When I asked her what got her hot, I assumed it would be the usual fantasy—getting taken for a meal, or the cinema, kissed on the neck, massage maybe leading to some sensual lovemaking. I was not ready for her actual answer.
She told me she liked to think of men wrapping their palms around their cocks and beating themselves off then telling her about it.
I mean, I’d never heard a woman say that before. I usually focus on their pleasure, making sure they come before me, almost my mission. I mean, I love it, it’s not that I don’t think of my own pleasure, it’s just, I don’t want to disappoint or leave a woman unsatisfied so my orgasm, or journey to orgasm has never really ‘been a thing’. Like, I know I’m going to come. That’s a given really. Even if things don’t turn out the way the evening led us to believe and we part ways, I can end my night in a wank if I like. But it will be a quick solo hand job to ease the burden, not some sort of seduction.
But this, this, this is different. She’s got me thinking differently. Almost as if I’ve reversed roles.
We had finished eating dinner, and as the waiter poured the first glass from the second bottle, she asked me, “What do you think about when you wank?”
I spluttered out wine over my empty plate and looked cagily to the waiter who thankfully retreated discreetly.
“Wh… what?” I asked wondering if maybe I’d misheard. Her expression, like that of the ‘cat that got the cream’ told me I’d heard her perfectly.
“I said…” she leaned in and pretended to pick fluff of the front of my shirt. I could smell her sweet wine breath with hints of the rich garlic sauce we’d just consumed. “What do you think about when you wank?” On the last word her gaze met mine and she licked her lips slowly.
“Well…” I shifted in my seat, we hadn’t even fucked yet. Though she was by far the most sexual woman I’d ever met. The promise of a good time in bed cascaded from her. She oozed sensuality and intrigue and I could not get enough. “I don’t know.”
She raised her left eyebrow in a way that told me my answer would not do.
“I mean, I never really thought about it.”
She sighed. “Well, Sylvan, if you don’t know what you think about when you wank, how will I know you’ll be any good in bed?”
“What?” Her question made no sense. “How does that follow?”
“I like a man to know himself. Really know himself.” She took me in, her seductive brown eyes easing over my face then shoulders then shirt buttons. I think I could imagine what she was thinking right now.
“Why don’t I show you how much I know myself…” I said, it was a risky strategy. We’d been playing this flirty game for four dates now and the yearning I had to feel my body slip inside hers was becoming unbearable. It was like the dating equivalent of edging and I felt like I was going to blow.
By the way she stiffened ever so slightly, I knew I’d been too crass. Fuck. I could have kicked myself. It’s not like I wasn’t enjoying what we had on this level. I was, I really was. And I’m no stranger to sexual denial or that glorious build up—that tease. It makes things all the better when they did finally happen.
“Sorry… I…”
“It’s ok. I’ve been called worse than a prick tease.”
“Wait, I didn’t say anything of the sort.” It was my turned to be pissed off.
We’d managed to break the spell we’d so carefully been casting over the past few weeks. A delicate web of arousal, desire, denial and back and forth.
“OK listen. I’ll tell you what I’m going to do to myself tonight and what I’ll be thinking about, and then on our next date, I want you to tell me what you did and what you thought of,” she said as if trying to pull the mood back.
“OK…” I was a bit sceptical, but let’s face it, her fucking gorgeous body and fuck-me eyes would provide plenty of food for… thought… if you will.
“And don’t say you were thinking of me, that’s predictable and sycophantic. I can’t be bothered with that.”
Jesus. I was beginning to feel my potential hardon soften. This was starting to feel like something other than a flirtation. I exhaled and sank back into my chair. She was losing me now. If this was how it was to be before we’d even fucked, imagine what a relationship might be like. I tried to formulate a break up sentence that wouldn’t sound like I was butt hurt about not getting sex. It had gone beyond that. I felt a bit insulted to be honest.
“Listen, Jenny… I…”
She looked suddenly shocked.
“Oh fuck, Sylvan, that sounded terrible I’m sorry.” She clasped her hand to her mouth and looked genuinely regretful of her words. But her eyes sparkled behind her palm and I knew she was smiling. What the fuck?
“Shit Sylvan, what a fucking arrogant prick I sound like,” she said but she was laughing. “I didn’t mean… I mean… oh god. I haven’t explained myself.”
She kept smiling and reached for her wine but the pulse at clavicle gave her away. She was nervous now.
“OK, so explain.” I took a swig from my own glass but kept my gaze firmly upon her.
“What I mean is.” She sighed again, as if to compose herself. “I want you to focus solely on you. How your dick feels as you wrap your fingers around it, coaxing it into life. The velvety skin sheath skating over your shaft as it becomes engorged. I want to know what goes through your mind as the first pulse of blood begins to plump out the flesh, your prick becoming heavy and swollen, thick with arousal.” She paused to swallow and touch her fingertips to her décolleté, her glaze flicking down my shirt buttons one at a time as if she could open them with her mind. “I want you to take notice. I want you to really take notice of how your body responds to your own touch.”
Well, fuck. I could start telling her that it was most certainly responding right now. But not to my touch, to her words. Shit. My dick was now straining into my dress trousers, pressing against the rough seam of my boxers. It felt… it felt tight and stifled and fucking sexy. I began to understand. She was getting me to really think about what was happening—to take in the physiology of my body and weird as it sounds, it was turning me on even more.
My thoughts drifted to her body. And her arousal. What was it like for her to do this?
“Ok, I think I get the idea.” I shifted in my seat again to signal that I definitely got the idea.
She smiled, knowing exactly what had happened.
“And you?”
“Me?” she replied cocking her head to the side as if she had forgotten everything we’d just been talking about.
“Yes, you were going to tell me what you’re going to do to yourself tonight and what you’ll be thinking about.”
“So I was.” She grinned.
“But you better not say you’ll be thinking of me. That’s predictable and sycophantic. I can’t be bothered with that.”
“Touché.” She held my gaze unwaveringly and reached out to take my hands in hers over the empty dinner plates. “I will most definitely be touching myself tonight. And I’m sorry to say, you’ve ruined my plan as I will also, most definitely be thinking of you. And your beautiful thick dick, with your hands and fists wrapped around it, while I reach down between my legs, my skirt bundled up. I know I’ll barely make it through my front door before I finger fuck myself.”
Jesus. My cock was almost painful and I had to adjust my position. She didn’t miss a thing and raised that sexy eyebrow again, knowing precisely what she was doing to me.
“I will slam back onto the front door diving my hands beneath my skirt and pull my drenched knickers to one side, plunging my fingers right in to my sopping cunt.”
Her voice was a raspy whisper, she’d kept the volume low so the surrounding tables wouldn’t hear, but part of me wished someone would—if only to bear witness and let me know I hadn’t fallen into some fantasy sex dream. This woman was fucking incredible. Erotic words dripped from her filthy slick mouth like cherries on the breeze and I ate them up, their succulent sweet flesh sliding into me. Goosebumps skittered down my nape and over my shoulders as I witnessed her nipples stiffen and bead beneath her blouse.
“Then what,” I breathed, barely a sound came out.
