by Alexis Angel
“This was…fucking amazing,” he whispers after a long time, turning to me and laying one hand atop my right breast, his fingers gently caressing my sensitive nipple.
“It was better than that. So much better.”
“So, this beats being a workaholic, doesn’t it?”
“It sure does,” I laugh, allowing the hand I have on his chest to go down his body; it only stops when I find his hard twelve-inches, all of his length already waiting for me again. “I guess you’ll turn me into a sex addict instead.”
“Challenge accepted,” he grins, pulling me into his naked body and kissing me again.
Challenge accepted, indeed.
Alexis and WineBar #10
It was lunch time when WineBar came back into San Francisco and I met him at the Hog Island Oyster Company.
He ordered me tequila and got himself a Tito’s on the rocks.
And he handed me a key.
“It’s to our new house in Miami,” he said. “I rented it and we can move there temporarily while we look for a place.”
I was stunned.
“But my parents live here,” I said. “They’re getting older. My family lives here. I have to live here.”
WineBar and I had talked about this before. I’d told him how I needed to be around my family.
Family was everything to me.
My aunts and uncles—many of them worked two jobs just to make ends meet. They couldn’t afford daycare.
I’d been babysitting my little nieces and nephews for a while.
I couldn’t just back out of that.
I had to stay.
“Don’t you want to be with me?” he asked, getting angry.
“I do. But can’t you stay here? Is Miami that important?” I asked, tears falling freely.
“It’s my life that’s over there!”
“What about it always being me?” I whispered.
WineBar was silent.
We stared at each other. Mascara was rolling down my cheeks.
And he came over and hugged me.
Kissed the top of my head.
Then without a word, he turned around and walked away.
Allana & Derek
One
Allana
I’m so fucking bored. Another day hanging around in my apartment.
No jobs on the horizon. Not that I need the money, but I need to be fucking stimulated, for fuck’s sake.
Ten years of modeling, and I’m reduced to this. Keeping my own goddamn company.
I remember when I moved into this building eight years ago. I was so excited.
Cash was just falling out of my pockets, and I couldn’t wait to move in with such a hip crowd. Now I find them all mortifyingly annoying.
Well, most of them.
My phone does its jingle thing, and I pull myself up from the big white couch. White chairs, white curtains, white everything. Hardwood floors in golden honey and lots of light.
I love it as much now as I did years ago.
I’m hoping the phone is a job, but it’s not. It’s Emilia.
“Hey, babes! How’s it cookin?”
I’m so happy for any distraction. Fuck, I sound like one of those positive people.
“Hey,” Emilia says.
Even through the phone, I can tell she’s upset. Her voice just has that sound to it—like she’s either just finished crying or she’s trying not to start.
“Wanna go out tonight?” she asks.
Oh, Jesus, fuck. I’m in over my head now.
“Evan problems?” I say, picking up one of my magazines for a look-through.
Excellent black and white shoot. I look incredible. This photographer really knows his shit.
I thought black and white would wash me out—long, dark brown hair, brown eyes, and pale skin. He’s a fucking genius of grey tones, though.
“Not anymore. So are we going out or what?”
“Nope. Uh-uh. Sorry babe, but you know I can’t support this. You two are being idiots—you know that, right?”
“He’s being the idiot,” Em argues. “I’m totally justified in every way, not at fault at all—et cetera, et cetera.”
“Yeah, uh-huh.” I roll my eyes. “Call me when you guys are back together, and we’ll talk.”
Like, I don’t believe in this soul mate shit, but if there have ever been two people who are meant for each other, it’s those two dummies.
I pick up the magazine again. I’d like to work with this photographer again. He was awesome, and not just with editing.
He really knew how to position me so my tits and pussy looked just delicious. I’m getting older now—not that thirty-two is old, no fucking way!—but it certainly helps to have someone that understands angles.
Three hours of soft touching and instructions, and I couldn’t figure if he was wicked professional or just gay.
When did I start doing nudes? When all the good face shot jobs got taken.
When I got told I was ‘too tall’ for a runway. Too tall…ever heard of a model who was too fucking tall? For fuck’s sake.
It’s not like nudes or porn is difficult. The first one was, for awhile.
It was outside on a cliff near a beach. We went out early to catch the light and because it would be quieter, or so the photographer said.
Yeah, quieter. Except for the fisherman and the joggers and the drunks waking up.
None of that mattered, though. Once the cool breeze started stroking me in the dawn light, and I realized I was naked—fucking bare-assed!—out on a cliff getting pictures taken of my gorgeous pussy, I was fucking thrilled.
Hence the current boredom. Haven’t had a fix in awhile.
I decide to wander down and check my mail. Might be a few magazines or offers.
I don’t bother changing. Instead, I just throw a cardigan over my grey singlet and slacks. I don’t give a fuck what any of these dicks think of me.
I’m still on that thought, lingering over the mail, thinking about ignoring the others hard enough. Maybe then they won’t actually say hi to me.
