Madame B
Ecstasy
HARD HAT
The only thing worse than walking past a building site and being jeered and catcalled at is walking past a building site and being ignored. In a world where the rules about men and women are so blurred and confusing, it's hardly surprising that the strong, silent construction worker remains such a popular fantasy figure.
The girl who told me the following tale thought that her crush on a mysterious builder was an idle day-dream. But a casual fantasy grew into a sexual obsession that dominated her thoughts night and day. And then, one evening, she crossed the line from fantasy to reality. He turned out to be all she'd imagined and more-and he allowed her to be the woman she'd always dreamed of being, too. I walked past him every day for nearly six months. At first he was just another hard hat on the construction site, another man working early hours in all kinds of weather, surrounded by overweight oafs who made jeers about the length of my skirt or the size of my tits. But there was something different about this one. Lean, not fat, he would simply watch while the others wolf-whistled. He would just stand there and look. That's all. That's all it took. His eyes would lock onto mine, and although he would continue to hold my gaze rather than check out my cleavage, I could feel his eyes burn into my back, taking in my whole body as I walked past. In the evening, when I was on my way home, he would be long gone.
I started out just hoping that he would simply be there; the two or three seconds of sexy, unsmiling eye contact he awarded me each morning brightened my day. I put him at around thirty-five, with a smooth, square jawline and curly, light brown hair that I sometimes saw if he was working without his hard yellow hat. Eventually I started to slow my walk down and added a little sashay, for his benefit as well as my own, to buy myself another few seconds in his presence. The hot summer day I first saw him working with his top off I went out and picked up a stranger who vaguely resembled him, took him home, and fucked him.
Before long, I began dressing with my hard hat in mind, carefully selecting outfits that showed the curves of my figure without displaying the flesh that attracted the attention of his colleagues. The seasons changed and the weather became cooler. When I bought my winter coat, I deliberately chose one with a belt cinched at the waist to emphasize my curvaceous breasts and hips beneath. I wore high heels to work when I'd always been a running-shoes-and-change-in-the-office kind of girl. His coworkers noticed the change: "Looking gorgeous today, darling," shouted out his fat, red-faced colleague when I strolled down the street. Another articulate fellow simply yelled out the word tits! whenever I rounded the corner. But my man remained silent, with eyes that devoured and unnerved me and yet spoke a million words. I had yet to hear his voice.
He was unknowingly in bed with me each time I had a new lover. I took home some gorgeous men that year, but I kept my eyes closed during sex, imagining my fantasy man on top of me, inside me, underneath me, all over me. Then, the following morning, I'd see him at work, blushing as I remembered all the things "we" had done the night before.
As my obsession deepened, I started to question my sanity. What did I even want with this guy? Was I going nuts, believing that there was a connection between us, something behind the silent eyes? Ironically, if he had called out something to me, the bubble would have burst. As long as he stayed silent, he could be anything. And if I was honest, I wasn't sure I wanted him to cross that line from fantasy to reality. What if that body of his, so compliant and urgent in my imagination, did not live up to my dreams? And every day as I contemplated this, the office block he worked on would be a little more polished, a little nearer completion. While part of me wanted him out of my life (as if he were really in it) so that I could get on with the serious business of actually meeting someone real, another part wanted his job to last forever. I'd come to expect this daily sexual charge, which was as much a part of my morning routine now as my latte. I would miss it when it was gone. I would miss him.
This grief-of losing something I'd never possessed-was strong enough to spur me into taking a risk. The night on which fantasy and reality collided I left the office at my usual time, six p.m., and set out on my thirty-minute walk home. It was a crisp October Friday, cold but sunny, the first of its kind that year, and the evening dusk was clear and starry. When I passed the site it looked more like a finished building than ever. There was glass in the window frames and even some lights, although swathes of crisscrossed tape indicated that it was yet to be completed. Half of the marble slab foyer was finished, but the other half was a mess of exposed brickwork and trailing wires. This would clearly be an impressive interior. For the first time, I was curious about the building for its own sake rather than for the fact that it was just the place where he worked.
I stood on my tiptoes and tried to peer in through a window. With a gloved hand, I rubbed away the grime to create a porthole in the glass. Through it I saw a strong, broad back bent over a workbench, a yellow hard hat, and a mug of coffee on the floor. I would know that back anywhere, and when he straightened up and I saw the soft tufts of his brown hair, I let out a low moan. He turned around and met my eyes. Wordlessly, he broke into a smile, displaying even white teeth. It was the first time I'd seen an expression on his face other than the set, serious look he gave me in the mornings. The creases around his mouth made him look a few years older than I'd guessed but also more beautiful, human, and vulnerable. Then he disappeared.
Feeling foolish, standing there on my tiptoes, I wasn't sure whether to stay or go. Then the main door to the building swung open, and he was there in the doorway framed by dark glass set in marble, half-silhouetted by the soft light pouring from inside. Beneath the filthy T-shirt was a well-developed torso that tapered down via a flat belly to plaster-splattered blue jeans and a pair of sturdy but battered beige work boots. I could see where the leather had worn away to expose steel toe caps beneath.
