Madame B

Seduction

JET

There's something incredibly thrilling about airplanes. When you're 33,000 feet in the air, you're neither here nor there. Reality is suspended, and anything goes. There's a very good reason why the Mile High Club has so many members, as this woman found out. Who said air travel was no longer glamorous, exciting, and sexy? You hear about people being upgraded to first class all the time, but you never think it'll happen to you. Not to an ordinary woman like me. But it did happen to me, and it turned out to be a very memorable journey indeed.

I was flying from Edinburgh to London for a meeting. Any thoughts I might have had about glamorous business travel were dashed when my boss handed me an economy ticket, saying it wasn't worth paying extra for an hourlong domestic flight. When I arrived at the airport early in the morning and handed my passport and confirmation number to the girl behind the desk, her face fell.

"I'm so sorry, but this flight is overbooked," she said. She must have registered the mild panic that was showing on my own face; I had to make this meeting. But before I could even start to plead and protest, she began tapping away frantically on her keyboard.

"Oh!" Her expression brightened. "Actually, this is your lucky day! We've got a spare seat in first, so we can upgrade you."

Then she handed me a shiny boarding pass and pointed me toward the fast-track security gate. I sashayed through in under a minute, hoping I looked like I belonged in first class. I was glad that the nature of my meeting demanded I wear a suit that day. The security guard who checked my pass directed me to the executive lounge, which was subtly signposted behind a bar. I stepped through a frosted-glass door and into another world. A uniformed bartender squeezing oranges for juice looked up and immediately offered me freshly ground coffee. Free newspapers were strewn across designer glass tables, and on leather sofas that would have looked more at home in a five-star hotel lobby sat well-dressed, glamorous people passing time before their flights. I looked at them in awe. My new companions all radiated money, power, and, of course, sex, and here I was, right among them.

One guy in particular stood out. He was immaculately dressed in a dark-blue pinstripe suit, whose jacket fell open to reveal an expensive turquoise silk lining as well as the flat stomach lurking beneath his pale blue shirt and tie. His dirty-blond hair was close-cropped, his rugged face and square jaw softened by a pair of pink lips that made a vague pout as he concentrated on his copy of The Wall Street Journal. If this was the type of man that flew business class, I was going to have to make sure I earned enough money to do it more regularly.

I was so comfortable that the hour's wait went by quickly, and soon my flight to London was called. I was so excited that I was the first one up the stairs and onto the jet. As I sank into the burgundy leather chair, easily as big and comfortable as any armchair in my flat, the stewardess handed me a glass of champagne. Yes, I thought, as I kicked off my high-heeled shoes and curled my bare legs up under me, this is the way to travel. It simply does not get any better.

And then I realized that it did get better, because who should be sliding his briefcase into the overhead compartment other than Mr. Moneybags himself, the very man I'd just spent an hour checking out in the lounge! Up close, I could see that he was a little older than I'd first thought-around forty, forty-five-but this only made him sexier, more distinguished. When he sat down next to me, giving me a formal nod, I could smell his expensive cologne. I also noticed that his nails were manicured and shiny. The man oozed wealth and sophistication in a way that made me feel incredibly aroused.

And I wasn't sure, but I thought that the attraction might even be mutual. I caught him sneaking a glance at my bare, brown legs and my pretty toes, painted a flattering shade of pale pink. He thought I couldn't see him behind his copy of the paper, but I could. I smiled at him, emboldened by my single glass of champagne, and he immediately broke eye contact and buried himself even more deeply in his paper. I fidgeted in my seat, trying to force him to look at me, subtly undoing the top button of my blouse so that when he next looked up, he'd see a tantalizing glimpse of the camisole underneath. When I handed my empty glass back to the stewardess before takeoff, I made sure that my arm brushed against his.

"So sorry," I said, even though I was nothing of the sort. I wondered if he, too, had felt a little charge of sexual tension pass between us. I yawned and stretched, showing off my waist to its best advantage and leaned forward so he could see the curve of my breasts. And it started to work. He wasn't concentrating on his newspaper anymore, and he was starting to look a little bit uncomfortable, as though there was a lot going on beneath that starched Savile Row suit.

The thought of his body, flesh and blood, coming to life underneath that cool, suave exterior, really excited me. Once we took off, the combination of the jet engine's rumbling, the sheer sensual luxury of the leather seat, and the fact that I'd been writhing and purring like a cat in heat, was a huge turn-on. This man was pumping out sexual energy like a power station-and I was absorbing all of it.

