by Andrea Allen
“F-finally…” huffed Jeris as his spurts slowly came to a drip inside of Flora. Her walls milked him of all of his cum, still throbbing wildly alongside his manhood. “I finally got to breed my wife…”
“It looks like we’ve finished the ceremony, sir.” Liak huffed, still out of breath as he stood up. “Was everything satisfactory? Can we proceed with peace finally?”
Jeris nodded slowly, catching his breath. “Yes, I think it does. Everything has gone absolutely perfectly. By extension, I think that we should have more of these sessions. Seeing that glimmer in her eyes with us both here is rather exhilarating, I must say.”
Flora grinned, hoping for the best. “So, does this mean that you’re all right with…?”
Jeris chuckled a little, lying back on the bed. He took one final deep breath and said, “One thing I know for sure is that I’m going to be glad to greet my son.”
THE END
Bonus 5 of 30
A Sugar Daddy’s Secret
Description
Emily.
During her first gallery exhibition at a Soho studio, Emily locks eyes with a mysterious man. He radiates a sexual energy that makes her tremble with fear and drip with excitement. There’s no way she’ll be able to resist his powerful erotic charms—ripped abs, finely sculpted arms, full lips.
And she’ll be dripping even more when he reveals that he’s willing to invest heavily in her career and their relationship.
He only makes a few demands. What could possibly go wrong?
Thomas.
All his life he’s scored big in the boardroom. And the bedroom. Really big. A multi-millionaire in the financial capital of the world, Thomas is looking to invest his fortune in the career of talented young artists—especially young, attractive, curvy ones.
When he stumbles upon a naive painter just out of art school and desperate for a break, he licks his lips, certain that he’s found the perfect victim.
Chapter 1
I stood in the middle of the gallery smiling, excited that my first show had come off without any problems, yet I knew everything would be decided tomorrow when the review came out in The Village Voice.
Until then all I could do was hold my breath and hope.
My best friend Samantha came over and put her arm around me.
“Where’s the lucky boyfriend?” she asked.
“Working. He just made partner so they keep him late.”
“Have you decided whether or not you’re gonna do that nude photo shoot?
“I don’t want to talk about that tonight. Let’s just have fun and party and—”
“Have a threesome with some hot bearded hipsters.”
“Ha! You would never.” Samantha was the most prim and proper of my friends. I could hardly imagine her in bed with the grungy, artistic types that used to get me so excited.
“Don’t let the JD and the Park Slope brownstone fool you. I have a great appreciation for hipsters.”
“Oh, really. Did you make them shower and shave?”
“Shower, yes. Shave, no. I love that grungy smell of coffee and hand- rolled cigarettes in their beards.”
The gallery director, Simon, rushed towards us, waving his arms.
“Megan, darling, there’s someone who you must absolutely meet.”
A tall, sleek, confident man strode across the room. Our eyes locked. A strange, electric shock passed through my body. No man had ever stared at me that intensely, at least no stranger. Who was he? How hadn’t I noticed him?
He smiled, extended his hand. I stood frozen, locked on his eyes. He smirked. He knew he had me transfixed. I felt myself blushing even deeper until I finally extended my arm. His hand was almost twice as big as mine, and the roughness, the raw power it possessed sent a shiver through my body. He could crush me if he so desired. These hands were bigger than any man’s hands…and my mind started to drift… What power, what sex appeal. He must have been in his early forties. He was so well dressed, elegant and clean-shaven. The energy and vigor he exuded were those of man much younger, but his calmness and savoir-faire, made him seem older and more mature than his physicality would suggest.
