Applied Literature – submission rough anal bad boy disreputable BDSM

Tiffany Myles. Pop Star. His fame is based more on the intelligent marketing of his saccharine image than on his real talent. I was asked to write his autobiography. She was twenty-three. I had considered telling my jam editor, but after my last vegas adventure, I needed money. Twenty-three. For God’s sake. At thirty-four, I had a minimum tolerance for pop pies or their insipid music.

Our first meeting took place in a complete circle; lawyers, manager, publicist, record company pimps, I think there was even a trained monkey present. For two miserable hours, they informed me that Tiffany, who means them, would have full control over the content. But I knew I had an ace up my sleeve. I had a reputation for writing the raw truth, no matter what. I also knew that she had specifically demanded me, Jack Boyd, bad boy writer with just the right amount of unsavory cachet. Finally, the pop pie itself came in.

She was a beauty. A cascade of honey-colored hair, perfect cheekbones and the supple body of a dancer. She shook my hand with surprising firmness, her dark eyes in search of mine. After she had sprung up for several minutes about how much she admired my work, I turned my ace over.

“I’ll do it on one condition. Full creative control, no interference. Or I walk,” I say in a disturbing way.

There was an immediate explosion on the part of everyone in the room. They sounded like screaming crows, a thought that briefly amused me that I had considered killing the lot of them for the last two hours. I would have spared the monkey.

“Stop!” Each head swayed towards her. “That’s very good. Mr. Boyd may have full control of the manuscript.

Another eruption followed, voices rising as they fought to be heard, struggling to be the main defender of his virtue. I got up like I was leaving, bluffing my.

“Please,” she said, stopping me with a slight touch to my arm. “I want you to write my story. The way you do.

“Do it,” she calmly announced, “or you’re all fired,” staring at the surrounding crows with a shard of steel. The signs of the dollar flashing in their eyes changed to panic at the thought of losing their meal ticket. They gave in abruptly. She smiled softly and turned to me.

“Tomorrow. A PM. Don’t be late,” she exclaimed, joking the expected shot of a Laurel Canyon address. She was gone before I could say a word of protest. The fact that she was waiting for me with zero consideration of my own schedule just irritated the fuck out of me. I was already dreading every moment.

Twenty-four hours later, I stood at his door, a little dishevelled with a late night of absinthe and superb indica. Reluctantly, I rang the doorbell, hating myself for my own greed and the debauchery that had landed me this abysmal mission. To my surprise, she opened the door herself, wearing designer jeans and a silk blouse that costs more than my car. Deliberately dressed in old jeans and a black Ramones t-shirt, I immediately had one more reason to despise her.

“Hi,” she said brightly. I said, “Come on. I thought we would work in the library, this is my favorite room.

I smiled with malice, imagining him reading a book. She led me through the house to a pair of oak doors. She drew them open, exposing a huge floor-to-ceiling room with shelves, absolutely stuffed with books. A small writing desk sat on one side of the room. There were two comfortable leather chairs and a matching lounge with natural light pouring into the room through gigantic windows. She even had a ladder to access the highest shelves. It looked like it had never been used.

As a writer, I had to admit that the library was quite impressive. There were thousands of books, all perfectly arranged by subject and author. I liked books, but I couldn’t afford anything like that. A dreadful of cheap jealousy stabbed through me, as caustic as my contempt. I knew it was petty, but everything about this girl made me worse.

She led me on the silk brocade sofa where a simple glass jug sitting on a coffee table, filled with iced tea, condensation covering the sides. I roughly poured myself a large glass, watching it on the edge as I swallowed the tea, trying to soften my hangover. Her frosty pink lips briefly slashed at my boorish behavior. I felt a brief moment of childish joy at his reaction.

I sank into a corner of the sofa, lifting my boots to his little table and opening my notebook. She sat in front of me on the couch, folding her delicious legs under her, a view I might have appreciated if I hadn’t so studiously ignored her.

“Then Jack,” she asked colloquially, “where do we start?”

“From the beginning,” I replied. You are twenty-three years old; it could be a short book as it is. A brief look of irritation flashed on his face.

“Listen, I know the book is ridiculous. I know all too well that I can disappear tomorrow, so it’s just marketing all right? So what do you say we make the best of it? And maybe you can stop being such an upper.

Despite his accurate assessment of my attitude this instantly got under my skin. “So tell me, have you actually read any of these books?” I asked derisively, sweeping my arm over the room.

“Actually, yes. I’ve always loved books, they let me escape. I realize that you think I’m an empty airhead, but I’m actually very well read. Choose a book, any book and randomly read a passage for me. She launched the words as a challenge.

