Made For Sex

by Joan Elizabeth Lloyd

  “Sounds perfect.” He signaled for the check and they were soon back in the limo, speeding through midtown Manhattan. In the elevator on the way up to Fran’s apartment, Jason removed Fran’s jacket and untied the strands of fabric that held the back of the blouse together. The shoulders slithered down her arms until she was bare to the waist.

  As he kissed her neck and shoulder, she said, “What if someone comes?’

  “Actually,” Jason said with a chuckle, “if someone comes it will be me. You ladies make me so hot.” He patted the crotch of his suit pants. “My little man is ready to go.”

  Fortunately, when the door opened at Fran’s floor no one was around. She let them into the apartment and they walked quickly into the guest room. “I would like you two to undress me first,” Jason said.

  Slowly, caressing his body as they went, Carla and Fran removed Jason’s clothes. Although he was quite pudgy, his body wasn’t unattractive. “Now,” he said, “may I return the favor?”

  First he undressed Carla, and then she suggested that she’d fill the tub while he undressed Fran. While Fran listened to Carla putter around in the bathroom, Jason almost reverently slid his hands over Fran’s still-bare breasts. “No one ever understands the beauty in small breasts. They seem to be obsessed with huge melons, like Louise had. Not that I’m averse to breasts in any size, but you, your body is so beautiful.” He leaned over and kissed Fran’s breast. “So beautiful.” He kissed her belly. “Take off your shoes. I love how tiny you are.”

  She quickly complied. The feeling of his near-worship of her body filled Fran with feelings of tender heat. She allowed her head to fall back and placed her hands on Jason’s naked hips while he caressed her. “You feel so good,” she said. “I love it when you touch me.”

  “And I love it when you tell me that you are enjoying what I do. Tell me more.”

  “Your hands are strong and so soft. They seem to be able to play my body like an instrument. It makes my knees tremble and my lips are getting swollen and so wet.”

  “Oh, baby,” he groaned. “Any more comments like that and I’ll come right now.”

  “Would that be so bad?” Fran asked as Jason pulled her blouse and skirt down until the garments puddled at her feet. Then he quickly rolled down stockings and removed them and her panties.

  “I never want to rush. That’s why the hot bath. It will slow my body down.” He took her hand and together they walked to the bathroom.

  Carla had already filled the huge tub with steaming water, and added some bath salts. “Oh my,” Jason said. “You are right. This tub is a dream come true.” He took Carla’s hand and, clasping fingers the three climbed into the warm water.

  For almost half an hour they soaped each other, rubbing and caressing, playing and teasing. They added more hot water from time to time, but finally all three were starting to shrivel. Jason asked Fran to sit on the edge of the tub and spread her legs. For long minutes, while Carla rubbed his back and shoulders, he licked and sucked Fran’s pussy. Then he urged Carla to sit on the tub and he lavished his affection on her cunt as well.

  “I think it’s time to get out,” he said, standing and allowing water to sluice off of his body. They got three enormous white towels and began to dry each other. Fran knelt at Jason’s feet, now eye level with his soft cock. “Using a towel seems like such a waste. Let me dry it this way.” She took him in her hands, caressed his cock, then placed it into her mouth.

  He gasped as Fran created a vacuum in her mouth and drew his cock further inside. “That’s not getting it dry,” he said. “But it sure feels wonderful.”

  His cock grew larger as Fran sucked. Soon he pushed her away. “Let’s go inside.” They spread towels on the bed and Jason stretched out. “This is every man’s fantasy,” he said, looking at the naked bodies of the two women. “You two are so beautiful. Carla, come here, and Fran, go back to what you were doing. You’re so good at that.”

  Soon, he had his face buried in Carla’s pussy, his hand rubbing her wet skin. His other hand was playing with Fran’s cunt while she sucked his cock. “Oh yes, baby,” he said, his cock growing firmer as the moments passed. “Did you bring everything?” he asked.

  “Of course,” Carla said.

  “Then first I want to watch you, Carla my love.”

