Double Penetration: A Collection Of Two Erotic Tales

AUTHOR’S NOTE

If you’re here for polite romance, fade-to-black sex, or anything resembling manners…

close this book right now and go clutch your pearls somewhere else, sugar tits.

We’re talking soaked panties, filthy possessive growls, zero restraint, and the kind of spit-roasting, thigh-quivering smut that’ll have you touching yourself before you even finish chapter three.

You’ve been warned, princess.

Chapter – 0001

GRACE

I, Grace Monroe Sullivan, head of a charity foundation and daughter of Arthur Sullivan, the very conservative President of the United States, am staring at a cardboard box of blow-up dolls. And no, these are definitely not kids’ toys. I know the box contains blow-up dolls (free condoms and lube, too, apparently) because in bright orange lettering on the side, it announces the contents: LIFELIKE PERSONAL ROMANCE DOLLS! NOW WITH FREE GLOW-IN-THE-DARK-CONDOMS AND LUBRICANT!

I suppose that could be helpful information if you’re wondering which of your many boxes contains your personal romance dolls. I thought sex shops were supposed to be more discreet than that, but maybe broadcasting your purchases is the hot new thing. I wouldn’t know because I’ve never even been to a sex shop. I mean, seriously, try to do that with your security detail in tow as they telegraph their judgment through their eyes despite their ever-stoic expressions.

I’ve never ordered condoms and lube online, either. That’s just the kind of story the media loves to get a hold of, and pretty soon you’re not the smart capable First Daughter who runs a foundation; you’re the pervy First Daughter who orders stuff from a sex shop.

No, thanks.

“Do you think it’s the lube or the condoms that glow in the dark?” Vi asks over the phone.

I sip my glass of wine and stare at the box like it’s going to answer that question. It doesn’t. “Have you ever heard of glow-in-the-dark-lube?”

“You ask that question like I’m an expert on sex accessories,” Vi sniffs.

“Really? You’re going to go with the virginal-good-girl thing?” I tease. “Because I could remind you of our days in boarding school if you’d like.” Vi and I attended boarding school in Switzerland. So posh, right? We’re poster children for wealth, privilege, and power. I reacted to that by knuckling down, trying to stay out of the public eye as much as possible, and throwing myself into work. Even in high school, I was the ultimate good girl. Vi reacted to that by whooping it up and broadcasting her I-don’t-give-a-shit attitude far and wide.

Her father thought that sending her off to a boarding school with other children of politicians and world leaders would rein her in. Do you want to know what’s wilder than a boarding school full of the bored children of wealthy and powerful parents?

Answer: absolutely nothing.

Vi is the exact opposite of someone I “should” be friends with, per my parents, who are very concerned with that sort of thing (“You have standards to uphold, Grace,” my father reminds me sternly every time I see him), but the fact is, Vi and I were friends long before Switzerland. We were an unlikely pair—total opposites—thrust together in solidarity as children in the limelight when my father was Governor of Colorado and Vi’s was Lieutenant Governor.

“I’m monogamous currently.” Vi laughs. “Well, mostly.” Vi’s flavor of the month is a professional snowboarder whose name I can’t remember.

“You’re a paragon of virtue. But wouldn’t glow-in-the-dark lube look like a scene out of CSI?” I wonder.

Vi snorts. “That’s both true and repulsive.”

“I’m not the one who ordered glow-in-the-dark condoms and lube,” I argue, squatting down to read the address label on the box. “Mr. Dick Balsac is.”

Vi cackles. “Please tell me you’ll deliver that box to your neighbor personally.”

“Or I could have it redelivered to the correct address,” I suggest.

“It’s right next door!” Vi shouts. “And you haven’t met your new neighbor.”

“I don’t need to meet my neighbor,” I protest. “I’ve already heard him quite enough, thank you very much.” He moved in just last week and already I’ve heard enough loud music and splashing in the pool than any one person should have to endure. I swear the other night I heard him playing bongos. Who plays bongos other than Matthew McConaughey??

Vi snickers. “Yeah, you told me about the bongos. Don’t you want to see if he plays them naked?”

I make a gagging sound. “Yeah, I want to see if my new next door neighbor, Dick Balsac, inflatable sex doll connoisseur, plays naked bongos in his backyard.”

“You know the blow-up dolls are a prank. Dick Balsac is the fakest name ever.”

“What if it isn’t?” I take a sip of my wine and almost choke because I start giggling so hard at the thought. “What if that is his real, actual name?”

“Then you have to meet him. Why don’t we just look up online who bought the house? Maybe he’s hot.”

“Yeah, right.” I snort. I purchased my house in this quiet, off-the-grid historical neighborhood specifically because it was filled with retired professors and older business people. It’s the most uncool neighborhood ever—which means that it’s really private and people leave me alone. And that’s exactly what you need when your father is the President and he’s in the middle of a reelection campaign.

Even if he is the incumbent candidate, reporters are still interested in digging up anything salacious they can on my conservative father, whose campaign is laser-focused on family values. That means that I’m under the microscope almost as much as he is, so this out-of-the-way neighborhood was the best place in Denver to stay out of the limelight.

It’s not like I would be hitting up the bars or clubbing or doing anything wild, even if I weren’t under the microscope, anyway. Vi says I’m an eighty-year-old woman in the body of a twenty-six-year-old, and that’s probably true. The wildest thing I do is drink a glass of wine and consider personally redelivering a box of blow-up dolls to my neighbor next door.

“I bet he’s hot as hell and tattooed and—”

I interrupt her, laughing. “I’ll give you a hundred bucks if Dick Balsac is under the age of sixty-five. I’m going to be delivering this box to a crazy old man who probably has a collection of blow-up dolls he has conversations with.”

“Whatever you do, don’t step inside for a cup of tea,” Vi advises. “That’s how you wind up in a hole in the backyard rubbing lotion on your skin before someone makes a suit out of you.”

“Sage advice.”

“Go deliver the box,” Vi demands. “Your life is boring. This is literally the most interesting thing to happen to you in forever.”

“It is not!” I protest even though I know she’s right. You’d think that being the daughter of the President of the United States would be inherently interesting, but it’s surprisingly not. All of the scrutiny and expectations that come with being the First Daughter really just make your life dull.

In fact, this is the closest in proximity I’ve been to a condom in two years. That’s pathetic, right? I’m twenty-six years old. I’m pretty sure that most other twenty-six-year-olds are dating and hooking up and generally having lots of fun. But when you’re the First Daughter, even going out on one date is a big deal. The man must be appropriate, vetted, and a serious potential love interest. Good grief, I can’t even imagine what would happen if I had an actual fling. Democracy as we know it would clearly collapse.

At least, that’s how my father sees it.

Vi makes a kissing sound into the phone. “If I don’t hear from you in an hour, I’ll assume your flesh is being made into a jacket.”

“I’m pretty sure my security detail would frown on that.”

“The new neighbor is going to be hot and you’re going to owe me a hundred dollars.”