Then he drops his hands down onto your bottom and lifts you up. You wrap your legs around him and refuse to stop kissing him. He carries you, turning a half-circle and putting you down on the countertop. Some of the bottles and other paraphernalia clatter to the floor, something smashes, but you carry on kissing, too far in now to want to stop.
He tilts your head back with one hand and starts kissing the length of your neck, using his teeth and his tongue, and you cry out as he takes both your breasts in his hands, your nipples between his fingers. You feel the steel of his ring on your nipple, and it makes you shiver.
He takes your arm and stretches it out in front of him. First he rubs his thumb over the soft inner skin, like he did earlier, but this time more intimately, and then he drops his mouth onto it and teases at the delicate skin, sending an electric jolt of pleasure through your body. Then he pushes you gently back against the wall and lifts your right leg, placing one stilettoed foot on the countertop, laying your pussy bare to him. He reaches behind you and pulls your bottom forward, so that your pelvis is as close to the edge of the counter as possible, your upper back and shoulders leaning against the wall.
Then he clasps your left leg and runs his thumb over the sensitive strip of skin at the back of your knee as he drops his mouth onto your pussy. You groan as he starts slowly licking your clit, then nudging it with his nose as he briefly dips his tongue inside you. He runs his mouth up and down the full length of your slit. As he reaches the top, you can feel the friction of his stubble against your inner thigh and your lips, and the sensation is delicious. You gasp as he brings a thumb up to join his mouth, using it to track a slow circle around your clit while he dips his tongue in and out of you. Then he swaps around, putting first one finger and then another inside you while his tongue does laps of your clit.
You arch your back, leaning your head against the wall behind you, everything still dream-like in the red light. You buck your hips toward his mouth, wanting more, and the pleasure is exquisite as you ride his tongue harder and harder, your fingers clutching at the edge of the countertop, your knuckles white. And then you can’t stop yourself from shouting out as you come, too soon for your liking, but there’s no stopping it, you writhe against the wall—and then everything goes blinding white. You blink rapidly, confused, wondering whether your orgasm was so powerful it made you go blind.
“Fuck, my photographs!” you hear Jan swear. Your eyes adjust to the light and you realize that the light panel is behind you. You must have knocked the switch on as you were thrashing with pleasure. You suddenly feel very naked in the brightness, and pull the gown closed around you.
Jan has bolted into action, trying to save the prints and the negatives, but it’s too late. The ones soaking in the trays have faded completely, as if they got amnesia and forgot what images were printed on them just seconds ago.
He stands over his trays, his face crumpled in disappointment. The only two that survived are the close-up of your breast and the graceful one of your neck and chin. They could be of anyone—the only identifying mark is the freckle on your breast, but only you and a very few others would know that.
You climb off the counter, your knees postorgasm jelly. “I must have pressed the light switch with my back,” you say, wrapping your arms around him. “I’m so sorry.”
He envelops you, his tongue searching out your mouth again, and the kiss is so passionate, you feel absolved. Then he balances his chin lightly on top of your head. “I’m just sorry you didn’t get to see all the shots we took.”
“It’s okay, I saw enough,” you say. “I’m sorry you didn’t get to see your prints, either.”
“At least I saw them in real life from behind the camera.” He traces a finger down the side of your face and plants a gentle kiss on your forehead. “And then again in extreme close-up just now. I wish I had a photographic memory.”
You blush furiously. “Come on, let’s get out of here, before these fumes get us completely stoned.”
BACK IN THE STUDIO, you sink down on a couch, a little dazed. Jan still has an enormous bulge in his pants, and the idea of another round is tempting. Should you see what he has to offer? Or has the ride been wild enough for one night? Perhaps it’s time to get out of here.
If you decide to stay and finish what you started, click here.
If you’re ready to leave, click here.
You’ve decided to stay and finish what you started
JAN DIMS THE STUDIO lights and goes to the kitchen to fetch the rest of the wine. You walk over to the motorbike and run a finger across the smooth chrome tank. You notice that the bike is bolted to the floor, a frame holding it upright so it can’t topple over, so you swing a leg over and sit on the saddle. The leather seat feels cool between your legs, where you’re still radiating postorgasmic heat.
