I reenter the store and see her in the back, talking to the manager. As I walk toward her she turns around and smiles, beckoning me to where she’s standing.
I wait a few steps away, not wanting to intrude on her conversation.
She finishes talking and takes my hand in hers and leads me into a back room. We sit down at a little table where she’s stored her bag.
“So, what hotel are you staying at?” she asks me.
I stare at her, so caught up in being close to her that I can barely answer.
“Well?” she teasingly persists.
“The Paradise.”
“Oh great—that’s my hotel too.”
I’m still gazing back at her, starstruck, awestruck, and luststruck all at once.
“Come on, let’s go,” she says rather matter-of-factly, standing and grabbing my hand.
“What do you mean? You’re just going to go off with some stranger? I could be anyone!” I halfheartedly protest.
“Well, then tell me your name.”
“Rachel,” I say.
“So now I know you—let’s go!” she repeats, this time more forcefully.
We walk out of the store and toward the hotel.
“Don’t you have, like, people who are traveling with you? A chaperone?” I ask.
“Usually, but this time I wanted to be on my own. I’ve gotten used to the crowds and I can pretty much handle it. I don’t usually attract people like you, who are sweet and normal.”
“Thanks,” I reply.
We walk the rest of the way in a comfortable silence, each of us surreptitiously trying to sneak looks at the other.
When we get to the hotel we both pause, staring at the ground and then at each other, not sure how to approach the topic of where to go. Finally, after an absolutely interminable silence, I say, “Do you want to come to my room for a bit?”
“Yeah, I do,” she says softly, suddenly growing shy.
Alone in the elevator, I take her hand, holding its soft flesh in my own rough one. I squeeze her hand and she squeezes back.
I open the door to my room and we’re greeted by the many offerings I’ve brought here to tempt her. I’ve arranged for the room service carefully, noting her likes and dislikes: champagne, strawberries, and chocolate have been delivered on elegant silver trays that show she’s worth it. I don’t want this to be like the Clinton affair for her. Despite her protestations that she had the first orgasm of that relationship, I’d venture to guess that her pleasure wasn’t at the forefront of Clinton’s mind.
I, on the other hand, have her delight as the goal of my evening. I know that Monica is really a bad girl lurking in the fancy outfits of her richer, more genteel peers. I want to unleash that bad girl, let her show her true colors.
She looks a bit stunned, but then takes it in stride. I don’t know if this exactly meets her expectations, but I do know that she wanted to come back here with me.
“This is a nice place, isn’t it?” she comments, sitting down on the bed.
I give her a glass of champagne. She takes it and giggles as she slips out of her heels. I’m trying to figure out how I should play this: slow and languid or rough and dirty.
Maybe a little bit of both would work.
We talk about her day and the book-signing, and she tells me how tough it’s been for her. “People always want, want, want from me—they want my time, my name, my money. They act like I’m some superhuman force rather than just a normal girl.”
She looks as if she could cry, and while I do want to get to know her better, I don’t want her to dissolve into misery. I motion for her to scoot closer to me and I start massaging her shoulders and back. She sighs and relaxes her muscles, letting me squeeze and shape them, vigorously tending to all the places that feel too burdened, too knotty. I reach under her shirt and work my hands into her skin, manually telling her that I want to please her, to do for her.
As I knead harder and harder, digging my knuckles into her shoulders, pushing my thumbs into her back, she releases an “mmmm” and starts to lean into me.
“More,” she says, and I squeeze as hard as I can.
Now I’m giving her skin little pinches, knowing their sting will stay with her for a few seconds. I can tell she’s getting excited by the way she’s squirming around, like she wants to take her clothes off but doesn’t quite know how to go about it. I move over and she lies down across the bed. I run my fingers across her lips and she kisses them.
“You are so gorgeous, do you know that?” I ask her.
She responds by taking my index finger and biting it gently.
