Madame B

Desire

MIDAS

It takes a lot of imagination to make long-distance love work. Phone sex and e-mail flirtation aren't the same as having a warm body to reach for in the night. Sometimes, though, they're even better. When Mark comes home with a bunch of flowers and a sheepish look on his face, I know that he's got to travel for work again. This is the third time in as many months that he's left me on my own for a week while he goes off to client meetings all over the world.

"So where is it this time?" I ask him sulkily, offering him my cheek, not my lips, when he bends down for his kiss. "Tokyo? Seattle? Munich?" I turn away. I don't mean to snap, and really I should be grateful; Mark is six feet two of gorgeous husband: funny, sexy, faithful, and a right horny little bastard. He would be perfect if only he were here a little more often. His sales job at IT means that we have our gorgeous home and that my own salary is pretty much pocket money. Because of Mark I have an amazing lifestyle. So I really shouldn't complain.

I just miss him so desperately when he goes away. I can't sleep alone and, my God, the sex! I miss the sex. Five years into our relationship, I thought it would have tailed off by now, but it's become deeper and more intense than ever. And to go without him for ten days, another ten days, well, it's just unthinkable.

"Baby," says Mark, drawing me into his arms and combing through my hair with his fingers, a magic touch that melts my insides. Even when I'm trying to sulk and be angry with him, he knows just which buttons to press to calm and soothe me. "It's only for a week this time. We can talk every day. I'll miss you, too, but it won't be for long."

"When are you going?" I say, looking up into those handsome green eyes of his.

"Tomorrow," he says, looking guilty again. "But I'll make it up to you."

He kisses me again, and this time I don't resist, let his tongue slip between my lips and probe my mouth.

When his hand goes between my legs I'm more than ready for him. We peel off each other's clothes with more urgency than usual, aware that this is the last time for seven days. We lie on the bed for a couple of minutes, just kissing-that's all he has to do-and before he's even touched my clitoris, I'm spreading my legs as wide as they can go, showing him my soaking slit and telling him how much I want him. And then he's in me, filling me up like no one else can.

Let me tell you about Mark's dick. I don't know quite how, but it's as if it was made for my body. The first time I felt him inside me, it was like I was complete for the first time in my life. It's a pale biscuit color, and it stands upright above two smooth, even balls. It's long, but what I like best about it is its girth: every time he presses against my pussy with that smooth, rounded head I know he's going to be inside me, stretching me pleasantly, moving around and probing every inch of my cunt.

And that's what I'm feeling right now as my pussy muscles hug and massage his hard-on. Mark pulls out a little bit and drives into me with a force that borders on aggression because he knows that I love, live for, those moments when he first gets inside me. He does this for maybe two, three minutes, watching my face, reading the signs of my body. He knows just the right moment to trip me over the edge into my climax with his finger on my clitoris. As I reach my orgasm, it's bittersweet, and my contractions force him to come, too. We hold each other for a while, drift off to sleep with sticky sheets and limbs, smelling of each other's bodies.

When I wake up it's four a.m. and Mark is packing his case ready for his early-morning flight. He leans in and kisses me good-bye. I show him that my nipples are hard and reach for his cock, but he shakes his head; there's no time. Last night's fuck should have me satisfied for the lonely days ahead, but on the contrary, it's just left me more frustrated. Mark's dick is addictive: the more I have it, the more I want it and need it. I hear the door close behind him and manage to grab another couple of hours' sleep.

When I wake up again, it's eight thirty and I'm dangerously late for work. I throw back the bedclothes, jump in the shower, dress, and hop in my car, just about making it to my desk in time for my nine a.m. meeting. But I might as well have stayed home. All day I think about Mark, replaying what happened last night, wondering how I'll get through the next week till we can do it again.

When I get home to the empty apartment, I take off my work clothes and slip on one of Mark's T-shirts that still smells of him. At the foot of the bed, I notice what looks like a black shoe box tied with a gold chiffon ribbon. I must have been in too much of a hurry to see it this morning. Mark often buys me gifts on his travels, but he's never left one behind before. Intrigued, I pluck the little gold card that's tucked into the bow. His elegant handwriting, a stark reminder of his physical presence, makes me ache for him.

