“Yes. Ah, help me to the bed or something.” But she wasn’t listening. She grabbed her iPhone.
“Still 40 seconds left baby.”
“What?”
“40 seconds! We’ve done six – we can break the world record!”
Matt stared at her with a look that was half fear and half disbelief. At that moment he genuinely thought she might have gone insane. “Olivia. I am in agony here. And, just so you know, that is not a real world record! I made it up!”
“Shut up! We can do this! And I need to come! I’m so fucking close here!”
30 seconds: Banana Splits
“Olly, what are you doing? Seriously Olivia, what the fuck?” She had stood up. “Olivia!” Her feet either side of his hips. “No!” Very slowly, she allowed her feet to slide apart and away from her.
“I can do it baby. I can still do the straddle splits. I think I can!”
“No, Olivia! No! My back is fucked up!”
“I’m sorry baby, I need to come! I can’t think of anything else!” She was just above his cock. With one hand she pressed down on his stomach, causing him to yell in pain, and with the other she somehow managed to position him so that he slipped easily back inside her. She closed her eyes, placed both hands on his stomach, and gently rocked herself up and down, her legs splayed.
She felt it again. His very tip poking at that nub of nerve endings. She helped her cunt roll up and down his prick, once, twice, three times and then she felt the rush returning for the third time in the last couple of minutes. This time she wasn’t going to miss out. She increased the speed as she rode him, satisfying herself, her profound, intense pleasure blocking out his helpless cries for her to stop. A little faster now and she felt the release coming, she felt her vaginal muscles tense harder than she could ever remember, she screamed in pure ecstasy and then, in almost unbearable waves, her muscles contracted until her climax reverberated through her body. She grabbed at her hair, bouncing harder, clasped her tits, fucking him mercilessly, and then finally dug her nails into his stomach, causing him to yell again, as she felt the lustful tumult rock her very core for seconds on end. Finally, she collapsed on top of him, drawing another squeak of disgruntlement. The stopwatch beeped as the time ran out.
A few moments later, she managed to breathe a few words. “I’m sorry honey. Really. You just looked so perfect there, with your massive erection like that. I was on the brink, I wasn’t thinking straight.”
“It’s okay, it’s okay. Look, if you can just get off me now, I’d like to try and get on the bed. I think we might need to call a doctor.” He sounded in genuine agony.
“At least we broke the world record!” she said, brightly. He stared at her and shook his head.
“If you can just get off, Olly. Olly… Olly?”
“Shit.”
“What?”
“Shit.”
“What? Look, can you just get off? I’m in fucking pain here!”
“Seriously, Matt, I… I can’t move. My legs. I can’t move my legs. I think I went too far with the splits. I’m stuck.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake!”
“World record, though! Totally worth it! Wasn’t it?”
Office
“Top-up, Claire?”
“Thank you very much, kind sir!” Paolo expertly tipped the bottle of Veuve Clicquot and filled Claire’s flute until the bubbles foamed at the top of the glass. They clinked glasses. Claire took a sip, surveying the bar for a moment, before turning to notice that Paolo’s eyes had not left hers. There was a pause, almost an awkward pause. Then he broke the silence.
“It’s been a good year, hasn’t it?”
“Very good! It amazes me how far we’ve come in such a short time. Are you enjoying it here?”
“Of course! I couldn’t be happier.” He looked into her eyes again as they both swallowed a sip of champagne. “It’s a great business, we’re busting the recession, we’re being paid… and, of course, we have the best bosses in the world,” he laughed.
“Flattery will get you everywhere,” replied Claire, rolling her glass between her fingers. She looked at him with a slightly raised eyebrow. What was going on here? Was he hitting on her? Or was she imagining things? Perhaps the champagne and the Christmas spirit had gone to her head.
“In that case, may I say that you are looking particularly stunning tonight, Mrs Holmes?”
Claire laughed. “You may, but please don’t call me Mrs Holmes. You make me sound like a frumpy school teacher.”
