by Amy Brent
“Fuck…” I sighed as I turned my attention back to Wynn’s cock. I brought my right hand up to Lane’s chest and squeezed his nipple, which was like a hard pebble protruding from his muscular chest.
“Guys… I’m… fuck… ready…” Holden said, his hips thrusting faster now, his cock rocking my body as it hammered in and out. “I’m gonna… cum…”
“Me… too…” Wynn said, his cock swelling in my mouth. He started moving his hips back and forth to mouth-fuck me as my hand squeezed the shaft.
“I’m there…” Lane said, his cock sliding between my breasts, his hands tweaking my nipples hard. I opened my eyes to find him looking down at me with his mouth hanging open and sweat covering his forehead. “Jude… are you… ready…”
I could not answer with my mouth full, so I just squeezed my eyes shut and moaned with Wynn’s cock in my throat and Holden’s cock deep inside me. Soon, my moans were drowned out by the grunts and howls of the three gorgeous men all cumming at one with me. Wynn exploded in my mouth, shooting his warm, salty milk down my throat and over my lips. Lane exploded between my tits, shooting ropes of milky goo over my chest, neck, and face. And Holden… sigh, my darling Holden… came with such force that it set my cunt on fire. We climaxed together, him filling my cunt with hot cum and me squirting my hot juices back over him. The room filled with the aroma of sex, sex, and more sex.
Our bodies twitched and jerked for a moment more, finally fell still, then we got the giggles when Holden said, “Friends, this fucking train has arrived.”
It must have been an inside joke between the boys because I didn’t really get it, but I laughed along anyway.
I had just had one of the best orgasms of my life, I was covered and filled with cum from both ends, and the only thing I could think was… now… now I’ll have them… one at a time…
Am I a nymphomaniac?
Am I a slut?
Should I be ashamed of what I’d done?
You tell me.
What would you have done if you were me…
Epilog: Jude
One year later…
I sat in my little office with the thick book clutched tightly to my breasts. My eyes were filled with tears of joy. It was all I could do not to burst out crying, I was so proud of my three boys. I set the book on the desk and gently caressed the cover with my fingertips. The cover of the book had the blurred image of a naked woman sitting on the edge of a bed with her knees together and arms covering her breasts. It was me in the picture, but no one would ever be able to tell.
“You inspired this book,” the three of them had told me after letting me read the first draft a few months ago. They wanted to dedicate the book to me by name, but I said no. I had no desire to be known as the woman who inspired a book on the science of group sex. That’s when the idea of putting my blurred image on the cover came up.
Holden had put his hands on my shoulders and gave me a smile as he looked deeply, appreciatively, into my eyes. “Jude, this book would never have happened if it wasn’t for you. If we can’t use your name, how can we give you credit?”
“Come on, Jude,” said Wynn, moving in to give me a hug. “Let us dedicate the book to you in some way.”
Lane was on speaker phone from Los Angeles. He spoke up. “Hey, I have an idea…”
And that was that. I became the blurry girl on the cover, and they promised that no one would ever know. Lane even had hired a famous photographer to fly in and do the shoot, and made him sign a nondisclosure agreement.
I let my fingers go across the title; a simple font in white: Sex In Numbers, A Scientific Approach To Group Sex.
The names of the authors made me smile as my fingertips traced each name. I turned the book over so I could look at the photograph of the three of them on the back.
From left to right: Dr. Lane Curtis, Dr. Wynn Driver, Dr. Holden Moss.
My boys.
My men.
We had spent so many nights together over the last year, at Holden’s house in Midwestern, at Wynn’s place in Malibu, and at Northwoods, Lane’s sexual spa in the mountains. The boys worked on the book together and called me their muse. Any time they would get stuck or suffer writer’s block, we’d have a marathon fuckfest and the words would again magically start to flow.
The book came out a month ago and was an immediate bestseller. Holden was now on the road with Wynn and Lane, doing book signings, making public appearances, doing the network morning shows, and a shit ton of television and online interviews.
Holden called me every day to give me an update. And to tell me that he missed me. And to send me images of his cock with a sad face drawn on the head. I loved Holden and he loved me, but we were sexually-free adults, just like those profiled in his book. There was no jealousy, no anger, no commitment, and no possessiveness. We just… were…
“Um, Professor Allen? Did you want to see me?”
I looked up from my desk to see one of my grad students standing at the open doorway with a timid smile on his face. Toby Reese was his name, twenty-two years old, six-foot-two, lots of muscle and enough brains to graduate at the top of his class at the end of this semester.
He had been flirting with me since the semester began two weeks ago.
Since graduating with honors, I had taken a position at Midwestern as an interim professor, filling in for Holden while he was on the road. I still intended to open my own practice soon, but for now, I found teaching incredibly fulfilling; and found it to be very, very interesting, being on this side of the desk.