“Then I’d push three fingers from my left hand deep inside as far as I could while frigging my stout clit with the other. My plump lips pouting and glistening as I stare at myself in the mirror placed opposite.”
“What do you see?”
“I see a dishevelled cock hungry desperate woman with her cunt full and her body burning, her eyes wild with feral desire.”
“What are you thinking?”
“Well, Sylvan, I’m thinking, fuck. Fuck. That man has ruined me. He has turned me into this dripping mess of a woman. I can’t control my thoughts I can’t bring them back I…”
And she leaned in, cupping the back of my head in her palm and pulled me into her, crashing her lips against mine. Our kiss was a furnace of lust and desire. We were the centre of the universe.
And then, we broke free. We broke free and went our separate ways with promises of our orgasm stories for tomorrow.
So now I’m here, at the pool in the hotel. She refused my invitation to my room as I knew she would. I didn’t push it, much as my body was screaming at me to bring her to bed, let me sink into that body, and I thought she might have even said yes on the second ask, but I also wanted to try her experiment.
It’s late. There’s nobody here, in fact, I’m not even meant to be here but the door had been left unlocked. I’d turned on the lights and cast my gaze around the flickering room to make sure there was no obvious CCTV. The hotel is only small, this ‘spa’ the main draw so I can’t think they’ve spent any more budget installing security.
Once last look around and I take of my boxers and sit on the edge, dipping my feet into the cool shimmering water. It’s soothing and the cold momentarily pulls me out of my sexy thoughts. But the sloshing noises quickly get me thinking about her. Her moist, juicy pussy soaking through her knickers at the restaurant. Oh my god. To not think about her might be a challenge too far. My cock grows, blood plumping the cells, making it harder. I try to pay attention, try to be present as it swells and my balls lift and tighten between my legs. I want to be able to describe these sensations tomorrow. The fluttering feeling. The tightening, pulsing, the heaviness. I reach into the water, scooping up a palmful and drizzle it over my now hard cock. I shudder as it splashes down my shaft, tingling between my balls. I wrap my fingers around my dick and run the flat of my thumb over the head, the dip of my slit where precum oozes.
Oh to have her lips wrapped around me, her plump ripe pout sheathing her teeth as she devours me, owns me. Will I press my hand to the back of her head? Or will she take charge and suckle me deep. A tingle runs down my spine and I tug my cock up, dragging my balls too. It feels good. It feels good to take my time like this, nestling into sensation.
I grip a little harder, feeling the ripple of blood tense my dick further. I squeeze near the tip and yet more precum oozes to the tiny basin of my hole. It glistens like her lips did as she swiped her tongue across them. But I try to pull myself back, remind myself that this is about me, my sensations. But I can’t help it if she’s a fucking magnetic muse. Oh if only she were under the water ready to break surface and dive onto this cock of mine. Sink her mouth down to the root of it and gobble me senseless. The thought sends shivers cascading over my nape and shoulders and I twitch involuntarily when she gags slightly as she opens her throat in my mind’s eye. Holy fucking shit.
I take a break for a moment and lean back on my palms behind me, just observing my dick, watching it bob between my thighs, bereft of touch, straining and twitching. I guess it’s quite a funny sight and I let out a soft laugh. The light flickers and bounces off the pool, glinting in a slow seduction and I take my cock in hand once more, settling in this time for the climax.
I watch the way the water casts flickering shadows over my legs and torso, how my dick looks fucking magnificent in this light. I try not to think about what a waste she’s not present to witness my solo seduction but the thought is here.
Oh fuck it, I want to visualise her. I will. This is my fantasy now, my wank, I’ve done enough naval (or cock) gazing it’s time to think about what really gets me off. And today, in this moment, it’s her. Thoughts of her sucking me, licking me, riding me. Pulling me into her with undulating hips, taking me deep into her hot wet cunt. Oh how we’d fit, I just know it.
I see her now—long legs approach while I sit with my feet underwater, leaning back. She doesn’t say a word, she just struts right over and straddles me, thighs and cunt in my eyeline and she leans to tip up my chin so I can see her face. Her look is one of pure white-hot lust and she spreads her feet apart wider and releases my face only to cup the back of my head and pull me into her pussy.
I take a moment to inhale her delicious scent. She is everything I knew she would be, sweet salty, musky, hot and oh so fragrant. I bury my nose between her lips, bathing my face in her sweet juices. The groan that comes from her throat is telling me she’s desperate for more, desperate for me to suckle her straining clit.
Her fingers tangle into my hair as she draws me deeper, pulsing into my mouth. I open her pussy more with my tongue and find the sensitive nub where I feast and devour. Her groans are getting louder and I lift one arm wrapping it around her thigh and grabbing at her ass as I eat her. She dips lower spreading herself for me and I take the hint, sliding two fingers up into her welcoming hole from behind. She’s wet, so fucking wet and I ram my fingers home. She growls this time and grips tighter, pushing onto me, shrieking and it’s too awkward I have to bring my arm around the front to give her a proper three finger fucking. She shifts to accommodate me and I start thrusting three thick digits knuckle deep into her hot cunt.
Lick by lick, her fever mounts and before I know it, she’s spasming and rhythmically pulsing around my fingers and my whole hand is slathered in her beautiful silky come.
And then, and then, after the twitching subsides, she releases me and stares into my eyes with a huge grin.
“Well, fuck,” she says and I think, yes please.
She slowly bends her knees and squats, hovering over my dick which is honestly harder than it’s ever been—I’m going to blow very fucking soon.
When she finally sinks low enough, her pussy swallows me up, wraps around me and grips me like a fist. She’s so fucking slick and starts to slide up and down, faster, harder her tits bouncing in my face, her hair flicking over her shoulders oh my fucking god, she is incredible.
Before I can take a breath and savour the moment, the surge in my balls overtakes me and the warm gush starts shooting up my dick. Her pussy squeezes tighter, my cock thrusts deeper and there it is. I come. I come hard and erupt all my emotion out into this fucking hologram of a fantasy woman.
I open my eyes to see the streams of come splashing up over my torso, my fist wrapped tight around my twitching shaft.
Holy fucking shit indeed.
What a woman.
I run my thumb over the tip of my cock to get rid of the last drips of come and carefully get up from my position not letting any of my fluids fall into the water.
I take a long shower lathering hotel soap over my body washing away the jizz and chlorine trying to think of what I’m going to tell her what I thought about when we meet tomorrow.
I am hoping, and think I might be right in thinking, that maybe this time, we both broke the rules and thought of each other.
It was an interesting thing to try but she is just too present in my mind to keep the focus purely on myself.
As I lie in bed, my phone pings. It’s from her.
Hey gorgeous, what you thinking about?
The End

Listen very carefully now. For the next fifteen minutes you’re not to speak at all. Nod if you understand. OK, good. I’m going to tell you what I’ve been dreaming of doing. I’d like to paint you a picture of something I fantasise about when I am alone. It’s a game I want to play with you. A tease, if you like. Not quite a striptease, but certainly a performance. One that I think you’ll enjoy.