The serious face was back. Trembling, and without a word, I crossed the threshold, accepting his unspoken invitation. He took my hand and led me to the dark corner of the foyer where he had been working. It was cold inside, too, and his breath misted in the air. Walking in a trance, I followed his smoky trail, I would have followed him anywhere. A thought ran through my mind: What am I doing here? This isn't me! I'm sensible: safe. Boring, even. My instinct said, You know nothing about this man; get out now while you've still got your clothes on! But my body told me a different story, saying, You do know this man; you've fucked him every which way in your dreams, and if he doesn't make a move soon, you're going to explode.
He let go of my hand and stood there, still silent. I was sure he'd be able to hear the pulse of my heart. Stronger still was the pulse between my legs. I was throbbing so hard down there it was painful. Slowly turning to face him, I met those blue eyes. I spoke. "I need to know your name," I said, my voice quivering with anticipation. I needed to hear his voice, too; you can gauge a man's body through the outline of his clothes, but you can't predict what his voice will sound like. But still he refrained from satisfying my curiosity.
"Shh," he said, putting a finger to my lips. I moaned; I couldn't help it. His hands were warm, rough, large, and strong, worn like old leather. I could taste the plaster dust on his fingers and feel the grooves and bumps of his fingerprints. His nails were short and a little dirty. I opened my lips, and he slid his finger in, probing my mouth like a tongue, his thumb rasping gently against the sensitive skin on my cheek. I closed my eyes and felt another finger lightly tracing the skin of my lips. Then he suddenly withdrew his fingers, leaving me with lips parted, waiting for a kiss that didn't come. I opened my eyes.
His hands were on my waist. Strong and large, they made me feel as light as anything. He lifted me effortlessly and sat me down on the workbench, coating the seat of my expensive black wool coat with plaster dust. He gently pushed my shoulders back. I yielded to his hands and lay down, my hair, clothes, shoes covered in debris, but I was too turned on to care how messed up I got. I knew then that I would let him do whatever he wanted.
I was wearing high-heeled black boots. He unzipped first one, then the other, and rolled my tights down, taking my panties off with them. The warmth of my body clashed with the chill of the winter night, and heat rose from between my legs. The fiery waves pulsing through my body meant the thrill of cold air only served to wake me up and make me feel more alive than ever.
He lifted the folds of my black skirt and ran his hands along the smooth skin of my inner thighs. The combination of his rawhide hands and the softness of his touch was electrifying. With one hand on the inside of each thigh, he pushed my legs apart as far as I felt they could go. I could feel his breath on my waiting pussy. I wanted him to say something, anything, but he didn't. Instead he put his lips to another use, planting a kiss directly on my clitoris. He hooked his shoulders under my knees, so that my legs remained splayed, and used his fingers to part the skin around my clit, leaving it exposed to the cold air and his warm breath. Then he went to work with his tongue, tracing tiny shapes on the skin around my clitoris, avoiding the bud itself. This was a buildup slower and sweeter than any I'd ever experienced before. Round, up, down, round, up, down, teasing me and keeping it steady until I cried out, "More."
He understood my one-word command and slid one dry, rough thumb inside me, tracing my insides, still working my clit with his tongue.
"More," I pleaded. "More."
So he slid another finger up and then another, and slowly I felt that the sensation from my pussy was as intense as the one from my clit. The circling of his tongue on my clit turned to sucking, and then I felt the tiny nip of his teeth on that most sensitive part of me. My body began to buck, sending clouds of dust everywhere, messing up my hair, but I wasn't caring about anything outside of the moment and what he was doing to me. Then the relief I'd been waiting for came. As the pulsations in me started, he maintained his rhythm for the few seconds it took for him to be sure I was coming. And I was, harder than I ever had before, overpowered by contractions that were radiating through every part of my body for what felt like an eternity, until he pulled his fingers away, hardened his tongue into a small, stiff peak, and began thrusting it into my quivering pussy so that it had something to wrap around as the waves of pleasure died down. I took him by his dusty, dirty head, pulled him up to me, and said "Thank you" with a long, soft kiss in which I could taste myself.
Still wearing my coat and dress, I knelt down with bare legs on the uneven floor before him. I didn't take control. I didn't need to ask him to take his cock out so that I could taste it. He read my mind in real life just as he had in my dreams. His jeans had a button fly, which he undid slowly and with trembling hands. I stayed still, lips parted, still recovering from my own orgasm but eager to give him his. He wore no underwear and, as he unfastened the last metal button, revealed a beautiful, hard dick with one excited vein running from his light brown bush to the glossy pink tip. The skin on his cock was as smooth and velvety as his hands were rough and craggy. I put my lips together to kiss the tip of it, teasing him, swirling my lips and tongue around but not letting him enter my mouth. I could feel how excited he was.