“Frumpy?! I think that’s just about the last word I’d use to describe you.”
Claire blushed. Now, it had to be said that Paolo was incredibly sexy. In fact, it was his smouldering looks that had given Claire and her business partner Zoe pause for thought before they finally decided to hire him as their Social Media and PR Officer. There was no doubting his credentials. But Claire in particular was concerned that his easy charm and obvious allure might be overriding their better judgement. Was he definitely the best person for the job? Or did he have the edge over the other candidates because, unconsciously or not, they were both keen to add some eye candy to their all-female office? In the end, they decided that charm and allure were pretty desirable aspects for any half-decent PR person, male or female. got the job.
Paolo was born and raised in England, but his mother was Italian, hence his name. Neither Claire or Zoe had ever met or seen his mother, but they could only assume she was some kind of Roman Goddess along the lines of Sofia Loren, because Paolo was pretty much the sexy Italian stereotype made flesh and blood. Thick, black, wavy hair, dark, soulful eyes, olive skin, sleek physique. His dress sense was immaculate, too, and at least once a week everyone in the office was blown away by a beautifully fitted suit, or perhaps a pair of exquisite Italian shoes. He prowled their small office space like a panther. Available yet unattainable. Flirty yet never lecherous.
Claire and Zoe had built their business up to employ eight people on permanent contracts, apart from themselves, and Paolo was still the only male. His knowledge and love for fashion was so acute, so honed, that a casual male observer may have lazily believed him to be gay. For any woman, though, this was obviously untrue. Paolo exuded a sensual sex appeal that every female in the office was extremely aware of. Behind his back, co-workers often fanned their faces or blew out their cheeks in their exaggerated appreciation of him. Yet, as far as Claire could tell, even though he appeared to be single, no one had yet managed to coax him on a date.
Paolo had been at the company for ten months and now it was Christmas. He was part of the furniture. And, it had to be said, he had not let them down. In fact, appointing a beautiful man to the PR role had proved something of a masterstroke. It was a role often taken by women, so when it came to promoting the company through magazine pieces, events and so forth, he stood out from the crowd like… well, like a stupendously attractive Italian man in a sea of PR girls. He was easy to remember. Indeed, their coverage in fashion and style magazines had seen a marked increase within just two months of him taking the job. Even at 26, it was obvious that Paolo had a great career in front of him. He was smart, well-organised, suave and ambitious.
“So, do you always come here for the Christmas party?” he asked.
“No, new venue this year. We needed somewhere a little larger.” Briefly, Claire remembered her and Zoe’s first Christmas party, ten years earlier. It consisted of three bottles of cheap wine at their shared flat in front of the television. Now they had hired a plush upstairs bar and been able to invite suppliers, boutique fashion designers, clients and plenty of friends and acquaintances from the media world.
“Beats drinking warm white wine out of polystyrene cups in an office – I’ve been at a few companies like that!”
“Well, that was us not so long ago!”
“Really? I can’t imagine you ever drinking from a polystyrene cup!”
“Hey, back at Uni, I used to drink wine from whatever vessel I could get
my hands on. A pint glass was the usual!”
It was just after ten. The evening had been a great success. Claire, with her natural pessimism, had obsessed for days that no one would turn up; that there would be some cooler party somewhere else across town that would steal all their guests. Zoe had been forced to constantly reassure her that it would be fine. And, of course, she was right. The room was packed and the atmosphere festive and a little hysterical with drunken laughter. Claire had done several circuits and made sure she saw the people she needed to see and pressed the right palms. Now she could relax, in the corner, where she felt a little more comfortable, away from hub of the revelling.
Partying and networking was very much Zoe’s department. She had always been better at the social side of the business, even from the start. She was the one that would go out and make new contacts, not just because she was good at it, not just because it needed doing, but because she loved it. Going for drinks, whether with friends or business acquaintances, was her specialty. In the meantime, Claire kept an eye on what Zoe would see as the duller parts of their work – cash flow, contracts, IT, general management issues and the deals with clothing manufacturers, designers and retailers. That, really, was why the company had been such a success – hard work, naturally, but also the way the two women complemented each other because, and this became more obvious the older they became, they were so different and brought contrasting skills to the table.