"I've had this for a while now, darling," it reads. "I've just been waiting for the right time to give it to you. It should keep you from getting too lonely while I'm away."

In the box, wrapped up in gold tissue paper, is a sleek gold mobile phone. It's switched on but no one has called yet. But there's more to my gift than a new phone. I giggle and squeal with delight to find wrapped in even more layers of crinkly paper a life-size, gold-plated model of Mark's erect penis. I run my hands over it, marveling at the lifelike details. It's definitely him; I'd know it anywhere. That's the vein that runs in a little squiggle from the tip down the right side to his balls. Even that tiny triangle of skin under the head where he loves me to put my tongue is there. I press the tip to my lips, touch my teeth to it: it's cold and metallic and it makes me feel hot and horny. Automatically, I lift the hem of Mark's T-shirt and use the tip to prod my clitoris, shivering with delight as it becomes engorged and sensitive.

That's when the phone rings. It's a long number starting with the code for a country I don't recognize. I pick it up, and Mark's voice is there, crackly and intermittent, but it's him, calling me from the other side of the world.

"So you've found my present?" he says, his voice loaded with meaning.

"I love it!" I squeal excitedly. "But how did you…?"

"I had to stick it in a plaster mold in an artist's studio," he laughs. "Then they made a gold model of it."

I think of Mark slapping his dick into a tray of wet plaster just so that I might have a cast of him, and the mental image is touching and arousing.

"I thought of your pussy while I was jerking myself off," he continues, "and I got really big and hard. Then I stuck it in the plaster. The guys at the studio did the rest. Afterward, I went straight to the toilet because the thought of you with my golden dick in your pussy made me so hard I had to masturbate immediately."

Picturing the scene, I realize that I've been gently and rhythmically stroking and tapping the tip of the dildo on my clit, now hard and demanding stimulation. My flesh is hot and wet, and the cold metal feels delicious.

"So where are you now?" says Mark.

"On our bed," I say, sinking back into the pillows, phone in one hand, dildo tightly clasped in the other. The soles of my feet are pressed together, my legs making a diamond shape so that my trembling pussy is exposed. Looking down, I can see the tip of my clitoris protruding from between my cunt-lips. Gently, so gently, I press the tip of the dildo-Mark's dick-on my clit and rock it from side to side. I can't help it-I let out a little moan of pleasure.

"Tell me what you're doing," he orders me. "Put the phone on speaker." I flip a switch that casts his voice out so that it fills the whole room. The mobile is on my pillow, and Mark's there with me. He breathes like he's just been running, and I picture him in his hotel room, his hand working the shaft of his gorgeous penis in long, firm, hard strokes.

I fight the temptation to shove the dildo inside me right now, and instead I listen to Mark's voice on the phone, giving the orders.

"Lick the tip of it," he says. "Now draw it down your body, circling your tits."

I obey him, pressing the dildo to my lips and moistening it with saliva before dragging the smooth, slippery surface down onto my warm breasts. I tell Mark that this feels good, really fucking good. He makes me draw circles around my nipples, and I watch, fascinated, as they swell and darken the way they usually do under his hands. The gold dick, hard and shiny against the soft velvet of my skin, makes little dents in my tits, which spring back when I pull it away. We carry on like this for about five minutes until I'm so turned on I can hardly stand it. I notice my thighs beginning to tremble, a sure sign that all the tension in my body is building up and about to spill over soon.

"Please baby," I whimper, close to begging him. "I need you inside me."

"Well then," he replies, and I hear in the background the slap of his hand on his dick. I love the thought of him jerking and tugging his dick while its likeness penetrates my slit. "Talk me through it," he says.

