2 Hot Excerpts from The Clothing Mogul


teaser-two-copy1845You want my cock inside you, Jenna.” I increase pressure on her slit. She’s so goddamn wet, there’s practically no friction. “Look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t.”

She looks me in the eyes. No words pass her lips.

I’m going to fill your pussy with my cock, Jenna. I’m going to make you come so hard, you’ll do whatever I say and then thank me.”

Fuck you.”

I’m tired of her bullshit. “Take out my cock. Now.”

She hesitates, so I slip two fingers inside her. She must be on a hair trigger, because she almost validates my threat on the spot. A gush touches my hand and she buckles against me.

She won’t come unless I keep going. Not until I let her.

Do it, Jenna.”

Her hands fumble at my jeans, shaking but urgent. My fly is open in seconds. I gasp as she grips my shaft and brings it into the open air, her small hand in a ring around it, jerking me, rubbing my balls and the underside.

You’re disgusting,” I say. “You’re a fucking slut.”

She licks her lips and stares into me. I can see how much she hates me. She’s pumping my cock, glaring at my eyes. Her grip is insane. If she keeps up the pace, I’m going to shoot my load all over her.

My balls tighten. My shaft throbs, cock head red and swelling.

You want me to fuck you. Tell me you want it.”

Go fuck yourself.” But she’s pushing up next to me, her hand now rubbing my dick against her slit. It’s clumsy as hell. I feel like I’m being used to paint a fence. Her sexuality is aggressive — a turn on.

I’m going to fuck you instead.”

No, you’re not.” Then she opens her legs just enough to let my head pop inside.

I don’t like how Jenna thinks she’s in charge.

I turn her around, hard, and press her face against the side of the utility shed. Her ass, as my cock paints wet lines across it, is perfect. My hands spread her cheeks. My fingers explore her from behind, plunging in and out. I watch her knees threaten to surrender as waves shake her body.

But she won’t be coming alone.

I put a hand on her back, pressing her chest flat. Her ass is still out, her wet pink slit still open and waiting. I lean in close, my lips inches from her ear as I pull her shining brown hair back and growl: “I’m going to fuck your wet cunt until you cry, Jenna. I’m going to show you whose rules we’re going to play by. I’m going to make you beg for more. And tomorrow, you’ll be dying for me to do it again.”

Before she can respond, I bury my cock inside her.

My balls press against her bare snatch. She moans. I grip her hair in one fist. My lips graze her ear, breathing words into it as her hot tunnel grips my cock in tight, peristaltic waves.

You don’t walk out on me. You don’t bluff against me. Because I know how much you want me to fuck you. I know how hard you want it. And I know that nobody can do the things I’m going to do to you.”

You’re a pig,” she says, her face pressed to the shed.

Tell me how bad you want it.”

She reaches between her legs. She alternates rubbing my balls and strumming her clit.

I take long, slow strokes. “Beg me. Beg me for it.”

Her own hand does the job, and she’s coming all over me, her slippery juices coating me, her pussy squeezing my dick like a fist.

I fuck her harder. Faster. My thighs slap her bare ass. I tug her hair. My other hand grips her ass cheek. Then I let go of her hair and grab the other ass cheek; I slam into her, giving her my full length.

Jenna shakes, almost violently, her moans coming faster and harder, out of her control.

Beg me to come. Beg me to fuck you harder!”

Between panting breaths: “Fuck me harder!”

You like it dirty, don’t you? You like it rough?”

Fuck me, Ashton!”

I smack her ass. She contracts against the small pain, her pussy tightening. I can’t hold back. But I don’t want to come inside her, so I pull out just a little and pump my thick load into her wet folds, intermingling our juices.

My seed drips down her legs. It pulses from her greedy little pussy, running into her pulled-down panties.

I step back as the waves subside, and see Jenna’s hand still working between her legs. She comes again, harder this time, calling out something that might be my name.



I have to give Alyssa credit. I’m rolling my eyes through half of the interviews, but they’re all a precisely choreographed dance. I don’t know if she’s somehow orchestrating social media as well, but our buzz has been perfectly feverish. You’d never know that Ashton was hated by large segments of the population only days ago. A redeemed cad, it seems, is better than an average Joe making good.

