by Alexis Angel
I continue, "It just means that instead of letting yourself be completely in the moment, I think you suppress yourself. You hide. You want to let it all out, but you stop yourself around me."
"Okay, so what are you now? My sex therapist?"
I lean across the table and brush one finger over her plump lips before kissing her. "No, no—you've got it all wrong. I'm just trying to help. Here, let me explain it another way. Fucking someone—and I mean having exceptional fucking sex—is a lot more than some guy sticking his cock in you, am I right?"
I watch as she slowly nods in agreement, and I continue. "So much of it is mental. It's the chemistry between people—the way he touches you, the way he smells and smiles. It's the way he uses his mouth on you, and the way he talks, and moves. All I'm saying is, if you just focus on cock size, you miss out on all those extra things that make sex so much fucking fun. You're trying too hard. That's all."
"Trying too hard? What does that even mean?" she asks.
"It means you're focusing on one aspect of sex—a guy's cock," I say. "You need to embrace it all if you don't want a book that flops on the market."
"I'm not sure I'm totally following you," she replies, grabbing a glass from the table and taking a sip of water. I can tell that I've got her thinking, though.
"I get that there's a full package to think about, but the cock reigns supreme in this equation. Don't kid yourself."
"You know what I think?" I ask, watching her take another drink. A grin is now spreading across my face. "I don't think you're really comfortable around cocks."
"What?" she bristles. "This coming from the man who just hours ago said that over the last few days I’ve been giving him the best blowjobs of his life?"
I continue, "You did. I meant that. And sure, you like to write about cocks, but a real cock cums. Are you comfortable with cum?"
I'm not sure if she knows where I'm taking this game, but I can feel my own cock twitching to life in my pants. It's beginning to strain against the fabric, like a caged animal threatening to break free. I stand up so that my cock is eye level with Abby, and I walk closer to her.
She's looking at the hard shape forming in my pants, but she isn't saying anything now. She swallows and remains quiet.
"I'm guessing that you really like cum, don't you?" I say, slowing unbuckling my belt. I slide the leather from the loops and undo the button, my fingers stopping on my zipper. I hold it there for a moment.
I look into Abby's eyes, but she still isn't saying anything.
I grab her now-empty water glass from the table in one hand and with the other I slowly drag my zipper down.
Anticipation is building in Abby's throat and she swallows again.
With my zipper down, I reach into my boxers and grab the thick shaft of my cock. It springs into the space between Abby and I.
Not wanting to waste any time, I spit on my hand and then begin jerking off. I'm stroking my cock from tip to root. I'm moving slowly at first, building tension, and then moving faster. I can feel my heart racing. My hand moves faster and faster until time and space become a blur, and I can feel my cock pulse. I angle the empty glass under the tip of my cock and I allow myself to explode—releasing my cum in a surge of steady streams. I keep stroking and watch as I fill the glass. Some of my cum spills over the rim. Now here's a cocktail I want to watch Abby place between her lips.
Abby shifts in her seat, staring hungrily at both my cock and the glass of cum.
I hold her gaze. "Drink it," I say.
She continues to sit and stare at me in silence, debating her next move.
"Go ahead. Play with it," I continue, my eyes daring her into action. "I want you to show me just how much you like my cum."
Abby
I look down at the glass in my hands, cum spilling out of it and making its way down the curved surface and onto my knuckles. Am I really going to do this? His words echo inside my head like a prayer and I realize that, yes, I’m really going to do this.
I’m going to show him.
He’s right, though, you know? Since I became a published author, I erected a wall between the real word and one made out of fantasies. But now the line has been blurred, and it’s up to me to decide what happens now. Do I keep on believing that the things I write will never happen in the real world? Or do I take the plunge and turn fantasy into reality?
Well, fuck it.
I raise the glass and, running my tongue between my lips, I take a deep breath. I’m doing it, I’m really doing it, I think as I take the glass to my lips, Aidan’s thick juices dancing inside the glass as I move my arm.
