1
Logan
THWACK!
You've heard that sound before and you know what it is, darlin'.
You’ve read other shit from Naughty Angel Publishing.
Okay, for the uninitiated, I’ll spell it out.
That's the sound of the flat of my palm hitting Trisha's ass. It's juicy and plump and my cock looks amazing going in and out of her pussy as she's bent over on all fours.
"Oh baby, that feels so fucking good," Trisha moans, and I can sense the lust in her eyes. She's wanted this for a long time. And I'm finally giving it to her better than any man she's ever been with. She's not going to be able to fucking walk after I'm done with her. But after I shoot her as high into orbit as I'm going to, she's not going to want to. Hell, she won't even remember her fucking name by the time I'm done.
And who the hell am I exactly?
My name is Logan Sanders. And I'm going to rock your fucking world.
That's right. You heard me. I'm that Logan Sanders. The one who showed up on the last book, Dick Juice, from Naughty Angel Publishing.
That's right baby. I'm the book boyfriend. I make the model come to life on the cover. That's my abs you're licking when you run your tongue against the screen.
That's my fingers you're imagining to be caressing you when you're touching yourself.
That's my face and my eyes piercing into your soul when they decide to show my face. Seriously, I don't know why sometimes they cut me off. Not show my face. It's like, I know my face is fucking gorgeous. You're looking at several thousand more sales with my face on the cover.
Now, now … don't shake your head. Don't roll your eyes. I know this. I have fucking Rainforest.com data to backup my claims.
Yeah, I work for Naughty Angel Publishing. They share their data with me pretty openly. You've heard of Naughty Angel Publishing. I know you have. Fuck, you're reading their book right now. You've seen the books on the charts.
I mean, shit, if you read 12 Inches, about Aidan Stone, that's my fucking boss. Aidan is married to Abby Cleveland, and together they started this operation. I used to know Aidan from our days working at the nightclub, Python. Then when he started this publishing business with Abby he went ahead and brought me on. Started me as an exclusive cover model. And fuck, did my books do well. Really, really, fucking well.
That was about a year ago. Each month its been more covers. And more money. Enough money that I don't have to worry about work now. Enough that I can afford the nice suits that I sometimes pose in. We're talking several million dollars in royalties.
Yeah, the covers did that well.
I mean, come on, you read them, right? Of course you did. If you want to cum, you're reading Naughty Angel Publishing. Books like 12 Inches, DILF, Dirty Daddy, Client 5, Scandalous, Mr. President—books that will make you fucking squirt by the end. Or leave you quivering and fucking horny so that when your significant other walks in the door you're jumping them like a crazed fucking hyena.
Yeah, I know what's going on here. Don't you blush at me or even think of flipping the page and skimming over. I'm serious. Instead, imagine yourself in my giant fucking arms—my muscles rippling as I hold you and pull you close to me.
Imagine putting your head against my cut pecs, drilled with diamond precision. Or running your hands and your tongue down my 8-pack abs. Not even 6-pack. 8. Eight. As in I'm so cut, you can tell the definition of two more ab muscles than other men.
Imagine trailing your fingers down farther. Grasping my 12-inch cock. Squeezing it. It's so fucking thick—it's got the girth of a coke can, so you might need two hands. But think about how it grows and thickens and starts to come alive in your hands as you look into my soulful blue eyes. My rugged face and strong jawline. Think about how your heart will fucking race as my cock expands outwards and then points out at you, like a lewd jib on a sailing ship.
That's right, baby girl, think about how you'd get me on my back and then look at my cock with worry. How the fuck are you gonna put something like that inside of you?
And I'd fucking guide you. Slowly. Inch by inch. Till you're fucking filled up. Till you know you'll never be more filled up in your fucking life. And then when I start to fuck you, think about how you'll fucking forget everything. You'll lose track of everyone. You'll forget your fucking name.
All you'll want is more.
More cock. More Logan. More fucking. Till you collapse from the pleasure, or black the fuck out.
Those are the only two options.
I know because that's exactly what's happening to Trisha right now. I'm fucking her so fucking good.
"Ungh, baby, I'm going to--" she doesn't get a chance to reply before an orgasm rips through her and I cover her mouth, not letting her breathe.
She's trying to breathe but she can't. Her brain is being slightly asphyxiated and the orgasm is ripping through her and she literally starts to shake from the pleasure.
Orgasms are amplified many fucking times over when you're not breathing. Each sensation is magnified about ten to a hundred times because your brain is all of a sudden hyper fucking aware that something is going on.
"Unnngh," Trisha moans once I let my hand drop from her mouth. The orgasm has been amplified and is still rippling through her—rippling through her body.
She's thrashing and I feel her pussy clenching down on my cock and I'm about to fucking cum too.
"Cut!" comes the cry of the director.
I grunt and cry out in frustration.
"Don't cum, Logan," I hear Aidan say as he walks into the room. "Remember our bet. You lost the basketball game fair and square."
I sigh savagely and pull out of Trisha who collapses in a twitching heap of flesh.