This fantasy started after the night we spent in that bar. Remember the narrow cocktail club in town that was decked out in neon and chrome? Tall stools that we spun around on, like big kids at the playground. The bartender who frowned slightly as he mixed us drinks, as if he was itching to tell us it was time to grow up. I remember how you stuck your tongue out at him when his back was turned. You always look incredible, but that evening you’d hit upon ‘perfect’. So smart and neat and tailored. I wanted to grab you by the lapels and truly mess you up: plant lipstick on your neck and the collar of your shirt. Tear off a button or two.
Remember that evening? No talking, though—just nod if you do. OK, well, that’s where the idea first came to me. When I was staring at you. Firstly over some fancy green concoction with a funny name, then espresso martinis afterwards because we couldn’t bear to say weird names aloud once we’d become so giggly. The music was just the right volume, if I’m recalling it right: not so loud I couldn’t hear you, but just loud enough that you had to lean forward to angle your words directly into my ear. Your breath smelt like apple, and then coffee, then whichever drink you chose next—I can’t be expected to remember everything. Mainly because by drinking three, I was too horny to care about anything except you. By the time we got to that final cocktail, I was so desperate to take you home that all I could focus on was the intensity of your eyes—simultaneously shining in the neon and made dark by your desire.
Somewhere in the middle of the second cocktail, just after I’d told you I felt hot from the way you were staring… that’s when you reached for the ice. Just one cube, whipped quickly from the bucket behind the counter when the bartender’s back was turned. You grabbed it and held it in your palm, smiling that wicked smile at me. One word: “sssh,” whispered soft and direct against my cheek. I didn’t so much hear your command as feel it above the music, and then you pressed that ice cube against my neck.
I hope it’s no surprise to you that I’ve remembered this. The way I had to breathe deep and bite my lip to keep still, suppressing every instinct to yelp and bat your hand away! The tension in my muscles as I fought to stay motionless. Desperate to do as I was told. Oh I’ve thought about that move so much since you first did it. From that initial sharp shock of the ice cube to the final trickles of meltwater that ran down my chest and into my cleavage… I have longed to pay you back.
Which brings me to an important question, which you’re not to answer just yet. Just think about it. How still do you think you can stay while I tease you, darling?
How long can you sit there while I hold you in my gaze? For how long will you wait and watch as I torment you with my performance? Let’s see, shall we.
Let’s see.
First, I’m going to pour myself a drink. Lots of ice, of course. I’ll fill the tumbler right to the brim with cubes of it. Partly because I love the way it melts now—you turned me on to the beauty of that on the night we sat in that bar. But also partly because I want you to remember how long you made me sit there while yours melted against my flesh. I’d like you to wonder if I’ll make you sit unflinchingly still, not touching me until the very last milky pebble has turned entirely to water.
When the glass is full, I’ll pour myself a drink. None for you, of course. You’re not a guest here, not even the audience: you’re basically invisible. You do not exist. This performance I’m putting on is for my pleasure only. You don’t get to be a part of it. You’re a fly on the wall. A nothing.
You, my darling, are fucking furniture.
I’ll be wearing my favourite outfit. You know the one, but let me remind you, just in case it’s not yet burned into your mind (it will be after this, I promise): tight black latex shorts. Really constricting, like a second skin. Shiny and taut across the cheeks of my bum. Gripping me like bondage. Digging slightly into the flesh at my hips, making you briefly wonder if it’s worth begging permission to do the same with your fingertips. On top I’ll wear nothing but those playful black nipple tassels. What can I say? That bartender was wrong about us having to grow up: I know you agree that life’s more fun when we get to be playful.
I’ll bend over slightly as I pour out my drink. Neat vodka, of course, filling the ice-laden glass right up to the brim. Then I’ll toy with it a little before I dive in: swirling it around so you can hear it clink. Lick around the rim like I’m holding myself back. Maybe I’ll glance at you to see what effect I’m having, but perhaps I’ll ignore you altogether. Just me, in my tight latex and confidence and ice-cold detachment, messing with your eager little mind.
By the time I finally take a sip you’ll wish you were the one my lips were touching. Red lipstick, of course—slut red. And dark-rimmed eyes like I had that day in the bar. Looking exactly like the kind of woman your mother warned you about.
Moving from the bar to the table so I have more room to stretch out, perhaps I’ll bend over a little so you can see how the tiny shorts stretch against my bottom. Showing off just how achingly spankable I am. And I choose that word ‘aching’ very carefully. I want you to see my arse in these shorts and physically ache to spank it.
When I can see the light in your eyes—that hunger to touch me—I’ll turn back round again and sit on the table. Legs spread open to tempt you, but glass with ice and vodka planted firmly between them like a big sign telling you—No. Not yet. Not for a long time yet.
You know, I’ve always been told I’m a bit of a show-off, and I love that the first time I revealed this, you responded with a twinkle and a “hey! If you’ve got it, flaunt it!” Something about the eager way you look at me when I’m performing gets me hotter than when I’m doing it for anyone else. You give me permission to be myself—my slutty, horny, performative self. So I won’t feel any shame or embarrassment as I take ice cubes from the glass one by one, licking and sucking like a cat with a saucer of cream. Running them down my neck and chest and to my stomach, like I’m painting my body with the chill: highlighting every curve of my tits and the angle of my collarbone with the glistening wetness.
See why I remember that night in the bar? You have made me obsessed with ice. I am now, perhaps ironically, extremely hot for ice.
I hope you’ll note where the trickles of water drip down my body. Hope your lips will itch to kiss them all away. Notice how your tongue feels heavy in your mouth through sheer desperation to lick me.
You still won’t be allowed to move—to touch or taste me. Your other senses will be indulged: I’ll let you see the way the ice glints as I pop each cube into my mouth; hear the creak of my tiny latex shorts; smell the delicious scent of my cunt (so close to your face yet still forbidden!) as I open my legs to reveal that those shorts are crotchless. But touch and taste? None of that is for you.
Only when you’re squirming in your chair will I move on to the next step. Because the next step is me getting off—and getting off hard—on your frustration. I’ll tip rivulets of cold vodka from the glass, allowing them to carve pathways down my body to where those shorts bite into my hips. Perhaps I’ll let out a few sighs and groans so you understand how much I’m enjoying myself without you. It makes me wet to perform for you like this, so I’ll indulge myself. Run my fingers over the pert mound of my pussy, revelling in the way those shorts present it like delicious fruit, ready to devour.
Remember what you told me? “If you’ve got it, flaunt it”? I will flaunt it so zealously in front of you. Gripping the fabric of the latex where it tears open to expose my wet cunt, I will yank it up so you can watch just how aroused that cunt is getting. How swollen with all the blood that rushes there when I am turned on. Moaning extra loudly so you really feel what you’re missing out on, I’ll press my fingers right into the slit and rub languidly back and forth. Long strokes will give way to shorter ones: neat circles around my clit, moistened by my own saliva and freezing vodka and melting ice.
Delicious.
I’ve tried this many times on my own at home: this temperature play. I don’t think I’ve told you that before. On so many evenings, I do this by myself. I take a glass with ice and water and place it beside the bed. Dipping my fingertips in to collect droplets of numbing cold, which I then drizzle onto my clitoris as I rub at myself. The contrast between hot and cold makes my fingers work harder for the orgasm. Initially numbing, but swiftly growing warm as I slide them back and forth, building friction and intensity. Getting hotter and hotter and hotter as the fantasies in my head play out, then pausing for another top-up of shivery water to take me back down again. Over and over. Frigid to warm until I’m almost mad with desperation to climax. Wonderful.