“I guess you do,” I say as I start to take off her top. As I lift her shirt, I see a gleaming lacy-black bra underneath. Her full breasts are cozily couched there.
“Touch me,” she says, opening her eyes and staring back at me as she had at the bookstore.
Her eyes bore into me, giving me a taste of her soul, her passion, the things that she now has to hide behind a steely gaze to protect her media reputation. For whatever wondrous reason, she is letting herself go with me.
Instead of complying with her request, I tell her to get comfortable in the nice, soft queen-size bed, and that I’ll be right back. I sneak off to the bathroom, where I’ve hidden my stash of sex toys. I’ll bring only one of them back to her; my purpose in leaving is mostly so that she’ll get nervous and question my next move.
I want her on edge, unsure, my actions unreadable.
I walk back in and dim the lights. She is sitting up in bed, eyes closed, sipping her champagne, a dreamy smile on her face. I wonder what she’s thinking about.
I walk over and kneel on the floor in front of her. She turns her brooding gaze toward me, her mouth hovering over the champagne glass without drinking. She dips her tongue into the champagne, then leans down and slowly slips her tongue into my mouth. She teases me, lingering around my lips and then slipping away.
“I know how much you want me,” she says wickedly.
Of course she knows; I’m kneeling in front of her, practically panting with lust.
“You can have me…I just want to have a little fun first,” she says.
I give her a quizzical look.
She spreads her legs and brings them around me, pulling me closer to the bed. Then she leans down again, places her glass on the floor, and kisses me. When I say kissing, I mean really, deeply kissing me, as if kissing alone were the entirety of sex. She puts her hands on the back of my head and positions me to her liking, then somehow slides her mouth to mine and does the most amazing things with her luscious soft lips. She feels like a pillow, like silk, like pure sweetness.
She tastes gorgeous, and her aggressive side is a complete turn-on.
She swirls her tongue around mine, gently licking and stroking, turning her head this way and that.
We kiss like that, frantic and needy, consumed by our mouths, for a long time—twenty minutes or so—before we both stop to catch our breath. She sits up with her eyes closed, still in that blissful desire-soaked world. I choose that moment to take advantage of her position, tying a silky black blindfold around her head. I see the look on her face as she realizes what I’ve done: startled, surprised, a tiny bit scared, but even more excited. She knows that finally someone is unlocking her deepest fantasies, and that she doesn’t have to pretend anything with me.
“How does that feel?” I whisper in her ear.
As she starts to answer me, I slip two fingers into her mouth and she sucks on them. “Shh…you don’t have to answer that; I just wanted you to think about how the blindfold feels covering your eyes. You’re going to have a really delicious time tonight if you do what I tell you to, OK?”
She nods her head and makes a small whimpering noise.
I decide to tease her a little by making her guess what I’m doing. In preparation for tonight, I’ve bought some of her infamous Barbara Walters lipstick, “Glaze” by Club Monaco—I got one as a gift for her and one as a gift
for me. I open mine and start decorating her lovely body, swirling the plum-colored makeup onto her nipples.
“What are you doing?” she asks, not really expecting an answer. Her nipples harden.
“You’re my canvas and I’m painting you, all of this gorgeous pale skin of yours, and your pretty nipples,” I tell her. I make them nice and dark, juicy-looking, then snap a Polaroid to show her later. Then I lean down and rub my lips against her nipples, giving new meaning to the words lipstick lesbian. I squeeze her round, bulging nipples between my fingers, pulling them tightly until I hear her gasp.
“Do you want me to stop?” I say in my most teasing voice. She shakes her head no.
“What was that? You have to speak if you want me to hear you.”
“No, please, don’t stop,” she begs me.
I keep pulling, drawing her nipples toward me, squeezing them just about as hard as I can for a second or two. By now she’s frantic; her nipples have become gateways to her cunt. She reaches up to touch them and I observe her technique. She rubs the edges of her short nails against them, scraping and pushing, giving a little jolt each time her hard nail rubs against the even harder surface of her nipple.