He let go then and pushed himself between my lips. I let my teeth drag ever so slightly against the lower underside of him, just to remind him that I was the one in control here. For a split second, I saw his face register this tiny pain which gave way to pleasure when I ran my tongue along the length of his dick, massaging the most sensitive spot near the tip. Then he was inside me up to his balls, deeper than I'd ever taken any man-but still not deep enough. I'd never really gotten off on giving head before-this is one area in which I'd always considered it better to receive than to give-but this time I wanted more of his beautiful dick deep in me, wanted to take it all the way down my throat, surrender to the gagging feeling. I moved my whole head, determined to make him let go, to cry out. He pulled at my hair, tugging it into little peaks and spikes, kneading my scalp, making me dizzy.
With a final tug on my hair, I felt his buttocks clench and knew he was at the point of no return. I gulped, wrapping my mouth around him as tightly as I could, and he threw his head back and let out a slow, low growl. I pulled back as he shot his spunk into my face, swallowing what I could and letting the rest trickle down my chin and into my cleavage. His hands were on my face again, mopping up the liquid and feeding it to me, forcing his fingers between my eager lips. Then he dropped to his own knees and pulled me to him, where we kissed until the chill of the night brought me back down to earth.
I pulled away with a shy smile and scrabbled for the clothes he'd removed in what seemed like another lifetime. I found my boots and tights crumpled in a pile of debris but couldn't locate my black panties. I turned to see my new lover holding them to his face and inhaling deeply. Then he smiled a heartbreaking smile and pocketed them with a wink.
"Will I see you again?" I asked, as his fingers stroked my face and kissed my salty lips with a tenderness that melted me. He nodded and smoothed my tangled hair.
"Are you ever going to speak to me?" I said, half-amused, half-frustrated that I still hadn't heard him speak. But he only smiled again. Confused, I gave him one final kiss good-bye, and then we parted as we'd come together, his finger on my lips, silencing me.
I left him in the half-finished foyer. On the way out, I caught sight of myself in the door: mad hair, bright eyes, flushed cheeks, covered all over in a chalky film of dust, and, oh, yes, a trace of semen on the corner of my mouth. I might have looked like a mess, but I'd never felt more alive or more beautiful. It was still only seven p.m. I walked home in the cold and dark of the early evening and spent the weekend torn between the joy of reliving that night in my head and the dread of it never happening again.
He must have worked all weekend, because when I went past the building site on Monday morning, it was no longer a building site at all. The tape was gone from the windows, the wires were embedded in smooth marble, and there were two potted bay trees on either side of the entrance, which gave the building an air of completion and inhabitancy. The construction firm's signs were gone and in their place was a polished brass plaque discreetly stating the residence of a firm of lawyers. To say I was disappointed was an understatement; I was horrified. I was filled with panic. Where was he? How was I going to see him again? Why hadn't I made him tell me his name? I didn't even know the name of the company he worked for. My mind went into free fall. I realized then that I never really believed the adventure had been a one-nighter but the start of something else. If only I'd known he was going away so soon, I wouldn't have showered, just to keep his smell on me. It was now clear that having experienced the real thing, fantasy would never again be enough.
By the time I reached my own workplace I was resigned to bitter disappointment and barely registered that the office was in complete disarray. Half the furniture was covered with plastic sheets, and my files were stacked in boxes on the other side of the room. I was not in the mood for this today. "What's going on?" I snapped at Zoe, my assistant.
"Oh," she said. "Had you forgotten we're having the place refurbished? The builders are in for a couple of weeks as of today." She rolled her eyes. "So we can all look forward to sexist jokes and the smell of bacon for a while."
But Zoe's chatter faded into the background as a familiar figure emerged into view behind her. There he was, in his dirty T-shirt, hard hat, and, if I wasn't very much mistaken, hard-on encased in paint-splattered jeans. I felt my body turn to quicksilver with relief and lust. I was about to call out to him when he gave me a secret smile and put a rugged finger to his lips.
"Shh," he said.
MODEL MISBEHAVIOR
This confession is such hot stuff that I thought twice about sharing it. A beautiful, internationally famous fashion model relayed the story to me at a party in Paris. It's one that every journalist and gossip columnist in the country, in the world, for that matter, would kill for: that of eye-wateringly hip ubermodel Anna Lamb and her fiery, on again /off again relationship with her equally famous, adrenaline-junky boyfriend, Joey. The risks they take in pursuit of the ultimate orgasm shocked even me.
I've changed her name, of course. I could tell you who she is, but I think you'll have much more fun working it out for yourself. For twenty seconds the cobbled Milan side street was illuminated by the pops and dazzles of a hundred flashbulbs as Anna Lamb's chauffeur-driven Mercedes pulled up to the back entrance of a huge white marquee. Photographers risked life and limb, throwing themselves onto the hood of the car, pressing up against its windows. Forget the designers or the clothes; the English Rose supermodel was the real star of Milan fashion week. The car also contained Anna's boyfriend, the enfant terrible of the British rock scene, singer Joey Harper. A photograph of them together was such a rarity that it could sell for thousands of dollars. A photograph of them kissing could fetch up to a hundred grand. For the paparazzi, it was worth the risk.