In those brief moments in which we stood there gazing into each other’s eyes, my hand clasped in his, I felt my eyes being drawn, as if by some magnetic force, to his crotch. There appeared to be a bulge, a very impressive bulge. No, it was more like a thick snake unfurling itself down his leg. My body quivered. My panties began to dampen. I felt like I would pass out right there in the gallery. Oh, how embarrassing that would be! This hulk of man would have to take me in his arms, wrap in his warm powerful embrace and hold me tighter than any man had ever held me, and rush me to the hospital. But what the hell was wrong with me? I had a boyfriend, a wonderful, successful boyfriend who had just made partner in his law firm—the kind of boyfriend that most women would kill for. He made good money and hadn’t lost his sense of playfulness. I couldn’t believe how far my mind had rushed off into the imaginary fantasy scenario with this alluring stranger. But still, I couldn’t help feeling an intense coursing through my body, tickling all my nerve endings from my brain to my pussy to my toes. Everything in my body tingled with excitement. I was dripping wet and I felt as if everyone in the gallery was looking at me, pointing, reveling in the hypnotic spell that this man had put me under.
“Thomas is an art dealer. He got sick of Wall Street life.”
He must have caught me staring at his package, licking my lips lustily, imagining holding his large member in my hands, double fisting it, swirling my tongue around the head, then pumping it in and out of my mouth until he couldn’t hold it anymore and shot his huge load onto my pretty face. And I would suck every last drop from the head of the softening rod. Oh, I felt like such a whore. I wanted this man, I needed him. But it felt so wrong. It was wrong!
“Are you going to let go of my hand?" he asked, then tilted his head and smiled.
I hadn’t noticed that I was still holding his large, powerful hand
“Yes, yes. Oh my God. I’m so sorry.”
He laughed a deep, masculine belly laugh. I snuck another glance at his crotch. The snake had grown bigger, unfurled further down his leg. It wasn’t only long, but thick. I licked my lips again, felt the flood of moistness in my panties. What would this man do to me if he had me alone? The next time I masturbated he would be on my mind. I couldn’t wait to get out of the gallery and rush into James’ arms. I was a bitch in heat. I needed a good fucking tonight. I needed James to slam me up against the wall, pull my hair, smack my ass, and call me all the filthy names he could think of. I wanted to be punished for my slutty desires. Oh, God, I needed to be punished.
He said that he wanted to meet somewhere for coffee to discuss my work. He was on the hunt for an up and coming young artist to work with. He had heard my name from some people in the industry and he had come with the sole purpose of seeing my work. He added that my latest paintings were well ahead of those of my artistic peers.
I blushed deeply. I couldn’t believe that this man, this patron of the arts, who could probably have been chatting with any New York artist right now, offering to put his money behind their careers, was actually taking an interest in me.
“There’s a real European vibe, but also something uniquely American. Are you from the Midwest by any chance?”
“Ohio,” I said.
He told me that he used to travel to Ohio on business. But now he was full-time in the art world. He realized that artists were always looking for financial backing and he had the money to make that happen. It gave him great pleasure to be able to help out ambitious, young talents. He gave me his card and said he would call me, or have his assistant call me, to set up a meeting in a few days. My eyes followed him as he walked away.
“Watch out for him,” Simon said, “He’s a dangerous one, especially for sweet little things like you.”
I didn’t pay much attention to what Simon was saying. I was still under the spell of t
his gorgeous, mysterious man.
On the way home in the taxi, I thought how this night would change my life forever. My first show in an NYC gallery. Sure it was a small venue, and not many people had showed up, but there did seem to be a buzz in the air, as if people were really connecting to my work. After months and months of frustration and working in virtual obscurity, it felt like I was finally going to break through, like my name was going to spread throughout NYC artistic circles. And that critic, I think he was from The Village Voice, he had stood for a long time taking notes in front of all my paintings. A good review in tomorrow’s Art & Culture section was all I needed. It would finally put me on the map as an up and coming artist. I couldn’t wait to tell James.