I’d get up, wandering on the shelves, running through every section. For my vast entertainment, I found an impressive selection of eroticism and mischievously pulled Pauline Beange”s “The Story of O” from the shelf. Randomly, I opened the book and started reading aloud. I was halfway through the paragraph when Tiffany interrupted and finished the last sentences herself, her clear voice reflecting her smile of satisfaction.

My irritation grew as I stood there, stunned. I was amazed at what she had just done. I wanted to dismiss it as a cheap salon ride, but I knew it wasn’t. I bowed out, laughing in his direction. “I apologize,” I remarked sardonicly, “maybe I underestimate you.”

“Oh my, a fragment of respect. Now can we get to work?” she replied.

“Why not,” I replied disdainfully, “I am just the paid whore here.” I could say that I had hurt her and she understood very well the inference in my use of the word whore. Livid, she dragged a book from her shelves and threw it violently over my head.

“You asshole,” she whistled, “even more furious than the book had missed.”

“That’s what’s going on in the book,” I smiled. I thought she was going to fire me there, but with remarkable control, she took a deep breath and visibly calmed down. I barely noticed how the breath had caused her chest to swell, her nipples stretched against her silk blouse.

The following weeks were a blur of tumbling words. She had grown poor dirt, but with a burning desire to succeed. At times, she has shown herself to be a petulant child, but others have shown warm generosity and quiet dignity towards others. To my surprise, she seemed quite honest, recounting events that were obviously very painful for her, but often quite poignant. A particular anecdote left her with tears quietly running over her cheeks. Heartless, I just looked, taking notes. Despite its enormous success, there were frequent embarrassing failures and overly human errors. And to my absolute horror and dismay, I began to love him.

Our sessions were often for hours. Every day she wore a new outfit and while they were never clearly sexual her sensuality sparked a gloomy fantasy after another. Tiffany never gave the slightest hint that she was attracted to me, she was the consummate professional. Yet I was looking at every move for the slightest nuance that might signal its interest. Finally, his slightest adjustments of posture allowed me to imagine scenes of scandalous seduction.

One afternoon, a photographer arrived, taking a series of frank photos that we talked about. These were to form the color photo centerpiece of the book. As the shooting ended Tiffany got up and asked for one more, taking my hand and pulling me to my feet.

“I want one for the inside cover, me and the hot shot writer.” I mumbled an apology, but she insisted. “Please do this for me.” Reluctantly, I hit a clumsy, glowing pose on camera.

She grabbed my hand and pulled it around her waist, then leaned her head against my shoulder. The chaleur of his body against mine was excruciating. The photographer took some faster photos, packed his equipment board and made his exit.

“It wasn’t so bad wasn’t it?”

“You’ve got lipstick on my shirt”

She laughed and it looked like musical raindrops. I felt a sudden deluge of warmth and the familiar embrace of my old friend: trouble.

“Thank you for doing that,” she said. Then, to my surprise, she kissed me. I kissed her back; Hard.

“Fuck your girlfriend” she was purring huskily. Then she kissed me again and within seconds we were tearing each other’s clothes, desperate for each other. We were naked in seconds.

She fell slowly to her knees; her hot mouth engulfed my raging hardness, taking me to the mouth as she poured liquidly to the ground. I gently moaned that his tongue was dancing along my tree. The pleasure was exquisite. Looking at myself, I realized how much I wanted to come into her mouth, fuck her, use her. I was crazy about desire.

She interrupted her skilful attentions, whispering, “Come for me.”

In response, I squeezed to the glorious mane of his hair, pulled his back on my cock and began to fuck his hot mouth. As my speed increased his hands reached around grabbing my, gagging as I went even further down his throat. I quickly exploded in his mouth, his swallows audible even on my raspy breaths.

I pulled her to her feet, my hand sliding to the wet heat between her legs. She gasped like the palm of my hand brushed on her clitipeux, then moaned softly as I slipped a finger, then two, inside her. With unusual rawness, I fucked her tight hole just long enough to confirm that she was ready. I pushed her forward by roughly folding her on her writing desk. It was the perfect size; her flat stomach leaning against the wood, her small round breasts and torso extending on the opposite edge. The glowing honey of his skin was intoxicating.

“Fuck me,” she murmured, looking over her shoulder. “You can do anything you want for me.”

I felt a sudden shiver of drunken power. Instantly, any remnant of the gentleman inhibition disappeared as I imagined taking pleasure from the succulent body she had just surrendered to me. My thoughts darkened dangerously, knowing all too well the most successful and powerful often received their own submission. My eyes were darting over the library, struggling to find anything, anything, that could be used to complete his desecration. A roll of book binder tape caught my eye, then a basket filled with canvas book bags.

“Don’t move,” I ordered.

