sloane bursting in. My secretary is running after him, her necklace bouncing up and down on her chest, and she's flashing me an apologetic and flustered look.

  "I'm sorry, sir, he wouldn't take no for an answer. He insisted on seeing you."

  "You!" Sloane shouts, pointing a stiff finger in my direction, "You should be ashamed!"

  I look back at my secretary and give her a nod. "It's okay, CJ. I'll handle it from here."

  "So, what do I owe the honor?" I ask, casually removing my feet from my desk and sitting up straight in my chair.

  "Cut the crap," he growls. "Natalie is your daughter."

  "Stepdaughter," I correct. "And technically, even that's a stretch after Linda and I divorced."

  "I'm asking you to stay away from her."

  "Careful, Sloane," I smile. "You're starting to sound like a jealous boyfriend."

  "Ha, that's where you're wrong. I'm here on business, Drake. Plain and simple."

  "You can't be serious?" I laugh. "Don't think I haven't seen the way you look at Natalie. Now tell me why you're really here."

  I can see the pulse in his temple quicken. I don't think I've ever seen him this worked up before. Maybe once … after his mother died, but that was a lifetime ago. There is a strength and power in his anger—the way his nostrils flare and the chords in his neck spasms. The way his chest and biceps quiver.

  Why am I noticing these things?

  "You're fucking impossible, you know that?" he growls again. "Always have been. Just like a real shark—cold and emotionless. It's fitting, isn't it? Your name?"

  "So that's why you're here? To tell me that I look like a living, breathing shark? Bravo. Well executed. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to get on with my day."

  "See what I fucking mean?" he barks.

  There's something in his eyes that tells me this is about more than just Natalie. This is about the past.

  "If this is about your mom, I—" I begin to say, but he cuts me off.

  "Don't fucking go there," he says, his eyes flashing a mixture of anger and pain.

  "I just meant that I—"

  "Stop."

  He says the word with such finality that I honor his request. For an extended moment, we both hold each other's gaze. I can still see flashes of the impulsive, childish side of Sloane, but with him standing here in front of me, I see that above all, he's a grown, chiseled man with the power of youth.

  He blinks and turns his head, walking over to the windows. "I mean it. Just stay away from her. It's not right."

  "I'm afraid that's not going to be possible."

  I watch as he balls one hand into a fist and shoves it into his pocket. He's pacing my office like a caged tiger, unsure where to channel his frustration.

  Would he dare come at me?

  That would be a stupid and impulsive decision on his part, but I wonder … and if he did, how would I respond? A scene unfolds in my mind. I fantasize that I counter his rage, and wrestle him to the ground—pinning his wrists to the ground with my bare hands, feeling his muscles flex and strain against mine, his chest heaving in and out, perspiration beading on his upper lip.

  "I know what you two have done," he says, bringing me back to the present.

  "I never took you for a voyeur," I smile, further pissing him off.

  "Is this some kind of game to you?"

  I deliberately ignore his question and continue, "Back at the Yale Club, were you watching her deep throat those oysters? Or maybe you saw her shove my hand between her thighs?"

  Sloane flares his nostrils and he steps closer to my desk. Go ahead, I think to myself. Come at me. Try it. I dare you. But he doesn't. Instead he says, "You better stay away from her."

  "Sloane, now you're really starting to sound like a broken fucking record," I say. "Is that a threat?"

  "It's a fucking warning," he replies with seriousness. "If you want to stay out of the papers and avoid a media shit storm bigger than anything you've ever seen, you'll remove yourself from her life, and you'll do it now."

  He doesn't wait for me to reply and instead, I watch him storm out of my office, slamming the door behind him. He slams it so hard, a framed picture rattles on the wall.

  As soon as he's gone, CJ opens the door and peeks her head in. "Is everything okay?"

  "It's fine, thank you."

  Hearing this, she gives me a weak smile and shuts the door again.

  Honestly, I'm more than just fine.

  My entire body is buzzing with an electric jolt that I haven't felt in a long time.

  I should be mad—Sloane barging in here like a toddler having a tantrum, making impetuous demands and threats.

  But instead, all of this has just made my fucking cock hard.

  Sloane

  After what happened this afternoon, fuck the Yale Club. I need to stay away from anyplace that Drake is part of. Otherwise I can't speak to what my actions will be.

  Drake isn't part of the New York Athletic Club. I know that. Because when he tried to join, I was already a member and I blackballed his membership. He never got in. I told him about it afterward, how I fucked his ability to join one of the premier New York City clubs.

  So this is the place on Central Park South that I come to today.

  To work out.

  Have dinner.

  Get my thoughts together over Natalie and Drake.

  Fuck, to just get the fuck over Natalie.

  I mean, I'm Sloane fucking Hardman. I don't fucking get broken up over women. I don't pine away. I don't have a broken fucking heart.

  That's not who I am. That's not what I fucking do.

  I fuck women. I make them cum. I give them the best fucking sex they've ever had in their lives. I change their world. I shoot them into orbit and take them to paradise. And when their feet finally touch the fucking ground, I'm gone. I've moved on to the next girl.

  So then what the fuck am I doing here, all by myself? Retreating into the NYAC?

  You think I got the answer to that, don't you? That I'm going to have some deep explanation of what's going on that'll fucking put everything into perspective, won't it?

  Sorry darlin'. Life doesn't work like that. You can't break it into chapters to read in your spare time.

  Instead, the most I can tell you is that I'm sitting here, enjoying my steak. It feels good to cut the meat with my knife. I just want to cut something. Destroy it.

  I've been drinking my scotch like there's no fucking tomorrow.

  Why am I so frustrated?

  It makes no fucking sense.

  "You're acting like an animal," a voice says from beyond my vision. I should probably explain that even if I'm sitting here in the dining room, my head's been bowed and I've been looking at my plate. My entire vision has been this New York Strip and the creamed spinach I had with the Macallan 12-year single malt to the side.

  That's all I was staring at as I was cutting th
e meat to eat.

  Now I stare up.

  And fuck.

  She's sitting right there.

  Tight, shimmering, glittering silver dress. Natalie Vanderhill. That dress may not be translucent, but fuck, it leaves almost nothing to the imagination by being so tight.

  I see those delicate, round, pert, juicy tits showcased right in front of my eyes.

  Her hair is done up.

  Her wide set eyes are looking at me.

  "What's wrong with you?" she asks me again.

  "I needed to get away," I tell her. "Be by myself."

  "I need to know what's going on with you, Sloane," Natalie says to me. "You're acting crazy."

  "Crazy?" I say, gripping my knife. "It's crazy the way I'm acting?"

  "You can't go down to people's offices and tell them to stay away from me!" she says with anger lilting her voice.

  I pause.

  "So you fucking heard about that," I say quietly.

  She nods. "Drake told me afterward when I went to visit him," she tells me, looking down. "Told me to stay away from you."

  "You're fucking him, aren't you?" I ask, putting my knife and fork down. "Tell me the truth."

  This time real anger flashes through her eyes.

  "What do you care?" she asks. "What does it matter what I'm doing?"

  "He's your stepdad," I snarl out loud. I look around, making sure no one hears me.

  "I know," she says, and smiles. Fuck. That's when my cock literally comes to life. Because she's smiling with one of the most lascivious and sinful smiles that any human has ever given me. "It's so fucking hot, knowing he's my Daddy."

  My cock has a heartbeat, even though I want to stab Drake.

  "But who I fuck isn't your business, brother," she tells me leaning over. "Just like I told Drake it wasn't his business who I see."