This is what I’ll do while you watch me. Sit back on the table with my neck exposed so you remember that very first time you introduced me to the delights of ice on that passionate night in the cocktail bar. Legs spread as wide as possible for your viewing pleasure (and my performative joy), I will touch myself over and over, building up in waves. Moaning and sighing and giving you the kind of show that will have blood flowing to your own crotch as hard as it’s flowing to the lips of my cunt in those tight latex shorts.
Build and release. Build. Release. Where will you look? Don’t tell me right now. It’s a rhetorical question. I just like to ponder it. Which part of my performance will best draw your gaze? Fluttery fingers in warm wet places or ice-cold cubes trailed temptingly across bare skin? Taut stomach with my belly button piercing glinting in the light like sunlight on snow, or long, smooth thighs that you want to bury your head between? Shiny black fabric stretched across my hips, or firm round tits that beg to be nuzzled and kissed?
I will be wondering all this while I put on my performance, and each flicker of your eyes to a different part of my body will turn me on more and more. I’ll masturbate with much greater fervour knowing you’re drinking all this in. You, my best audience. My most loyal fan. My fucking muse and my ruin.
Eventually, when my pussy really hurts to be fucked, I’ll dive in—two fingers, nice and hard. Tits jiggling and nipple tassels swinging as I fuck myself with such intensity you might let out a little gasp of your own.
Are you seeing this all in your mind’s eye, my darling? Can you picture how I’ll look with my thighs spread open and my fingers in my cunt for you? Good, that’s good. You’re going to experience this whole thing more than once—first, as I whisper it to you right now, and next as you get to watch it in glorious reality.
We’re not finished yet, though, of course. For my next trick, I’ll get up on the table on all fours, back arched like a satisfied housecat stretching out in the sun. You get to see the way the shorts present my pussy from a whole new angle: from behind. Almost begging you to sit up and bury your face in it.
Licking at the vodka from the glass to keep myself cool, I will keep that pleasurable rhythm going with my fingers between my legs. Building and releasing, up and down, holding myself on that plateau of pleasure. Not yet trying to tip myself over, just enjoying my moment in this liminal space that sits partway between performance and personal satisfaction. I get off just as much from arching my back and presenting to you as I do from the touch of my fingertips. It’s hard to separate the thrill that comes from spreading my legs to get a better angle from the delight of knowing that I’m doing it while wearing those red-soled heels that you bought me. The two things are entwined so closely that there’s no way for me to know which makes me hotter. Only that the way they warm my blood is as inevitable as the ice cooling it down.
Can you see it in your mind’s eye, baby? Good. That’s good. It’s time for you to picture the grand finale.
I’ll flip over so I’m lying on my back, exposing the smoothness of my stomach and my lithe thighs, presenting myself with legs in the air, pussy facing towards you. I’ll peel the shorts down to show off my perfect arse, tugging at the latex a little just to feel it give that delightful snap against my bare skin—the one that conjures the same satisfaction as a casual spanking. Like your hand lightly slapping my bottom when we walked out of that cocktail bar.
This is the point at which I stop holding back. Performance has taken a back seat, and now it’s all about my pleasure. The hand between my legs moves so fast it’s like a blur. I work at myself the way I would if I were alone, fingers rubbing and penetrating, stretching out my cunt and thrilling my clit as I moan and whimper and bite my lip. Perhaps at this point you may wonder if I’ll invite you to join in. Keep wondering. I’m already gone: disappeared into a world of my own where the only thing I care about is coming around my fingers.
It’s not just you I’ve forgotten: the drink on the table nearby has long since been abandoned as I shift focus to the roaring urgency of my own orgasm. The mix of vodka and meltwater pools around my body, wetting my hair as I throw my head back in ecstasy, but I barely notice. No longer performing moans and sighs to please you, I open my mouth and let out yelps and squeals of involuntary elation, pushing myself up and beyond that plateau and to an orgasm so powerful it makes you shudder in sympathetic delight. My skin is cool against the table, lying sodden in pools of iced water and vodka and my own cum. As the waves crash over my body and I twitch and jerk with the force of it, perhaps I’ll come back to reality and look you dead in the eye as the tempest recedes. Or maybe I’ll maintain the pretence that you’re no more than a fly on the wall. You’ll have to wait and see, won’t you? In case it isn’t already as clear as the perfect cube of ice: you’re not directing this performance. You yourself have no control.
From that evening in the cocktail bar, the second you pressed a frozen chip of ice against my neck and told me ‘sssh’, I’ve been dreaming of paying you back. Every time I masturbate alone, using the chill to temper the speed of my own orgasms, I have dreamed of doing it for you. To you. Performing for and teasing and utterly ignoring you all at the same time. Fucking myself in a frenzy that you can only observe yet never join in with. Frustrating every nerve ending you have that cries out to touch and be touched.
How does that sound, my darling? Wait! Don’t answer. Stay silent, just as I ordered at the start. I can tell from the look in your eyes that this is something you want to watch, not just imagine. So now that you know exactly what you’re in for, it’s time for this performance to begin.
Place your hands on the armrests of your chair, and don’t move a muscle.
I’ll go fetch the vodka and a bucket of fresh ice.
The End

Paula was buzzing as she pulled into the garage, her adrenaline was still riding high from the concert. The whiskey and Coke she’d drunk were also in her system, making her blood zing like fire—though she’d actually had just one drink, necked sharply as the music had begun.
She simply loved live music and seeing Bruno—her favourite singer—had made her entire year. There were only two other times she’d seen him live, and both had been much bigger venues. This one had sexy vibes and had been deliciously intimate.
Paula had been saving up for a while and had splurged on a front-row seat as a guilty pleasure. She’d been so close to Bruno on stage; she could make out his individual eyelashes and smell his signature scent. He was leather and beard oil, dust and lusty intentions.
He had looked directly at her a number of times. It had been sexily fierce and she’d wanted him to know how much she desired him. Paula had been easily able to blank out the others in the audience. It was like he was singing just to her. Bruno and his deeply erotic lyrics—his long fingers and lean body seemed fully in tune to hers.
In the dark garage now, Paula leant her head back onto the leather head-rest. Bruno’s throaty voice still reverberated through her body as he continued to sing to her through the stereo system in her new car. She’d spent serious money getting a top-notch sound system in there—it had bass for days. Paula liked flash.
Memories of Bruno flashed ferociously at her—both in her head and deep in her core. Paula didn’t want to get out of her seat. The fantasy of being the only one that Bruno had been singing to was engulfing her still. The heat of his attention crawling over her, as if they were his full, sensuous lips making tracks on her skin. She could see his dark and stormy eyes, the intensity of him setting her on fire.
Bruno crooned and Paula’s body responded. She still could sense the flaring heat deep in her belly, it was undeniable. The animal in her was a sucker for a singer—she couldn’t explain how sexy it was to be performed to. When she had the power to just enjoy and listen, to luxuriate as a man paid homage to her in sweet song and deep rhythm.