I looked up at Toby and smiled.
“Yes, come in,” I said, opening a drawer and sliding the book out of sight. He stepped inside the office and quietly closed the door. And locked it.
Funny, the teacher’s pet was now the teacher.
And the young man at the door looked like he would make a wonderful teacher’s pet.
But this teachers’ pet wasn’t interested in any of this shit now.
All she cared for was her three men, her three teachers, and being with them forever.
Sorry Toby, it’s not gonna work out.
Not now, since I am kinda committed…
Am I?
THE END
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Club Desire
BOOK 1: ON YOUR KNEES
I had heard of this mysterious place called Club Votre Désire —Club Desire— for years; a magical place where mega-rich men wined and dined and had their way with women so incredibly beautiful they once existed only in their dreams… But did Club Desire really exist? And if so, could someone like me actually go there to meet the man of my dreams...
You think it’s easy being me? A young, good looking billionaire that women throw themselves at 24/7? Sure, it’s great having money and my pick of the ladies, but just once I’d like to meet a girl who wants me for me, not because of my huge bank account or the other huge asset that I carry around in my jeans.
If I can’t meet a nice girl the old fashioned way, screw it, I’ll just have to get creative to get my rocks off. I’ll start a private club just for guys like me, rich dudes with more money than they could ever spend and desires that never get fully met by their wives and mistresses and girlfriends at home.
I’ll fill the place with the most gorgeous women on earth who will do anything if the price is right. And I’ll personally audition every girl…
Who knows, maybe I’ll bet lucky.
Maybe one of these girls will be the one.
Prologue: Isaac Hanson
I woke up alone, or as alone as I could be with a nine-inch hard-on big enough to choke a horse. Well, a Shetland Pony, maybe. Sometimes, the damn thing was like having an alien attached to my crotch. It pulsated and throbbed with every beat of my heart when it first awoke from its nightly slumbers.
It
was hungry.
It wanted to be fed.
I imagined it growling in a phlegmy alien voice.
“Pussy… Ice… feed me pussy… now…”
I yawned as I pushed up onto my elbows and forced my eyes to open. I felt the bed beside me. The sheet was cold. Was last night just a dream? Was she really here with me all night long? Doing all those filthy little things we did to each other or was it all just a filthy little dream?
I grabbed the pillow next to mine and pressed it to my face and inhaled deeply. Unless dreams left the sweet scent of Chanel No. 5 on the pillow and the pungent aroma of sex on the sheet, it was no dream.
She was here.
I didn’t imagine it all.
Everything we did, the hours we spent exploring each other’s bodies, touching, kissing, licking, sucking, fucking…
It was all real.
And it was fucking magnificent.
I tossed the pillow aside and swung my legs over the side of the bed. I gave my cock a few strokes to pacify it and sat looking around the room. Her clothes were on the floor where I’d stripped them from her perfect body the night before. My clothes were in a pile next to hers. I could see my boots and her high heels littered in the hallway outside the bedroom door.
The early morning sun was filtering through the smoked glass in the French doors that led out to the second-floor balcony, bathing the room in a warm wash of light that would have been romantic if I hadn’t been alone.
I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and groaned as I got to my feet, then paused to stretch my arms toward the ceiling. My spine popped a little as I stretched, a faint reminder of my hard playing days on the MIT rugby team.
Or was it a reminder of last night; a sexual hangover that had my entire body in need of a good steam and hot shower. Jesus, I was just forty-years-old, but I reckoned that my years as a sexual Olympian were behind me now.
Too many nights of back room quickies and drunken missionary positions and easy fucking had taken their toll. That was just one advantage of being an eligible, well-hung, good-looking billionaire. Women offered themselves to me like desserts on a tray. I didn’t have to work for pussy anymore. It was just there. Always there. Mine for the taking. I didn’t have to work for it anymore. I’ll have you and you and you and…
Easy pussy had made me soft.
After last night’s gymnastics—and the promise of many more nights to come— maybe it was time to get back in real fucking shape.
I chuckled as I yawned.
Sometimes the shit my brain came up with just cracked me up.
I cocked my ear toward the master bathroom door and listened for a moment. A smile came to my face when I heard her… humming.
Yes, she was humming.
Happy people hum.
Satisfied women hum.
My cock twitched as if saying, “Go get her, you stupid fuck!”
“Patience, ET,” I said quietly, giving my balls a nice scratch as I padded across the heated carpet to the bathroom door. I pressed my ear to the door and listened for a moment.
She was humming a song I knew but couldn’t place. It made me smile. Fuck, everything this woman did made me smile. I quietly turned the handle, found it unlocked, then pushed the door open to reveal a sight that nearly took my breath away. I’d had a lot of beautiful, naked women in this bathroom, but none like her.