I glanced up and met his eyes, piercing blue and staring right at me, before he looked down to my breast. I realized that my hand had been caressing my collarbone and idly tracing the contours of my bosom-I do that sometimes when I'm thinking about sex-but I certainly didn't know I'd started to do it in public. Blushing, I lowered my gaze to his lap, and there it was-a hard-on with my name on it. His erection, which looked as big and powerful as the rest of him, was straining at his trousers, making a little tent of the pinstriped wool. As I watched, it grew even bigger, and the color rose in his cheeks as we both silently acknowledged the effect we were having on each other.

He parted his lips and closed his eyes for a moment. I pictured what his face would look like when he came, and bam-that mental image, a vivid, erotic image, sent a surge of hot blood to my pussy. A violent throbbing between my legs made me catch my breath. Okay, I thought to myself, you're in trouble now. Initially, I'd been attracted to this guy and wondered what it might be like to fuck him. Now, suddenly, that idle daydream had turned into a real possibility. My problem now was that I had to fuck him. No two ways about it. But where? How? And when? Dear God, it needed to be soon. I had never felt this frustrated in my life, and it was making my head spin.

I took a few deep breaths and tried to clear my head. Crossing my legs was something between agony and ecstasy, my throbbing pussy so engorged that the slightest touch or movement sent fresh waves of tension through my body. What was I supposed to do now? We had barely spoken two words to each other. And the FASTEN SEAT BELT sign was still on, so even if I wanted to rush to the bathroom to get myself off-a tempting option that would take only seconds-I was stuck in my seat.

As our jet climbed into the clouds, surging through pockets of turbulence, the turning of my stomach was keeping time with the adrenaline already pumping through my system. Every lurch I felt in the seat stimulated my body further. I closed my eyes, trying to calm myself down, but when I did I couldn't help imagining his body, his chest, his legs. I pictured strong arms, a toned stomach leading to a fuzz of dark-blond hair leading to-oh, God, I had to have him. I snapped my eyes open again. He was looking at my tits, glancing down at nipples that had become hard and swollen as I thought about his naked body. His paper was now folded on his lap. Did I dare reach out and touch him? Would I be able to stop once I did?

It was still dark outside and the stewardess dimmed the lights, announcing that we would need to turn on the overhead lights if we wished to continue reading. The tiny electric bulbs above illuminated the cabin like candlelight, bathing us all in a soft, sexy glow. Would he switch on his overhead spotlight and return to his newspaper, or was now the chance I'd been waiting for?

What I saw next made me suck in my breath with delighted astonishment and my hand fluttered automatically to my collarbone, where I began to caress myself again. He undid his trousers, and I could tell by the way his hand disappeared under his newspaper that he was stroking himself. He started off with his eyes closed, but then he turned to look at me, raising one dark-blond eyebrow. That look was a challenge, one that I gladly accepted.

I checked to see if any one was looking and then rearranged myself in my large airline seat so that I sat cross-legged, Buddha-style, hitching up my skirt so that it bunched around my middle. First of all, I pulled the gusset of my cotton panties back and forth, enjoying the friction it created on my pussy, grateful at this stage for any stimulation. God, they were soaking; the damp, warm fabric felt like smoothest silk on my hot, wet, aching cunt. Then, turning my whole body toward him so he could see, I pulled my panties to one side. For a while, I just let him look at my pussy, wet and pulsing, my clit dark pink and protruding, aching for his touch but having to make do with mine. He smiled and licked his lips. Then, with my forefinger, I began to fondle myself. I began with gentle caresses to my clit, which sent the first real surge of pleasure to my body. Soon even that wasn't enough, and I slid first one, then two fingers inside myself.

The knowledge that I was showing my sex to a complete stranger and that we might be caught at any minute-with unthinkable consequences-made my whole body throb with a desire that bordered on terror. Every time I touched myself, my arousal grew more intense than any I'd ever felt before.

He lifted the newspaper to show me his cock. Even in the half-light I could tell that it was big, thick, and the same pale peach color as his complexion. His smooth hand worked his hard-on, teasing the dark tip of his penis out from under his foreskin. His balls remained encased inside his trousers, a small gesture of restraint that I found wildly sexy. I was transfixed as his left hand made smooth, firm strokes along his twitching rod in a steady rhythm up and down, up and down.

From the intense throbbing in my pussy and clit and the pins and needles that were shooting up and down my limbs, my whole body was turning to jelly. I was close to climax, and my own teasing of my clitoris became more and more frantic. Perhaps he sensed that I was about to come, because when I was seconds away from the rippling relief of a huge orgasm, he snatched my hand away from between my legs, leaving me wide-eyed and panting, and transferred it to his splendid shaft. When my fingers closed around the warm skin, I heard a soft moan barely audible above the noise of the jet engine. Then, as suddenly as he'd snatched my hand, he removed it, zipped himself up, looked away from me, and moved to get up out of his chair.