"That’s it," he says, but his voice seems like it’s coming at me from the other side of the Universe. Right now I’m in a world of my own, mentally preparing to launch myself into outer space.
I close my eyes as my lips touch the rim of the glass, Aidan’s raw saltiness hitting me at once. Slowly raising the glass, I part my lips and let his cum flow into my mouth; his semen goes over my tongue, thick and warm, and my skin prickles as I feel it coating the inside of my mouth. I lower the glass then, savoring his juices with my eyes closed. Without opening them back up, I just swallow, that saltiness making its way down my throat and setting fire to my brain.
When I accepted the opportunity to collaborate with Aidan on a novel, I knew that it was very possible that we might end up fucking. I mean, I was single and he oozed sex—a match made in heaven, right? I just never thought that he’d take my hand and walk me straight into the badlands of pleasure. And let me tell you, these badlands are really, really bad. To the bone.
When I open my eyes, I look at Aidan, not knowing what to expect. But he just smiles, the soft creases around his eyes telling me that he’s enjoying every second of the show. And, hell, so am I. Smiling back at him, I raise the glass once more and take it to my mouth, but this time, instead of just pouring his cum into my mouth, I trace the rim of the glass with my tongue, licking it dry without taking my eyes off of Aidan’s. I can feel electric sparks flying between both of our bodies, the tension building around us.
"Seems like you’re enjoying it … At least for someone who hesitated so much," he teases me, but I just grin at his words. He’s right; I’m enjoying this, but not just because of the physical aspect of it. As silly as it may sound, there’s a spiritual side to all this, as if, right now, what I’m doing is a rite of passage.
"I guess I’m becoming a different woman," I purr, immediately taking my tongue back to the clear surface of the glass. I let it climb over the edge and dip it into the pool of white cum there. Scooping up a bit, I take it inside my mouth and swallow again, Aidan’s unblinking eyes following everything that I do.
He’s turning me into some kind of sex-crazed woman, and I don’t know how to stop it. Not that I care; I don’t want to stop. The moment the glass touched my lips I realized there’s no going back. And, again, I’m not just talking about drinking his cum. No, it goes way deeper than that. Somehow, Aidan’s forcing me to explore myself, to test my boundaries and discover who I really am… Sure, I know I’m sounding very new-agey right now, especially if you take into account that I’m drinking cum as if it were a cocktail, but stick with me.
"You’re changing," he tells me, "and I think I like what you’re changing into. I like this new Abby," he continues, lowering his voice as his hungry eyes seem to devour me.
"This new Abby feels the same about you," I say, raising the glass and throwing my head back; turning my wrist, I start pouring all of his cum into my face, and it just streams down my lips and onto my neck, heavy white lines making their way over my body.
Taking the glass out of my hands, Aidan closes in on me, both his hands on my hips, and I flash him a bright smile; one full of cum, sin, and desire. With his body pressed against mine, I feel his cock twitching, his hunger making it hard once again.
I look straight into his eyes, that dizzy smile never leaving my face, and I go straight to his cock, wrapping my finger
s around it. Moving my hand back and forth, I start stroking him gently as I feel his shaft growing and growing under my fingers.
Running my tongue between my lips, I tighten up the pressure of my fingers on his hard cock. "Don’t tell me you still want more…" I purr, the semen sticking to my lips as I speak.
"More? We haven’t done anything…" he whispers back at me, his glazed eyes never leaving my lips.
"Then it’s time we start," I purr, my eyelids drooping as I lean into him. I press my cum-coated lips on his, and a shiver goes up my spine as I feel my pussy becoming as wet as it has ever been.
"Yes, it’s time," he whispers, pausing our kiss just so that he can look into my eyes and run one hand through my hair. We just look into each other in complete silence, the sound of both our hearts beating drowning everything else.
By the time we kiss again, it’s as if both our minds and bodies have fused into one. More than making me a better writer, Aidan’s making me a better woman.