Time ticked past 11pm. They had the bar until 1am, but Claire was already considering ducking out. Paolo had been telling her about his family back in Rome and his childhood visits to the city. Claire loved Italy, always had. To her, it was the perfect holiday destination. She could fly to Milan and indulge in bashing her credit card on incredible clothes, then she could spend a week on the beach further south, or at Lake Garda, eating fresh fish and sipping a late night Grappa in the warm Italian air. She suddenly realised, though, that she and Paolo had been locked together in conversation for over an hour. Her head was a little fuzzy with alcohol and she found herself mesmerised by his lips as he spoke softly of his childhood memories. She checked her watch again and drained her glass. She should probably head home.
“You have to get back to your husband?” he smiled.
“Well, it is getting a little late…”
“Hey, in Italy we’re barely leaving the house at 11pm! Stay for one more, come on. One more can’t hurt. Your husband will be asleep by now anyway, right?”
“Well, actually he has drinks tonight, too.”
“Exactly, so he’ll be late home. You’ve got a free pass.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” she smiled.
“In that case, I think it’s time we had a cocktail, don’t you?” He pointed a finger at her: “Don’t move!” Before she could protest, he was off through the crowd, swaying between bodies with the grace of a ballroom dancer, his hips bending and swerving, his hands occasionally, gently, resting on a pair of hips to allow him to slip by. Every time this happened, the woman in question would turn and grin at him. Claire followed his progress and paid special attention to the females: almost every single one gave him an admiring look, or at the very least checked out his behind. Several raised their eyebrows at each other, wordlessly yet obviously communicating their approval.
Once he got to the bar she took out her BlackBerry and checked her emails and texts and tapped out a couple of replies. He was soon back, laden with two tall glasses of a deep red liquid. He handed one over. “What’s this?” she asked.
“A Royal Plush. Ever had one before?”
“Can’t say I have.”
“Ah, well, it’s the height of decadence, really. Red Burgundy and Champagne. Perfect for a cold night like this. Very Christmassy.”
She took a sip and it was delicious – warming yet fresh. “Lovely.”
“It’s a favourite of my father’s. We always have them around Christmas, but you don’t see it that often on a cocktail menu. It was a nice surprise to find it here.”
They chatted on, almost locked in their own cocoon. As soon as she finished her drink, Paolo was off to get her a refill. The room began to empty, and occasionally she or Paolo would be required to wave a goodbye or kiss a cheek. Yet if he ever left to bid someone farewell, he always swiftly returned to her side to continue their conversation, asking about her university years, about how she met Zoe, about her favourite foods and films and so on. He even made several notes on his iPhone of movies he must watch and books he had to read on her recommendation.
By half past twelve, and with two and a half Royal Plushes inside her to add to the several glasses of champagne, Claire knew she was a little more than tipsy. Not roaring drunk by any means, but comfortably happy, totally relaxed, in a place where she did not have time to think about her words before they tumbled out of her mouth. Paolo seemed fascinated by everything she said. When she made him laugh he occasionally touched her arm and, once or twice, her waist. Despite herself, Claire started to believe that he may be hitting on her.
She was flattered, of course. There were still at least a half a dozen women in the room who Claire knew were both available and, she felt, more desirable than her. Lily, who performed PA duties for both Zoe and Claire, was a prime example. She was young and radiantly cute, with blonde hair that almost sparkled like silver, big blue eyes, and incredible translucent skin. Lily had been single for some time, which shocked Claire, because she was also one of the sweetest, funniest and intelligent women she had ever met. Secretly, she thought her and Paolo were actually a very good match.
