Seduced In College (Campus Dorm Room School student One Night Stand Erotica Girl Romance Sex Stories series) (6 page)

Julie becomes excited from both her pussy and her mouth. 
She wraps her hands tightly around Bob’s solid, muscular body, enjoying his
every move…

Suddenly, Julie feels the huge cock is vibrating really
hard. 
Alright!
 Julie is so happy.  As she has guessed,
the cock does have a built-in vibrator.

Bob pushes harder and faster.  Julie knows that soon,
Bob is going to eject.  But she doesn’t want that to happen.  She
wants Bob to last much longer.  She wants to enjoy a real orgasm—maybe
several.

Bob seems to know what she wants.  He slows down a
little bit.  But he pushes harder and deeper.  He keeps his cock at
the deepest position for a long while, and then move around to give Julie more
excitement.

Julie cums.  This is the first time in the last two
years she has really come.  When she was having sex with her human
boyfriends, she had to fake an orgasm often.  But this time, she doesn’t
have to.  It’s so real and so strong, she almost blacks out.  She let
out a long howl, like a female wolf mating under the full moonlight.

Bob doesn’t stop.  He keeps thrusting his huge cock
where Julie feels it the most.  For the first time, Julie is enjoying one
orgasm after another, until she is totally exhausted.

Bob unloads himself soon after Julie becomes soft as a
little puppy’s fur.  Julie feels the warm juice flowing into the deepest area
inside of her body.

Bob stays on her body.  His cock turns smaller and
softer rapidly.  He tries really hard to keep it in.  But soon, it
slips out of Julie’s pussy.

Julie reaches down to hold his cock.  She likes the
softness.  She tries to figure out how small it is now. 
Oh, man,
the next time this thing goes in again, I want to see how much bigger and
longer it can be.

Suddenly, Julie is seized by fear.
Oh my gosh.  He
didn’t wear a condom.  Am I going to get pregnant?

Then, she smiles. 
Come on, Julie.  This is a
machine.  You can’t become pregnant from driving a car.  You silly
girl.
      

She feels sad because she begins to love Bob now. 
But… realizing the fact that Bob is only a mix of plastics and metals makes her
feel sad.

“Bob…?” she looks into Bob’s eyes and whispers.

“What?” Bob asks.

“Do you love me?” she asks.

“Love?” Bob rolls to her side, still holding her body
tightly. “What’s love?”

Julie bites her lips really hard.  She knows it’s
over.  Bob is doing his “study”.  For him, it’s a lab experiment to
test the Object’s reaction.  Maybe her every move and moan has been recorded
by those instruments.  Maybe those dumb engineers in the United Kingdom are
looking at her nude body.

Oh, well, what happened has happened.  So be it.
 
Julie is a strong girl.  She won’t let any bad thought stay for a single
moment. 

She smiles, wraps her arms and legs around Bob tightly,
and asks, “Bob, you said level one test.  Are you going to give me the
level two test real soon?”

“Sure, my girl,” says Bob.  “The level one test has
ten stages to go through.  We finished only three stages.”

“So, how long is it going to take?”

“Sorry, Object Julie, I don’t know,” Bob says.

“Why not?” Julie feels like Bob is teasing her.  She
gives Bob a big kiss and then says, “I like your study.”

“Very good,” Bob smiles.  He rolls his eyes for a
long while and then says, “The team is going to come up with five more levels in
the next month.  Putting them all together…”  He begins to think
really hard.  His body is humming much louder now.

Well, that must be some serious calculation,
Julie
smiles.  She pushes her breasts tightly on Bob’s chest to feel every
vibration and noise coming out of this heavy duty calculation.

“Two years, seven months, eighteen hours, and fifty six
seconds in total,” comes the baritone answer after a long while.  

Julie doesn’t have to listen.  She feels the answer right
from Bob’s chest.

Her heart sinks like the Titanic.  After a long, long
while, she whispers, “Bob, I just got a new job.  I want to go back.”

Bob looks at her with his charming, dark blue eyes for a long
while.  Then, he says, “You must be hungry now.”

He slips out of the bed, walks to the fridge, and pulls
out a big sandwich…

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Mia...

- Naked Gangster,
Book 1

by 
Mia Perry © All rights reserved.

