Total pages in book: 37
Estimated words: 34532 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 173(@200wpm)___ 138(@250wpm)___ 115(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 34532 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 173(@200wpm)___ 138(@250wpm)___ 115(@300wpm)
Our Sin-A-Mon muffins and cookies have been our top seller this last year. One of my most experienced product developers, who is also a master chef, came up with the concept, then tweaked it for production. It’s been at the top of our gourmet bakery line ever since.
As I read the description of the recipes, I felt my teeth starting to grind. The email was sent from a sock puppet account, from an employee who clearly didn’t want to be part of the inevitable fallout, but they’d discovered our Sin-A-Mon muffin and cookie product was a rip off of private recipes published by some barely known food blogger two years ago.
Normally I’d just forward the whole mess to my legal and human resources heads for Decadent Foods and be done with it. But something about the wording of the email had my interest piqued more than usual, and since I hate being accused of wrongdoing, I clicked on the link to the video blog.
Just like I’m doing now.
And just like now, I ended up jacking off at four am.
I did take a few minutes to email my attorneys, and now I’m on my way to get to the bottom of this shitstorm, as well as figure out who this girl is who’s raised my cock from the dead and made my heart slam around in my chest so hard I almost called 911.
Watching this red-headed, sultry girl go through two episodes making the nearly exact Sin-A-Mon products we’ve made hundreds of thousands of dollars on since we released them, my anger rose like a red tide. Just like the anonymous email said, her videos were released two years ago. My chef said he developed the recipes well after her videos came out and the product is so unique, it’s clearly ripping her off.
Her voice is like sugar and sex, and just the sound of it has me releasing my raging hard-on, starting to stroke the tip, slowly spreading the cum that’s already seeped out up and down, until my hand is furiously working the length.
She looks like a forest nymph with waves of red hair falling around her face down nearly to her perky young tits. As she moves behind the counter talking and working her recipe, I see she’s petite but with curves in the right places. Half girl, half woman with a sparkle in her blue eyes that connects to parts of me I’d long forgotten.
Her cheeks are decorated with freckles, and she has this habit of crinkling her nose when she says something cheeky like she’s cracking herself up. She wears no make-up and needs none. Even on camera, there’s this undercurrent of sweet, sexiness that is hard to find.
As the video comes to an end, she does this little signature movement where she touches or dips her index finger into whatever she’s made, brings it to her lips and sucks it inside as she closes her eyes on a long, Mmmmm moan.
Fuck, I want to hear that moan with my mouth between her legs.
Then she says, “Until next time. May the taste be with you.”
Then she blows me a kiss.
Me. No one else.
Me.
And I cum all over the back of the limo.
T W O
Selma
THE SCENT OF MANURE and gasoline swirls in the steam from the sink as I drag the back of my forearm across my eyebrows. The gathering hall where we’ve just served lunch empties as I work on the remaining dirty dishes, listening to the men’s voices fade as they stream out the double doors to finish the work for the day.
Most of them are helping at the Kennedy farm today, getting the dairy cows moved from the old barn to the new one the community raised together last month. But moving cows is men’s work.
The ripe scent comes from a basket left at my feet by Papa full of rags waiting to be washed when I get home later. From the smell, the morning consisted of cow poop and spilled gasoline, and a part of me wonders how long it would take for that magical mixture of chemicals to spontaneously combust if I ignored my chore.
Which I won’t.
Because I’m a good girl.
I do as I’m told because that’s just what women do, isn’t it?
“You want a hand?” Libertine, the daughter of Abraham a much cooler version of Papa, comes up by my side.
“Noooo...” I mock on an eye roll. “Let me finish all these dishes myself, for the simple satisfaction of a task well done.” I imitate my father on the last few words and Libertine chuckles looking over her shoulder looking toward the older ladies of the community standing around gossiping or praying or who knows what. With a hip check into me, Libertine pushes up the sleeves of her dress and plunges them into the soapy water next to mine.