Inside the car, Anna gave Joey a chaste peck on the cheek. Although they'd left their hotel bed only an hour ago, the urge to pull him to her and kiss him deeply and passionately had already taken hold, but she fought it. She didn't want to give the photographers a single shot that might make their fortunes. But more than that, she knew that if she didn't kiss Joey now, she'd want him even more desperately later.
As Anna reached for the door handle, Joey pressed a gold paper bag into her hand. "Something to make today's show a little more interesting, baby," he whispered. "I want you to wear this for me," and, when Anna raised an eyebrow at him, he explained, "It's all part of the game."
Ah, the game. They had been playing "the game" for the six dizzying months they'd been together. Drunk on lust, addicted to each other's bodies, they had become addicted to taking risks, making love almost-but-not-quite in public, daring the paparazzi to catch them at it. As Anna walked from the car to the marquee, eyes hidden from the flashbulbs behind huge Jackie O sunglasses, she thought about the adventures they'd had and felt a familiar pang between her legs. There was the time she'd gone down on Joey before a gig. On her knees, on the very edge of the stage, just out of sight of twenty thousand screaming fans, she'd taken him in her mouth and made him come seconds before he strapped on his guitar. Or the magazine cover shoot Joey had interrupted when he'd walked into the studio, carried Anna to his waiting car, and slid his fingers in and out of her pussy until her orgasm flushed her cheeks and ruined her makeup. Or last month, when they'd had hot, urgent sex on the hotel balcony in St. Tropez, with photographers waiting to catch a glimpse of them just two floors below. And today Joey had a new game planned. Anna could hardly wait. She didn't know what Joey's bag contained, but she was wildly excited. The creative and dangerous flair with which Joey filled his music manifested itself in their sex life, and she always knew that whatever he had arranged, it would create-and satisfy-a breathless, desperate sexual longing.
Inside the marquee, Anna had her own dressing room. True fashion royalty, she glided through the assorted sea of clotheshorses, dressers, and makeup artists. The younger models, who'd idolized their icon for years, froze, awe-struck. She might be nearly thirty, but there was something about Anna Lamb's amazing face, coupled with that hedonistic reputation, that still silenced a room when she entered. She kept her sunglasses on, not (as rumor had it) because she was too stuck-up to talk to the other models or was threatened by them, but because she didn't want her glittering and glazed eyes to give away her excitement.
In the privacy of her dressing room and with unsteady hands, she tore open the bag. There was something inside wrapped in dark purple tissue paper. As Anna unfastened the package, the paper crackled, echoing the electric excitement, almost hysteria running through her veins. The violet tissue held a pair of sheer, pale pink lace panties, near-invisible wisps of string joined by a pale, soft pink triangle to cover her pubic hair. Not that I need it, thought Anna with a smile, remembering how Joey had shaved her pubic hair with the ice-cold blade of an antique straight razor just that morning. She slipped out of her second-skin jeans and put the panties on. There was something small, cool, and hard inside them that pressed directly on Anna's clitoris. She laughed out loud at the shock of something firm and unyielding against her clit but also in admiration of Joey's ingenuity: Trust him to find a pair of panties with built-in stimulation.
Anna could take her pick of millionaire playboys or Hollywood A-list celebrities. The fact that she had fallen instead for this scruffy rock urchin set the gossip columnists on fire; journalists speculated endlessly about their enigmatic relationship. Forget column inches. Anna and Joey had column yards devoted to them. But these writers never hit on the truth of the matter, which was, in a world full of men willing to be Anna's slave, all she craved was to be mastered. While richer, taller, better-looking men had wined and dined her in the finest restaurants, Joey just took her back to his studio apartment in the East End and fucked her. He'd kissed her roughly, then thrown her back on a dirty mattress, pinned her arms by her sides, and fucked her until she succumbed to a rippling orgasm that brought her close to tears. With characteristic charm and arrogance, he bit her on the neck, slapped her ass, called her a little slut (which Anna had loved), and wrote a song for her. No other man had stood a chance since.
She walked a few paces, sticking out her slim hips, noticing the way the little bump caressed her clitoris with each step. Even sitting still, she was aware of it, although she had to move to feel any real stimulation. So she kept moving, crossing and uncrossing her legs, swaying her hips, dancing, allowing the little nodule to grind against her clit. If she wasn't careful, she'd come before she even was dressed. Anna was saved by a knock on her door.
"Miss Lamb?" A timid, Italian-accented voice approached. It was the makeup artist, ready to transform the model from beautiful blank canvas to otherworldly couture creature. Anna usually hated sitting through hair and makeup. But this time, rocking gently in her seat, letting the frisson between her legs build, and imagining how Joey would finish what the panties had started, she relaxed. She allowed herself to enjoy the stylist's fingers working on her scalp, to relish the feathery teasing of powder brushes on her cheeks, eyes, and collarbones where they caressed her, the ghosts of kisses. At one point, the makeup girl had to conceal a love bite on Anna's breast, another leftover from this morning, thought Anna with a delicious shiver, reliving the way Joey had bitten down on her tit while fucking her. Anna savored the girl's soft fingers as she applied concealer to the imperfection on her perfect body, feeling the soft pressure on the faint bruise.
