by Nicole Dere
John was staring at the elegant figure in the severely attractive grey suit. She crossed her legs, the short skirt riding up to allow him a pleasing view of her shapely limbs. She pushed the dainty heeled shoes off with her toes, which curled in abandoned luxury. Her black hair had been cut shorter and shaped to her neck, its waved softness enhancing this thoroughly feminine ethos.
‘You look different,’ he said, bringing her drink, and standing over her admiringly. ‘You look like some super brat female exec type.’
She laughed and pulled a distasteful face. ‘Oh don’t say that, please!’
But she was different, it struck him forcibly. Not only her quietly sexy, more openly feminine appearance, but her contained manner. Not subdued, he realised - far from it. There was an assurance, a restrained maturity about her that was entirely new. It was mystifying, and appealing. Yet he felt a twinge of sadness too, for he knew the last fragile link to their childhood together was gone, never to return.
The final confirmation came when, after she had gone into her room to change, she came out again and stood in the living room doorway. His heart and his prick leapt. She was wearing a black bra and black briefs - a tiny scrap of satin and lace barely covering her mound - and a thin web of a garter-belt from which the ribbons of suspenders stretched over her white thighs to sheer stockings. She smiled tenderly at his obvious appreciation.
‘You sexy thing!’ he breathed, rising and moving towards her. But when he got there she skilfully avoided his grasping arms, and gave him another of those light kisses, mouth to mouth, but which lay somewhere between an affectionate greeting and a promise of passion.
‘I think I’ll have a quick bath and go straight to bed,’ she said. ‘I could do with an early night. It’s going to be hard work picking up the reins again after such a long lay-off. Night, Johnny.’
She turned back at her bedroom door. ‘Oh, by the way. Don’t worry about the flat. You can stay on here as long as you want. I don’t think I’ll be around that often. And if I need it to entertain or anything, you can always blow for the odd night or two, can’t you?’ Another sweetly innocent smile, and she was gone.
Was it all a come-on? he asked himself briefly, seated once more in the suddenly lonely room. But he knew Felicity was no longer the ingenuous girl he had fooled around with so recently. She had moved on, leaving him behind. And so he sat on in the lamp-lit quiet, sipping a whisky, regretting and already missing the things that had been and were no more.
He was woken next morning by the sounds of flushing and running water, and her strongly tuneful voice raised in song. The bathroom door was unlocked. The shower partition had been drawn across, but he peeked round the end of it, enjoying the spectacle of her gleaming back and the tight curves of her behind. He stared at the fading pink lines crisscrossing her buttocks, suddenly deeply roused by the memory of his own chastisement at the hands of that mystical six-foot Venus. ‘Shit! I thought I was kinky! Your new chums play rough, eh?’
Felicity was not in the least bit embarrassed. She slid back the glass partition and stepped out onto the mat. She almost touched him as she reached for a towel and began to dry herself. She smiled, and her dark eyes met his levelly, and with amusement. ‘Maybe I was a naughty girl,’ she purred.
He went to seize her, but his move lacked conviction.
She did not resist, just stood very still, and his hands fell away from her damp arms. ‘No fun and games?’ he asked, keeping his tone light.
‘No fun and games,’ she confirmed. ‘There really isn’t time.’ She dropped the towel on the floor, letting him get an unrestricted view of her nakedness. ‘Clean up after me, there’s a good lad.’ At the door she turned back towards him, with a smile that was full of affection. ‘But even if there was, there wouldn’t be, if you see what I mean. The games are over for us.’
She didn’t object when he followed her into her bedroom. She just carried on dressing quickly and efficiently, saying nothing.
John couldn’t stop himself. ‘What do you think about Mikey and your ex-lover?’ he said, suddenly wanting to spiteful.
The relationship between Michael and Stella Priest had been blazoned all over the tabloids, and was the source of numerous sniggering articles in a score of magazines. She gave no sign of being disturbed by his vindictive words. ‘They’re both my ex-lovers,’ she prompted gently. She sat at the dressing table and swiftly applied her light make-up. She selected a light and very short skirt of a summery thinness, and over it a more substantial jacket, in keeping with the chill March weather.