Who does that anyway? I don’t get people walking around saying hi to people they don’t know.
From the corner of my eye, I see a flash of dark blue, and my head turns before I can stop it. I get a nice quick look of the tall form, toned butt sliding under the expensive fabric as he goes through the door. He’s on the phone, briefcase in hand, trying to ignore the other occupants as I do.
Derek. Oh, my fucking god. Derek!
The only guy I have ever seen tall enough to look me in the eye. Not that we have—I mean, we’ve seen each other, but since we ignore every other creature in the building, it’s not like we say hi.
He’s got a really hectic schedule. Works for some advertising agency. Hell, he has probably seen my centerfolds.
I frown, clutching my mail and heading upstairs. Wish I hadn’t thought of that.
I’m confident as hell, and I love my job. I don’t bow to anybody, and I don’t accept judgments from society about anything I do.
But that Derek. He’s hot. I heard he does four hours a day at the gym, as well as twelve-hour work days.
He will more than likely marry some picture-perfect princess who wears elegant flowery dresses and big, wide-brimmed hats, someone who smiles sweetly when random people say hi.
A guy like that doesn’t need a modeling reject. Why would he? He can see it all for free in one of my centerfolds.
Just thinking about his deep blue eyes roving over the pages of my centerfolds gets me wet.
Where does he look first? What does he want to touch the most? Even if he wouldn’t marry me, would he still fuck me?
Two
Derek
I’m late for fucking work again.
This shits me seriously. I must have slept through my alarm. I know I’ve been working too hard.
I’m so fucking pissed off with myself. So much so that I consider not going in.
I closed a sixty milli
on dollar deal yesterday. Imagine what the commission is on that.
I made a deal with myself, though. Work like a dog for five years. Then buy that yacht and sail…and sail fucking anywhere.
No more city, no more stress.
I have more than enough money now. That’s not what’s pushing me out the door. The drive is the kill, the close.
Knowing my ideas are better. My mouth is quicker. My instincts are spot on, at all times.
There’s nothing like utterly slaughtering the competition in the board room.
So I hurry. I’m on the phone as I hit the bottom of the stairs, but I’m distracted from my conversation for a few seconds when I see Allana at the mail boxes.
Even though I’m late, I slow down so my eyes can linger over her body as I go through the foyer.
Fuck me. She looks fucking incredible.
Soft white slacks that hug her just right. Long dark hair. Most women don’t wear their hair that long anymore—right down to her ass.
And what an ass she has. Her top half drapes in a soft, wavy way. It hangs off her angles and curves, accenting her instead of hiding her.
She’s looking intently at her mail, and I’m on the phone, so I just keep moving.
Who am I kidding? That’s what I always do. Talking to her would be a waste of time.
She’s obviously living the high life of a top model. At her age, she’s hitting her sexual peak and probably has armloads of toy boys. Young dicks that have nothing to do but get it up over and over again for a goddess like her.
I don’t open deals I can’t close. It’s as simple as that.
You have to see them coming. Know which battles to fight. Allana is one hot fucking woman…
The approach has to be completely right for any chance of success. I’m not sure I want to hear her say she’s not interested. Do you know how many sluts I’d have to bang to erase that?
I remember seeing the pictures from that black-and=white shoot. I stride down the street now, putting my phone away and hoping my cock doesn’t decide to give me away.
I had been eating lunch at my desk—as usual—when some pictures came through from one of the magazines for editing approval.
I have no fucking clue how many magazines we produce or sell ad space for. That’s not important to me.
I just make deals. I don’t know why the pictures had come to my inbox, although some of the guys have a private network for that type of thing.
Honestly, I don’t think much when I see nude pictures in my files. I’m usually too busy.
But Allana’s picture…well. It got my fucking attention.
I had lingered over those shots for a good half hour. Forgot all about my salad and whole meal with a protein shake.
She was just painted on that page. Bending over, peeking around her leg. Lying on white sheets with one finger between her pussy lips.
She was cradling her breasts. Such amazing tits for someone so tall and slender. And what an ass.
The grin on her face and the confident look in her eyes. From that black-and-white page, she had stared into me.
I had never seen such deep eyes.
She’s beautiful, that’s undeniable, but the thought of those eyes staring into me while I’m fucking her…
Oh god. She’s something else.
I had moved into The Bradford not long after. I’d only been there a month when I saw her for the first time.
I was coming into the foyer as she walked out, wearing a tight black dress with a loose skirt. She was just putting on her sunglasses, and if I had been two minutes later, I would have missed her eyes.
Without them, I wouldn’t have recognized her.
For just a few seconds, she had looked at me. Right into me. It was the same slightly passive yet also very amused expression she had used on the page.
It was a look that said, ‘Think you can take me, soldier?’
I would’ve liked to fucking try, that’s for sure.
I know it’s useless. She’d be so bored with me. My twelve-hour days and constant meetings.