"Okay. I'm on the bed, my legs apart and my pussy on fire," I tell him, encouraged by his breathing, which grows more rapid by the second. "I've got your hard, solid dick, and it's just outside me. I'm putting it in. The tip's in. It feels amazing, but I'm holding back. I'm just twisting it a little. It's cold inside me, and my pussy's so, so wet. I'm sliding it in and out of me, in and out, but I can't get it deep enough. It feels so like you, big, and hard, and I'm fucking myself, my pussy's just throbbing."

I start using my free hand to play with my clit, fingers working fast and furious over the slippery little bean.

"I can't hold on much longer baby," I say or, rather, I scream because I'm right on the edge now. My free hand travels all over my body, tearing at the flesh of my thighs and mauling my own tits in frustration as I frantically rub my clit, while I describe all of this to Mark in explicit detail until his voice interrupts me.

"I'm coming," he shouts. "I'm coming hard. I'm coming so fucking hard," and then he lets out this long, low moan. It's the noise he always makes at the point of orgasm, but it's so much louder and more intense than any I've heard for a long time. The sound of it flips a switch inside me, and I come hard, working my clit with a finger on either side of it and with Mark's big gold dick inside me. I slide my knees together, wincing as my thighs close and envelop my still-tender flesh. Using my deepest muscles, I push the dildo out. It lies on the bed linen, its smooth gold surface marbled with my pussy juices.

"That was amazing," I whisper breathily to Mark. His own voice sounds equally sleepy when he replies, and I know that he, too, is spent and feeling tender now that the critical moment has passed.

"I knew you'd get off on it," he says. "I'm rather proud of myself for fucking my wife from another country."

"So will you call me same time tomorrow?" I ask.

"I can't wait. Of course I will," he says. "Oh, and baby? That phone you're holding-it can take videos. Learn how to work it. We'll do the same thing again, but this time we'll be able to see each other."

We say good-bye and hang up. Immediately I experiment with the phone, looking for the video function. Isn't it marvelous what technology can do these days?

HIRE LOVE

Hannah is rich, powerful, and in control. Everything in her life is organized to perfection. She assumed that hiring a male escort for the night would be a simple business transaction. She hadn't prepared for the way he made her feel when he held her close. When a woman like Hannah finally loses control and surrenders to her desires, the results are explosive… Ihere's a lot of pressure in my line of work to look right, to live a certain lifestyle, to have the whole package. Much of my six-figure salary goes into maintaining this image. I've a wardrobe full of designer clothes, a city-center loft apartment with off-street parking for my Porsche, and a membership to an exclusive gym where personal trainers keep this power-dressed body buff. And usually I've got a man-a handsome, rich man-to go with it all. What's the point of working all hours, preserving this hot, powerful self-image if there's no decent alpha-male fuck in it? Well, that's the ironic thing.

Last year, I'd been working so hard that my love life had taken a backseat for a while, and there'd been no decent man in my life, or bed, more precisely, for at least six months. It was one of those periods where you're so busy, you haven't even the time to ask yourself, Hey, when did I last go on a date? How long has it been since I last had sex? Even my vibrator felt neglected in those days. At night, I'd be working on my laptop in bed, if not flat-out after happy hour networking. My bank balance and achievements were so healthy that I wasn't too worried about being single. Career was my number one priority for now; there would be plenty of time for fun and games later.

But my firm's Christmas ball is a big deal. You simply have to take a date, and I'd always had the best dates of any woman in the firm. I'd walk into the ballroom with an amazing man: a model, an actor, a personal trainer, a millionaire entrepreneur, an Indie 500 race-car driver. But that year I had no one to take with me, and I didn't want to turn up alone.

A week before the big day, I realized I would have to act fast. With so much time taken up preparing for the ball itself-shopping for a fabulous dress, extra hours in the gym, manicure, blow-dry, makeup artist-I certainly wasn't going to have time to meet a new guy. So I resorted to my little black book of fuck buddies. As I scanned the list of names and international numbers, I felt a frisson of excitement, remembering the good times-and great sex-I'd had with many of them. I'm still on good terms with my flings and exes, so surely one of them would want to join me at a fabulous party in one of New York's swankiest hotels?