But why? My mind reeled with resentful confusion while my body continued to thrum with longing. Had I put him off? Had I touched him wrong? I was sure I was going to feel his hands on my clitoris, but maybe I'd misinterpreted him. Disappointment must have shown in my face, because he winked at me and nodded toward the lavatory door. Suddenly I understood and felt a fresh wave of desire wash over me as I saw him disappear through the tiny door, his tall, lean body briefly silhouetted against the light inside, his bulk filling the whole area. He was a big man in a small space, and we'd have to get very, very close.

I couldn't follow him right away without causing suspicion. I waited for the stewardess to attend to someone else while I continued rubbing my pussy. I couldn't take my hands away. I had never been so wet before, thinking of that craggy face with its soft inviting mouth I was only seconds from kissing.

Finally the stewardess moved on to refill another first-class passenger's coffee. Not even bothering to put my shoes back on, I slipped out of my seat, went over to the lavatory door, and knocked softly. The door folded to one side, and a strong arm pulled me in. He was there, trousers 'round his ankles, shirt hanging open with his tie 'round his neck, a stunning washboard stomach above that beautiful dick, a single vein now pulsing urgently along its length. He pulled me to him and gave me a kiss that was soft and sensitive yet urgent and probing at the same time, pressing his body against mine so that his dick jabbed into my belly. I felt my body melt under his touch, and when he sat down on the toilet seat, I gladly let him pull me to him. For a few seconds, we were opposite each other, eyes locked, bodies touching, while he rolled my panties over my hips and down my legs. The cold air of the cabin on the burning skin of my ass, my thighs, my pussy, was exhilarating.

I parted my legs so they were on either side of his lap and pulled my skirt up so that he could see my pussy. I wanted him to see how wet and swollen he'd got me. He held one of his hands flat against my pussy lips, feeling them throb and pulse, while he reached out with the other and softly massaged my tits, making my already erect nipples stand up and darken like pink berries.

I lowered myself onto the trembling tip of his dick, letting the rounded end rest against the entry to my dripping slit for a few seconds. I had meant to hover there, teasing both of us, but I couldn't; I needed him inside me there and then. Not able to wait another second for his dick to fill me up, I lowered myself, letting his thick, sturdy cock pry my lips apart and finally penetrate me, filling me up, giving me what I needed so badly. I pounded my pussy on his dick, pushing down with all my body weight, swallowing him up. I wanted to recapture the first thrill of penetration, so I raised my thighs until his cock was nearly out of me, then I sank down again, hard. Every time I bore down on his hard-on it seemed bigger, and I felt fuller, more satisfied, nearer to my orgasm.

My palms were pressed against the walls of the cubicle for balance, my legs and arms aching with the sheer effort of holding this position in such a tiny space. For days afterward, I would feel delicious pain in my limbs from the sheer exertion of it all. At the time, I could think only of his face, inches away from mine, and his dick, moving inside me, hot and hard and big and thick. It was the best feeling in the world.

I placed one hand on his shoulder to steady myself, my tense fingers digging into firm, muscular flesh, and the other hand on the mirror, where it left a sweaty print. I could see my body reflected in the glass, soft flesh a blur of movement.

His hands squeezed and slapped my ass, guiding my hips up and down on his dick. My tits were level with his face. Covering his perfect teeth with those amazing lips, he nipped my breasts through my blouse, starting softly and then building up to the more aggressive, urgent stimulation that I needed.

At that moment, a stewardess's voice came over the speaker. "We will begin our descent in five minutes," she said. "The captain has engaged the FASTEN SEAT BELT sign. Will all passengers please return to their seats and fasten their seat belts immediately." We had no more time to enjoy each other's bodies. If we stayed where we were they'd knock on the door and find us in there together, and airlines take a dim view of passengers applying for membership in the Mile High Club. The knowledge that it was now or never just made the whole experience more intense. With my entire body, I writhed on him, grinding my clitoris into the base of his pubic bone while he thrust into me so hard that I thought I would explode. I buried my head in his chest, allowing his crisp, masculine scent to flood my senses as I pushed and rubbed against his body, the friction in my clitoris finally spilling over into delicious vibrations that radiated throughout me like concentric circles of pleasure, rippling out from between my legs. I came around his dick, my pussy squeezing and releasing his dick, sucking the life out of it, smelling his spunk and sweat as he pumped me full of hot, white liquid. I shuddered as the waves of pleasure subsided. His heart was pounding, but neither of us had time to recover. Suddenly brisk and businesslike, he kissed me again, wiped my pussy clean with a hand towel, pulled my skirt back down over my hips, stroked my hair, and then, with a final slap on my ass, he shoved me out, blinking, into the narrow airplane corridor.