Paula pulled a lock of her hair down with her fingers and twirled her black curls. She was restless, wanting more of Bruno to satisfy her need but lacking a clear direction to head in.
There was condensation on the car windows, she noticed. Paula rolled a pane down and let a drop of the liquid idle on her finger. The cool water fell down her wrist. She was wet in more ways than one…
Her lace thong had not been up to the job of keeping her dry tonight. Her thighs were still moist and she shifted in her seat to let some air circulate and perhaps cool them down.
Paula had dressed up to the nines though and her tight skirt made it hard to air herself. The skirt was made of a latex-type material that looked slickly black against her upper legs. A little like she were covered in oil and ready to tussle in a play-fight. That sounded fun to her right now. She wanted to grab at Bruno, like they were creatures in heat, to play and to fuck and to make a glorious mess.
Paula fingered her nipples. It was good to be touched. She wanted more—touching and licking and sucking and all of it. She was wearing a cropped-top made of glittery crochet. It had kept her top half feeling unrestricted and free during the concert.
Paula didn’t need to wear a bra and sometimes she let a little nipple show in her crocheted tops. No harm in it really, she was just a little naughty. She loved taking men by surprise and flashing them a quick shot of her flirty pink nubs.
Paula liked being naughty. She recalled that her nipples had been hard while she’d listened to Bruno, even though the venue had been warm, almost humid, in the monsoon-like air. They were aching now, with need and lust. Her breasts needed attention, they wanted to be seen.
If it had been just the two of them, a private concert, Paula might have flashed Bruno more than a bit of nipple. She would have exposed her pert breasts fully and slipped off her tiny thong to let Bruno get a little view each time she crossed and uncrossed her legs.
Paula imagined the two of them, locked in, eye-fucking each other, daring and thrilling to the point where something—anything—had to give.
Paula let her own hand slip to her waist. It was titillating imagining Bruno. She wanted him there, to play games with him and to seduce him like a vixen might. She wanted something raw and physical, to ride his body, like it were his song and essence.
Paula moved the tips of her fingers and traced them around her tiny waist. The garage was like a cocoon, she could visualise herself anywhere. She trailed her fingers down into the hem of her skirt and brought to mind Bruno on stage again. Just the two of them. A private show. Bruno with his liquid gold eyes and that silky voice of his that melted millions.
He would watch Paula closely while she listened to him sing, getting hornier and hornier. He would serenade her bold masturbation with a solo.
Paula would put on a return show for him. She would attend to her own stiff nipples and gently circle each of her areolas under her see-through top. Bruno would be mesmerised and she would tempt him some more by lightly lifting up the crochet of her top again, flashing him some underboob and reminding him of the fact that she was bra-less.
She’d tease a full reveal by slowly lifting her top higher and higher. Making it seem like she was changing her mind maybe, before finally showing off her peachy, perfect boobs.
She would lick her fingers and then take their damp tips straight to each nipple. Her moans of pleasure would only be audible to herself, but Bruno would see her mouth open, her back arch. In return, he would drip extra honey and sexual need into his own voice.
Rain started to fall as Paula sat lost in her sexy reverie and dripped heavily against the garage roof. The patter of it drowned out some of the stereo but Paula still felt powerfully connected to Bruno and his music. Emboldened by the extra padding of water noise, she played out more of her fantasy world in the privacy of her mind.
Bruno and herself locked in an unspoken, heated dialogue. Her fingers stroking and touching her silky brown skin with Bruno watching from the stage, guitar in hand, strumming her lust with his fingers.
He’d looked so tasty in the smoky spotlight tonight. Every year he seemed more seasoned, better-spirited and lustier. Bruno increased in pure sex appeal as his voice got more gravelly and his laugh lines deepened like crevasses.
His face was made for the stage. Women devoured him like they had the greats—Elvis, Jagger and Bruce Springsteen came to mind. Like them, Bruno had thick, sooty lashes and wavy hair that begged to be touched. He had warm, earthy charisma and hard, chiselled cheekbones that enticed and lured everyone, not just the women.
Bruno had a reputation for dating the divas though—strong, sexy women who took the world as their stage. She admired him for taking the more interesting route. It was easy for high-profile men to take wives who merely obeyed, but Paula reckoned these submissives were less fun in the bedroom.
Paula strongly suspected that the women Bruno had been linked to in the past were sexual firebrands—adventuresses and desiring of extreme physical passion. Women hungry in more than one way.
Paula would play up to it. She could demand exactly what she wanted in her private concert fantasy. She’d ensure she had Bruno’s attention and then hitch her skirt right up, wriggling down the chair until her undies were visible. Her bare ass would be against the cold plastic but she wouldn’t care.
She’d cock a finger at Bruno and he would be drawn to her as if she were a flame. Dangerous, hot and ready to smoke him.
He’d come over, slowly and a touch warily, but would drop to his knees easily at her push so they were on the same level. She’d pull him in and blink slowly at him, letting her warm breath caress his face. Paula would lean right in and linger her lips on his. He’d grab her head in return and kiss her a little roughly. Then his hands would fall lower, kneading at the sides of her ass.
Her clit throbbed. Paula wanted the reality of Bruno there with her now. She wanted him to unbuckle his pants and take his delicious cock out. She wanted to swallow it and wet it thoroughly with her mouth. Then she wanted to tug the tip of his cock, with its pearlescent drips, over her breasts one by one, painting the nipples with his juice.
And then she wanted to drag Bruno’s shaft deep into her body. She wanted to fill herself up with Bruno and his cum. She wanted every little bit of him—to consume his passion and power.
The rain right now was abating somewhat. Still, Paula lingered in the car. Her hands were roaming over her body as she relished memories of the concert and Bruno’s sexy face. The album she was playing shifted to one of Bruno’s more sultry songs. Just him and his guitar, singing directly to her, seeking her core out and making it vibrate in pleasure.
Paula was so turned on—her body was literally thrumming. Her wandering fingers were just making her hotter. She wondered idly how it would turn out if she could call on Bruno to fill her fantasies.
It was late, she was having fun; Paula let her mind wander without any constraint. She would phone Bruno in her head and have it play out like a sexy dream…
“Hello?” A sleepy drawl as Bruno answered on the third ring.
“Hey, it’s Paula. I’m half naked in my garage. My fancy car just isn’t doing it for me…”
“You want me to come entertain you?” Bruno’s voice was mischievous. Her pussy twinged with anticipation.
“Yes please, baby,” she purred. “I’m DTF right now.”
The Bruno of her mind was there in moments. Paula imagined opening the door for him and this made her bare nipples tighten again. Bruno’s gaze would be afire, taking her in, admiring her curved ass and slick body.
Paula enjoyed seeing his eyes dilate and she thrilled from the ego-boost of it. Bruno approached her without hesitation and took her mouth in his, crushing her lips.
Paula’s body gave in to him for a long, lingering moment—but then she took a step back and said, “Wait here a sec.”
She ran into the house and came back with a battered cowboy hat. The type Bruno was famous for wearing on stage. Bruno took it and smirked.
“Want me to go back and grab a guitar too?” He swaggered back up to her, proprietorially and with a visible erection through his tight blue jeans.