She was standing at the sink with a towel wrapped around her wet hair and nothing else. Her perfect body was dotted with little drops of water as if meticulously placed there by a great artist.
The large bathroom was still steamy from the shower. She was on her tiptoes, leaning in toward the mirror, brushing her lashes with mascara. Her big breasts hung heavy on her chest; so round and milky smooth, her nipples in the mirror, hard and pink from the steaming shower.
The muscles in her toned legs were tight. Her round ass was sticking out, facing me, open for business, baby. I couldn’t help but lick my lips at the sight of her pink twat and puckered little asshole.
“Good morning,” I sighed, moving in close behind her and sliding my hands around her waist. She leaned back into me and pressed her wet shoulder blades to my chest and put her arms around my neck. She turned her head so that I could press my lips to hers. We both had morning breath but neither of us cared.
My hands went immediately to her melon tits.
I squeezed her pink nipples until they turned dark red between my fingers.
She moaned at the sweet pain and wiggled her ass against me.
I bent my knees so my long cock could slide in between her legs.
I could feel the heat of her pussy on the top of my shaft as her lips molded over the shaft and the head of my cock slid across her clit.
I groaned in her ear as my hands slid down her flat stomach, across her shaved mound, my fingers meeting at her clit, rubbing gentle circles along the sides, feeling it harden between my fingertips, as I worked my hips back and forth.
She cooed at me in the mirror and pushed her round ass against me.
She told me to fuck her from behind while we watched in the mirror.
I smiled and dug my fingers into her hips.
I swear I heard my cock give a happy sigh.
What a great way to start the day…
Chapter 1: Isaac
The freelance writer Influencers Magazine sent to interview me for what they called their “Influencers of the Future Series” was a blonde named Stacey something or other who had legs up to here and a pair of tits that dared me to try to focus on anything but them.
She was dressed professionally in a pair of black slacks that hugged her long, thin frame, sensible shoes on what I figured would be exquisite feet (I’d sucked a toe or two in my time), and a short black jacket over a turquoise blouse that did little to hide the fact that she had a couple of world class double-D’s stuffed inside there.
Being the horn, computer nerd that I am, I quickly calculated in my mind how long it would take for me to have her completely out of her clothes and bent over my desk should the opportunity arise. Six-point-two seconds, top to bottom, with most of that time spent removing the industrial strength bra that was keeping her big melons in place.
I forced my eyes to remain on hers, although the allure of those tits was making it incredibly hard, like trying to look away from something you knew to be a miracle of nature.
My tongue slid across my dry lips without my brain telling it to.
My mouth filled with the taste of… what was that… milk?
Wow, sometimes my imagination amazed even me.
We were in my fifth-floor office at IDS, the tech company I had founded with my childhood pals, Denny and Sammy, almost fifteen years ago when we were all seniors at MIT.
I was the computer hacker/nerd.
Denny was the big personality/marketer.
And Sammy was the level-headed business guy.
It was the perfect combination of brains, bravado, and balls.
We never fathomed that we were starting a multi-billion-dollar company way back then. It’s just how things worked out. I had a novel idea for a way to store data online and secure it from hackers. I wrote the code and built the site. Denny found our first customers. And Sammy somehow rolled it all into a formal business. He wrote the initial business plan that got us our first ten-million dollars in funding from a Silicon Valley venture capitalist over one long weekend while Denny and I were out partying.
It wasn’t easy. We struggled at first, then, slowly, things started picking up and the next thing we knew, our little company was going public and we were all billionaires. Yes. Billionaires. With a B.
Is this a great fucking country or what?
We even named the company after ourselves. IDS, Inc. stood for Isaac, Denny, and Sammy, even though the rest of the world thought it stood for Internet Data Systems, Incorporated.
Jesus, my mind wanders sometimes…
Where was I…
Oh yeah…
/> The hot blonde… uh… Stacey…
She was sitting in a chair in front of my desk with her long legs crossed at the knees and her back straight, probably to counterbalance the weight of her tits (I minored in physics).
She had an iPad resting on her thigh and tapped her long nails to the screen, taking notes as I answered her inane questions about the future of tech and this and that and blah, blah, blah.
I’d been interviewed hundreds of times over the years. Interviews bored the shit out of me, but Denny insisted that it was good for marketing and Sammy said it was good for business, so I plastered on a smile, worked up what little patience I could, and gave them the answers they expected to hear. Nothing earth-shattering, nothing controversial, nothing too revealing about our future plans. It was basically, “All is well because IDS is on the job for our thousands of big clients.”
End of story.
Yawn.
At least Stacey was smoking hot, unlike most tech writers, and if my potential-fuck-meter was not failing me, she was also giving me the eye from behind the fashionable black-rimmed glasses that she wore. She probably wore them because she thought they made her look smarter, not because she needed them to correct her vision.