The first person I called was Jermaine, a male model I took on holiday and fucked for a week in St. Tropez a few years back.

"Hannah!" He had picked up the phone and was clearly delighted to hear from me and keen on the idea of partying, but when I gave him the date of the ball: "Oh, damn, baby, I'd love to so much, but I have plans that night."

It was the same story with Ewan, the race-car driver. He was obliged to attend his sponsor's annual party that evening. Hey, from a corporate point of view, I totally understood, so we hung up having made plans to meet (i.e., fuck) in the New Year. While the thought of getting reacquainted with Ewan's gorgeous dick in January was enough to warm me in the Christmas chill, I still didn't have a suitor for the party. One by one, all the boys in my little black book had prior engagements-well, it was mid-December. I cursed myself for leaving things until the last minute. Normally I'm very well organized.

I called Jane, my colleague and best friend, to see if she could hook me up with anyone. I've never known her to be without a date-and her companions are the only men who are more attractive than the ones I bring along. I hoped I could rely on her to do the sisterly thing. "What? At this time of year?" she scoffed. "You've got to be joking. Everyone has too many plans as it is!"

"I know. It's fucked up. What am I going to do?" I asked her.

"Same thing I always do," said Jane. "Call Adonis."

"Who?" I said, not sure I'd heard her right.

And then my best friend, about whom I thought I knew everything, confessed that for years she'd been using a high-class male escort service. As she described the agency, it became clear that it was the best-kept secret among the richest women in the city. The escorts on its books, mainly models and actors, were intelligent, very attractive, well-bred young men charging hundreds of dollars an hour for the pleasure of their company. And, as Jane pointed out, unlike a real date, they were doing it professionally and so delivered to a standard: no risk that they'd get drunk and embarrass you, bore you to tears, or get aggressive on the doorstep about "coming in for coffee."

I tried to recall the last few men I'd seen with my friend. They had, without exception, been charming, witty, and devastatingly handsome. No way would I ever have guessed that they were paid escorts. I was impressed. And Jane-beautiful, rich, and glamorous-was hardly the desperate type. I wrote down the telephone number and website she gave me.

After I hung up the phone, I fixed myself a mar tini and gave the matter some serious thought. I was used to spending my money on the best of everything in life. I've paid big money for ski instructors, top-notch doctors, celebrity hairstylists… even my housecleaner costs me a small fortune (but well worth the expense). So why should the service of good-quality male company be any different?

Out of curiosity, I looked at the website and signed in using the password that Jane had given me. The navy-and-gold design was sleek and professional, and I could choose my escort by any category I wanted: location, race, age, IQ, height, even educational background. I didn't know where to start, so I decided to browse the guys based in New York. There were about fifty of them to choose from, and each had provided a head-and-shoulders photograph as well as a full-length picture in a suit and-my personal favorite-a shot in his underwear. Each boasted an impressive CV. I'd been expecting a parade of male bimbos, but there were a wide variety of guys, from former professional football players to part-time diving instructors and even a couple of university professors.

It was like a grown-up girl's version of the best toy shop in the world. I scrolled through page after page checking out images of sexy guys-no wonder the agency called itself Adonis. I looked at the rates. Okay, $1,000 an hour was pretty steep, but I was blowing a grand on my dress, and with the bonus I'd just received, I could afford it.

I narrowed my choices down to a final three. There was Marlon, a gorgeous black model with cheekbones that could cut glass, whose photo was from an ad campaign I'd seen in magazines. I turned him down, though; if I recognized him from his modeling work, maybe others would, too. Next came Paul, a dirty-blond surfer type who was a fireman four days a week. Physically, he was more my type than anyone else on the site, but, as higher education was missing from his CV, I'm afraid the snob in me turned him down. The company ball is an event demanding a gentleman who can talk confidently about books, art, and culture. And then there was Olivier, a French-born, Manhattan-living PhD student who, his blurb said, worked as an escort so he could enjoy a good standard of living and still follow his academic pursuit of archeology. His underwear shot showed that he had beauty as well as brains: his body was lean but muscular, and his black hair brushed his collarbone. As I looked at his picture I could just imagine what that hair would look like falling into his eyes. Yes, Olivier, I thought, zooming in to get a close-up of his impressive-looking manhood, you're the one.