We go wherever Alyssa directs us. Speak to whoever she tells us to. She’s either phenomenal at getting interviewers to follow a script or has a sixth sense about what will be asked, because she provides us with answers in advance. We rehearse until they’re right and are never surprised.

It’s fascinating to watch Alyssa work. I don’t know much about PR, but I know enough to see that she doesn’t approach it in a typical way. Most publicity starts with the person being publicized: Ashton Moran, in this case, issuing a press release about his relationship. But that never actually happens.

As far as I can tell, there’s been no proactive publicity from Ashton’s camp. Not once has Alyssa reached out intending to put news out into the world about us. Instead, she seems to have contacted other outlets on other people’s behalf, to supposedly halt the spreading of rumors. Nobody knows for teaser-four-copy1847sure where the rumors originate, but they circulate all the same.

Alyssa then books us to respond. It strikes me as so much more effective and real — I’d buy it myself I weren’t in on the game. We’re positioned so that we don’t have to brag about our fake relationship. Instead we act humble, embarrassed that we’re obligated, by external forces, to discuss it.

It’s just so mortifying to be called out like this, we say. We just want to go away quietly, away from the cameras, and get to our private business of building a life together.

We’re the perfect amount of sweet. Ashton doesn’t hold my hand around the public because the world knows that assholes don’t hold hands. He plays the role of a reluctantly sweet rake — a turd with a diamond center. He does so masterfully, and it works because Ashton can mostly be himself. Interviewers are already convinced that he’s in a committed, devoted relationship, so our job is to good-naturedly try and deny it … until we’re reluctantly backed into a corner, forced to admit our false love.

Oh, okay, I’ll say. He really does make me breakfast in the mornings.

Or Oh, okay, Ashton will admit on-camera. You caught me. I really do think she’s beautiful without her makeup on.

Ashton’s old image is so reprehensible and chauvinist, the standards required to make him look decent are ridiculously low. Whereas a doting leading man type might need to declare his love in skywriting to make the public ooh and ah, Ashton merely has to not insult me when I say something kind about him.

If he hands me a rose on an interview set, sixty million uteruses skip a beat. If his frown falters once when he looks at me, the world becomes convinced that we’re this century’s Romeo and Juliet.

We’re always with each other, looking one another over for the benefit of our onlookers, always touching incidentally as we show the world our bullshit breed of love. For two weeks, it’s constant.

I think he’s cute when his hair is messed up, I’ll say.

And the audience goes, Awwww!

Maybe I’ll take her to the opera or something, Ashton will say, rolling his eyes.

And the audience goes, Isn’t that sweet!

Then the lights go off and we shake hands. Alyssa tells us good job and delivers tomorrow’s assignments. But not once, after our duties are done for the day, have we made it home before engaging in what can only be described as an act of sexual anarchy.

After a long day of acting like lovebirds, Ashton and I don’t just fuck each other. We fuck the world with our frenzied bodies.

It’s aggressive.

It’s acrobatic.

It’s the opposite of sweet and beautiful.

It’s pure distilled lust, born of sweat and hot breath and adrenaline. It’s like we want to erase all the family-friendly shit we devoted our day to. Like we feel this need, with our interlocking parts, to show the universe that there’s nothing between us but lubrication and semen.

We fuck. And we fuck. And we fuck.

We don’t stay over. There’s no spooning afterward, no cuddling, no waking together to watch the sun rise. Ours isn’t that kind of relationship. I go home if we’ve made it to one of Ashton’s residences, tiptoeing into my father’s home like a teenager past curfew. Or we both go home if we’ve shaken the foundation of somewhere new and hot and strange.

We don’t kiss when we depart. There’s already too much of that during our days to carry it into our fevered nights.

I sleep well. I’m too tired, in mind and especially in body, to do otherwise.

I usually wake sore. Sometimes chafed. Definitely satisfied, but with a growing itch to greet the new day.

Then I shower. I brush my teeth and put on my makeup, donning a sweet face to match the adorable billionaire’s girlfriend the world increasingly knows me to be.

And we do it all over again.




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