Erotic,
for adults, 18+ only
Length: 19,800 words

This
book is a work of fiction.  Similarities to real people, places, or events
are entirely coincidental.

Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Book Two: Run

My life is a total misfortune.  To start with, I came
to this world as an “accident”.  My father hated me
before
I was
born.  That’s strike number one.

I drive a 1989 Ford Probe GL.  It stalls whenever the
temperature goes below zero, which is about four months out of the year in
Boston.  I have to kick the gas pedal, swear, and pray for my luck. 
On the other hand, I can get a brand-new Porsche any time from my parents but I
refuse to.  You have to agree, that really sucks.  That’s strike
number two. 

My boyfriend is a professional liar.  I caught him in
bed with that “my-boobs-are-bigger-than-my-sister’s” fat ass and he blamed
me
for being in a wrong place at a wrong time.  Do I need to make an
appointment to go back to
my own
room?  That’s strike number three.

My life is pretty much doomed—you would think so,
huh?  However, my parents think I’m one of the luckiest girls in the whole
world.

Let me show you why…

“Emilie, I believe you can find ways to entertain
yourself,” she says with a stern face, looking at me in the mirror.

“But Mother,” I know I shouldn’t have said that but I
couldn’t help. 
Huge
mistake.  But too late.

The stern-face queen stands up and turns around. 
“You know what?” 
Big
trouble.

“Okay, okay, Mother,” I give up immediately.  As a
sixteen year old girl, I’m experienced enough to make a quick judgment.  I
know she’s going to say how important this party is.  I know she will tell
me it’s a business gathering to earn the future money for
me
.  And
she, my poor mother, has only four hours and twenty three minutes to ready
herself for this extremely critical event.  She is now absolutely, totally
stressed out.  My presence will be the last straw to break the beautiful
camel’s back.

Do you know how often my poor mother becomes so
stressed?  At least two or three times a week.  That’s how miserable
her life is.

Besides, she has many other stresses, too.  The major
one is the competition.  After being the Mrs. Bill Morgan VI for eighteen
years, she still worries she may lose her grand title overnight.

Her husband, my dear father, is, of course, Mr. Bill
Morgan VI.  He inherited some decent business from his father, my
grandfather, in the financial sectors, like money and properties in banks,
insurance companies, and hotels.  The family has a pretty smart focus—the
suburban areas around Boston and many other cities.  So, they are doing
pretty well.

My father works as hard as his father.  He works the
whole day at the office.  Then, he goes home and works again in his home
office.  And again, that’s for
me
.

If you think my father is stressed out with all the hard
work, you are
wrong
.  He has plenty of energy left after all the
hard work.   He then exhausts it all on the only hobby he has—chasing
hot chicks, which can be those cute secretaries, the
“don’t-waste-time-let’s-do-it-now-Bill” new-hires, innocent internship students,
or God knows who, when, and where.  As my father always proudly states,
“You have to keep busy to keep young.”

I don’t know if that’s a true statement.  But I know
the cool fact—my mother is twenty one years younger than my father. 
That’s YOUNG.

Well, the fact was, my mother won the competition when she
was “the cute secretary”.  She bumped out the then Mrs. Bill Morgan and
moved into the big house.

That’s why my mother knows how fierce the competition
is.  She knows a ton of girls are trying to become the next Mrs. Bill
Morgan.  She has to be on the guard 24/7 to secure her position. 

Her bottom line is that her husband can do whatever he
wants as long as he doesn’t come home one day and say the magic word—divorce. 
And again, of course, she sacrifices so much, simply for
me
.

I came to this world as a big mistake, I guess.  My
father was always a “roamer”.  He didn’t want to have any kids.  He
wanted “freedom” and hated commitment.  So, when my mother told him that
she had me in her belly “by accident”, my father surely gave her a sour
face. 

Does he still hate me?  Most of the time, yes. 
Oh, well, he may not hate me but he does want me to disappear from his
world—when he is stressed out as much as my mother.  Unfortunately, he is
always stressed out.

Sometimes, however, he does show interest in
fatherhood.  That’s when we get into this nice father-daughter chat for
hours.

“Emilie,” he would start with this brief “open speech”,
looking at me as if I were a little alien from Mars.

“Father, I have to pee,” I have to get ready.

“Sure, go pee,” his eyebrows lock tightly. 
Sometimes, I really worry that they may become stuck together forever.