With the lipstick I draw a line down her cleavage, down over her stomach and toward her pussy. I replace the cap and then rub the slim tube up against her panty hose. I lay it flat against her and rub it back and forth over her clit, getting her even more worked up. I keep pushing the lipstick against her, wanting to touch her for real. She pushes back in rhythm, already aroused despite still being dressed. When she seems on the brink of coming, I stop.
I walk over to the counter where the champagne is chilling, picking up the bottle in one hand and palming a few ice cubes in the other. “Open your mouth, sweetheart,” I tell her, then slip a cube into that sexy pink hole.
By now her lipstick has almost all worn off, but I can still detect its traces on her soft lips, which are getting flushed and big in her excitement. “Now spread your legs for me, Monica,” I instruct her, liking the way she instantly obeys me.
I lift up her dress and press my fingers against the fabric that encloses her pussy—it’s wet and thick. I push the fabric against her, making her feel her own dampness, making her even wetter. She wants to talk but has to finish with her ice cube first. She sucks it greedily, eager to tell me all the naughty things she wants me to do to her.
I don’t let her, though, since I already have enough naughty ideas in my head to last all night. I give her another cube to suck and tell her she’s being a very good girl and will be rewarded for her patience. With that I climb over her and push my knee hard up against her cunt. She pushes back with all her strength, needing as much contact as I can give her— and then some.
I take her wrists and hold them above her head, leveraging myself against her body, rocking softly against her stocking- covered pussy, on the edge myself. If I don’t pause for a moment to regroup, my carefully formed plans will go out the window.
I take off the blindfold and she looks at me quizzically. I tell her we’re going to play show-and-tell. She knows what I want to see first. Now it’s my turn to sit up against the nice fluffy pillows and relax.
I tell her to bring me a glass of champagne and then to stand by the bed. “Lean over,” I say gruffly, wanting to make sure she knows that there are no other options. “Lift up your skirt for me, honey,” I tell her, wanting my own glimpse of the Monica-thong. But Miss Lewinsky has her own plans—she pulls her dress up and slowly starts to peel down her stockings to show me that she is, alas, not wearing a thong.
And she’s not wearing any other undies either!
No, the only thing I’m seeing now is her round white ass, looking so fucking gorgeous that it’s all I can do not to grab for it right away. I let her finish her little show for me.
She pulls the black stockings all the way down to her ankles and leans over farther so that I can also see a little bit of her bright pink cunt poking out underneath. By now I’ve forgotten all about my champagne and I’m staring breathlessly at Monica’s ass, wondering what she’ll do next.
Now she moves around and spreads her legs even farther apart. I can see the way her ankles are stretching the elastic of her stockings, the contrast between their darkness and her pale skin. I can’t contain myself any longer and I reach up and bring her ass closer to me. Her skin is cold and beautiful, tender, soft.
I kiss her ass softly at first, then take a little bite and hear her intake of breath. I bite harder, knowing that she’s eager for me to get to the heart of who she is. Knowing that I’m so near to her warm pussy is driving me crazy. I lean back and push her forward a little, then give her a nice slap on the ass.
I can see my bite marks and the red stain left by my hand. I tell her how sexy her ass looks. She doesn’t say anything, but turns her head to look at me with deep longing in her eyes. I lift her up and pull her on top of me.
“Hmmm, you’re so beautiful. I love how full and soft your body is. I’ve dreamed of being with you and here you are. What do you want me to do, Monica?”
She closes her eyes and turns over onto her back. “I want you to fuck me,” she says, surprising me with her language. Even though it’s been obvious all night that that’s what she wants, I’m still a bit taken aback.
“With what?” I ask her.
She takes my hand, licks the palm, and says, “With this.” I put two fingers in her mouth before moving down to her pussy, covered with its dark, curly pubic hair. “I’m gonna give you what you want now,” I say as I slide my fingers into her warm, soft cunt.