  “I would like that.” While Fran lay with her cheek against Jason’s belly, he watched as Carla rubbed her cunt and pulled at her breasts. After several minutes, she said, “Help me, Jason.”

  Jason leaned over and pulled a thick dildo from Carla’s purse. Without hesitation, he rammed it home, then put his face between Carla’s legs. In only a few moments, she screamed as she climaxed. “Now do it for me,” he said, as Carla withdrew the dildo from her sopping pussy.

  Carla got her purse, then unrolled a condom over Jason’s now-hard cock. Then she put on a rubber glove. Jason lay on his back and grabbed Fran by the waist and lifted her until he could impale her on his member. Following his rhythm, she rose and dropped on his erection feeling him fill her pussy. “That feels wonderful,” she panted. “Don’t stop. Whatever you do don’t stop.”

  Suddenly she felt Carla drive a well-lubricated finger into her ass. “Oh my God,” she yelled.

  “Oh shit,” Jason cried, and Fran guessed that Carla had one finger in his ass as well.

  Now the movements of cock and fingers were coordinated so that when Jason’s cock filled her, the finger vanished and when she rose off of the cock, the finger thrust into her. The sensations were too much. “Oh God,” she yelled. “Don’t stop.”

  “Don’t you dare stop,” Jason screamed as she felt the first pulses of his climax. Hers was not far behind.

  Together, the three rested then Jason rose and dressed. “That was incredible. Carla, my sincere gratitude for introducing me to your wonderful playmate.” He took out a handful of bills and put them on the dresser. Fran wanted to tell him that she would have done this for nothing, but then again, this was Carla’s business.

  “It was truly wonderful,” she said.

  “Call me,” Carla said.

  “I will. And if you’re in town, Fran, I’d love to have you join us again.”

  “If I’m in town, I would love to.”

  “Carla, I assume you’ll get a cab later?”

  “You go ahead. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  It was a while later when Carla said, “You really have blossomed, Fran, or Nicki, or whoever you are.”

  “The name doesn’t matter anymore. I’m only one person.”

  “I really wish you lived here. We could have such fun together. Wasn’t this a gas?”

  “It certainly was.” She watched Carla rise and dress. Then Carla picked up the pile of bills and counted half for Fran.

  “You could make a nice living here, if you ever decided to move,” she said, putting the money on the bed table. “You could get a place, write and,” she winked, “earn a bit extra from time to time. I know you’d love Ronnie and she’d love you as well.”

  “Me. Living here in New York.”

  “You could pull it off. And what’s there for you in Omaha? A job in a video store?”

  “How are they going to keep them in Omaha after they’ve seen New York?”

  “How indeed? I’ll see you Saturday evening.”

  “You know with all this excitement, I almost forgot what I’m doing here.” She stretched. “Yes. Of course. See you Saturday. Cocktails begin at six.”

  Carla phoned a car service and, when the doorman buzzed that the car had arrived, she said, “You know, I will miss you like crazy when you go back to Omaha.”

  “God, I’ll miss you too. But maybe not for too long.”

  Carla stood and held her hands out in front of her. Slowly, she crossed the fingers of both hands. Then, with a breezy, “Good night,” she was gone.

  Move to New York, Fran thought. What an idea.

  Fran arrived at the Manhattan Sheraton at six-thirty Friday evening and m
ade her way up to the suite that Majestic Books had rented. As she entered, the room was already filled with more than two dozen people. Many were dressed in street clothes, but a few men were bare chested and barefoot, wearing very little to cover their obvious assets. She removed her trench coat and placed it on a chair.

  A man approached her. “You must be Nicki, and I’m to be your escort this evening.” He looked her over. “Nice outfit,” he said. She had to agree. She had rented a pink and green flowered sarong that draped seductively over one shoulder and across her breasts. It was cut to below the knee on one side and far up her hip on the other. She had arranged her hair so it was slicked back behind one ear, held there by several pins and a large blood-red orchid, exactly like the one on the cover of her book.

  She looked at the man who had spoken. “You look very familiar,” she said. “Do I know you?” He was very tall and bare to the waist with just a strip of bright red cloth around his loins. She had to admit that he had a gorgeous body, smooth and muscular, just the way she had described the island men in her book.