I go pee, get a big cup of hot chocolate or whatever I
like at the moment, put on my bunny slippers, and make myself comfortable on my
Hello Kitty bean bag sofa.  “I’m ready, Father.”

“Great!” his deep bass echoes throughout the room. 
He sits down in his rocking chair and clears his throat.  “Okay, how’s
everything?”

I’m smart enough to understand what that means.  It
means my marks, nothing else.   How good is good enough?  My
father has a “dynamic measurement”.  That’s how he runs his
business.  I have to be better than the Emilie three months ago. 
That means I’m competing with myself all the time.  I can never win. 
As my dear father puts it, I have to be ready for the competition because one
day, I will have to take over the business since I’m the only child.

Our conversation isn’t always that stressful.  After
the serious part, I can always enjoy a long story without answering a single
question.  “When your great, great, grandfather came to Boston,…”

“The life was rough,” I smile.

“Exactly,” my father smiles, too.

Our conversation goes from 1770s, to the Great Depression,
the WWII, the Internet bubble burst, and all the way to the stock and gold
fluctuation at this very moment.  My dear father wants his daughter know
how the family made all their money and more importantly, how to make
more
money when his daughter takes over the business one day.

“Do we really need more money?”  This is the question
I always have during our conversation.  But I’m smart enough not to ask.

Never.  Unless I want to turn that interest in
fatherhood to total cannibalism.

Being a kid in a rich family is odd.  First of all,
you seldom see your parents.  Secondly, when you are lucky enough to see
them, you seldom see them smile.

The kids themselves are odd, too.  If you see a
little kid who doesn’t smile, jump, run around, scream, and mess up things, he
or she is from a rich family.  They are not kids.  They are little
tools of their parents.  Seriously.

For example, my parents only allow me to play with the
“good” kids—the ones who belong to the associates and big clients.  
These kids are super nice to me because their parents want more money and more
opportunities from my father.  

These kids are too formal.  They are the dwarf
versions of the business men and women in downtown Boston.  Their dresses
and hair styles, the way they talk and smile, and everything else are way too
mature.  They keep their posture straight all the time.  I bet they
have to hold their asses really tight  to do that.  And that must be
really tiring.

Slumber parties?  Forget it.
Best friends? Forget it.
Girls’ gossiping? Forget it.

These little kids are wearing as big of masks as their
parents do.  They don’t like you or love you.  They only like and
love your money.

Most kids belong to a “Family”.  For example, I
belong to the “Morgan Family”.  They live and breathe in the family. 
They have to get ready to take over the family business, grow it, and then pass
it down to their kids.

Unfortunately, I don’t like this business world
thing.  I like to have real friends who can share the deepest
secrets.  I want to be loved by a boy one day because of
me
, not my
family.  I want to do what I really like, such as singing a song over my
guitar or swearing in a bar.

My marks in high school are high enough for a pre-med
program, which my parents are really proud of.  They want me to go to a
business program and finish my education as an MBA (or some other business
shit), which I really hate.

I want to get into an art program, such as studying the
rock music.  This idea really pisses off my parents.  My mother
actually yells at me.  That’s when I discover she has the perfect soprano
voice of a world famous female singer.  What a waste of her gifted voice.

My father is pretty cool.  He doesn’t raise his voice
a tiny bit.  He doesn’t lock his eyebrows a single inch.  But he
makes it very clear: We are paying for your college education.  So take a
finance program or you are on your own.

For the first time, I made my own decision: To go my way.

My mother almost blacks out the moment she realizes I’m
serious.  “Oh, my gosh.  Oh, my gosh,” she says.  She sounds the
world is falling apart right under her designer shoes.

My father is still cool, “Well, that’s your
education.  Let us know when you need support.”  And then he adds,
“Financially or otherwise.”

For the first time, I feel like they are my real parents,
the man and woman with
feelings
.

Though not going their way, I’m not a disappointment at
all.  I get into the Boston University with a full scholarship.  My
major?  Psychology.  That’s the science of the study of human
behavior and the human mind.  I want to find out why rich family kids can
hide so well behind their masks.

I can’t wait to begin my own life in the university with
no
strings attached to my parents.  I want to prove I’m strong and
independent.  I want to find a boyfriend of my dreams, too.  One day.