“Holy shit.” I clamped a hand over my mouth and heard my step mom admonish me for swearing.
I’d won a date with Foster Wells, the star of Two Torn! The email informed me a limo would come pick me up at a specified address on Valentine’s Day at noon. I would receive a tour of the Two Torn set, also, with Foster as my guide. All I had to do was click on the Prize Claim link in the email and I’d surf to a page where I could enter my claim code, specify an address, and that was about it.
“This has to be spam.” I didn’t believe it for a second, yet my fingers trembled as I accessed the url and entered my information. “A hoax. Probably cooked up by my step sisters.”
After I entered my claim code, the website flashed a CONGRATULATIONS banner, then a picture of the devastatingly sexy Foster Wells clad only in a speedo and his tanned, taut glory.
Nope, I didn’t believe this was real at all. But just in case, I decided to splurge on a new hairdo and a cute pair of polka dot pumps. Valentine’s Day was only a day off now, and I chewed my nails away in anticipation.
***
The clock read 11:45 when I checked myself in the hallway mirror a final time. Valentine’s Day had arrived. My hair and skin shone with a hint of glitter. I’d done my eyes up smoky and sultry. Applied a red velvet lipstick. The red dress suited me perfectly, molding to my generous curves and breasts. The polka dot pumps fit great and finished off the outfit with a dash of cuteness.
The buzzer next to my apartment door went off and I jumped, nearly spraining my ankle as one heel buckled. A table in the hall saved me from falling down.
I pushed the button on the intercom and spoke. “Hello?”
A rich baritone wafted through the speaker. “I’m here to escort a Ms. Cynthia Ellerton to Rosewood Studios.”
I cleared my throat, tried to keep the nervous squeak out of my voice. “I’ll be right down.”
***
The burly, bald limo driver held the door open while a beautiful businesswoman rushed toward the car. She wore a slate grey Gucci suit and her hair was piled in a loose topknot that burst with red curls. She flashed a brilliant smile as she held out a hand for me to shake.
“Ms. Ellerton, congratulations,” she said, guiding me toward the glass doors of Rosewood Studios. “I’m Mr. Wells’ assistant, Gertrude Plum.”
I was led through a large foyer inside the oddly shaped building of glass and steel. Gertrude guided me to a metallic elevator and we were whisked up to the set of Two Torn.
In a lavish dressing room, complete with long mirror lined by globe lights, I met Foster Wells.
My breath caught in my throat as a handsome smile curled his lips. He was six-foot-two, in great shape, and had the face of a carved Greek god. His short chestnut hair gleamed in gelled waves. When the light caught it, it looked like a rich coat of sable.
His green eyes flashed with good humor. “Is this our little contest winner?”
Gertrude nodded and returned the smile. “It certainly is. I’ll leave you two alone to take the tour, but text me if you need anything.” She tapped a Blackberry clipped to her skirt then left.
The door clicked shut and Foster’s face changed. It screwed up in a frown of annoyance.
“Let’s get this over quickly.” He walked past me without so much as a glance and left the room.
I picked my jaw off the floor and followed after him. Okay, I was sure he got tired of being hounded by starry eyed fans, but what exactly had I done to offend him? Show up for my prize?
I caught up to him near the end of the hallway. He didn’t even acknowledge me. I felt like a ghost in his presence.
He still kept mute in the elevator. My attempts at conversation were met with frowns and terse words. Then he suddenly leaned in close, pinned me to one side of the elevator, and smiled a cruel smile.
“Go ahead,” he whispered. “Tell all the papers what a prick I am. I’ll deny everything, or just say you’re a jilted actor groupie.”
Nothing more was said until we arrived on the set. It was partially lit, but quiet. They weren’t shooting today, he told me, but had rehearsed a few scenes earlier.
With another fake smile, he led me toward a chair he kept on the set for in between his scenes.
“Wanna sit in it?” His chest puffed out and he looked the epitome of arrogance. “You can say you sat in the chair of a star.”
I gave him a small smile, feeling drained by his pompous attitude. I thought about my jilted Prince Charming and fresh guilt sucker punched me. How I wished he were there with me instead of Foster Wells.
“How does it feel?” he asked after I got comfy in his chair.
I blinked. “What do you mean?” It felt like a crappy canvas chair, to be honest.
His fake smile widened. “To sit in the seat of a big celebrity.”
“It feels like one of my IKEA chairs.” I wrinkled my nose at him. I couldn’t help it. The thick arrogance and surly mood was getting nauseating.
His face grew ugly and red with anger. He spoke not another word as he stalked away, leaving me all alone on a deserted set.
I huffed air and tried to hold back tears. I would not be a wimp! I would find the exit and walk out of there with my dignity.
At least, that was my plan, until I heard footsteps behind me.