  “In a way. I’m on the back cover of The Love Flower.”

  Fran burst out laughing. “Of course. You’re the famous Marco. I’ve seen quite a number of your covers.”

  “Marco’s a stage name. Actually mine’s Brad. Brad Crajeski. And you’re gorgeous. They should have used you in that shot.”

  “Yeah,” Fran said, craning her neck despite her three-inch heels. “And I could have stood on a box for that kiss. How tall are you?”

  “I’m actually six one, but I say I’m five eleven and a half. It gets me better jobs.”

  “Well, Brad, I think we’re supposed to mingle.”

  And mingle they did. Eileen and Sandy were already there and they introduced Fran to their husbands, and then to several people with familiar names from the world of romance publishing. For more than two hours, she smiled, behaved slightly outrageously as Nicki would have and in general had a wonderful time.

  When, for the hundredth time, someone said, “Wow, that was quite a book,” she slipped out into the hall and took a few deep breaths.

  “You must be Nicki,” a woman’s voice said. She was wearing worn jeans and a plaid shirt, a wide-brimmed western hat and boots with high heels.

  “Yes,” Fran said patiently, extending a sore hand. “I’m Nichole St. Michelle. Thank you for coming.”

  “I just came to see the woman who wrote that piece of trash.” The woman’s eyes slid down her body, then back up to her face. “I expected you to look like a slut, and you do.” The smile was nasty and didn’t reach her eyes. “I just thought I’d take a look at the least of my competitors.”

  “Competitors?” Fran sputtered.

  “I’m Diane Barklay and I’ve got what I came for. I saw you and you look like someone who should have a nine-hundred exchange phone number tattooed on your chest with the words, ‘For a good time, call me.’ It’s nice to know that you write like the whore you are.” She glared at Fran. “Of course it does sell books to the perverted segment of our population. That’s why there are no people on the cover, so the weirdos can read it without anyone thinking they’re reading the pornography it really is.” She turned on her heel and strode away.

  Fran didn’t want to admit how shaken she was. Slut. The woman had called her a whore. In her mind she repeated, over and over, “Sticks and stones.” But the names had hurt her. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror across from the elevators. Who the hell was she? She was half dressed, here in a midtown hotel filled with tourists from the Midwest. And she was really a tourist from the Midwest and she did look like a whore. She had to admit that she had behaved like one for three weeks. She was seven kinds of fool. She brushed the moisture from her eyes. But she’d be back in Omaha where she belonged on Sunday afternoon and back at work the following day.

  She hurried back to the suite to say her goodbyes. She wanted no part of this anymore. Maybe she wouldn’t even show up for the damn awards ceremony. But no, she thought as she sought out Eileen and Sandy, each looking very conservative in spring suits, she owed it to them to at least show up. “Nicki, there you are,” Sandy said. “I want you to meet someone.”

  Fran plastered a smile on her face and prepared for the standard greeting, after which she would run for the hills. “This is Ty Gardener,” Sandy said. “He’s the CEO of Aurora Books and one of the judges.”

  Swell, Fran thought. One of those traditional, old-school, stuffy pillars of the publishing world. She turned and looked into a pair of sea green eyes. “Ms. St. Michelle,” the man said. “I’m delighted to meet you.”

  Fran took in the man’s deep brown hair with the white wings at the temples. “Mr. Gardener. It’s so nice to meet you.”

  “Let’s eliminate this formal Mr. and Ms. stuff. I’m Ty.”

  Fran smiled in spite of herself. “I’m Nicki.” His handshake was firm and she winced slightly.

  “You know, I should learn not to do that, shake hands with authors at these things, that is. Your hand must be sore after shaking everyone’s paw this evening. How many people do you figure you’ve greeted?”

  She felt her shoulders relax a bit. “Several thousand, or at least it feels that way.”

  When they had been silent for a moment, Sandy jumped in. “Ty is one of the new stars in publishing. But don’t let him sucker you in. Your next book is ours.”

  “Of course, Sandy,” Ty said.