Walking in a straight line after such an intense fuck was a challenge. By the time I'd slipped on my shoes and checked my makeup again, he was back in the seat next to me. As the lights dimmed for landing, he leaned in and gave me one final lingering kiss that made me melt inside. It was a kiss good-bye, a final gesture to draw a line under an amazing, once-in-a-lifetime experience. When he left the plane he didn't look back, and, since he carried only a briefcase, I didn't see him at the luggage carousel. As I waited in line for a taxi, I saw him speed past in a chauffeur-driven limousine. He didn't see me. There goes the best sex of my life, I thought, and I don't even know his name.

The meeting went well. My in-flight experience had given me a new burst of confidence, and I gave a great presentation. That night, in my hotel room, I undressed, exhausted by my day. When I took off my skirt I found his business card in the pocket. Written on the back with an old-fashioned fountain pen were his mobile phone number and the details of his return flight to Edinburgh. He had also written; "Fancy an upgrade?"

I reached for my phone and punched in his number. That's the thing about first class; once you've had it, you can't go back.

MENAGE A TROIS

There's a sexual charge to the backstreets of Paris, a smoky, after-dark sensuality that no other city can duplicate. Parisians do it better. And as this woman, a famous novelist, told me, they put on a damn good show-even when they don't know they're being watched. For most people Paris is all about the Eiffel Tower and the Champs-Elysees. But not for me. I've always preferred the sleazy, faded glamour of the backstreets to the slick, polished areas where the tourists go. I love tumbledown apartment blocks, off-the-main-drag cafes, and the city's crumbling fin de siecle decadence. There's a romance to that kind of bohemian poverty that goes hand in hand with all the things I find sexy: good red wine; ridiculously lacy, scratchy, slutty underwear; men who always carry books around.

But the apartment that I found myself inhabiting in Paris took my love of dilapidated grandeur to its limit. The moment I saw the building, I fell in love with it: a tall nineteenth-century art nouveau building with long windows at which balconies curved up like eyelashes. It was divided into ten different studio apartments. Other people might have minded the stained and peeling wallpaper or the chandeliers with wiring poking out at dangerous angles but not me. Ever since I can remember, I'd wanted to be a writer and live in a Parisian garret. As my landlady Mme. Philippe led me up the rickety wooden stairs to an attic room, I hummed with pleasure that I had finally achieved my dream. When she showed me the room, I adored it immediately. A cast-iron bed dominated it, and there was a tarnished Louis XIV mirror that took up the length of the whole wall. An old oak desk leaned by the window looking over the twinkling lights of the Latin Quarter. This, I decided, would be the perfect place in which to write my new book.

I hung my few clothes in the old armoire, set up my laptop on the desk, checked a few e-mails and wrote a few notes about my surroundings. A small glass of mer lot would be tonight's only indulgence. I was exhausted from traveling across the UK and France via Eurostar and Metro and needed to sleep. The bed might have been old and the springs might have creaked when I tossed and turned in the night, but the sheets that Mme. Philippe had provided were pure white linen, scented with the relaxing aroma of French lavender. I slipped into my favorite negligee and was asleep within seconds, drifting off to the sound of voices from the rooms either side and below and of music wafting in from the street.

At about four a.m. the strong smell of cigarette smoke woke me briefly. I sat up in bed, my breasts spilling out of my negligee. I wrinkled my nose and thought about getting up to complain, but I was so tired that I fell asleep again almost immediately. The dreams that followed were of smoke trails and mysterious foreign voices making the unmistakable sound of two people having really, really good sex. I woke up in the morning with sticky moisture between my legs and a musky smell on my fingers. I must have been touching myself in my sleep.

I spent the next day exploring my new locale, browsing flea markets and shopping for bread, cheese, and wine. I knocked on the doors of the other people in my building. My neighbors were a friendly, artistic bunch, and I met all of them except for those in the room directly beneath mine. None of the people I introduced myself to seemed quite sure of who occupied that room. Afterward I had lunch in a cafe and came home again to write.

That night, I woke again to the acrid smell of cigarette smoke. This time, I wasn't able to go back to sleep quite so easily. I flipped on the lamp next to me and tiptoed out into the hall; nothing there but voices, a man and a woman's. Back in my bedroom I paced the floor for a while, and then I saw it, a thin wisp of gray smoke rising from a tiny crack in the floorboards at the edge of a rug under my bed. There was a hole in the floor. I don't mind cigarette smoke, in fact I think it rather enhances the atmosphere in some bars and cafes, but I do object to having it permeate my clothes and bed linens. I knelt on the threadbare rug and peeled it back to reveal not only smoke but a chink of light coming through from the room below. Great! That was all I needed. Now, without the soundproofing of the carpet to interfere, I could hear the voices more clearly, the low and urgent murmuring of a couple. Unable to stem my curiosity, I squashed my face against the crack in the floor and peered into the room below.