Next up to attend to Anna was her dresser. The first garment Anna was to model was a sheer chiffon minidress with a barely-there skirt. She went braless, and the fabric rubbed against her nipples, making them stand to attention. Anna checked herself out in the mirror, assessing not the designer's work but whether Joey would find her attractive in it. Through the translucent, pewter-colored fabric you could see each nipple and the contours of her breasts clearly. Good. Joey worshipped her small, round tits. This would drive him wild. And her brown hair was tousled, and her eyes had the smudged-eyeliner rock chick look he loved.
The atmosphere backstage was tense and electric. Anna swigged from a champagne flute as her dresser helped her into a pair of vertiginous silver heels. The designer, Alessandro, was a camp, flamboyant Roman who once told Italian Vogue that Anna was the only woman he'd ever consider sleeping with. He came over to check that she was doing his creation justice.
"Bellissima! " he said, kissing her on both cheeks. "You make my dress come alive, darling. Now, go and be fabulous." And with that, it was time. The adrenaline rush that always accompanied a catwalk show kicked in, and Anna Lamb slipped through the white curtain and onto the runway.
The superstar model entered to rapturous applause. She could feel the heat of the dazzling lights-the runway was at least five degrees warmer than backstage. Damn! Anna hoped that her nipples wouldn't lose their erect pertness. She was very aware that Joey's eyes would be fixed on her tits in this dress and that he would be disappointed if he didn't see two bullet-hard nipples poking through the sheer fabric. Through the white-hot glare she could just about make out the people in the front row. They read like a Who's Who of the international fashion scene. Magazine editors from all five continents sat knee-to-knee with movie stars. But Anna only had eyes for Joey, and, executing her signature stride down the length of the runway, she scanned the sea of beautiful faces for her lover. Suddenly she could see him there at the end of the catwalk. She took in the familiar pale skin, the mop of black hair, beautiful high cheek-bones, and hint of shadow under his dark eyes. They'd had no time to sleep last night. He was holding up what looked like a small mobile phone. Anna was touched. The world's fashion press here, she thought, and he still wants to get a shot of me on his camera phone.
At the end of the runway, she was only inches away from Joey. She inhaled his familiar smell-whisky mingled with the expensive aftershave she liked him to wear. Then he held up the little device in his hand. That wasn't a mobile phone. She wanted to ask him what was going on, but she had to stay professional. Puzzled, she thrust her hips forward and gave her trademark pout. As she did so, Joey pressed a button on his gadget. The panties suddenly began to buzz, sending urgent waves of stimulation to Anna's clit. She was so shocked she nearly lost her composure. Her body oozed lust, and her mind was reeling. He'd bought those remote-control panties they'd seen in that sex shop! Holy shit! And now he was using them to tease her before a potential audience of millions. The dirty fucker. The clever, clever boy.
Anna parted her lips in a pretend-orgasm face that was only partly faked. After a few seconds, it was time for the model to stalk back up the runway, giving the audience a view of her back and giving her the opportunity to recover before her sex-flushed face gave everything away. Hugely aroused, she had trouble maintaining her carefree strut. With every step, the lace rubbed against her bare pudenda, and the vibrations sent a fresh wave of desire through her body. Christ, she could do without peaking here on the catwalk. Her orgasms tended to be body-rocking, head-to-toe experiences in which she would arch her back and claw her hands at the air while her legs gave way beneath her. Then, just as suddenly as they had started, the vibrations stopped. They had gone, and Anna wanted more. She was completely under Joey's control.
Now, as she sashayed down the runway swathed in a red silk gown, Anna thought she was prepared for the vibrations in her panties, but the sight of Joey's face made her ache for his touch. He toyed with her, flipping the current on/off, on/off until Anna couldn't predict when the next jolt would come. But it didn't occur to Anna to remove the panties. She had never been afraid to play his game before, and she wasn't going to back down now, on their most daring and public round yet.
The third time, in a skinny black pantsuit, Anna was biting back tears of frustration from the lust that had built up. Joey turned the panties on as soon as she emerged, licking his lips as she stood before the audience, knees trembling, pussy so swollen she could barely walk, and the lubrication from between her legs threatening to stain Alessandro's couture trousers. She decided that maybe Joey's little gift of lingerie would have to go after all.
The final costume was Alessandro's piece de resis tance, a show-stopping creation that was more a work of art than an article of clothing. The shiny gown was a space-age wedding dress, a fabulous mix of sheer fabrics and highly reflective metallics. Never afraid to court controversy, Alessandro had designed the dress with a strategic slash across the bodice, meaning that the left breast was restrained by silver satin while the right one was naked and vulnerable. Anna glanced down at the exposed breast. The nipple was erect and flushed to a dark reddish-brown, telling Joey and the rest of the world just how turned on she was. She turned to look for her dresser to help her lift the folds of her gown and remove the thong, but the girl was nowhere to be seen. Frantically, she tried to tug them off herself, wobbling on her skyscraper heels.