Jan appears next to you, puts the wine down on the floor, and turns on the industrial-strength fan that he uses for fashion shoots.
“Here’s the wind in your hair, just like the real thing,” he says, swiveling the fan so that it’s full on you.
The gust blasts your hair back off your face, at the same time blowing your robe away from your body and out behind you like a superhero’s cape, revealing your naked body once again. Your skin puckers into goose bumps, and you squeal and grab for the edges of the gown. Jan shifts the fan so that it’s blowing past you instead of directly on you. Clutching the long handlebars, you shimmy as far forward on the leather seat as you can, so there’s space for him behind you.
“Want a ride?” you offer.
He smiles, considering. Then he swings a leg over the bike behind you.
“So, where are you taking me?” he asks, running his hands around your waist and holding on tight.
“All the way, if you’re lucky,” you say, and it’s corny, but you like it, along with the feel of his arms wrapped around you and his body tight against you. And if you’re not mistaken, there’s a certain hardness pressing against your back that’s very difficult to ignore. You decide it’s time to take pity on him. So you climb carefully off the bike, turn around, and mount it again, this time facing him.
He leans into you, kissing you hungrily. Reaching around behind you, he pulls you up against his lap, so that you’re straddling him, your feet wrapped behind him on the tail of the bike. The feel of him hard against you gets you excited all over again.
You drop your legs and reach for his crotch, frantically undoing his buckle and then the buttons of his jeans, to discover that he’s not wearing any underwear. His cock springs out of his trousers and you run your hand over it. He groans loudly at your touch, growing even harder as you clasp your palm around his cock and move your hand up and down the length of it, feeling the vein on the side pulsing against your palm like something alive.
“I want you inside me,” you whisper, and not having to be invited twice, Jan holds you steady with one hand and reaches into his back pocket for his wallet with the other. He manages to open and fish around in it one-handed, pulling out a condom as you bite at his neck, still stroking his rock-hard erection. He drops the wallet on the floor and tears the packaging open with his teeth. You take the condom from him and use both hands to roll it on to him, smoothing it down the length of his cock.
Unable to wait another second, he eases you backward, then lifts both your stilettoed feet up onto his shoulders so that he has full access to you. Then he runs his thumb up and down your slit. “Now,” you urge, and he slips his cock inside you.
He fills every inch of you, and you moan with pleasure. Then his mouth is on your neck and he’s sucking, then biting, then sucking again as he rides you, slowly at first, and then gradually picking up speed, until he’s pounding into you harder and harder and harder. And you realize that while he’s really close to coming, it’s going to take you a little longer. But you’ve already had one earth-shattering orgasm tonight, and you can feel how urgent he is, so you drop your legs down off his shoulders, pull yourself up
against his torso, and whisper, “Come inside me now—I want you to,” in his ear, grazing it with your teeth. And he can’t help shouting out as he pushes himself over the edge, and you clasp his back and feel his muscles ripple under his shirt as he shudders out a powerful orgasm.
With him still inside you, you lie back on the tank of the motorbike, a cat-that-ate-the-canary grin on your face. He leans forward, dropping his head sideways onto your naked chest, panting.
LATER, AS THE TAXI pulls away from the studio and Jan waves from the door, you think that maybe losing the prints wasn’t such a bad thing after all. You got to have nude photographs taken by a sexy professional photographer who’s shot some major superstars, but you’ll never have to worry about them popping up on the Internet when you least expect it. You got really lucky tonight, in more ways than one. Now it’s time for the comfort of your own home, with a DVD and some popcorn. Or maybe you should drop in on Melissa—you can’t wait to tell her about the night you’ve had.
If you go straight home, click here.
If you swing past Melissa’s house on your way home to tell her about your wild night, click here.