Paula giggled and re-entered his embrace. She grabbed at his crotch playfully. This Bruno belonged completely to her, she could do as she pleased.
Paula undid Bruno’s shirt. Her fingers were shaking with need. His shoulders were broad and she kissed along the top of them while he scooped her up and cupped her butt. Yesss.
Paula may not have had huge boobs but her ass was large and round. It caught everyone’s eyes, and she played up to it. She wore leather, PVC, latex, animal-print—whatever took her mood—to highlighted her perfect, curvy ass.
She just adored having her bum played with and Bruno was learning that. He spanked her lightly, testing her reaction. Paula’s underwear immediately drenched even more.
The way Bruno’s fingers slid slyly inside her glorious cheeks and then worked their way down to her slit in a teasing, tantalising way, was enough to make Paula pant like she was in heat. She could come even from the way Bruno rubbed on and around her booty. She was desperate for more.
“Just fuck me, baby,” Paula said. She didn’t want to wait much longer for her orgasm. Bruno’s concert and her own mind had heated her up to the point of no return.
Bruno twirled Paula around and bent her over the hood of the car. The metal was sharply cool against her face and she closed her eyes. He pulled off her thong without even needing to push her naughty skirt up by very much.
He entered her slowly at first and then sped up, making long, deep thrusts. Paula began to groan, it was so fucking good. She wanted to scream with abandon. Bruno’s cock was perfect, it filled her up to the point of no return. She was ecstatic with his body weight on hers and she gripped him fiercely, scratching him a little and driving him into her harder.
Bruno himself was about to lose control when he stepped back and with a concerted effort, redirected himself. He flipped her back and started kissing up her legs. His lips were light against Paula’s skin and she caught herself admiring his thick head of hair.
Paula watched him pay homage to her, his dark hair bobbing. It was mystical, like when he sang to her. She loved when men performed for her. Bruno worked his way up, slowly and torturously. Her orgasm which had been peaking, receded a touch.
“Bruno!” Paula exclaimed in frustration, but he didn’t speed up. He was leading this encore.
He finally made it back to her crotch and using his fingers, spread her open. Paula could smell herself, she was like a sensual cave, filled with mystery and musk—wanting to be discovered and ravished. Looted by Bruno and his big dick energy.
Bruno’s lips were hot and firmer now on her. He kissed along her clit and the wishbones either side, causing her to buck into him as her blood surged, plumping her pussy. Paula squealed with pleasure, the full sensations making her heady and rocking her body.
As Paula became noisier and more twitchy, Bruno switched from kissing to licking. He began lapping at her juices. He was swirling his tongue around, alternately burying it deeply in her and tapping against her clit. Oh! Paula was going to come and loudly too. She gave in with a huge shudder and her body coiled hard toward orgasm.
She groaned as her sexual peak rose to its highest height. It was huge and out of control; the orgasm ripped its way out of her. She mewled and cried out—a long high note, competing with the music on the stereo.
The rain was less heavy now, so her orgasmic song sounded loud in the tight space. The heat flushed all the way up and down her body.
It was like a flame, consuming her. Just as the last song ended on the album, and its final notes floated away, she gasped out, “I’m on fire,” and collapsed back against her seat.
Paula was sexually spent. She took her time and stretched her neck out from side to side as she came back to herself. She had been steaming up the windows in the car even more—and her hands were drenched and clamped. Her whole body was loose and woozy at the same time, the ache between her thighs feeling like the aftermath of a rowdy party.
Paula stretched out her right hand, the one that had played with that single drop of water earlier. She splayed her fingers. They were sticky with her own juices now… She rubbed them against the window, using the condensation to moisten the tackiness on her fingers.
The pattern her hand made on the glass looked like a piece of abstract art. Paula thought back to her teenage years, when she would use any opportunity to display her crushes’ names, all over her notebooks and diaries, carved into her wooden desk—and often scribbled into the condensation on her glass shower walls.
She grinned, leaned forward and wrote out ‘Bruno’ in her steamed up rear-view mirror, his name looking mistily sexy.
The End

My God, what a beautiful cock he has. I’d love to crawl into bed while he’s sleeping, slide between his legs and rub my hands up the inside of his thighs. I can imagine wrapping my hand around his balls, squeezing until he stirs. I wonder if he’d awaken or simply allow me to play, pretending to be asleep? I can almost feel his soft hairs tickling my lips as I brush them across his swollen sac, just seconds before I take them into my mouth, sucking as I wrap my hand around the base of his cock. The sound of his breathy murmurs as his shaft swells, his body shifts, allowing me complete access, would drive me wild with desire. Should I suck him, swirling my tongue in lazy circles as I caress his balls? I simply can’t resist. I have to suck him, taking every inch into my mouth until the tip hits the back of my throat. The taste of him is so sweet.
My, I am a naughty girl, quite naughty indeed. What would my Master say? I simply can’t resist. I know what you’d require of me. I know you’d love to watch as I suck him dry, licking every drop of his cum. Would you enjoy standing on the side as he rolled me over, shoving his dick into my pussy, driving hard and fast? Can you imagine his hand around my throat as his balls slap against my naked ass? Would you command him to thrust his dick inside my asshole? Is anal sex your kink?
You’re such a bad man for giving me this book. You know I have my chores to finish before your arrival and I’m sitting here, longing for thick cock instead. I’m tingling all over. Are you trying to make me disobey you? Flipping through page after page, hungering, is pure torture, but you already realize how hot and wet I am. You know me too well. You want me to disobey so you can take me over your knees, spanking until I cry out. You love the power of BDSM sex.
Master, I miss you. I wish you were here, using me, whipping my body, telling me what a little whore I am. If you were here right now I’d drop to my knees, opening my mouth wide. I love your cock. All I want to do is please you, serve your every desire. I need your direction. I long to have you fuck me, remind me I belong to you. I miss the scent of your belt, the feel of the leather strap against my naked ass.
Whew. I can’t do this. I’m tingling all over and sir would not be happy with me. I have work to do, rules to follow. I wonder if I would look so divine in pictures of just my undies? I could do model this way and share my wicked nature with others. Get up. Well, maybe I can take a few more minutes. After all, it’s Saturday and Sir wouldn’t mind. Would he? There’s no way he could. The book is his gift. Sir has excellent taste. I know what he must be thinking, luring me into his world. He certainly knows what tempts me, but this has to be a test.
You’re not allowed to play with yourself unless I command. Do you understand, Jasmine?
I understand, sir. I’ll be a very good girl while you’re gone.
You know what happens if you don’t?
Yes sir. I’ll be punished.
Yes, sir. I understand completely. I can’t stop thinking about your commands, your dark needs. Why does he do this to me? A test. Damn it. I hate when he does this! He knows I can’t resist! Ugh. Sir knows what I crave. Get up. Go get dressed. One more page then I’ll shower and get to work. Look at the incredible woman. My pussy is so wet. Everything about her is alluring. Her invitation is blatant. Come play with me. Come lick my pussy. I can imagine being with her as sir craves. A third. He wants to share our passion with another submissive. She’s his type, her body perfect with voluptuous curves. Her expression oozes sex, raw and unbridled.
