Backstory: Marcella

Fifty Shades of Tinsel, Vol. #3 - Backstory: Marcella Book Description: **THEY CALL HIM TUBESTEAK** Jimmy Riff, a well-endowed preacher's son whose life is adrift, stopped off in Hollywood on his way to Oregon in search of a lost love. Instead of finding his dream, Jimmy found himself trapped by LA's sleazy underbelly. Now he's a gigolo, dubbed James Kidd by his tough-guy manager Benjamin T. Styles and forced to do the pimp's bidding by sleeping with Hollywood honchos, both male and female, to further Styles' agenda of scoring a serious movie role. Jimmy is his meal ticket to stardom, and he intends to exploit him any way he can. Intended for mature audiences. **EXCERPT** By now Willabelle had gone out the back door herself, where the haranguing continued. Marcella had wasted no time grabbing Jimmy by the hand and pulling him inside the walk-in cooler with her. Making sure the heavy door was closed, she knelt, unzipped his fly, and reached in. She had him out in no time. Jimmy had protested initially, but the cool temperature of the cooler had added to the overall sensitivity of his cock head and went with it. Let her do it. She needs it, he thought. Look how hungry she is. No matter how much she got; it was never enough. There was no denying that he was enjoying it himself. You never got tired of being blown, of having your cock sucked, never ever tired of watching a good-looking, light-skinned, mixed-race chick like this lick and suck on your cock. No denying how pleasurable it felt. My God. He’d look down from time to time, watch her take him inside her mouth, those ruby-red lips wrapped around it, sucking, vacuuming. That’s what it reminded him of: a human sucking machine, human vacuum. The need was there, no denying, to shoot come down in her throat. There was no going back now, no stopping her––or even pretending that he didn’t want it. Didn’t give a shit, either, that they could be found out any minute now, any second. Didn’t matter. He wasn’t about to stop her. No way. Maybe he should have. Maybe. Only he couldn’t. Now that he was so into it and about to do it. Shoot it; shoot it in her mouth. Fill her throat. It was going to be a tremendous amount. Lots of it. More than ever. The more come he had to shoot, the longer the climax, the greater and prolonged the resulting pleasure. Yes. It was on its way. Brewing in his nutsack. About to explode. And she knew it. The girl knew it, could easily tell, because she was grinning, loving it; thrilled by the power she had over him––and loving every moment of it.