I whirled around to find the co-star of Two Torn approaching me, Chris Grayson. The most handsome man in the world, if you asked me. I’d always preferred him to Foster.
“Did Foster abandon you?” His deep voice was soft, soothing. “I’m sorry. He can be such a prick.”
He held out a large hand with slender fingers, and I shook it. A jolt of electricity seemed to shoot up my arm and I tried not to gasp.
Instead I gave a nervous laugh. “He definitely didn’t seem happy to see me.”
Chris held out his arm for me to take. Before I did, I took him in. Hair so black it almost shone blue. Eyes like sapphires. Chiseled cheekbones and a square chin. He was dressed in a navy blue pinstriped suit with a silky pearl shirt. My eyes feasted on his handsomeness. I admit it.
“Let me finish where he left off.” He smiled, a genuine smile that made his eyes sparkle, and led me off the set.
We chatted and laughed throughout the remainder of the tour. Chris was the exact opposite of the brooding, bad boy character he played on Two Torn. He was charming, affable, even flirtatious. He offered me refreshments, so we headed back to his dressing room. My head thrummed from the thrilling change in events.
In his dressing room--not as lavish and overdone as Foster’s, but tastefully designed with modern motifs--we sat in comfy crème loungers. He poured champagne into two flute glasses and opened a box of expensive chocolates for us. After handing a glass to me, he placed the red velvet-looking box between us atop a glass coffee table.
While eating a chocolate in the most sensuous way possible, he watched me. I almost choked on my champagne. I did sneeze when the bubbles went up my nose.
“I have a confession to make, Cindy.” He put his glass down and leaned closer. “I set this whole thing up.”
He popped a cherry chocolate in my mouth and I almost choked. After I chewed and swallowed, I spoke. “What do you mean?”
“Cindy Eller, I am your Prince Charming.”
My mouth fell open. I licked cherry juice from my lips. “Y-you’re Prince Charming?”
He wore a Cheshire grin now. “Please forgive me. I know I tricked you. I rigged the contest so you would win, so we could meet.”
“But…but the contest was to meet Foster Wells.”
He winked. “So you thought.”
He explained how he set up the whole meeting thanks to rigging the contest and talking with Sadie. My mom and Chris got in a conversation about me last time I left him waiting at her café. Guess Sadie acted as my fairy godmother, and I had to smile at the thought. She may not have been around when I was a kid, but now that she was a part of my life she was always looking out for me.
�
�So, what now?” I twirled the stem of my champagne glass.
The Cheshire grin returned. He slithered from the chair and dropped to his knees in front of me. His eyes made my face heat unbearably when he looked up.
“I thought we could act out one of our online games.” He traced figure 8’s across my knee then moved higher, letting his fingers slip down my inner thigh.
I tried to steady my breath. My pussy began to tingle with maddening need. “I-I’d love to.” I croaked. “But I didn’t bring protection.”
He dipped his head and kissed the tops of both my knees before he lifted me from the chair. “Oh, don’t worry, I have everything covered.”
Chris Grayson, one of the most sought after men in North America, was my Prince Charming? And now he planned on ravishing me in his dressing room. I almost asked him to pinch me, because I had to be dreaming.
He set me down in front of the long, white makeup counter that lined a well lit mirror. He whispered the proposed scenario in my ear, and I nodded my consent.
“Turn around,” he commanded in a low, husky voice and I obeyed.
I presented my wrists to him, as he requested. He was soft yet rough, seductive yet powerful, as he bound them with his necktie.
“Now, I’m going to undress you.” He paused long enough to feather kisses down my neck. “Slowly, while you watch.”
I shivered, and my gaze glued to the mirror, wreathed in a rectangular halo of soft globe lights. My whole body would soon be on display, and I would observe everything he did to me. My pussy clenched and grew wetter at these thoughts.
He stripped me, but left my polka dot pumps on. My caramel skin shone as he bent me over the makeup counter. My eyes were wide and my pupils were huge.
First he stroked the tense muscles in my back until I relaxed completely. Then his lips and tongue skimmed down my spine. I groaned as warm bliss flooded me and my horniness grew.
Teeth sank into my firm, round ass and I let out a shrill squeal. I watched as his head moved to the other cheek and repeated the process. My skin vibrated with sensation and my legs trembled slightly.
He spread my legs wider and disappeared as he went to his knees once again. I cried out when a hot, wet tongue flit over my clitoris. He licked my outer labia, tugged them with his teeth, then lapped up my juices from my now soaked opening. I moaned uncontrollably as he did so.
His tongue returned to my clit and rapidly flicked this swollen bead, making me come. I shivered and shook atop the makeup counter. I couldn’t believe my wanton release as I watched myself.