Do I look at him this way, with such intense longing? Do I show him how much I crave every aspect of what we share when we’re together? Do I give him everything he requires? I think I do. God, I hope so. Sir tells me I’m the most alluring woman he’s ever dominated. Then why did he give me the book? Yes, of course you sly devil. He wants me to entice him, remind him every day how much I crave his attention, long to submit my body and soul to him and no other.
Play with her, my wicked submissive. Lick every inch of her body. Succumb to the woman inside.
Yes sir, I can easily envision her lips against mine, her tongue exploring every dark recess as she cups my breasts, pinching my nipples. The sweet pain would be incredible, sizzling my skin. I can hear her words, brusque commands before she eases down onto her back, spreading her legs. Imagine my tongue nipping her clit, drinking her sweet juices.
I can see your expression now, controlling, I know you’d be standing behind us, watching every intimate moment as I lower my head, breathing across her pussy. I’m so hot, so wet. I just can’t resist. He doesn’t have to know how excited I am. He doesn’t need to be told everything. Let me see. Sit up. Strike a pose. I’m just as sexy as she is. No, I’m incredible.
My neck is as long, my breasts full and my nipples always hard. Twist my nipples, sir. Do you know what I’m thinking? I’m remembering the very first time you asked me to masturbate in front of you. The restaurant was amazing, the lights shimmering over the tables. I remember how you leaned over the table and commanded very quietly to lift my dress and finger my pussy. As the piano player continued and the tables close to us continued their dinner, I obeyed you, sliding my hand down my neck to the swell of my breasts.
You smiled and winked, lifting your glass in appreciation. I was lost in the moment, my eyes never leaving yours. My fingers brushed back and forth across my heated skin for a few seconds until you nodded, the simple gesture nothing more than a request. I can remember what I was thinking, how dirty I felt as I slipped my hand past the edge of the red dress. The moment I touched my nipple both hardened and I ached, the scent of my pussy wafting between us. Do you remember you licked your lips, a slight growl pushing past your lips?
The entire moment was sinful. I enjoyed teasing you as I pinched and twisted until my pants became moans. Perspiration had already trickled down the back of my neck.
Continue.
The single word was enough. I opened my legs, stretching them to both sides of the chair before I tugged my dress up past my legs. I shivered when I crawled the tips of my fingers up the inside of my thigh, past my lace panties, the very ones I’m wearing today. I remember closing my eyes, honing in on the seductive music as I touched my clit, rolling my fingers in a circle after circle. I gripped the edge of the table with one hand as I continued playing. I wanted to be noticed. I wanted others to watch my scandalous act, their desires peaking as I slid my fingers deep inside my cunt.
Finger fuck my pussy, Jasmine. Drive your fingers deep inside.
Yes, sir. I could only whisper the words as I thrust them in and out, two fingers becoming three then four. I could hear moans, not only mine, as I pinched my pussy lips. Do you remember the waiter’s shudder, the way I looked at him, the hunger in my eyes?
I didn’t tell you to stop, Jasmine. Disobey me again and I’ll turn you over my knee right here, in front of everyone.
I wanted nothing more. I was lost in the moment, unable to focus. I remember opening my legs wider and scooting forward. The tablecloth wasn’t able to hide my actions. Everyone knew I was masturbating. I’m so wet, just like that night. I plunged deeper, every move driving me closer to the edge of the chair. My fingers dug into the table, nearly ripping the cloth, tumbling the glasses. You chuckled as my actions continued and the desire in your eyes changed. You wanted nothing more than to fuck me in front of everyone.
I’m shivering, sir. Every part of my body tingling. I want to please you in every way.
That’s very good, my sweet slut. I want you to come.
Yes, sir, but…
No buts. Come!
“Ooohhh…” I can’t hold back. Sir…. I want you to fuck me in the ass in front of anyone.
Very good. You did very well. Now hold your fingers into the light. I need to see how wet you are.
As I held them into the light I knew the next table had been watching everything, voyeurs longing to let go. They wanted more, demanded more. Why didn’t you whip me?
Suck them, suck your fingers, licking up and down until they’re clean.
Yes, sir.
“Yes, oh yes!” Fuck. I… There was nothing like the delicious night. Amazing. I can’t wait for tonight, my sir. Your submissive will please you in every way.
“Well, I see my submissive can’t help herself. Disobeying again I see. We’re going to have to take care of this. Come here and drop to your knees.”
“Yes, sir.” I am a naughty girl indeed.
THE END

I am Ricky.
His legs have become my legs. His arms, my arms. His hands, my hands. His cock, my cock.
For a little over eleven minutes, I am him. I see with his eyes and I feel with his flesh.
These eleven minutes, Ricky’s eleven minutes, morph into mine.
His past is my present.
His brief—to swim a few lengths in the pool; perch on the edge of the water; slowly become erect; entertain, enjoy, edge, ejaculate—has become my brief.
“You think it’s easy, don’t you?” I hear my Ricky-self saying to the viewer. “To perform to order. To follow those simple instructions from the producer and deliver the goods. While smiling and connecting with the viewer, and, of course, delivering a glorious shower of come to finish.
“It’s tougher than you think,” I continue to my imaginary online audience, all waiting with lube, vibrators and everything else to hand as they prepare to bring themselves to their own, personal climaxes. “It’s easy to do it at home, on your own, with your favourite performers doing your favourite, hot things to each other. You can choose your time, your mood, your location. You can pause at the best bits. Rewind, watch it again. And it’s easy to come when they come. That’s the aim of a good wank, isn’t it? You shoot your spunk, squirt your pussy juices, just when he does it in the film or when he pushes one of those lovely women he pleasures over the edge.
“But, guys, he shoots into the pussy, mouth, butt, belly, breasts of some stunning women, or two. You shoot into a tissue.”
“You try doing it right now, perfectly, but for real. That takes a lot of practice, a lot of self-knowledge, and a fair bit of spunk.”
I, Ricky, finish my soliloquy to my distant voyeurs. Return to the reality of being on the set of an adult film. It’s midmorning and everyone in the team is here, ready and waiting for me. I join them around a table, pull up a seat and share their croissants and coffee. And then we chat about what we all did last night. Naturally, we were all out together—the crew, director and the other models as we record several films over a couple of days. We dined at a local bistro and downed a few too many bottles of red.
Now we are checking to see how we are feeling this morning. Knowing that I was on early, I held back a tad on the wine. You shouldn’t be surprised. I am very professional.
The conversation dries up and I go through the brief with the director one more time. We’ve discussed it over several texts a week or two ago when the booking was finalised, so I know what is expected of me. But I’m keen to get it right and put on a top-notch performance so I check on the key things she wants from the scene.
We discuss ideas about what I should do, when, how. The edging is something I need to take time over. That could be tricky, going a touch too far too soon could lead to a premature end to filming.
There are two things we guys have to watch when it comes to performing on film. The first, obvious one is coming too early. The other is the opposite—not coming at all. And all readily avoided if the chemistry is right, the setting is right and you are up for it.
I am certainly up for it right now, and also for later as I have a second shoot this afternoon with a girl I have had my eye on and who I was really keen to be partnered within an erotic movie. I’ve heard she’s one hell of a fuck.