"Alright, I have a lot to learn about sex before we can write Big Dick," I say to Aidan and he raises his eyes. This is the first time he’s hearing the title I think.
"Make me yours," I whisper, and he just smiles.
"You’re already mine," is his response.
Aidan
"Please, follow me to the Gattinara," the same waiter from our last visit flashes us a smile and then, turning on his heels, leads the way to Del Posto’s private room. Abby enjoyed it so much the last time we were here, that it seemed the obvious choice for us to come back and have dinner with CJ and Cheryl.
Sure, I had to call in another favor, but that only got me the reservation this time. I’m paying for this out of my pocket, and I know that splurging on a dinner isn’t exactly the wisest financial decision for me right now. But what the hell, I know that coming here will make Abby happy, and that’s enough. No, I’m not turning into a fucking pansy—can’t a guy do something nice without being judged?
Besides, dinner seems like a perfect way to unwind; it’s been a week since Abby spent the night at my place and, fuck, what a week. Between the writing and all the sex, I barely have enough time to breathe.
And yes, I’m not being fucking facetious. There is a lot of fucking.
And a lot of fucking writing.
Come to think of it, being just a model is definitely easy—all I have to do is stand there, shirtless, and let others do the work. Most of the time.
Writing is a whole new ballgame, though. When you stare at an empty white page, all it does is stare back at you. No wonder most of the writing legends were raging fucking alcoholics.
Abby is a natural, though. She faces her laptop with a kind of steely-eyed determination, and all it takes is a deep breath for her to start banging at the keyboard. And I think that, part of it, is because of the sex we’ve been having. I don’t mean to brag, but it’s making a better writer out of her.
She had a lot of preconceived notions about sex and romance but, slowly, all that is being replaced with a new and much more improved world view. I mean, fuck, I wasn’t going to put down my name on a book cover if the writing wasn’t top notch, right? Besides, although the words don’t come as easily for me, I think we make a killer team. Especially because we always end up fucking whenever we finish a chapter, which means we’re always in a hurry to finish a chapter.
"So, how’s the book coming along?" CJ asks us both, but I notice her looking at me from the corner of her eyes. I think she’s still impressed by the fact that I haven’t fucked this up yet… But I can tell that she’s waiting for the whole thing to blow up. Yeah, so much for trusting me.
Can’t fucking blame her though. A part of me is waiting to fuck this up myself.
"It’s going great, CJ," I say, looking at her and pouring some red wine into her glass. Drink up, my dear agent, I’m not a lost cause.
"Yeah?" Cheryl asks me, and I flash her a smile and pour some red wine into her glass as well.
"Yeah," Abby says, reaching for my hand under the table and giving it a squeeze. "The first draft is almost ready. And, I don’t mean to brag but… I think it’s the best thing I’ve ever written."
"It is," I agree, leaning back against my chair as two waiters make their way to our table and start piling up a variety of dishes in front of us. I order one more bottle of red wine—the first one is already empty—and then turn my attention back to Cheryl and CJ. "I know that the two of you are worried about this book, but I think that what we have is pretty good."
"Well, as long as you know that both of your careers are at stake…" CJ says, exchanging a glance with Cheryl. Great.
"Thanks for being the ray of sunshine, babe," Abby says, sticking her tongue out at her PA.
Underneath the table she takes my hand in hers.
I think that they’re finally starting to realize that this collaboration might turn into a win for everyone involved. And thank God for that; the last thing I want is to go back to some seedy gym on the outskirts of fucking Queens.
Still, I know that deep down both the PA’s are fucking worried. They don’t know how to act around Abby and I, partly because we don’t make a secret out of what’s going on between us—whatever it is. Both Cheryl and CJ know that Abby spends most nights at my place and, even though we always use the "late night writing" excuse, it’s pretty clear to everyone involved what’s going on. But while our PA’s think our personal relationship puts the working one at risk, I know that it’s exactly the opposite: our personal relationship is what’s fueling our writing. And when I say ‘fuel’, I mean that when we finally ship this thing out, the book will be so scorching hot readers will need to wear protective gloves when handling it. We pulled no fucking punches in this one; every word is brimming with raw sexual energy.