‘Don’t you mind?’ he was forced to probe.
She turned to him with her sunniest smile. ‘No, I don’t mind. I’m pleased for both of them. Perhaps they deserve each other. I’ll call later. I don’t know if I’ll be back tonight. Bye.’ She blew him a kiss and was gone.
He flung off the silk robe he had pulled on, and wandered naked into the kitchen. He felt irritably mean, and cheated. And also randily frustrated. He stared down at his penis, which immediately lifted and stiffened. He played with it, stirring his sexual longing further. He went back through to her bedroom, picking up the scattered evidence of her swift departure. The black briefs lay in a tiny crumpled bundle on the floor. He picked them up, held them against his lips, and savoured the tangy, perfumed smell of her.
His erection was aching. A sudden vivid recall came to mind, of Michael’s neat blond head at his loins, the feel of his lips around his prick, which jutted from the fragile silk and lace, just like the fragment he held in his hands now.
With a look of cruel determination, he moved towards the phone.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Felicity removed the dark glasses as she stepped out of the elevator. The hotel corridor was so cooled by the softly humming air conditioning that her bare arms, and scantily clad body beneath the gossamer stuff of her dress, were all goose bumps. Her skin was a pale honey colour from the Californian sun, which at that moment was beating down outside in steamy summer intensity. She had been here for almost three months now, filming for an American TV series which would prove far more profitable than her role in A Woman’s Touch.
She had been extremely reluctant to accept the offer when Yvonne had told her about it, and given her a copy of the pilot. ‘Oh, shit! No! Not another lezzy role, for God’s sake! I’m going to be typecast.’
‘You’re going to be a millionaire,’ Yvonne told her crisply. ‘And out there nobody’s going to give a toss what you are, my dear.’
But it was not her agent, or even herself, who would decide what she must do.
‘You’ll go,’ Magda said simply. ‘We don’t want you fading away from the public gaze. Far from it. And if you’re good we’ll let you fly back here for a weekend every month.’
To Felicity it was not an opportunity, but banishment. The tears and the passionate farewells were not exaggerated, for she felt desolate at being removed from that special world she had become a part of. ‘You’re so lucky,’ she told the other girls forlornly. ‘All I want is to stay here, like the rest of you. Always.’ Still, she had to admit there was a kind of thrill in knowing she held such a vital secret when she again moved out into the glare of the public domain.
‘It’s a series with a gay theme again, isn’t it?’ Mary Westerman leaned forward eagerly. She had asked Felicity to appear on her show as soon as the news of the signing had broken.
‘Well, yes,’ Felicity admitted, ‘but somewhat understated. At least compared with A Woman. It’s really a woman cop thing. Two partners who happen to have a relationship. We won’t be rolling about naked in the hay with our tongues down each other’s throats the whole time.’
‘Oh well. Never mind,’ Mary said cattily, and Felicity managed to keep the smile plastered on her face beneath the bright lights.
She had made several trips home since the filming had begun, but it was over the p
hone that Magda had called and given her simple instructions. Just a name, and a number. And that had led to this moment in the luxurious hotel. Her heart was thumping, and she realised how damply excited she was, the thrill heightened as always by that edge of nervousness. She tapped at the door.
She recognised the slim figure, the slightly wizened, watchful features of the man who opened to her. ‘Mr Dillman?’
He smiled, and nodded as he gestured for her to enter.
He held up his right hand and twirled the ring on his little finger. It was very familiar to her; she had seen its like on a number of privileged digits.
‘You want to see my credentials?’ So saying, she turned, lifted the back of the flimsy dress, and bent forward a little. She was wearing a white G-string, so he didn’t have to lower the tiny garment to open the cheeks of her bottom and observe the little letters marking the inner surfaces.
‘There was no need,’ he chuckled, ‘but never let it be said that I passed up the chance to feel such a cute gal’s fanny. And such a famous piece of ass, too!’