I dialed the number on the screen and was put right through to an operator. I told her who had recommended me. "Ah, Jane, one of our best customers!" she said brightly. "Do say hello to her from me, and let her know we've got some great new guys she might want to meet." I heard her fingers click on the keyboard as she checked Olivier's availability for the next Friday night. "You're in luck," she said. "He's free for a booking. Would you like to proceed?"

My fingers were shaking as I retrieved my platinum Amex card from my Prada purse and read out the numbers to her. I was doing this. I was really doing this. The following transaction produced a rush of adrenaline far outstripping any previous shopping high, let me tell you. I get excited buying a new designer bag, but this was in a different league entirely: I was hiring a man, and a very good-looking man, too.

The operator gave me a cell number to call next Friday afternoon and let me know the score: Olivier would pick me up in a cab at the appointed time, accompany me to my function, and I'd be charged by the hour depending on how long I wanted him for. I assured her we'd be done and dusted by midnight, one a.m. at the latest, and she gave a little laugh.

"That's what they all say," she said. "You'd be surprised; a lot of women want the guys to stay on even longer."

Friday rolled around really quickly, and I took the afternoon off for some serious pampering. Although I wasn't hiring Olivier for sex, I had a Brazilian bikini wax and donned new matching underwear-a wine red bra and panties set-so that I felt sensual and romantic, feminine and confident. I had my hair teased into soft waves that framed my face and caressed my shoulders, and my face done by a professional makeup artist. I had to admit when I checked myself out in the mirror that I looked good: glossy and groomed, and rich and successful, every inch the corporate career girl. The final touch was to slither into my dress, a clingy, green silk number with a plunging neckline and a fishtail skirt that made me feel like a mermaid and encouraged me to walk with a sexy wiggle. Just as I was hooking a pair of diamond chandeliers in my ears, the doorbell rang. It was Olivier, right on time.

I buzzed him. "Come on up," I said into the intercom. "I'll be one minute."

I heard him tell the cabdriver to keep the meter running and then the sound of the elevator door slamming shut. I stepped into my heels and was struggling with the clasp on my diamond choker when Olivier rang the bell. Here we go, I thought, taking a deep breath and unlocking the door.

The 3-D reality of Olivier took my breath away. If he'd looked good on a computer screen, in the flesh he was the sexiest man I'd ever seen. The photo hadn't captured that X factor that makes a handsome man sexy. The computer couldn't quite convey the smooth curve of his upper lip or his strong nose, or the smile he flashed showing white, even teeth and a glimpse of pink tongue. I stood there open-mouthed for a second, more guppy fish than mermaid, my eyes traveling all over his lean body. I found a moment to notice that his suit was YSL and registered my silent approval.

"Pleased to meet you, Hannah," he said, extending a hand. "I'm Olivier."

I went to shake his hand and dropped my necklace, which clattered to the floor. I was as giddy as a school-girl on her first date. Olivier's smooth, sophisticated sex appeal had unnerved me.

"Allow me," he said, dropping to the floor to retrieve my necklace. As he bent down, I noticed that his thighs were long, lean, and supple. I pictured his sinews rippling under the black of his suit. When he came up to fasten my diamond choker, his fingers on my flesh made me tingle, and I felt his warm breath caressing the skin behind my ear. Being this close to a good-looking man, I realized just how long it had been since anyone had touched me. My sexual feelings, dormant until now, began to stir. Oh, no, I thought. Not tonight. Tonight I need to be aloof, professional, dazzling. I don't want to be distracted by sex!

Olivier held the door for me as I collected my faux fur cape and clutch bag, and then we made our way down to the taxi. He was easy to talk to, with a dry sense of humor I liked immediately.

"So if anyone asks-which they will-where did we meet?" he asked me.

"I hadn't thought about that," I replied.