"To our careers, then," I say out loud, raising my glass. The girls all do the same, and that initial awkwardness fades away like it was never there in the first place.
"To our careers," Abby repeats, and I notice Cheryl looking at her with a satisfied look on her face. No wonder—Abby has changed a lot since we met, and Cheryl has already realized that. No more man hating, and a new outlook on sex. If you wanna use an expensive fucking word to describe what this collaboration is doing to her, I’d use ‘catharsis’. Yeah, I might look like the reincarnation of Apollo himself, but I also have a brain and know how to use it, even though I mostly use it to think of Abby’s naked body, and all of the deliciously wicked things I want to do to her.
To be honest, writing is as tough as chewing nails; it seems that I can’t even write a paltry one hundred words without being distracted by the smooth curve of her hips. Maybe that’s why we fuck away most of our productive hours. It’s a wonder our first draft is almost done.
"By the way, I’ve booked a session with Mistress Strokes for you," CJ tells me, devouring the sweet potatoes on her plate. She might be skinny, but she eats almost as much as I do. The wonders of metabolism, I guess.
"The photographer, right? When?"
"Next week," she says, and then turns to Abby. "I think you should go with him, Abby. Since we’re going the self-publishing route, I think it’d be nice to have your input on all aspects of this production."
"Makes sense," she replies, looking at me with that irresistible smile of hers. Fuck, thank God Cheryl and CJ are here with us, or else I think I’d just get up grabbing Abby and bending her over the table.
"Well, I’m glad we’re all getting along," CJ continues, but I notice a slight hesitation in her voice. No matter how great things are going, I guess she still can’t fucking shake off the feeling that everything’s going to implode sooner or later. I can’t really blame her, though; I’ve been wrecking every single connection in the publishing industry, and she has a hard time believing that trend is going to change. It’s my job to prove her wrong, and I’ll do it, trust me. "It’s going to take a few more weeks, but I figure we’ll be ready for launch in no time."
I look at her, letting her word
s sink in. I’m actually publishing a book; can you believe this shit? I never asked for it; I was happy enough with my job, which was to get people to press Buy, but I’m actually glad I had the chance to do this. Writing is more enjoyable than I assumed it’d be and, more important than that, it was what made Abby and I cross paths.
The only drawback to all this? In a few weeks we’re going to be done with the novel, and then… Well, fuck me if I know, but I’m not looking forward to the moment when we go our separate ways.
Abby
"Your shirt, take it off," Mistress Strokes says flatly, casually adjusting the lens in one of the dozens of cameras laid in a half-circle. Aidan walks in front of the large white canvas hanging from the wall and, grabbing his shirt, pulls it over his head.
The blue-haired woman goes to the wall, the one opposite to where I’m standing, and fumbles around with the electrical board, flipping up the switches. The overhead light projectors turn on, and Aidan’s ripped muscles gleam under the bright lights. He stretches lazily, his pectorals and washboard abs pushing against his skin and making my heart beat faster. It doesn’t matter how many times I see his naked body… I just can’t get enough.
I look at Mistress Strokes, the photographer, wondering why she isn’t paying any attention to Aidan. I mean, if it were me, I’d be ogling him like crazy. But she’s more concerned with her cameras than with Aidan’s body and, if you ask me that works just fine. I’m not the jealous type, but I prefer to have no competition.
"Alright, show time," she tells Aidan, hunched behind a camera and peering through the lens. "Let’s do a trial run, you know how this goes," she continues, this time snapping picture after picture.
My eyes are glued to Aidan now, watching every move of his. He flows from pose to pose gracefully, exposing his muscles from different angles. Even though there’s a serious, don’t-fuck-with-me expression on his face, I can tell he’s glad to be back in the studio. He took to writing pretty easily, but modeling was his bread-and-butter for a long time.