What I saw took my breath away. The voices I could hear were indeed those of a man and a woman who were beautiful beyond all belief-and they were fucking on a bed ten feet below where I lay crouched on my own wooden floor. It took a while for me to tell where she ended and he began, but despite my initial thoughts of respecting their privacy, I endeavored to work it out regardless. They both had dark hair and lightly bronzed bodies, both were toned and petite, and together they moved so quickly that the scene looked like a pit of writhing snakes.

As I watched, they pulled apart from their embrace, and the woman got on her knees, ready to go down on her lover. Her tidy little ass jutted into the air, and her legs were spread, revealing a shock of dark, neatly trimmed, glossy pubic hair and a sliver of glistening pinky-brown pussy. The man lay on his back, his dick astonishingly large for such a small man. It was darker than the rest of him and bouncy and upright in the way that only young men's dicks are. The noise of her lips sucking on his cock and his moans of ecstasy in response were nearly as exciting as the visual show they were putting on before me. In about fifteen seconds, I went from mildly annoyed about the smoke to unbelievably aroused by the strangers' lovemaking.

I couldn't help it, but I started to touch myself. First of all I circled my nipples through the shot-silk of my negligee, surprised and delighted at how hard they got and how quickly. Dropping the spaghetti straps over my shoulders, I slid first one then the other breast out and let them trail along the floor, the cold wooden planks arousing my tits more effectively than any lover's caress. I was prostrate now, my ass in the air. Automatically, I slid my hand between my legs and held my palm flat against my pussy. A warm, dry hand against a pulsing, moistening cunt. I slid four fingers inside myself, and my grateful hole twitched around them.

The scene on the bed below me developed. He climaxed, pushing his dick farther into her face as his own features contorted with pleasure. She pulled her mouth away from him, a thin silver trail of come and saliva from her lips to the tip of his penis linked the lovers for a few seconds before dispersing. Confident he would return the favor, she sank back into the messy pillows and stretched herself out, lithe and relaxed as a little cat. Her body was perky and petite like a young girl's, but her sophistication and confident demeanor showed that she was very much a woman. She wore dark, dramatic makeup, which had been only slightly smeared by her lovemaking, and tiny diamonds glittered at her ears. She sighed with pleasure as the man knelt between her legs, forced her knees apart with his hands, and went to work, devouring her pussy with the insatiable hunger of a man who hadn't eaten in days. Her facial features softened despite the harsh makeup as she melted under his tongue, shaking and shivering with pleasure. Mesmerized by her tiny, triangular tits, I found the contrast with my own round, pendulous breasts very exciting. I pressed the whole of my body harder against the cold, unyielding floor, gently rocking back and forth, more turned on by what I was seeing and feeling than I had ever been by anything before. As I watched her come, a soft pink blush crept across her cheeks and chest, warming up that pale olive skin, I quickly held my thumb against my own clitoris. My own orgasm, which arrived in seconds, was as wordless as hers was noisy. Exhausted, I crawled into bed and drifted off to sleep to the sound of two voices chatting, jazz records playing, and occasionally the odd wisp of smoke. Now that I knew what it signified, I really didn't mind it at all.

I slept fitfully the next night, half waiting for the smell to wake me up. When it did, I was ready. This time I pulled off my negligee right away so that I could achieve maximum friction between my bare skin and the floor of my apartment. I lay down on the floor, my legs cold and bony on the waxed wooden surface, my top half teased and tickled by the old rug, an empty wine half-bottle to double up as a dildo clutched in my hand. I wanted to know how it felt to have something inside me while I played with my clit. Below me the lovers, unaware of my spying, lay on their sides, lips and legs locked together. When she parted her legs, I could see his dick sliding in and out of her dark little pussy. With my fingers inside me, I fucked the floor, pushing my hips down into my knuckles, using all my body weight to intensify the sensation. The quicker they fucked, the faster I rubbed my clitoris and, at the last minute, penetrated myself with the neck of the bottle, a cold, slippery rod that filled me up inside. Again, their own orgasms were so beautiful and powerful to watch that they triggered my own. My pussy gripped the cool solid glass of the bottle neck in sweet, painful spasms. Once I'd had my climax, I could experience the deep oblivious slumber that comes after the release of huge tension.