  “Ty’s on the judging committee because Aurora’s Heavenly Hosts won last year.”

  “Do you have any of your books nominated this year?” Fran asked.

  “No, or I would have declined to judge. And I’ve read all the books. I’m really very impressed with your talent, Nicki.”

  After what Diane had said, his remark struck her as hilarious so Nicki’s laugh was immediate. “Thanks for the kind words.” The wine she had been drinking and the fact that her emotions were so close to the surface made her add, “But I don’t believe a word of it.”

  The startled expression on Ty’s face was genuine. “Excuse me?”

  “I’m really sorry. I just had someone tell me the truth about the book. My ears are still ringing.”

  When Ty took her hand, she realized that it was cold as ice in his warm one. He led Fran to a pair of chairs at the side of the room. “Why don’t you tell me what someone told you.”

  Her voice shaking with a combination of embarrassment and deep sadness, Fran dutifully repeated Diane’s words without revealing her identity. When she finished, she wondered why she was talking about this most difficult subject to a perfect stranger. She blinked rapidly to control the tears that threatened to spill over.

  “Nice looking woman, maybe in her thirties, in a western outfit?”

  When Fran nodded, Ty continued, “Listen, Nicki, you must have been talking to Diane Barklay. I recognize the vitriol. She’s been stirring up trouble for weeks. She’s a very frustrated woman who’s been nominated for the second time and wants this award more than anything else. I talked with her for a while earlier and she all but offered me her body in exchange for my vote. I don’t know why it’s so important to her and we could play psycho babble all evening to try to figure it out, but why bother. Suffice it to say that she’s not a disinterested party.”

  “But the book’s still pornography.”

  “Let’s define the terms here. What’s pornography to you?”

  “Trashy. Dirty. Kinky.”

  “And?”

  “And the book’s full of sex. I just thought I was adding a little spice to the story.”

  “You did. And that’s just great. People enjoy reading your book. Look at the sales.”

  “Yes, but most of them are reading it to get turned on.”

  “So?”

  Fran hesitated. What was so bad about a book that turned readers on? This was fiction and fiction was designed to rouse emotion. So what if hers aroused more than that.

  Ty smiled and continued
to hold Fran’s hand. “I can see the wheels turning. Are there people who will take offense at your writing? Probably. Are there people who think Stephen King and Dean Koontz are too violent? Definitely. Are there people who want Jackie Collins’ books banned. Of course. So what?”

  Fran took a deep breath. He was right.

  “And why do you think The Love Flower was nominated for The Madison Prize. It’s a well-written, well-constructed romance novel. Is it more explicit than the ones we usually honor? Yes. But that didn’t prevent us from considering it and considering it quite seriously.”

  Another sigh. “I guess.”

  “And I assume you write because you enjoy it, not to be nominated for some prize. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “Well Nicki, then write. Because you want to. And I hope to see more books like this from you. As an author you’ve got a clear voice that says, ‘Hot, enjoyable coupling is okay,’ and that’s an important message. For everyone.” He winked, took her hand and, with a flourish, kissed it.

  Fran blushed. Everything he said made sense. Nicki’s existence made sense. And Nicki made her happy so what was wrong with that. She returned the squeeze of her hand. “Thanks. As they say in the cliché films, ‘I needed that.’ And what you say makes wonderful sense.”

  “I’m so glad. So whether your book wins or loses makes very little difference. And, by the way, I have no clue. We’ll meet tomorrow afternoon to decide. But remember this. You’ve got a great voice and a valuable message. Don’t stop writing.”

  Together they stood up and, feeling wonderfully refreshed, Fran returned to Sandy and Eileen. “What was that all about? Do you know who’s going to win? Did he tell you anything?”

  “He told me a lot, but it had nothing to do with who’s going to win. We won’t know that until tomorrow evening.”

  Back in the apartment that evening, Fran put in a call to her mother in Colorado. “Is something wrong?” her mother asked quickly. “You usually call on Sundays.”

  “I know, Mom, but I’ve got something I probably should have told you long ago.”

  “Oh my.” Her mother’s voice was suddenly filled with concern.