Alessandro saw her struggling with the voluminous layers of her skirt and playfully slapped her hand away. The touch of another human being made her throb with frustration.
"You haven't got time to rearrange yourself, darling," he said. "You're on!" And with that, he thrust her out toward the cheering public.
The music changed for the grand finale. Anna almost laughed; it was the track that had taken Joey to the top of the charts, "Beautiful Slave," the song that he had written for her after they first made love. The explicit lyrics detailed what they'd done that night: He had made her his slave then, and she was just as helpless now. And there was nothing she could do about it. The buzzing started, making Anna's breath come in short gasps that were almost sobs. Her pussy was dripping, and she could feel the telltale contractions letting her know an orgasm was on its way. She walked toward Joey, eyes begging him not to make her come, to let her do the day job she was so famous for, please! As she drew closer to him, the cameras trained on both of them-the model on the catwalk and her adoring lover-but Anna was worried they'd get another picture entirely if Joey didn't turn off the vibrator in the next few seconds.
Anna tried to exercise mind over muscle. If only she could wait until the show was over and Joey could come backstage, fuck her, and put her out of her misery. But this image made things even worse, as she imagined his skinny body hovering over hers, sliding his smooth, long cock between her legs the way he had this morning. Her wetness seeped through her panties and ran down her legs threatening to stain the $60,000 showpiece dress. Her tits rose and sank as her breathing became shallow, the exposed breast visibly quivering.
This dress, this moment, was the highlight of Alessandro's latest collection. Anna had to hold her pose for ten whole seconds while lights flashed, music played, and the crowd applauded the designer. She was now teetering on the edge of the runway, face-to-face with Joey. When she finally dared to meet his eyes, she saw him mouth the words, "Come! Come, you little slut," and with that, he twisted the handset in his hand and turned the vibrations up to an intensity so fast and strong that Anna was sure it would drown out the music. Short of ripping the underwear off-which was not very practical-there was nothing she could do. She felt the familiar pre-orgasmic rush start to creep across her chest. Would the cameras pick it up? As she tensed her body, preparing it for the massive release of tension, she reflected that since she was going to come so hard, it was almost a shame she wouldn't have Joey's dick inside her; she'd squeeze it so tight, so tight. It was too late.
The music soared, and Anna tried to strike her pose but failed. She abandoned herself to the waves that washed over her, aware that her face would be contorting and her arms and legs shaking with sheer physical pleasure. She let her eyes close because if this was professional suicide, she didn't want to see it happening. As she heard the first gasps from the audience, she was aware of a presence at her side. Joey. He had leaped up onto the runway to kiss her, shielding her bucking body from the cameras and sliding his tongue subtly in and out of her mouth, muffling her cries.
"Oh, angel," he sighed, "you were amazing." And he held her while her pulsating body relaxed. Then Joey picked her up and carried her over his shoulder back up the catwalk. The audience was silent for a few seconds. Then one clap turned into a deafening round of applause. The crowd screamed and whistled, calling their names, willing them back for more.
Backstage, Joey gently set Anna down. She slapped his face as hard as she could. "What the fuck do you think you were doing?" she screamed. "That could have been the end of my career. And you've completely upstaged Alessandro. Jesus, Joey, what were you thinking?"
Joey smiled. "I think, my beautiful slave, that I was making you come harder than you ever knew you could," he said, wrapping an arm around Anna's waist, crushing her dress. "And I think that now I'm going to take you to your dressing room and do it again." He steered her to her private room and closed the door behind them. He knelt at her feet and effortlessly lifted up her expensive dress to reveal her pink panties, now soaked with her juices. Joey put his face between Anna's legs, breathing in her musky scent. "I can smell and taste how turned on you were up there," he breathed. He hooked his thumbs under the sliver of lace and slid it down to her ankles in one swift movement. His hands were on her then, thumbs tracing her swollen pussy and finally her clitoris, which was still tender to the touch, far too sensitive for Anna to enjoy Joey's hands on it, so that all she could do was shiver and squirm. "Your clit might not be able to take any more," said Joey, "but the rest of you sure fucking can." He got to his feet and spun Anna around so that she was looking at herself in the dressing room mirror: flushed and smudged, a fallen angel dressed in rags and tatters. Joey took Anna by her tousled dark hair and pushed her forward. Bent double at the waist, she rested her arms on her dressing table and closed her eyes, desperate for a moment's peace and solitude.