She moans as I enter her and she pushes herself up off the bed. “How many fingers are you using?” she asks me, so caught up in her heat and my hand that she’s almost talking to herself.
“What do you think?” I counter.
“I don’t know,” she pants, barely able to speak.
“Two,” I whisper into her ear, and I like how she squeezes me even more tightly as I say the word. I push and push, wanting to go as deep as I can, wanting to fill all of her. I press my stomach and hips into her, pushing her against the bed, and put two fingers of my other hand into her mouth.
I want to feel all of her reactions to my touch. I slide another finger inside her and she moans. “Three,” I say directly into her ear. She is pushing against me, wanting to turn over so she can look at me. She’s so beautiful, so big and lustful and open and soft, I can’t resist her request. I let her turn over and I gaze into her eyes, letting her know that I’m enjoying myself as much as she is.
I push harder, faster, deeper than I think is possible, and she is ready for me. Now I have four fingers inside her.
Her breathing quickens, her eyes close, and she is pulling at her skin, her hair, the sheets, the bed, anything to hold on, to try to prolong the ecstatic agony of her orgasm, but she can’t resist. The shudders start inside her and her thighs shake and her pussy gets even tighter around my fingers.
I coax her on, whisper to her, brush a finger over her G-spot, make it last as long as I can. After about twenty minutes, she’s done, and she looks at me with such sexy tiredness, relief, and delight that I want to stay with her forever. I hug her and lie down next to her on the bed, taking in her warmth and her scent.
We lie there for a while, holding each other, drifting in and out of luscious sleep. I get some of my energy back and decide it’s time to test her infamous skills. Telling her to touch herself and wait for me, I get up and go into the bathroom and come back festooned with a nice sturdy harness and a rather large cock. I’ve never really been much for strap-ons, from either side, but this seems like a moment to just go with the impulse.
As I walk toward her, her eyes seem to bulge—I’m not sure if it’s anticipation, trepidation, or a little of both. I smile reassuringly at her, letting her know that I really mean all this in fun, even if it won’t seem that way in a few minutes. I pull her head toward mine and kiss her roughly, then push her down toward my
bulging red cock and tell her to swallow it.
“Yeah, baby, I know you’re good at it, I know you’ll give me what I want,” I tell her as I see her lips part and start to take in the tip of my silicone extension. I start to understand why so many dykes are into strap-ons. The sheer power of standing against the bed while she kneels in front of me, doing my bidding, letting my cock go deeper and deeper down her throat until it starts to cause her discomfort, makes me feel special—high almost.
Her lips suck and then push down against my dick, practically causing my clit to spark. When it seems just unbearable, I pull her off me, get rid of the strap-on, and push her back into place, needing her tongue on my clit that very instant. She seems startled at first, unsure, but I think she picks up on the fact that she doesn’t have to be all that proficient to satisfy me once I’m so worked up. Her tongue takes to my cunt in a pleasantly unexpected way, lapping and licking and discovering all its contours and crevices.
After the pressure from the cock her soft tongue is such a delightful contrast that my come is soon dripping down my legs. She licks some of my juices off me and kisses me, then curls up against the pillows and falls asleep.
I know that I could treat her better than the Bill Clintons and Andy Bleilers of the world. They were married men full of their own concerns, out to use and discard her without taking a moment to notice who she was beyond what she could do for them. I want to give her back a sense of joy in her sexuality— the joy that exudes from her every pore when she’s with me. I knew when I first heard her story that not only does she have a lot to give as a lover but she can take pleasure as well. I envision the two of us living together and gallivanting all over the world, taunting everyone with our sensuous escapades, shoving the media’s hypocrisy back in its face. I picture her happy, glowing, free to pursue her own interests and desires. And most of all, I picture her next to me, just like she is now. She sleeps through the night, occasionally reach- ing for me, once even waking up and touching me, knowing right where to put her fingers to make me instantly wet. I grind against her and come on her fingers, unsure if she is asleep or awake.
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