When I rose at noon I expected to see the lovers slumbering in each other's arms, but they weren't there. They never were. They seemed to inhabit an intense, passionate, private little world, existing for each other and only between the hours of midnight and five a.m. Who were they? What did they do with the rest of their lives when they weren't making love in this sleazy little room?

That day I wrote thousands of words. It was some of the best work I've ever produced. I'd been struggling with a couple of characters in my novel, but after last night's private floorshow and the long, satisfying sleep that followed, they came to life and the words flowed out. The story was becoming a little more highly sexed than my usual stuff, the result, no doubt of my being inspired by my midnight lovers. I pounded my laptop late into the night, leaving my studio only for steak and red wine at a little bistro around eleven p.m. When I crept back in, I saw that the light under their door was on.

By then just the smell of those cigarettes was enough to get me horny. At the first wisp of smoke, I was in my usual position. This time the couple lay on their backs with their hands between each other's legs. She had his dick in her fist and was jerking him off fast and furious while he stroked her clit and pussy slowly and tenderly. It was as if they were putting on a performance just for me, but how could they know that they had an audience? My pubic bone was still bruised from grinding against the floor the night before, so this time I put my pillow between my legs and rocked myself to a slow, tender orgasm. The irony was that these nighttime neighbors were providing me with orgasms that were far more intense and frequent than any of those my lovers or attentive ex-boyfriends ever had. I was having my best sexual relationship to date with a pair of perfect strangers who were unaware of the fact. It was working for me, at least.

The next evening, I didn't even bother going to bed but just waited up for them. I passed the time writing but barely concentrated on my novel as the whole time I listened in anticipation for the door below mine. Every few minutes I inhaled deeply, hoping to catch a whiff of that distinctive smoke, but all I could detect was my own tuberose perfume. I fell asleep at my desk and awoke at two a.m. to the sound of giggles and scuffles. It was then, only then, when the dry aroma of cigarettes began seeping through the crack in the floorboards, that I knew they had arrived.

I peeled back the rug, and the two of them were there. They disrobed slowly, revealing their toned, olive flesh inch by tantalizing inch. Up till now they'd always been naked when I spied on them, so I found this slow, deliberate unveiling of their bodies even more erotic than my first glimpse of their naked flesh. She wore elegant matching underwear beneath a scarlet shift dress. He was naked beneath his white shirt and black trousers. I figured that he was a waiter, but her clothes, other than a small gold band on her left hand, which she removed and placed on the bedside table, gave no clue to her identity. He wore no ring… Ah ha! These were illicit lovers who hired this room exclusively for their secret, dangerous liaisons.

This time they made love on the bed more tenderly and conservatively than before. He lay on top, kissing her tenderly, his tight, toned buttocks and the muscles of his back rippling as he propped himself up on his forearms. I saw the V-shaped muscle at the base of his spine contract with pleasure as he drove his dick inside her, while she pinned his calves with her sharp heels and dug her nails into his ass as she tried to take him in deeper and deeper. I was on all fours this time, my forefinger frantically pulling at my clitoris, my middle finger probing the entrance to my slit, drawing moisture from my pussy to lubricate the furious rubbing action. I knew their rhythms so well by now I could recognize the signs that she was about to come. When she did so it was with a ladylike sigh, but the deep glow on her face betrayed the real passion she felt. As he let out a deep masculine groan I took my clitoris between my thumb and forefinger and gave it a little twist to push myself over the edge into my climax. As I did so, the woman turned her beautiful face up toward mine and made direct eye contact. Unable to control my orgasm, I came so forcefully that my legs buckled beneath me and my upper body fell to the floor with a thud. At this point, the expression on her face changed to one of horror. I hadn't had any idea that she could see me through the crack in the floor, but she knew someone was watching her. She knew someone knew her secret. Hurriedly I replaced the carpet, crawled into bed, and hoped that she wouldn't knock on the door demanding to know why I had been spying on her.

I wasn't surprised when they never came back, and a couple of evenings later, I sealed the hole with newspaper. Within the week I found my own Parisian waiter, who was more than willing to make my ancient bed-springs creak for the remainder of my stay in France. But the memories of their bodies, the sight I'd seen, kept me in sexual fantasies for years, and I believe the erotic inspiration they gave my writing is the reason my last novel sold as well as it did. In fact, I dedicated my book to them, even though I didn't know their names.

THE END OF THE PIER SHOW

What's better than having a gorgeous, charming man absolutely aching with desire for you? Having two guys aching for you, that's what. When her gay best friend Rick fell in love for the first time, Kyra worried that it would drive them apart. She didn't envisage that all three of them would end up closer than ever-as close as you can get, in fact. I love that feeling you have when you walk into a club or bar or even down the street with a gorgeous guy on your arm. The other girls are jealous and the other guys are intimidated. Whenever Rick and I hit the town together, we turn every head. We look like the perfect couple; I'm slim, blonde, and curvy, but he's dark and has that classic inverted-triangle build. With his tall, good looks and sharp, flamboyant style, together with my long blond hair and penchant for miniskirts, we attract a great many envious glances, and we both love it. Well, what's the point of a gay best friend if you can't enjoy a little attention when you go out together?