You’ve decided to stay at the gallery or go back to it
MOST OF THE CROWD has left the exhibition, and you stand alone off to the side of the gallery, clutching an almost-empty glass of indifferent sparkling wine, examining one of the portraits. They don’t seem quite so risqué now that you’ve had a chance to get used to them. You’re a little shocked at how fast you’ve become blasé about looking at another woman’s private parts.
Mac reappears beside you, and your stomach flutters.
“Hello again. Have you been enjoying yourself?” She slides those remarkable eyes sideways at you. “You and Jan seemed to be getting along famously, the last I looked.”
“Um, yes, I think he went off to his studio.” It’s impossible to explain what happened with Jan—you’re having a little difficulty believing it yourself.
You tilt your glass, then realize there’s nothing left in it.
Mac looks at you unblinkingly, then one corner of her mouth lifts. “Would you like some decent champagne, not the faux bubbles they’re serving here? I have a bottle of something very delicious chilling upstairs. I’ve been saving it for just this kind of thirst.”
Your mouth is dry, and the thought of icy champagne is very appealing. The idea of hanging out with Mac is appealing, too, even though you find her a little intimidating. Perhaps you should play it safe and head back to the bar. You could always drink more champagne with that cute bartender instead. Or maybe it’s time to call it a night.
If you decide to follow Mac, click here.
If you’d rather go back to the bar to flirt with the cute bartender, click here.
If you decide to head straight home, click here.
You’ve decided to follow Mac
MAC INSERTS A KEY into a massive wooden door, and you follow her into a warm, perfumed, shadowy space. She glides forward, flicking switches, and lamps glow to life, revealing the most exotic apartment you’ve ever seen. Almost every inch of the lime-green walls is covered with photographs, prints, icons, and posters. A Black Madonna stands in an alcove, a string of Mardi Gras beads around her neck and a bunch of fresh poppies standing in a glass next to her. You spot the familiar poster of Che Guevara on the wall—but someone has outlined his mouth in fire-engine-red lipstick and pasted false lashes around his eyes.
There’s a tiny kitchen alcove, with a basket of seashells on the counter, and a studio room, with a huge bed piled with colorful cushions in one corner and a draftsman’s table under the window. Mac’s feet tap across the hardwood floor between pools of rugs, some fluffy and pale, some rich and red. There’s something strange about the sound of her shoes on the floor, and you comment on it.
“Ah, I’m wearing my flamenco shoes. And it’s only the gallery downstairs, so I can practice my sevillanas as much as I please.”
You feel more and more like Alice falling down the rabbit hole. What is she talking about?
“I promised you champagne, didn’t I?” She twirls to the refrigerator and hauls out a bottle. You’re not an expert, but you can see it’s the good stuff. Her strong hands make swift work of the cork, easing it out with a delicate pop. The straw-colored liquid foams into tall glasses.
“Your health.” She arches an eyebrow as you clink glasses. Why does everything this woman says sound like it means something suggestive?
The champagne is cool and grassy, and you relax a little. Mac goes over to a laptop on the artist’s table and presses a few keys. The next minute, the sound of a guitar ripples through the room. It’s soothing—until a man’s raw voice bursts into song, and invisible hands start clapping.
“It’s cante flamenco—flamenco singing,” says Mac. “It’s an integral part of flamenco tradition, along with the dancer and the guitarist. Historically, it’s always been about passion. But why don’t you sit, and I’ll show you?”
“Show me what?”
Her feet clatter out a swift tattoo on the floor, a blur of precise steps.
You blink. “You’re going to dance? Now?”
“Why not? Tonight feels like a good night for dancing. Please, make yourself comfortable.”
You look around, but apart from the office chair at the table, there’s nowhere to sit. You retreat to the bed and perch on the edge. You’re not exactly into spontaneous outbreaks of song and dance—that’s what musicals are for—but what’s the worst that can happen?
Mac moves to the center of the room and kicks aside a few rugs. Slowly, teasingly, she removes her jewelry, placing her chains, pendants, and bracelets on the kitchen counter, although the earrings stay.