Instead she heard the familiar clunk of Joey's belt buckle unfastening, and before Anna had time to open her eyes, he had used one knee to part her legs and pushed himself inside her. Anna was wet enough for him, but so spent by her intense climax that she wasn't sure she could take Joey's vigorous thrusting. She opened her eyes. He was behind her, pulling her hair so that she had to face the mirror, one eyebrow raised as he rammed into her over and over again, daring her to quit now. His face, earlier so playful, was suddenly deadly serious. She saw his eyes dart all over her perfect body, and she knew he was horny just watching himself fuck her. He didn't know whether to feast on the sight of her ass or gaze at her bouncing little tits in the mirror, Anna could tell, and the most scrutinized, ogled, and photographed woman on the planet was getting off on it. Their mutual narcissism made her heart beat a little faster. She bent lower to show off her ass and to see more of him in the mirror. He was still wearing the battered military jacket he was famous for. Joey drove his dick into Anna so hard that her whole body jolted. Intense as it was, Anna wanted more. As if reading her mind, he placed his thumb in her mouth to lubricate it, and then deftly slid it into her ass.
With his thumb, Joey slid in and out of Anna's ass in time to his thrusting into her pussy. A shiver that began in her pelvis flowed along her limbs, numbing her arms and legs. She was oblivious to everything but the tingle deep inside her. The longer it lasted, the more she wanted it. Unable to believe she could reach another climax so soon but powerless to resist the sensations Joey created in her body, Anna surrendered to the surge of seizures that sent pins and needles rushing through her, and, writhing like an eel, she cried out this time, a long, low, wordless moan that told Joey all he needed to know.
Joey didn't let her ride out the orgasm. As her pulsing pussy hugged his erect cock, he slid his thumb out of Anna's ass. He reached forward, desperately feeling for her tits, fingers ripping through the chiffon of her top and tearing the fabric that covered one breast, rolling nipples between expert fingers, pulling on her tits, and turning her moans to screams. Anna looked like some kind of tortured mermaid, her long silver skirts like mercury on her coltish limbs but her top half naked and vulnerable, her beautiful face contorted in ecstasy. Joey kept his hands on her nipples as he came seconds later, his head buried in her shoulder. Anna could feel every inch of his dick inside her as it quivered and jerked.
As their legs gave way and they collapsed into a pile of bones and cloth on the floor, Anna could feel her own ejaculate mixing with Joey's spunk trailing down her legs. The fabric of the skirt was sticky against her; the dress was ruined. She would have to pay Alessandro for it. Fuck it. She could afford it, and that had definitely been a sixty-grand fuck.
With the tenderness that always followed their love-making, Joey peeled the fabric that was stuck to Anna's body, softly kissing his semen away from her thighs, using a wet towel to wipe the sweat from between her breasts. She returned the favor, gently pulling back his foreskin to wash under it with her tongue in a way that made him shiver.
They slipped back into the clothes they'd arrived in and shared a glass of champagne. There was a knock on the door. "Anna, darling?" came a familiar voice. She came back to earth with a bump. Oh shit. It was Alessandro, come to tell her she would never work for him again. His beautiful dress was a crumpled heap in the corner, covered in sweat and spunk. How was she going to explain this to him? She didn't have to. Joey opened the door, cigarette dangling from his lip and flashed Alessandro his most charming grin. "We've got a confession to make," he said. "I'm afraid I couldn't wait to ravish your favorite model, so I've made rather a mess of your dress."
"Darling!" said Alessandro, air-kissing Joey. "You can wash the car with it for all I care. You two were fabulosa. You've paid for that dress a million times with all the publicity you've created for me tonight."
"You're very generous," said Joey and pulled Alessandro toward him and kissed him full on the lips, lingering for just a second. The designer, clearly as delighted as he was shocked, backed out of the dressing room giggling, lost for words. Ooh, thought Anna, as she had visions of the three of them entwined on expensive sheets somewhere.
At the after-showparty, Anna and Joey stole the show again. Drunk on champagne and lust, they flirted with strangers and enjoyed the attention but came together to kiss whenever the photographers had their backs turned. They returned to their hotel at daybreak, a clear blue sky lighting their way through the Italian streets. Passing a newsstand, they had their driver pick up a newspaper. A picture of their kiss dominated the front page. ANNA AND JOEY: IT'S LOVE! screamed the headline. No one had noticed Anna's public orgasm or Joey's remote-control handset.
"Well, my beautiful slave," said Joey, sliding his hand down Anna's top and massaging the underside of her breast, "it looks like we got away with it again. We're unstoppable, you and I. But you know what this means?" Anna was struck by a sudden panic that for Joey, now that their relationship was public, the "game" was over. But he continued. "This means that the bar has been raised. We now have to find ever-more beautiful and extraordinary ways to enjoy each other." The look in Joey's eyes reassured Anna that he was already planning their next adventure. She rolled down the window, breathed in the cold city air, and shivered with anticipation.
TOY STORY
At some stage, most women have wondered what it would be like to be with another woman, although we tend to lust after distant celebrities or remote acquaintances. But the woman who told me this story found that the object of her fantasies was close to home-too close for comfort. You know what it's like having roommates. You start off with separate shelves in the fridge, labeling your milk, itemizing the phone bill, and forbidding each other from using your shampoo, but before long you're sharing everything. Clothes you swore you'd never lend anyone somehow find their way on to your roommate when she's got a date. You know how it is.