"Well, I usually find that saying we met at a friend of a friend's dinner party tends to work," he twinkled. "Hearing about other people's dinner parties is so boring, you don't generally get any more personal questions after that."

I had been worried that I'd hear the minutes ticking by and fret about what this was costing me, but Olivier was excellent value for money. In fact I didn't notice the hours passing at all. At the dinner table, he was excellent company, more than a match for the high-powered bankers I'd asked him to mix with, giving away little about himself but asking questions that made people feel important, flirting slightly with the other women but always keeping a hand on my arm to show he was with me. At the beginning of the evening, I found this hand a warm reassurance; by the time dinner was over, Olivier's touch was beginning to arouse me.

Two female colleagues approached me in the bathroom while I was reapplying my makeup.

"He's gorgeous," breathed one. "If you ever get bored, I'll take him!"

I didn't tell her that he was only a click away, but he'd had the desired effect: the men were impressed, and the women were jealous. I could have left then, and I would still have made my point. But I didn't want to. I wanted him to stick around a little while longer.

Liveried servants cleared the banquet tables and pushed them against the wall, turning the long hall into a dance floor. A band struck up a slow, sexy tune.

"Now," said Olivier, taking me by the hand. "Now we make them really jealous."

And he held me tight and swayed me in perfect time to the music. He took the lead, and I let my body follow his rhythm. I felt my shoulders and neck relax for the first time in months as his strong lean arms encircled my waist and pressed my body against his. Aroused by this closeness, I felt my expensive panties begin to get damp. As the warmth of his chest against my breasts made my nipples go hard, I wondered if he'd noticed my sexual-response system crunching into gear. But he didn't keep me in the dark for long, because he proceeded to place a hand on my ass, a move that made my pussy pulse urgently. With my head on his chest, I couldn't see his expression, but his hand trailed gently over my arms, shoulders, and back with a touch as tender as that of any real lover. He began to fondle my favorite erogenous zone, the back of my neck, the one spot that's always been guaranteed to get me horny. I don't know why, but the skin around my hairline and behind my ears is like a shortcut to my clitoris. As Olivier's smooth fingers played with my earrings and caressed me there, I couldn't help but let out a low moan of pleasure.

Olivier heard that all right and drew away from me. Before he spoke, he glanced down at my eager, swelling nipples, and I blushed. "Hannah, I must say," he began.

Embarrassed, I tried to cover up my desire, although my glittering eyes and parted lips must have betrayed it. "Oh, that was nothing," I said. "I was just, um, I was…"

Olivier interrupted me by pressing a finger to my lips, a teasing gesture that foreshadowed his kiss. I wanted to take that finger between my lips and gently bite and suck it. I tried to calm myself down with some deep breaths.

"What I wanted to tell you," he said, and as he whispered in my ear, his lips caressed that area of my body behind my neck that makes me go weak at the knees, "is that if you want to take this further, that's fine. It's usual for me to offer 'extras' to a client. We charge the agency for the time we spend until now, and then you pay me in cash for any personal time we spend together. And with you, Hannah, I'd be only too happy. Would you like me to take you home?"

My mind was saying, Hannah, there's a line between hiring an escort to a function and paying a man for sex. It makes him a prostitute, and it makes you… What does it make you?

Another little voice in my head said, Oh, but how thrilling would that be, having a man whose only interest is your pleasure! And it's so straightforward: no bullshit, just there to do your sexual bidding.

But my body made the choice for me, drowning out both of these voices with a rush of blood to my head, my pussy, and my tits. I nodded meekly, and with that he took his finger away from my mouth, ran it slowly over my lower lip, and then pressed his lips to mine, gently at first, so that the kiss radiated heat and pleasure from my mouth right through the rest of my body. His hard tongue softly parted my lips and swirled around in my mouth, slowly and politely at first but then probing my own tongue and teeth with what seemed like a very real and increasingly urgent desire. So, I smiled to myself, as I pushed my own tongue against his and tasted the inside of his mouth, this goes to disprove the old saying that whores don't kiss.