Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
With a quick movement, I spin her, pushing her against the wall and pinning her against the tile. Autumn plants her hands, her hair flying as she looks over her shoulder at me, arching her back.
I lift the skirt of her dress with greedy, hungry hands, exposing the soft peach of her ass. It’s thick, ripe, and alluring, and made more so by being split by a black thong. My good girl has a naughty streak, one I want to cherish and cultivate until it blooms for me alone.
My hands fumble as I pull my suit jacket off and undo my trousers, letting them drop to the floor. My cock springs free, and Autumn pushes back against me, moaning when she feels me press against her lower back.
“Mmm, so big,” she says. “Will you fit in me?”
I growl in response, bending my knees as I tug her soaked thong to the side. In one swift thrust, I’m balls deep in her. Autumn cries out in pleasure as I fill her.
Her pussy is . . . amazing. Tight and silky, it envelops me like a succubus’s caress even as her angelic face brightens joyfully. Grabbing a fistful of her hair to keep her in place, I pull back, leaving only my tip inside before slamming into her hard and deep.
“You’re what I’ve always wanted,” I rasp in her ear as my hips smack against her ass, the flesh shaking and quivering sexily with each thrust. “You’re real, aren’t you? Not a figment of my imagination?”
“Ugh! Yes!” Autumn grunts, her hips rolling to meet me. “All real.”
“Show me,” I growl, driving harder. Autumn meets me stroke for stroke, turning her head more so that our lips touch, my hands reaching around to cup her breasts through the thin fabric of her silk camisole. I can feel her inner muscles tighten, and a wave of pride rushes through me.
I’m giving her what she wants. It adds to my desire, and my hips fly, slapping and pounding hard until I feel my balls churn, my orgasm just a second away.
“Simon!”
I sit up in bed, sweat rolling down my chest in rivulets . . . and I’m on the verge of coming. I’m still fighting off the depths of my dream, wishing I could get back to that place for a moment. My cock is rock hard, precum dripping from the tip and demanding release. I consider jerking off, but I want Autumn, not a memory or thought of her. Even in my dream, I noted her ‘realness’.
That’s what draws me to her. I won’t ruin that with a fantasy.
“You,” I said, looking down at my cock, “are going to have to make do with discipline and a cold shower.”
I stretch my arms overhead, but before I can relax, a bark rips through my bedroom, demanding my attention. I barely have time to cover my sensitive groin before a fuzzy, furry missile streaks through the door and leaps onto the bed, landing with a floomp. Another few centimeters to the left and I’d be a eunuch. Thankfully, the dog bomb missed.
“Xerxes!” I grumble to my Yorkie. His full name is Xerxes the Great, and his behavior warrants use of his full government name, but I’m too asleep to scold him fully and properly.
The fact that I, a Frenchman, own a dog that was originally a British breed, and named him after an ancient Persian emperor, is a source of endless confusion to those who know me. But after seeing him, it makes sense. He’s irritable, he’s demanding, he’s got a big mouth, and an even bigger personality. Why not name him after an emperor?
The next question people have is why I have a dog small enough to fit in an evening clutch. Admittedly, Xerxes isn’t exactly a ‘manly’ looking dog. But that’s easily explained too.
Unusual for a dog like him, I found him on the street as a puppy, wet and shivering, miserable after a rainstorm. He was so small, I’d thought he was a particularly big rat at first. Paris has its fair share of them. Still, even as I approached the little creature, he yapped at me, defiant until I reached into my grocery bag and offered him a scrap of cheese.
Since then, he’s been my dog. Or it might be more accurate to say I’m his human. I’m sure if dog thoughts could be translated into human languages, he would most certainly say that he’s the owner and I’m merely his servant whom he adopted one day. He definitely likes to push me around, and the sound of my alarm clock means one thing . . . time for his human to feed him.
“Not now Xerx, you’ll get your food soon. But you won’t get as much if you don’t stop barking,” I tell him. Xerxes yaps one more time then goes quiet, rolling onto his back and offering his belly for a rub.