I ran up the steps of the apartment building, my body buzzing with excitement. I heard loud sounds coming from down the hall. The sounds got louder as I approached my door. It seemed like they were coming from inside my apartment. Was James cleaning up or cooking something special for me? Maybe he was trying to surprise me. But he had said that he would be working late. As it turned out his idea of working late was a little but different than mine. There was a trail of clothes that led from the front door down the hallway. My heart sank. I heard wild screams coming from the bedroom, high-pitched screams coming from a woman who was probably quivering on the verge of orgasm. I approached slowly, sure of what I would see. I saw long blond hair draping down a young woman’s back, a woman who was riding James cock like it was the last cock she would ever experience.
I screamed. The woman jumped off of James and landed on the floor. James scrambled out of the bed, wrapped the sheet around himself.
“It’s not what it seems,” he protested. The woman on the floor covered her breasts and stared at me defiantly. Fucking bitch. I knew exactly who she was, Anne Marie Henderson. She had been a slut in art school. I guess she hadn’t changed much. We had been rivals during school, ever since she had seen me with James. Every young female artist wanted to snag a guy with a great job and powerful cock and I had beaten her to it. She had never forgiven me for that.
On what should have been the greatest night, the most monumental night in my artistic career, she had finally gotten him, gotten my boyfriend to succumb and fuck the hell out her. That cock was supposed to be all mine, it supposed to be the cock that I could call my own. But he had betrayed me, given it away to another, and not just any other but a woman whom I hated.
“Get the fuck out,” I yelled. “Just get the fuck out.”
Anne Marie got dressed slowly, seemingly enjoying the pain that she was causing me, knowing how much she had just ruined for me. James kept pleading for me to understand, kept telling me that it was a mistake, that there was an explanation for everything that happened. I slumped to the floor and started crying. When he came over to comfort me, I lashed out at him, scratching his face. He recoiled. There was fear in his eyes. He had never seen me so enraged.
“Fucking, bitch,” he said. “Stupid, fucking bitch.” Then he began taunting me. “Good luck trying to make it without any money, you little spoiled brat.”
I saw Anne Marie smirking. She would have his cock and his money. I thought that things couldn’t get any worse, that I couldn’t feel any lower, but I was wrong, very wrong, because the next day things did get worse.
Chapter 2
The next morning while I was still trying to recover from the previous night’s trauma, I received another piece of bad news. Simon called. He said that there would be no review in The Village Voice, but he assured me it wasn’t because the critic hadn’t liked my work. No, that wasn’t it at all. He had said some nice things about my work and he was interested in seeing more of my stuff. The night had not been an artistic failure, but something much bigger had happened in the art world, something that people would be talking about for months, maybe years into the future.
A super talented young artist, one of the city’s starlets, a woman whose work had been featured in The New York Times and The New Yorker had been found dead. I clicked on The Village Voice website. The story was front page news:
Rising Star in the Art World Found Dead in Her Apartment
New York—The NYPD is investigating the death of the promising young painter Amanda Lavreaux who was found dead at 5 a.m. this morning in her swanky West Village apartment. Lavreaux, a sensation in the New York City art world, was considered to be one of the most dynamic and innovative artists of her generation. Her death has been ruled a homicide.
I couldn’t read any more, the story made me sick. I had heard of Amanda, but had never had a chance to meet her or really appreciate her work and now she was gone. Her life of promise and stardom had been cut short. It appeared to be a crime of passion. An ex-lover, boyfriend, admirer? Maybe some sociopath who had fetish for killing female artist? No one knew, but everyone was talking. Her untimely death made me sad, but all I could really think about was the lost opportunity—my lost opportunity. This should have been my day to celebrate. I should have woken up in James’ arms. We should have celebrated by having a fuck fest all morning, going for brunch of lox, bagels and mimosa and returning to fuck our brains out some more before passing out in each other’s arms. This should have been our day. It should have been my day to celebrate finally making it, finally gaining the recognition which I had been so desperately seeking since I had arrived in the city five years ago full of hope and energy and dreams. But everything was destroyed. I was still an obscure painter in a city that eats up struggling artists. And it was even worse than that. I was now single, alone and forced to face this harsh world without the help of strong, financial man. There was no way I could make it. No way. The best thing to do would probably be to head back to the Midwest. All the doubters had been right. I couldn’t cut it in the big city.