Yet Paolo didn’t seem interested in Lily, or any of the other myriad angels in the room. She had seen a few young men lust after Zoe over the years too, because of her juicy figure and her sexual confidence, but he wasn’t even looking at her. This young, dynamic man, in his dapper black Italian suit, crisp white shirt with top button undone and black tie loosened, looking for all the world like a junior member of the Rat Pack, was only paying attention to her. He was more than a decade her junior. When she and Zoe had started the business, he was about to start his GCSEs at school. Yet she was excited despite herself. She couldn’t remember the last time a man, apart from her own husband, had engaged her like this, had openly flirted with her like this. It felt nice.
Of course, it didn’t mean anything. This was just a bit of harmless fun at the Christmas party. He’d probably go off clubbing with some of the younger girls later and she’d go home to her warm bed and her husband would probably follow at about 3am, drunk. Not that she minded: he was not always out on the lash, but she knew that when he did go out it was invariably a big one, as if he saved everything up for one big blow-out. His hangover would be significantly worse than hers in the morning.
More people drifted away from the party until there were only two groups left: Zoe was in a circle with a couple of girls from the office and two more from some magazine or other, while Paolo and Claire continued their private conversation. Zoe, dressed in vivid, Christmassy red, with a revealing slit up the left thigh of her dress, moved away from her group and approached them. “Listen, we’re going to go on to a club or something. Do you two fancy another drink?”
“No, I better be going home, Zo, sorry. I think I’ve had enough. I can barely balance in these heels!”
“Come on, babe! It’s Christmas! One more?” Claire was tempted, but in the end she shook her head. The call of her bed was just too much to resist – the room already seemed like it had tilted slightly on its axis. “What about you, handsome?” asked Zoe.
“No, I think it’s time for me to go, too. But you girls have a good time. And don’t get too drunk, okay?”
“Suit yourselves.” A few minutes later, as she was leaving, Zoe called out to them: “Last chance!” But they both laughed and waved her on her way.
Claire drained the remnants of her fourth Royal Plush. “Well, I better be going home. Thanks for introducing me to these – I’m going to try mixing them myself at home… in a
few days, anyway, after the inevitable hangover has worn off.”
“Experiment with the measures – that’s always fun. But never, ever, mix Bailey’s and white wine in the same glass. I did that once in an attempt to invent an incredible new cocktail. It doesn’t work. Trust me.”
“I’ll remember that! So, where have you got to get back to again?”
“I’m not far from you, actually. We could… share a cab? Save a bit of money?”
“I tell you what, you’ve been shouting me these drinks all night,” Paolo had repeatedly refused her offers of cash to buy a round. “How about I order us a cab, we’ll drop you off first and I’ll stick it on expenses?”
“Okay, sounds fine with me… Ah! You know what? I need to get my suitcase from the office. I didn’t want to bring it here, but I’m straight out at a meeting on Monday and I need to have it with me over the weekend. You go alone, I’ll, er, I’ll get my own…”
“Don’t be silly!” she said, a bit too loudly, perhaps forgetting the room was now empty and the music had stopped playing. She placed her hand on his forearm. “It’s a five minute walk. Let’s go get your case. I’ll order the cab to pick us up from there.”
A few minutes and a quick call later, they were out on the street. There was a freezing wind and a few sharp drops of icy rain whipped against their faces. “Isn’t this lovely?” commented Claire, burying her face into her scarf and shoving her hands deeper into her coat pockets.
“Gorgeous! Sunbathing weather,” he answered. “Are you warm enough?”
“Not really, but we’re nearly there… Woah!” she suddenly slipped on her heels and Paolo quickly grabbed her arm to steady her.
“Are you okay?”
Truth be told, she wasn’t. She knew that she had stumbled because she was far drunker than she had realised. As soon as they hit the cold air she had felt her head become light and her feet felt like they were walking on air. “I’m fine,” she lied. Despite that, Paolo cradled her body to his, supporting her as they walked. She felt the warmth of his body, appreciated it, and didn’t argue.
Sex with a Sting: Six Erotic Fantasies with a Kink in the Tail Page 8