Then her body tenses, seems to grow taller. Slowly her arms rise, curving sinuously above her head, her wrists and fingers describing smaller circles of their own. Her back arches, her breasts rise and heave. Then she explodes, her heels cracking down on to the floor, starting to hammer out the same rhythm as the frantically strumming guitars, her feet moving so fast it’s impossible to see the individual steps.
You sit as if turned to stone. Time slows. You’ve never seen anything so sensual in your life. Mac turns and turns, her arms braced, her feet beating out a complex rhythm, her rounded bottom shuddering with every step. She seizes her skirt and swishes it from side to side. Sweat pearls on her bare collarbone and starts to trickle down between her breasts. It’s clear from the way they move and jounce under the clinging lace fabric of her top that she is braless.
At last the music slows down, and so do Mac’s feet. Then she bows so low, it’s a wonder her breasts don’t spill out. It isn’t until she clatters to the kitchen to gulp a glass of water that the spell is broken, and you start applauding.
She gathers up the bottle of champagne and flops on to the bed next to you, her chest still heaving.
“That was amazing! I’m so impressed.”
“It’s not only an ancient art form, it’s the most amazing exercise,” she says. “But it makes me so hot!”
Before you can think about what exactly that means, she seizes the hem of her top and peels it off over her head. Her breasts bounce into view, heavier and bigger than you expected, but firm and taut. The chocolate-rose nipples stand out hard against softer areolas.
You’re out of your depth, but while you’re racking your brain for the appropriate comment (“Um, did you notice you’d taken your top off?”), Mac turns to you, that direct look again.
“Would you like to touch them?”
You’re tempted, but this is all a bit overwhelming. The wild music, the dancing, another woman’s bare breasts—and now she wants you to touch them. You’re intrigued and a little turned on, but you’re nervous, too. Part of you is eager to stay and see what happens—when will you ever get a chance like this again?—but perhaps you’d better make an excuse and duck out before you get in too deep. You could head back to the bar for a nightcap—at least that’s famil
iar territory.
If you decide to stick around and see what happens, click here.
If this is all too much for you, and you decide to head back to the safety of the bar, click here.
You’ve decided to stick around and see what happens
“SO, WOULD YOU LIKE to touch them?” she asks again.
Wow, that is direct. You’re floored. “I . . . um, I’m not a—I’ve never . . . I’m not that way inclined . . .”
“I didn’t ask if you were a lesbian. I asked if you wanted to touch.” She grins, raises her strong, curving arms, and links her hands behind her head. “I promise I won’t bite. Well, not just yet.”
You have to admit that you’re fascinated. And her boobs are absolutely luscious.
“Here.” Mac reaches for one of your hands, tugs it gently. She doesn’t put it on her breast, she places it on her rib cage just below. You can’t help it: your hand slides upward, cups, and the weight of her breast falls into your hand as easily as a ripe fruit. It’s much softer than it looks, and the skin is finely textured. You squeeze softly, and are rewarded with the feel of her nipple growing diamond-hard against your palm.
She makes a little noise of satisfaction. “The other one is getting jealous, you know.”
You reach out with both hands now, running your fingers over her heated flesh, exploring the silky curves. Tentatively, then more boldly, you finger the nipples, intrigued at the way they respond to your touch.
“Very good,” purrs Mac, sinking back on to the mass of pillows. “Now perhaps with your mouth?”
This feels weird, but you don’t want to stop. You lean forward over her torso, then pause. “I don’t know how . . .”
“So let me show you. Relax . . .” She sits up, and you catch the scent of her skin. Deft fingers slide the straps of your dress down. As neatly as unpeeling a banana, she bares you to the waist, rolling down the fabric of your dress and your bra with it. You shiver from nerves and the air on your exposed skin, but before you have time to think, Mac leans in and closes her mouth around one of your nipples. Oh god. The double shock—There’s a woman sucking my breast, along with the sudden flare of pleasure—leaves you speechless. Her mouth is warm and wet, and her tongue is sliding and flicking, and you don’t care who’s doing it, because it feels great.
A Girl Walks into a Bar Page 6