My mind kept drifting back to James. No man had ever touched me like that before. The way his hands would rove all over my body made me wild with excitement and animal lust. The way he would push me up against wall, whispering in my ear, “Is this what you want? Is it?” He was the sort of man I dreamed of when I first came to city. Someone who would appreciate my creativity. Someone who would help nurture me and provide for me financially. He was the kind of man my parents had warned me against; the kind of man who try to keep me dependent on him in order to control me. But now he was gone, stolen away from me. I had two days to pay the rent, or else I would be out on the street, or couch surfing from one apartment to the next. I didn’t want to go back to my old Bohemian life. I was sick of it years ago. That’s part of why I fell so hard for James. I wanted something stable and secure.
I could ask Samantha for the money, but that would be too embarrassing. The artist going begging to her well-paid lawyer friend. I wanted her to believe in me. I didn’t want her to see me as needy and desperate, crawling to her for money because I was stupid enough to believe that I could trust a man to take care of me. “Why do you let them treat you like that,” she would say, shaking her head, disappointed with how naïve I still was. I could go back to waiting tables at Nobu. The manager, Marianne, had always considered me one of her best waitresses and she was sad to see me leave. That job had helped get me through grad school. Going back to it now would be admitting defeat. It would make me just like so many other wannabe artists who come to New York seeking fame and fortune, but only ended up working one dead end job after another, returning home after work with no energy left for their art.
But hadn’t so many of my former art school classmates, especially the women, given up? They had expressed their wild, creative sides during two years of late night orgies, group fucks and other art school shenanigans. At the end of two years, they had gotten all that rebelliousness out of their system and they had the good sense to settle down and marry men with promising futures in finance, law or medicine.
I could always do the nude photo that had been offered to me a couple weeks ago by EDGE, the city’s hottest magazine for young artists. I didn’t think it was fair that fema
le artists had to expose their bodies for public judgment in order for their work to get any recognition. I still had forty-eight hours to decide. If I accepted the offer, the money would probably sustain me for the next few months. If I didn’t, I was screwed.
I wanted to be a star. Maybe it was stupid, but I could at least admit it to myself. But taking my shirt off for a photo shoot didn't seem like the way to go about it. The thought of having to submit to that, to have my body as the subject instead of my work made me sick. It was time to admit I’d been wrong, call my mother and tell her that I had failed, that she had been right. “You’ll never be able to support yourself,” she had said. “What you need to do is settle down and marry a lawyer. What’s your back up plan”? One time she even suggested that I start submitting applications for law school. We hadn’t spoke for a week after that.
I thought about my mother who had given up her dream of becoming a photographer in order to have a family and raise my brother and me. No way I was going to be like her. “Megan, why don’t you get married? You’re almost twenty-eight. You remember Sarah Peterson who lived on Watson Street. She just got married last week. The pictures in the paper were beautiful!” That was back home in the Midwest, Dayton to be exact. It was one of those places where the people who couldn’t make it in the big cities returned. I didn’t want to be just another young naive girl who went to the big city and couldn’t cut it. I didn’t want to have to admit that all those people who told me I wasn’t good enough were right.
I couldn’t take my mind off that mysterious patron I had met the other night at the exposition. The way he peered into my eyes nearly made me faint. I felt his hands roving up and down my body. I wanted to paint him, every muscle bulging in his powerful body. He could crush all my previous boyfriends. What had I been missing up to this point? What was I thinking? I looked around my apartment at the stacks of art books, the empty paint cans scattered everywhere, brushes, easels lying on the floor. I looked out my window onto the street below. How would I ever grow if I stayed in this city? I couldn’t even afford to pay the rent. And now I had no one to help me. I knew this wouldn’t be the last time I found myself in such a difficult situation.