I am summoned to sit in front of a mirror and have a few touches of make-up applied. It’s not just the girls who get this treatment. Though they spend ages being preened and prepared, I’m usually done in a minute or two. The make-up artist has a cheeky smile. I love her. She tells me of models she has worked with, the fantasies she has helped create. She says that she wishes she had the guts to go in front of the camera herself, only she’d die if her seventy-year-old mother ever found out about it.
She’s hot and has a great presence; her eyes are just sensational. I tell her she should have a go, but she replies that she’ll have to leave the fun to the likes of me. As she finishes her work on my face, she admits that she so enjoys looking at the final version on her own, at home, with her faithful, battery-powered lover. She’s a fan. I adore her even more for it.
I ask her if she could go and do a film, what genre and setting would she choose. She replies quickly that she would want a burlesque setting. She likes corsets, stockings, heels and all the little details like nipple pasties. As for the genre, an easy choice, too—MMF. She would like to suck cock while being fucked. And there was always the option of a DP.
We were using abbreviations as if we were in some business meeting. I asked if she’d ever enjoyed a DP. She said she had, twice, but the conversation stops as I am being called to the set.
Then there are words of encouragement from those behind the camera as I check my trunks, give my cock a little tug—a little stretch before he has to play his part. I could be an athlete, stretching my muscles before a race. The crew’s voices give me the confidence to step forward and take my position on the starting line: “Go for it, Ricky.”
Or perhaps I could be taking to the stage: “You’ll be magnificent, you always are.”
Or I could even be dining at a restaurant: “Enjoy.”
I see the makeup artist giving me a knowing, friendly smile. I give her a nod in return. This one’s for her.
And so I, Ricky, am now in front of the camera and I am going for it. I am going to be magnificent. I am going to enjoy. Fucking enjoy.
All this before I—the real me—press PLAY.
Ricky, once more me, starts by swimming a few lengths exactly as per the brief.
He… I climb out and walk, wet, to the side of the pool and dab off drips with a towel. I sit by the side of the water and let my hand slip under my trunks. I am already hardening. That thought of the make-up artist being fucked by two men has helped trigger a deliciously naughty and extremely helpful fantasy.
And now I am moving between that fantasy and past realities. Moments from my films past come back to me.
That moment with Cherry when I was sitting on that window ledge in a towel and she walked up in just a thong and white ankle socks. Cherry can kiss. And she kissed me deep and she kissed me long. For me, the moment is when she turns around and presses that tight butt of hers onto my cock and slowly eases me into her pussy. I can feel her tight, wet warmth now, as I start to stroke my hard cock. My hardness strengthens as I remember that delicious moan as I penetrated fully into her cunt.
Then there and was Alyssa with another window fuck. Her dark eyes kept their focus on mine as she took my cock into her mouth. The intensity of that gaze and her total focus on my helmet leads to a throb in my cock. I am just sensing my ultimate destination in this poolside wank.
Fast forward to the last moments of the film, where Alyssa’s brilliance at giving blow jobs blew me away. She pumped me slow but firmly, keeping to that regular rhythm that women tend to like when I am going down on them, but—this is the special bit—it was the way her tongue kept flicking my frenulum that brought me to a delightful orgasm. I can see, now, my spunk oozing on to her tongue and the way she continued to milk me afterwards was sublime.
I am moving ever closer to my climax for this film.
Skip again this time back to Cherry and that gate by the olive grove. Now I like girls when they look hot. It might be a short skirt, or stockings and a lacy basque, or thigh boots, a leather corset and all the accessories of a dominatrix. And yet, sometimes they can be even hotter when they just look beautiful. Cherry looked beyond beautiful with her hair so neatly tied up in plaits and that simple off the shoulder summer dress. This moment was when I was sitting, back against the gate, and she was squatting over me, lowering herself up and down my shaft. She was in full control of each stroke, I just had to sit back and enjoy it. She would clench me tight when she was at her lowest point when my cock was fully engorged and her pussy lips were pressing against the base of my shaft. And as well as that sumptuous pussy, that arse of hers—again—was right up against me. Add those kisses of hers and… no, no, not yet, let’s hold those kisses for later. Dwelling on them now would be too much for my cock.
I briefly look up and see the eager smiles on the faces of the crew. I can sense that I am giving them what they want. And I am enjoying this wank greatly.
As I begin to move into the home straight, I see that Lola is taking a seat just offset. If you don’t know her, let me describe her to you. She is a beautiful girl-next-door type blonde and I’ve heard that she is one of the best, one of the nicest, one of the most fun to work with. I’m already looking forward to that afternoon fuck with her, once I have recovered from this poolside film. There’s even some bubbly in the shooting plan.
Now, while Cherry looked so hot, because she looked so, well, pure in that film in the olive grove, Lola looks hot because she is dressed for the occasion: little black dress, very short, with glitter all over it. Vertiginous court shoes. Loose, flowing curls. She smiles at me as I hone in on my final fantasy.
Lola and Cherry have worked together and created some true erotic magic in an English garden of all places. They are a great couple and their blonde looks complement each other perfectly. The moment in this film, the last moment I am going to focus on, is shortly after Lola has eased a butt plug into Cherry and Cherry has been fucking Lola with a double-ended dildo. The scenes I am going to come to by the pool are already fixed in my mind: it’s when Cherry mounts Lola and eases the other end of the dildo into her own cunt. Butt plug already in place. Cherry is double penetrated by both toys. Then the dildo slips out and both girls laugh. It’s a genuine, shared laugh, of sexual fun.
My fantasy suddenly, unexpectedly switches back to the make up artist’s comments about her own reminiscences of double penetration. I am in her arse. Another is in her cunt. She moans as we both fuck her.
And as I pump her, I pump my own cock harder and faster. My orgasm hits. I can feel my come coursing up the length of my shaft and I let out a gasp as it hits the air.
My rhythm matches Ricky’s. And I come as Ricky comes. Only there is no camera crew and no sight of Lola in a black cocktail dress egging me across the line.
I have fucked Cherry against that wooden gate. I felt her butt and her warm, welcoming pussy. I have had Alyssa’s tongue work its magic on my frenulum. Moreover, I have enjoyed Cherry grind down on my cock when I was sitting on that window ledge overlooking those ancient rooftops.
But I am not Ricky. Not any more.
With my own orgasm over, and as the life melts out of my cock, I retreat into my own world. I close my laptop. No wanks by a pool set on the side of a Mediterranean retreat. No sex up against a window overlooking an ancient Eastern European capital with Cherry. No pumping the delicious Alyssa from behind. No outside sex with Lola. No delicious butts to stroke and pussies to probe. For me, the reality is just vanilla sex. Always the same. Very, very vanilla. It relieves an urge but never ignites.
Yet for eleven minutes and twenty-five glorious seconds, I was Ricky. I performed as he performed. My hands were his hands, my cock was his cock. And I became truly and wondrously sexually alive.
For those interested in reliving Ricky’s moments, take a look at: What a View where he stars alongside Cherry Kiss and also Zest for Life where they also appear together; City Break where he performs with Alyssa Reece; Summer Ball which features Ricky and Lola Myluv. Finally do take a peek at English Garden where Lola and Cherry star.