Deftly I pulled books from her shelves, filling bag after bag. I placed several large volumes under each foot, leaving his peach-shaped perched at an enticing angle above the writing desk. Quickly, I wrapped duct tape around each book bag and recorded two heavy bags at each of his spread ankles. I caught a brief flicker of fear in his eyes, then looked, hypnotized as he slowly turned into a burning look of need and desire.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Shut up,” I replied sternly.

I then recorded bags of books on each of his dangling wrists, the combined weight leaving his drape helpless on his own desk. I searched the desk drawers frantically, wondering what else I could use on it. My eyes were attracted by a handful of butterfly paper clips in the top drawer. I smiled wickedly. I teased each of her little round to harden little picks. Fishing a pair of butterfly tongs from the drawer, I suddenly attached one to each nipple. His strong breathing ended with a faint groan.

“What’s your favorite book?” I demanded.

I said, “What?”

Your favorite book. What is it? I’ve been rehearsing.

“Anna Karenina”

I quickly located the classic Tolstoy and Walked behind his haughty. She barked in the surprise that I decisively turned her derriere with her favorite book. I enjoyed a delicious thrill as I considered the bright red rectangular mark he left on his. Even more satisfying was the noticeable imprint of the letters ‘IN’ on a cheek, left by the embossed letters of the book cover.

“Do you want me to fuck you?”

“Yes,” she replied.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, I want you to fuck me.”

“Please say.”

There was a brief silence.

“Please, please. Please me, she whispered softly, her head bowed, her voice woody with a trembling need.

I loved it. My dick was hurting. I didn’t want to fuck this young woman anymore, I needed her, I had to.

Now I was practically vibrating with excitement and suddenly plunged the entire length of my nagging cock deep into its soaked consequence. I took a long, hard blow after another as she moaned. On my shoulders stood an army of demons who exhorted me. It was something that could not be denied; perhaps unconsciously I needed to exorcise my own twisted jealousy of his easy success so that I could feel that I was his equal. Thought was nothing more than a wisp; it simply evaporated in the storm of my own depravity.

I ripped off several pages of his favorite book and crumpled them into an approximate facsimile of an anal cork. What I wrapped in her discarded black silk panties. Unceremoniously, I threw the contents of her handbag on the desk, confident that I would discover some type of lubricant. Success! A small tube of Vaseline for anyone who knows what it’s for. I generously folded the silky black material in her panties that covered the twisted paper. With the greatest pre-lubrication of his anus from the slippery residue on my fingers, I pushed the inventive grip into his. She cried with a groan that only increased my own desire.

I drove wildly into her pussy; deep, almost ruthless hard blows in their intensity. The excess material of her panties brushed against my cock with every dive. His gentle moans quickly descended into unintelligible cries.

“Unh! Unh! Unh! With each breath, she behaved stronger and stronger. I pushed the now-tattered book into her mouth by giving her strict instructions to keep it in place, threatening to move away, letting her be found by the maid. Pages stuck between her teeth, she could nod the moreo her acquiescence. At this point, I had essentially lost control, wanting only to take, take, take. And most of all, I wanted to take his.

I slowed down the pace of my thrusts and began to pull on her panties, gradually removing the paper cap covered with silk from her tight hole. As he popped up his rectum, I slipped my smoothed cock up his ass. After the invasive cap, I slipped easily past her sphincter as she mumbled through the improvised book gag. I almost came in that moment, but somehow managed to hold off. I wanted to enjoy it.

Inch by inch, I sank further into his gorgeous, briefly allowing him to adjust before pushing deeper. Slowly I started to get in and out, lost in the perfect curve of his ass and the tight pressure around my cock. I leaned over to lick the little moisture beads that were filming his back. To my astonishment, she managed to move her hips slightly, responding to my slightest thrusts with a reciprocal movement of her own.

The effort that this must have required electrified me, I meandered a hand under his body that trembles to push my palm against his clitaction. A sobbing moan escaped around the book clenched in his teeth and his hips began to move faster and faster. I answered in kind and pushed my hand firmer against her clitoris as I fucked her harder. Our moans echoed about the room. Finally, I let go, exploding in the back of her, filling her with my sperm. The book fell from her mouth as she shook under me, her climax following mine almost instantly.

I collapsed on his back, we two smooth slick with sweat. As I recovered my breath, I found scissors in the office and carefully released it. She rose unstablely at her feet, trembling from head to toe. She shone at me for a while, her makeup smeared and mascara streaming a striking contrast to her normally perfect appearance. Then her face softened tarena and she fell into my holding arms. I gently drove her to the couch where we just melted into an exhausted pile. I tilted his chin upwards and kissed him with a tenderness that had previously been so completely absent. Just before falling asleep, she sighed softly, looking at me.

Hey,, she murmured defiantly. “It’s better not to be in the book.”

This story is protected by international copyright law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found displayed anywhere other than with this attached note, it was displayed without my permission.

Applied literature