She shrugged modestly, and was about to make a witty reply when she remembered she was there as a Daughter, and not as Felicity Keynes, the hot little Brit movie star who was the latest talk of Hollywood. A Woman’s Touch had been screened over here only a few weeks ago, and was still the subject of sizzling gossip wherever she went.
‘I was talkin’ to the Grand Master,’ Matthew Dillman continued, ‘and he said he’d be in touch. And here we are, huh? Just a little job for you, honey, and I know you’ll be hot for it. One of my companies got this merger planned. Mega-bucks, sweetheart, and I mean mega! But there’s a lot of wheelin’-dealin’ involved. We need some financial backin’ to see this one through, and we’re gonna get it. But we’ve got this young feller negotiatin’ - a true blue Brit, like yourself. We gotta keep him sweet, sugar, and there ain’t no one sweeter ‘n you.’ He leered at her. ‘He’d mortgage the moon for us if he thought he could get into your panties, honey. And that’s just what we’re gonna let him do.’ He chuckled. ‘Not buy the old moon for us, but somethin’ just as big, as far as he’s concerned, and that’s to lay you. Screwin’ Felicity Keynes. Imagine! He’d be ready to cut off his pecker and donate it to science after a night with you.
‘It’s all fixed, honey.’ He held up his right hand, as though swearing an oath. ‘All very discreet, don’t you worry. Not a soul will know. And he’s quite a hunk, so you should enjoy it too. Tomorrow night, here. This is the suite. Limo will pick you up from your place at seven-thirty.’
She nodded, made to leave, but he called her to him. He was sitting in a chair by the window, where the sunlight was streaming in. He drew her close, so that she was standing between his slack knees. He slid his hands up her bare legs, feeling her thighs, then on up inside the dress, cupping her bare buttocks, digging his fingers in tightly. ‘Yes, indeedy! You sure are one mighty piece of ass.’ His hands slid round, explored the tiny triangle of satin over her mound, his fingers stroking the curls he could feel under the gauzy material. He flipped the elastic down so that her mound was exposed, and let his fingers ferret through all the moist furrows, inserting them inside the dampening divide, seeking out the throbbing clitoris until she gasped and thrust her belly forward.
Slowly, he peeled the G-string down, off her hips, then pushed it down her legs, and she stepped out of it. ‘Strip off, kid,’ he murmured hoarsely. She lifted the dress, drew it off over her head, and stood there, her body bathed in the shaft of sunlight, until he scooped her up with a roar and fell with her onto the wide bed. Concerned only with his own urgent appetite, he clawed himself out of his trousers and underpants. He grabbed her wrist and guided her hand to his rampant prick, jutting squatly from his shirtfront.
She swivelled round, working the column all the time with slow, vigorous strokes, and crouched, her behind raised, her lips peeling apart to slide over his glistening helm and take all that tangy prick into her suckling wetness. He filled her throat. She tasted his fluids, mingling with her saliva. She felt his mighty surge, withdrew her lips swiftly, and squeezed the root to prevent him ejaculating too soon. Rolling onto her back she spread her thighs and gratefully took his plunging length. The penetration was just in time to feel the powerful flood of his coming, which triggered her own exquisite climax.
Chapter Twenty-Five
‘Wait a minute, kid. If we can’t have the real thing, we’ve got to fake it. Right?’
Nicki Lowther grimaced, squinting against the brilliance of the big arc lamp. The squat Arabian looking figure waved his assistant over, a girl as swarthy as he was, but whose long frizzed hair had a sun-bleached copper tint. She smiled at Nicki, who was lying propped up on her elbows on the cushions. She was friendly enough, Nicki thought. And why not? Only half an hour before that coppery head had been planted firmly between her thighs, working away greedily, with a relish which was by no means assumed for the rolling camera hovering over her shoulder.
