The idea of sabotage was delicious. Somehow, Amanda had pictured something else. The way Glory talked, getting published meant fame and fortune, ticke... tape parades. On the contrary, Glory Jacobson was just another face in the crowd, just another author. ‘$25 each,’ grinned the doorman, arms crossed, biceps bulging beneath a black T-shirt, the pocket puffed out by his pecks, perfectly chiseled. ‘Oh shit,’ Amanda whined, biting her lip. She had enough money for the cover charge, but not enough. There I was, sitting on the floor, leaning back against the bed, my head tilted back on the mattress. The trucker's butt swayed above me, as he slowly bent his knees, decending his meaty globes down to my face. His ass grew larger in my field of view, and then . . . contact! My nose was in his trench, my tongue slithering from my mouth to tickle his anal eye, his sweaty balls resting on my chin. I reached up to feel his firm, supple glutes, spreading them apart, letting him decend another inch. More

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