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Pleasure rips through my body and I arch my back and scream out. I don't even know what I'm saying. I've forgotten everything. I can't feel my body. I can't feel my face. I've left my body. Waves of sweet ecstasy clear my head of everything. I can't remember who I am. All I can do is revel in the seizure that's gripped my entire body. But it doesn't stop there. There's no way to come down.
Tears are coming from my eyes at the agonizing pleasure that's coursing from my pussy. My nipples feel like they’re on the most delicious fire possible. I can't breathe. My back is arched.
My clit is throbbing. I know it's engorged. I push the bullet a little closer, scared at what's going to happen. Just the slightest push.
FUCK! OH MY FUCKING GOD!
My eyes are closed
, but I see stars explode. It's like my brain has shut down completely. I don't even know what I'm doing at this point. My entire body is on fire. My soul is on fire. My spine is tingling and shuddering and every single nerve in my legs, my throat, my hands, my face, my breasts, my thighs is tingling with electricity. I'm crackling. I'm lightning. I might as well be dead.
I don't know how, but I turn off the switch to the remote and brace myself as wave after wave of electricity rushes through my skin. I'm shaking and trembling and moaning and I don't know what I'm saying. All I know is that I might not come out of this river of sweet pleasure alive. I might be lost in it.
Eventually, I'm able to grasp thoughts. I'm breathing heavily. I'm panting. I'm gasping. I'm drenched in sweat.
I'm exhausted.
As long as that machine is off, I take out the bullet, but just barely. I look down at the leather of the seat. It’s wet. Very wet. I don't care. I think it takes me all of one second to pass out.
When I come to, the car is stopped on the side of the street and Magnus is looking at me.
The bullet is on the other side of the car. I must've thrown it out.
My panties are somewhere over there too. My skirt is bunched up around me, my pussy on full view. My tits are popping out. I must've been trying to play with my nipples.
My pussy is wet—my thighs are sticky.
It’s pooled underneath me on the leather. The whole car smells like sex.
“Better now?” Magnus asks with a smile. “Work off some of those calories from brunch?”
I nod. I’m so sleepy. Post orgasm endorphins are sluicing through my body.
“Ready for Round Two?” he says with a grin.
It’s all I can do to keep from smiling as Magnus speaks into the intercom and the car revs up again getting into the traffic as Magnus picks up the bullet and gives me a grin.
Oh my God.
This man is insane.
Crazy.
Wild.
He’s perfect.
Magnus
“And now, it’s my pleasure to introduce our benefactor, Mr. Davion!” The host, a man with a thick moustache and a soft rotund paunch, announces me and then leads a round of applause. I get up from my seat in the front row, button my jacket, and then casually make my way onto the stage.
“Thank you, thank you,” I say into the mic, taking my position before it as the host steps to the side. Slowly, the crowd quiets down and I clear my throat, mentally rehearsing my speech.
It’s a crowded room I’m facing, rows upon rows of lower politicians and businessmen sitting across from me; occupying the first row on the right wing of the hall are a few dozen journalists. They snap a few pictures as I walk up to the stage, and I throw them a smile—my smile is meant, of course, for Penny. She’s sitting among the journalists, a New York Daily Journal badge pinned to her button-up shirt and a notepad resting on her crossed legs.
The big wigs are all seated in front of me, in the first row, and among them I can count my lovely ex-wife and her pal, Laurel ‘The Devil’ Trask. They’re probably cursing me under their breath right now, praying to the Devil for me to collapse on stage before I start speaking. They’d like that, alright.
“It’s a pleasure to be with you tonight,” I start, the hot lights trained on the stage making a few beads of sweat drip down my neck. God, I hate making these fucking speeches. It’s all theater, you see? Whenever you see someone in front of a mic and a crowd, chances are that they’re feeding some well-rehearsed speech laced with a hefty dosage of sweet bullshit. And that, dear ladies, just isn’t the way I roll. But Joyce has insisted we carry on with this good-boy strategy, and what can I say? Despite a few hiccups, it’s working.