Rick and I have been friends since our first week of college four years ago. My immediate thought when I saw him dressed in a tight, sparkling white T-shirt and designer jeans that clung perfectly to his strong, sculpted thighs, was who is that gorgeous man and how do I make him mine? So I marched right over and started a conversation with him. Within five minutes it was clear that I wasn't going to be his type. The penny dropped when he asked me if I knew who the "cute" black guy on the other side of the room was and if he was single. But we had such an instant rapport that I knew we would always be best friends. We shared an apartment at the university, and while we both had various boyfriends through the years, we saved the real emotional bond for each other. The joke was that if neither of us met anyone by the time we were thirty-five, we'd have to get married.

Last summer, Rick met someone he finally wanted to get serious about. By that time, we'd both moved to different areas and begun our "real" lives. When I got the call from Rick telling me that there was someone he wanted me to meet, I was instantly intrigued.

"You'll love Sam, Kyra," gushed Rick. "He's just amazing. So funny and gorgeous and, my God, what a fuck-I'm having the best sex of my life. So when can you come and meet him? What are you doing this weekend?"

I laughed and teased Rick that Sam had better be as good as he made him out to be because never mind any overbearing prospective mother-in-law, meeting me was the real test. But joking apart, there was a twinge of jealousy mixed in with my excitement at meeting this boy wonder. I pushed it to the back of my mind. Of course Sam would be lovely. I'm not losing a gay best friend, I reasoned, but gaining another.

"Prepare a wild time for me," I said. "I'll see you on Friday."

On Friday night, an uncharacteristically nervous Rick, leading a stunningly good-looking guy by the hand, met me at the station. Sam had the same tall, Hollywood-hunk body as Rick did, but he shared my coloring. Nordic good looks with a light tan, dark blond hair, and piercing blue eyes.

"It's so good to meet you!" I said. I liked the twinkle in Sam's eye; it told me he would be fun and easy-going, just like Rick was.

"You, too, Kyra," said Sam, landing a peck on my cheek. "I've heard so much about you." A trace of stubble brushed against my own soft skin, making me shiver.

"So," I said, linking one arm with Sam and the other with Rick, as the three of us set off for the bars and clubs of the seafront. "What wild adventure have you got planned for me this weekend?"

Actually, we didn't have a wild time that evening at all but a lovely reunion over dinner at a great little Italian place. We chatted for hours over pizza and a bottle of wine that turned into two, then three, served by a very cute waiter who was decent enough to flirt equally with all three of us. It didn't take long for me to realize that Sam was perfect for Rick. He was attentive and funny, and he obviously really cared for my friend.

Plus, the sexual tension between them was hot. Whenever they thought I wasn't looking, they'd steal a kiss, and under the table they were constantly reaching for each other. After my umpteenth glass of wine I excused myself and visited the bathroom. When I approached our table on my return Sam was idly stroking Rick's erect nipple. A sudden, vivid image of the two of them fucking, their perfect bodies bathed in sweat and their beautiful, long limbs entangled, popped into my mind. It thrilled me unexpectedly and made me shiver with desire. For some reason, when he was up close with Sam, I remembered how sexy I'd found Rick the first time I laid eyes on him. Watching these two together I realized what men saw in girl-on-girl porn. There was something intensely arousing about these two men, who were the ultimate in unattainable sex. Well, what woman wouldn't be turned on by the sexual power implicit in turning a gay man straight? And as for two of them…

Doing my best to ignore the pulse that had begun to beat between my legs and telling myself not to be so ridiculous, I tried to compose myself. Then I sat back down at the table and helped myself to another glass of red wine. You're drunk, I said to myself. I shook my head and looked up to grin at my boys.

"Fabulous breasts," said Sam, making me blush. "I never really saw the point of tits until I met you, my darling. But now when I look at those puppies sitting up and begging for attention, I'd almost like to play with them."

Whoa! So maybe I'm not the only one thinking about sex! I mean, Rick and I had always enjoyed exchanging campy, witty banter, but tonight the chat was moving beyond that into definite flirtation.

"Oh, no you don't," countered Rick. "I've been friends with those tits for years. If they're going to be ineptly groped by any gay man, I think by rights it ought to be me."

