Now here’s the fun part: I bite on my lower lip, slide one hand under the hemline of my dress and take it all the way up to my thong. I flick it to the side and then sigh heavily as I push the small silver bullet inside my pussy.
I pair it wirelessly with my Kindle and then let the whole world around me fade away. The bullet inside me is so tiny I can barely feel it now, and that allows me to dive straight into the book I’m reading without getting distracted.
Now, you’re probably thinking that this isn’t as good as the real thing, right? Well, you’re wrong. My toys are top of the line, and I’ve tested them (intensively) to make sure that you can have as much fun with them as you’d have with a real man—perhaps even more. Okay, if you have one of these perfect men you seemingly only find in romance novels, my toys won’t quite cut it, but then again, these men only exist in fantasy land, right?
I could say I’ve never seen men like that, but that’d be a lie. All you have to do is take a look at my family—well, stepfamily, but who cares? I was in college when my mother married one of Wall Street's titans, Drake Carlton, and that not only gave me a stepdad, but a stepbrother as well.
Drake “the Shark” Carlton—if you keep up with the news, you’ve probably heard of him. Too bad I never really had the chance to meet him. Before that could happen, his marriage with my mother went belly up, and that means I never got to see him up close.
As for my stepbrother, you’ve probably heard of him as well. He’s the CEO of a venture capital company, and from what I’ve heard, he is a complete degenerate. There are only two things that he cares about: pussy and money.
Even though Drake and Sloane aren’t blood related, Sloane’s the son of Drake’s first wife, you’d never guess it. They both thrive in the finance world, and they’re competitive as hell. Which also means that they don’t get along. Not that I care, though; it seems that no one gets along in this dysfunctional family.
But enough of all this family talk. I want to get hot and bothered right now, and I can’t do that while thinking of family, can I?
I turn to the chapter I was reading; I stopped last night right before a sex scene, and grin as the words start unfolding before my eyes, my imagination pulling me down into dreamland.
I feel my whole body warming up, my pussy becoming wetter and wetter as my eyes run up and down the screen. And that’s when the bullet starts to vibrate.
It’s barely noticeable at first, but I programmed it to be smart; it picks up the vocabulary I’m reading, analyzes the sentences and paragraphs, and adjusts the intensity by itself. As the action becomes hotter on the page, the bullet vibrates more fiercely. Smart, uh? Yeah, you don’t revolutionize the sex toys industry without thinking creatively.
But I can’t think about business right now. Oh, no, not at all.
I’m reading Eddie Cleveland. I picked up his Bad Boy Collection and I’m only on Chapter One and already the words are getting the bullet worked up. I swear his book is so hot that the bullet is buzzing hard, sending tiny ripples of pleasure over my inner walls, and it’s picking up the pace with each passing second.
“God…” I whisper, closing my eyes for a second and throwing my head back. Noticing that my endorphin levels are up, the bullet kicks it up a notch and vibrates harshly, sending a jolt of pure ecstasy up my spine. I squirm in the recliner, opening my eyes again and forcing my tired brain to focus on what I’m reading.
Grabbing the Kindle with one hand, I slide the other one under my skirt and then flick my thong to the side. Pressing down on my clit with two fingers, I start rubbing myself as the bullet pulses steady inside of me, each time it vibrates making me feel as if I’m stepping on a live wire.
Tired of keeping the fabric of my thong out of the way, I take my fingers out of my clit and push my underwear down my legs. I let it fall on the floor and, spreading my legs, I go back to my clit.
The sex scene I’m reading has two tall, gorgeous men fucking a woman, their huge cocks filling her holes. I grit my teeth, breathing hard as I imagine it happening to me, and I feel a sickening pressure building inside my skull. My heart pumps boiling blood fast, and I’m so wet right now that my fluids are dripping down my inner thighs and staining the recliner.
“Oh…” I moan, swallowing hard as my insides start to clench, my inner walls becoming tighter around the vibrating bullet.
As good as this is, I can’t help but imagine how it would be for the scene I’m reading to turn into reality. Bring me a sex genie right now, because I already know what my three wishes are going to be.
“Oh, fuck, fuck,” I breathe out, the Kindle slipping out of my fingers and falling between my legs. I grit my teeth harder and, closing my eyes, arch my back as the bullet sends thunder and fire up my spine.
I squirm in place, pressing my legs together as I imagine two huge cocks hardening just for me, ravaging me so hard that I can’t even think straight. I rub my clit as fast as I can and the bullet reaches the zenith of its intensity, sending a jolt of ecstasy straight into my brain.
“OH GOD!” I moan loudly, not caring if any of my neighbors can hear me right now; I make sex toys for a living, it’s not like I have a reputation to safeguard. My muscles twitch and spasm, my back arched as I burn from the inside out.
For a moment my mind goes blank, not a single thought disturbing the here and now. Pleasure blankets me, wrapping itself around me like a long-lost lover, and I finally sigh heavily, my body relaxing at once.
I laugh to myself, opening my eyes and looking at the New York skyline, its jagged buildings casting their shadows over the grid of streets underneath them. I gaze at the rectangular glass slits on the skyscrapers, wondering how many people are having sex right now. How many of them are masturbating? And how many of them are using my toys?
I once read somewhere that around 250 million people have sex per day. That’s a lot of sex, if you think about it, but right now I’m thinking about the countless women that don’t have a man (or have a subpar one). They’re the reason I founded Dirty Lil’ Angels, because every women needs a friend called Pleasure.
I go up to my feet and walk over to the edge of the balcony, resting my hands over the rails. I close my eyes and breath in the New York atmosphere, feeling as alive as I’ve ever felt.
It feels good to be in control of my destiny, to be the one in charge of my own life. But there’s something in the air, as if the breeze carries the whispers of destiny straight into my ears.
Your life’s going to change, the wind seems to say. And you know what? I believe it. I really do.
Sloane
SLAP!