She’d be glad when she got out of this porno pic, she decided. She moved obediently when the director’s hand pushed at her inner thigh, exposing her shaved mons and the divide of her labia, where he was carefully smearing a pearly thick fluid meant to represent the semen of her male co-star, who was sadly incapable of producing the real stuff at this seminal moment. Maybe it wasn’t a substitute. Maybe it was the real thing after all, milked from some other worthy donor behind the blinding light.
Nothing would surprise her about this outfit. None of the guys had really prodded her in front of the camera. Some of them had been massively equipped, true, and had got it up where it was supposed to go all right, for a few vital pistoning thrusts, then it was a case of cut and run. Out they went, and the magic died before she’d had a chance to register anything except the shock of their entry.
The girls were better. Especially this sultry gypsy, or whatever she was. Her name was Laila, and there were no problems of faking it there. She had a tongue that slithered about like a snake, together with fingers that knew exactly where to go and which buttons to press. It was the only bit of this sad movie that they hadn’t faked, for Hamid had just left them to get on with it and, after a time, Nicki didn’t even notice the camera crawling around them.
‘I have to do everything round here,’ Hamid grumbled, handing Laila the dish of whatever and wiping his hands on a towel. Carefully, he positioned Nicki’s limbs, lifting a knee, pushing the thighs a little further apart to highlight what lay between. ‘Okay. Now lie back. And look well fucked. Right? Action!’
Well pissed, more like, Nicki thought, as she lowered her head and parted her painted lips, assuming an expression of what she hoped would pass for replete gratification.
Resentment surfaced once more as she showered the sticky goo and the heavy body make-up off in the tiny shower afterwards. It was boiling hot in the big barn-like studio where they made these flies, except for the outside locations, kept to a minimum, which had to be shot in some godforsaken spot at about five o’clock in the chilly summer mornings. She was sure that superbitch Stella had been putting in a very effective oar to spoil her blossoming career. Decent offers should have come rolling in after her appearance in A Woman’s Touch, even though the part was small. But no. Nothing. She had been forced to go back to modelling, and even then none of the big names would touch her. Which was why she had turned to the nude modelling. Just to tide her over, she had assured herself, but it had gone on out of necessity until it had led to this.
Well, at least she was a star, she told herself ironically, even if no one would remember her face. Plenty of other bits for them to look at!
She was startled when the tall figure approached her as she made her way to the car park and her waiting taxi. ‘Can I give you a lift?’ it said.
Ten minutes later, in the back of a chauffeur driven Mercedes, her brain was whirling as she studied the charismatic woman who was sitting cosily close to h
er. ‘Oh, yes,’ the deep voice purred, ‘we know a great deal about you. My partner’s very interested in you. We think we could help your career a great deal.’ An immaculately manicured hand with dark red nails fell on her black jeaned thigh, and stayed there, the fingers pressing a clear if unspoken message. And the moist flesh beneath the crotch of those jeans responded traitorously.
Before the car was back in the choked arteries of the city itself, Nicki had fallen entirely under the spell of this spectacular creature. She exuded a power, and not just because of her splendidly gigantesque frame or the beauty of that smoothly open face. There was an aura about her, a strength that Nicki felt herself instinctively and willingly surrendering to. She was captivated, entranced, the damp patch at her crotch transformed to a swamp by her emotive response.
‘Of course, my dear, it means a lot of discipline. It means putting yourself completely in my hands. Doing exactly what I tell you, without question.’ One of those hands had moved now, the long finger crooked under her chin, lifted Nicki’s worshipping gaze towards her, those smiling lips parted, honey sweet, close to her own. A shiver ran through the slender form at the words, which were themselves like a caress to that yearning centre.
‘Yes, of course,’ Nicki whispered reverently. ‘Anything you say.’
She would have been deliriously happy to know that her own answer elicited a very similar response between those powerful thighs nestled next to hers. Yet shocked, too, had she witnessed the physical reaction. For against a snugly reinforced triangle of supple leather embossed with silver, a seeping head and stubby column emerged from between brown folded lips and pulsed against its enfolding captivity, while Magda gave an imperceptible sigh of pleasure, and of exquisite torment.