She needs someone who’ll attend to every inch of that soft skin. I know I’m just too driven. I don’t want to choose between work and her.
No doubt she would have the same dilemma. With a body and a face like that, she must be on photo shoots all day.
I put the idea out of my mind. I have three big deals on today, as well as a couple of smaller ones. I want to hit home runs on every single one of them.
There’s competition from other companies as well as within my own. I jump into a taxi, and go over the details in my mind.
I need to remember the complexities of each client, setting myself up mentally for the day.
But my cock does not sit down, nor does it shut up.
I close my eyes for a second and indulge.
Seeing her standing at the mail boxes. Walking up behind her, stroking her shoulders. Pulling her back against me to smell that long hair.
Feeling her curves rub up against me. Are her tits as soft and firm as they look? Of course they are.
Would she give me that dull, ‘Fuck you’ look as I come inside her? God, I fucking hope so.
Looks like I might have to blow off a deal or two and hit the gym. This tension isn’t going to be solved by a hard walk to work.
Three
Allana
I spent the day shopping online. I was on for like six hours, and I can’t remember what I bought.
Clothes. Jewelry.
I adore this new age. I can buy stuff and not have to interact with people.
I decide to really treat myself and order a celebration hamper from a fancy spot. Champagne, roses, strawberries, and an incredible box of fine chocolates. It will be here in a few hours.
I run a very warm bath and put on a face mask with eye treatment. There’s nothing better in this world than a bath and some pampering on a boring day.
I go over my legs gently with cream soap. They’re hairless, perfect. Recent wax jobs at one of the city’s best salons.
Even my toenails are perfect. And my pussy is a thing of beauty, too, perfectly waxed with a very small, neat ‘V’ of dark brown hair.
All this bounty, and no one to enjoy it.
I rub conditioning oil into my hair and lay back in the warm bubbles. A sappy love song plays on the radio.
Love is bullshit. Trust me, I tried it. I like money and my own company far better.
It doesn’t have to be love, though.
While I’m resting back in the hot water, I can’t stop thinking of Derek. Of him peeling off those gorgeous luxury suits of fine fabric to show me the hard man underneath.
I would love to rub oil onto his skin. Gently. Over a matter of hours…while he’s tied up.
My hand slips beneath the bubbles. I lean back in the water and let my legs fall open.
I’ll work on him for hours with the slippery hot oil until his cock is hard and straining. Push my tits in his face, almost close enough to touch with his tongue, but not quite.
Massage his balls while they’re all slippery with oil.
And finally, slide on to him and work him slowly while he begs for me.
Even though I have everything just the way I like it, I can’t come. Part of my brain refuses to engage.
The cock’s only in your mind, honey. It’s not real. Do you really think that’s enough?
Oh, if pussies could talk. Fuck, that would be awkward.
I rinse my hair slowly, scrub off the mask, and rub lots of soft cream on my face. I like to walk around naked when drying off. It’s really good for the skin.
Once I start to feel cool, I rub honey moisturizer onto my whole body, taking time with small, circular strokes.
When your body is your money maker, you find all sorts of ways to optimize it.
I had hoped to distract myself, but if anything, I’m more frustrated than ever. My clit is throbbing, just lightly, but enough to be really fucking annoying.
If I think about my pussy at all, it immediately starts to get wet. I don’t want to think about how long it’s been since I had sex.
I don’t want to think about Derek.
But I can’t help it. I’m thinking about Derek.
I go to the closet and think about what to wear. Maybe I should just walk downstairs naked.
Then, I realize…I’ve practically already decided to try and meet him in the foyer.
That’s what this whole beauty routine was all about.
But what exactly am I going to do? He won’t notice me. He’ll be running, two steps at a time, his focus on his phone.
If I go down naked, maybe I’ll get a glance. Or maybe not.
But my bod is all ready for action now. It needs a fine garment to set it off. I rifle through all my clothes, not sure what to pick.
Grey dress with pleated skirt? Gold silk sheath? White peasant dress?
With a little gasp, I pull out an old beauty from the back of the rack. It’s a short shirt dress that buttons up the front.
Almost the same kind I imagine Derek’s future wife would wear. Except it’s not pastel; it’s black with bright red poppies.
I slip into it and button up the front. I like feeling naked under it, knowing only one small, fragile line of buttons stands between me and total nudity.
The bell rings, and I hurry to answer it.
It’s my hamper arriving. The delivery boy is too young to interest me, even though he looks me over appreciatively. Maybe even expectantly.
Who knows what tasty bits delivery boys get into? But I’m not even slightly enticed.
Some other day, punk. I’m not in the mood to break a greenhorn today.
I want a man. A real man. One who’s big in every way and knows how to fuck.
I pour some champagne and bite into a strawberry. I demolish half the box of fine chocolates with three more glasses in between eating strawberries.
Lucky the hamper came with two bottles of Moet. It seems one’s not enough.
