Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 56269 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 188(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56269 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 188(@300wpm)
My dick jerked sharply then, straining against the zip painfully. And fuck, but a choked growl escaped my throat, forcing Tyler to stuff it back in immediately as people turned to make sure I was okay. Nothing to see, folks, keep moving. Yeah, right. More like we were in for a NC-17 show, straight out of the gutter.
But that’s just how us dudes roll. We’ve been friends since fourth grade, ever since Mason stood up for poor Bobby during a particularly nasty game of kickball. Even back then, Bobby was pudgy and overweight, one of those guys who’s always sweaty. And when a ball hit him straight in the face courtesy of one of the older boys, Mason went for it. Or more accurately, we all jumped into the melee, fists flying, amateur boxers all.
And sure, those boys were older than us. But it didn’t mean that they knew how to fight. Because me and my bros are assholes all around, and we’re not above doing some serious damage. So yeah, the fists came out, a couple cuts and tears, and pretty soon, the neighborhood bullies went running, scared shitless and screaming.
That was the beginning of the Four Musketeers. Me, Tyler, and Mason, plus Bobby, our mascot. During college, we’d been inseparable, roaming campus together and making trouble. These are my bros. One for all, and all for one.
But a few years after college, Bobby went on leave. Or more accurately, he left to follow his dreams. The man’s always been into politics, so when the opportunity to work for the Governor of Tennessee came along, Bobby jumped.
And surprisingly, he’s done well. The sweating pinkness that’s always defined him works well in politics. The bumbling persona comes off as genuine, his stammer is the mark of an “everyman,” and lo and behold, but our buddy is mayor of a tiny town in Tennessee now.
As for the rest of us, life’s taken a huge U. We were bad students. Worse than bad, more like barely graduating. But Mason, Tyler and I made it out alive, and somehow, everything fell into place after that.
I’m now the CEO of a restaurant empire. Mario Batali? That dude’s got nothing on me. A hundred and seventy restaurants are on our roster, more opening each year. Plus, we’re in talks to start our own Food Network channel. Not a show on the Food Network, but actually a channel in and of itself, hosting chefs, cooking shows, you name it, we got it.
Tyler’s an investor at an international bank with offices all over the world. Billions flow through his hands each day, and more than a few folks have called him the next Warren Buffett. Lucky bastard because he’s got the dough but doesn’t have to live in Omaha.
Mason’s the CEO of his own construction company, responsible for building new high-rises and office buildings in major cities all over the world. Dude lives in a penthouse seventy stories about Central Park. And guess what? He built the place to his specs, down to every last detail.
So yeah, we’re all captains of industry. Money rolls in waves, and there’s nothing out of reach. Influence, women, business deals, everything can be bought, at least in a city like New York.
So none of us can understand why Bobby chose to move to this tiny town in Tennessee. Why would you limit yourself? But against all odds, he’s done well, becoming the mayor of this place. So what if it’s population one thousand? So what if the people are mostly senior citizens, doddering up and down Main Street on canes? He’s still the mayor, and it’s just a first step. Pretty soon, Bobby’s gonna be running this fucking zoo. Soon homeboy’s gonna be in the Senate or even the White House, politics come so easy to him.
But still, this wedding. Shit, Mason, Tyler and I just flew in thirty minutes ago, and it was already a drag. Boring as all fuck. Organ music that sounded like monkeys screeching. Ladies who were skinny as scarecrows, like walking clothes hangers. Not attractive. Not by a long shot.
Because heavy girls have always been my kryptonite. Give me a pair of thick thighs, a generous D-cup and a bit of cushion for the pushin’, and I’m in heaven. Sure, models and actresses always throw themselves at me, but they’re just not my size. Cameras do funny things, and girls who look relatively normal in magazines are fucking tiny in real life. Like bobble head dolls, except you’re afraid their brain is gonna come disconnected and roll off during dinner. It’s bad, real bad.
But hey, I’ve never been one to turn down free pussy. So yeah, we let them have it. It’s not like there’s a vow of celibacy or something, and more often, the girls throw themselves at us, and not the other way around. Hell, there were even those who begged for the triple team. That’s right, three dicks at once, filling all their holes. Depraved? Fuck yeah. But satisfying as hell? Definitely, especially for the female plugged tight everywhere. In fact, they usually came back a second time begging for more, offering their bodies, writhing and mewling. So why not? Consenting adults all around.