That's how it was with me and Laura. We'd been friends since our late teens, and when we landed our first jobs in the same big city, it was a foregone conclusion that we'd share an apartment. We were as close as sisters and had never had an argument, but perhaps more important than that, we just about wore the same dress and shoe sizes and definitely shared a sense of style, so that by moving in together we each effectively doubled our wardrobes, and what better criteria can there be for a roommate? Although we were the same size, we were different shapes. Laura's figure was a little fuller than mine. She was curvy where I was athletic and lean. I would never in a million years fill one of her bras. But that was fine; clothes that hung off me like I was a coat hanger came to life on Laura, her curves filling out the fabric around her tits and ass. When she wore one of my tank tops, she looked poured in, just about ready to burst right out of it. Whenever she borrowed my clothes, men looked at her as though they hoped the seams would split and the flesh be exposed at any moment. I know Laura got off on that. The difference in our figures worked for me, too. I liked the way her jeans hung off my hips and left a little slouch when I wore them. Like borrowing your boyfriend's.
After a couple of months of living together, we had an unspoken rule that each could borrow the other's clothes whenever she liked as long as they were back in the closet, washed, and pressed within a few days. It worked so well that in a while we kind of forgot who owned what.
But things changed the day I found that I was out of clean pants. It was my turn to do the laundry, and I'd gotten behind in it. Borrowing jeans and dresses was one thing, but underwear… I wasn't sure. I padded down the hall to Laura's room to ask if she had any spares. It would be a little weird, but I thought she'd be cool. I knocked on her door. Damn! She was at the gym. I'd forgotten. Oh well, nice girls don't go commando! I'd borrow them now and have them back before she knew anything. I pushed the door open, and a familiar floral scent filled my nostrils. She'd borrowed my perfume again. On her, the light fragrance took on a slightly different scent: headier and muskier. I breathed it in. I liked it.
Stepping over discarded magazines and makeup bottles, I made my way over to her chest of drawers. Pants and bras of every kind spilled out all over. I let my fingers trail through the lace of a delicate bra, savoring the feel of the silk against my skin. I suddenly felt guilty, as though I were somewhere I shouldn't be.
Rummaging through the tangled strips of silk, cotton, and lace, I saw a flash of stripy underwear in the corner and identified them as a pair of girl-boxers I'd noticed Laura lounging around the apartment in. I stepped out of my pajama bottoms so that I was naked but for my white bra. I slipped the boxers on, enjoying the way they felt, slightly loose, so that the air could still get to my skin. I admired myself in Laura's full-length mirror. I looked good, although not as pretty as Laura.
I went to close the drawer and heard a low humming sound coming from inside. Curious, I investigated further. My hands closed on something soft but solid, and it was vibrating. I pulled it out, and, half-wrapped in a red silk scarf, there it was: a pink, glittering vibrator, shaped like a cock. I let out an involuntary gasp. I'd seen vibrators in sex shops and reviewed in women's magazines, but I'd never had one in my hands before and I certainly would never have expected Laura to own one. I thought we told each other everything. "Laura," I whispered, even though she wasn't there to hear me, "you dark horse!"
Suddenly I had a vision-and why wouldn't I?-of Laura using the toy on herself, running it all over her nipples, holding it against her panties. In my mind's eye I saw her sliding it in and out of her pussy. I pictured her face in orgasm, twisted with pleasure as she came, and felt myself blushing, the heat of my shame creeping over my face. To my surprise though, the image turned me on. Really turned me on. I'd never experienced a surge of arousal like the one I felt right then, urgent, almost violent, a throb that resonated through me.
I sniffed at the sex toy, hoping it would smell of Laura, but it was clean and had a neutral, plasticky smell. It was still buzzing gently in my hand. I saw the "on" switch, which I must have triggered when I slammed the drawer shut. The vibrations traveled up my arm and toward my neck, so that I could feel them throughout my body.
Without even thinking, I held the toy against myself, letting it murmur against Laura's boxers. Oh my God, I thought. Even through the cool fabric, I could feel how hard my clit was, standing to attention, even before it grew hot, pulsing under the vibrator's buzz. Still thinking about Laura, I pushed it closer. I could feel every fiber of the brushed cotton of her panties: soft and dry in contrast with the hot, wet feeling between my legs. What happened next overwhelmed me. Within seconds, my legs had started to buckle under me, and I staggered to her bed. I increased the pressure of the vibrator on my clit, lying facedown on Laura's unmade bedsheets, feeling the moisture seep into the gusset of her panties. Seconds later I had come harder and longer than ever in my life. I succumbed to six, maybe seven massive spasms of pleasure, breathing in her scent as the juice from my pussy soaked her panties.
Whoa! What had I just done? I stood up on shaky legs and looked at myself in the mirror again. The face I saw now was different from the one that had been reflected there just a few minutes ago. A telltale pink flush stained my neck, breasts, and cheeks, and my features wore an unmistakable expression of guilt. This was Laura, a friend who was more like a sister than anyone I'd ever known. I'd always been so straight before, and here I was having my first lesbian fantasy, my first sex-toy experience, and the strongest orgasm I'd ever had all in the space of a couple of minutes.