The three of us were giggling madly by this point, but there was something deadly serious about the way Sam looked at me. He really was checking out my breasts. To my embarrassment, but also my secret delight, I felt my tits harden under my top. I hadn't worn a bra, and my nipples began to poke through my slinky silver tank top. Sam licked his lips, quickly and subtly. Rick watched Sam with a hungry look on his face. I blushed; this sexually charged atmosphere with Rick was brand-new territory. I was turned on, but somehow it felt wrong. Or did it feel right, but I wouldn't allow myself to feel it?

We left the restaurant soon after that, all quite tipsy. On the way home, we had a heated debate about whether the waiter had been checking out Sam, Rick, or me. I insisted that a man that good-looking and well dressed couldn't possibly be heterosexual. Rick, on the other hand, insisted the waiter must be straight because he had never seen him out clubbing (apparently he knew every gay man in the world).

"I'd have definitely remembered that fabulous ass if I'd seen it before," said Rick.

"Well," replied Sam, "it's possible that he was checking all of us out. I mean, we are all three of us outrageously attractive. And anyway," he went on, rather sober now and with a sly, sidelong glance at Rick, "not everyone picks just one type and then sticks with it for life. Some of us can be attracted to boys and girls. Sometimes in the same night."

Boys and girls? The same night? My mind raced. So was Sam bi? Did my beloved Rick know this? Did he mind? I was completely flustered and confused. And, more to the point, I thought rather selfishly, if he does dig girls, is he attracted to me? But even if he was saying that he found me attractive, it was probably only in a superficial, aesthetic way rather than a sexual one, right? And even if he genuinely fancied me, it didn't matter. He was off limits. He was my best friend's boyfriend, and that made him as unattainable as you can get.

I was still musing over this dilemma (hypothetical, of course) when we reached Rick's flat, a lovely little apartment. Outside, the lights of the pier illuminated the horizon, voices giggled and shrieked, and Friday night was just beginning for many people. But I was tired and more than a little overwhelmed. I made my excuses and went to bed in Rick's spare room.

The boys weren't so quick to go to sleep, though. Through the wall I could hear them talking in low, rumbling voices and giggling. Then there was silence, and I knew that they were putting their hands on each other's bodies, unleashing the tension that they'd been building up all night. I could just picture them slowly undressing each other, peeling tight T-shirts and designer jeans off slightly sweaty skin to reveal two golden rippling torsos they would press together. Their cocks would be slapping each other in a play fight, their balls against each other's thighs as they kissed urgently, lips and teeth clashing. In my head, I replayed this imaginary film of Rick and Sam fucking, my own body growing hot and aroused as I did so. Their muffled noises next door turned to grunts and moans, a live sound track that made my pussy swell with desire.

Funny that in all the years I'd lived with Rick, I'd never actually heard what he sounded like during sex. We'd always had enough room and privacy to make as much noise as we liked without disturbing each other. But this, this was a new sound, and it was the hottest thing I'd ever heard. The louder the guys got, the more aroused I became until I eventually made myself come. I parted my pussy lips with my fingers, leaving my clit exposed. Just ten seconds of light fondling and I came hard, biting down on my lip to suppress my own moans of delight. Waves of pleasure radiated from my clitoris, at last relieving the tension that had been building up all night, since the first moment I'd set eyes on Sam.

As my climax subsided and my breathing and pulse rate returned to normal, I padded over to the window and forced it open, letting the warm zephyr blow my hair and bring me back to reality. I got back into bed, enjoying the salty tang of the sea air, and closed my eyes while Rick and Sam continued. As I drifted off to sleep, it occurred to me that perhaps I was meant to overhear them. Perhaps they-or at least one of them-wanted it that way.

I awoke at nine a.m. to the smell of frying bacon. I was touched; Rick remembered my absolute favorite weekend breakfast: a fried-egg-and-bacon sandwich on lightly toasted white bread. Without knocking he burst in with the sandwich and a glass of orange juice on a tray.

"Breakfast in bed for my lady," he said, placing the tray on my sheet with a flourish.

"Thanks, honey," I said, suddenly conscious of my lace nightie, in which my breasts and nipples were clearly visible and, at the sight of Rick in his crisp white trunks, were getting erect again. I tried not to look at his tight pecs, at the faintest trace of a love bite above his left nipple, at his strong, broad thighs or his bulging biceps, and I especially tried not to sneak a glance at his dick, although the outline of it was clearly visible. This was madness. Rick and I had seen each other in our underwear a million times, but now that I'd heard him fuck, now that I'd rubbed my clit until I came while thinking about him and Sam, I felt like I'd crossed an invisible line and that things would never be the same between us. I felt like we'd actually had sex. Most of all, I was convinced that Rick somehow knew all this, that he could read my mind.