Juices dripped down my thighs. He stood once more and stroked my back as our gazes met in the mirror.
His hand slipped to my ass, which jutted high in the air. “You were a very bad girl for standing me up twice, weren’t you, Cindy?”
I knew where this was going. My heart beat harder in anticipation. “Yes, yes I was. I’m sorry.”
He fondled the cheek now, continued to pin me with that sexy stare. I ached for another orgasm, for his cock to fill my pussy. I was greedy for pleasure, and felt totally uninhibited today.
“I think you need to be disciplined,” he leaned down and whispered this into my ear, pressing his sculpted body into mine. “Naughty girls need a spanking and a good fucking, don’t they?”
I swallowed hard. I moaned my reply, “Yes.”
One hand slipped between my legs to fondle, tease, my sex. The other lifted high in the air then whizzed down quickly. It met my ass with a sharp, loud crack. I gasped and jerked against the makeup counter. My cunt walls throbbed wildly. My stomach tightened and my every cell seemed to vibrate from pleasure / pain stimuli.
He massaged the stinging cheek, soothed it until the smarting ceased, then he drew his hand up once more and…
Whack!
I squealed and squirmed. When he massaged my ass and back this time, I couldn’t help myself. “Please, fuck me,” I begged.
He gave a deep, throaty chuckle at this. “Not so shy now, are you, sweetie?” His fingers moved to my sex where he played until I shuddered and came a second time. “Tell me, how many men have you fucked?”
The carnal tone of his voice made me all the hotter. “Only one.” My words were breathy.
“I’ll have to be gentle, careful, then.”
“Not too gentle,” I blurted.
Another sexy laugh. “Gentle at first, until you stretch for me.”
I watched him drop his pants and boxer briefs to his ankles. A massive, veiny cock slapped against the bottom of his shirt. The head was plump and dark pink. It glistened from a sheen of pre-cum. He watched me as he put the condom on, taking his time rolling the sheathe down his long, meaty shaft. I licked my lips and moaned at the torture.
Finally he nudged his thick glans into my seeping pussy. I let out a long groan of release as he did so. He clutched at my hair, yanking my head back as he slowly filled me with every inch of his shaft. My cunt walls constricted around his thrusts, milking his cock of every bit of pleasure it could give.
“So unbelievably tight,” he growled as his thrusts picked up pace.
I stretched to accommodate him. My snug pussy squished as he fucked me harder and I grew wetter and wetter. His cock was curved, so the head easily found my g-spot and pounded, stroked, until a sublime pressure built.
I closed my eyes, lost in the throes of bliss while he played with my clit and made carnal love to me. But they flew open, and I gasped, when he slapped my ass sharply once more. The sting was both pleasant and unpleasant, and it made my sex throb stronger still.
Now he gripped my hair with one hand and the makeup counter with the other. His cock slammed me faster and faster, like he was a great beast lost to his heat now. The intense pressure building deep inside me burst. It felt like I would pee myself, and I let out a shrill shriek as the most intense orgasm I had ever had exploded inside of me, showering me with ecstasy.
He pulled out and went to his knees once more to lick me clean. I shivered and shook and cried, still sensitive from three orgasms. My swollen sex could barely take this further stimulation, and it was so intense I had a fourth orgasm in no time.
He helped me up from the counter and gathered me in his arms. I sat on his lap in the makeup chair, and he reached beside us to grab a box out of a massive, shiny gift bag. He handed me the gift, wrapped in gleaming foil embossed with hearts.
“What’s this?” I beamed.
“Open it and find out.” He winked.
I tore the paper away carefully, like my step mom had taught me. We could never rip into Christmas gifts because she always saved the wrapping for next year. But Chris told me to “tear into it,” so, with a gleeful grin, I did.
I lost my breath when I saw what lay inside. It was an elegant glass slipper with a diamond studded bow at the back. Inside of it was a slip of paper. I pulled it out and opened it.
“My cell and home phone numbers,” he said. “Now you have no excuse to dump me ever again.”
I blushed and grinned, then I kissed him soundly.
***
Hans & Greg
A reporter investigates a mystery in the woods and finds bdsm romance.
By Leigh Foxlee
***
Hans & Greg
“I love getting head from a man with a goatee.” My boss Derek sighed out the words and sat back in his chair while I slurped my way down his erection. Through grunts of satisfaction, he continued, “I need you to do the Darmoor murder legend story this year.”
I stopped sucking, wiped a bit of pre-cum from the hair beneath my lip. “No goddamn way.”
He pressed a finger to my lip, then pressed my head full of dark curls back into his crotch. “But I need you to go out there and interview Hans. We need something more this time. More meat on the bones, ya know what I mean?”
I stroked his thick, pinkish brown cock, pulling my mouth away to mock him. “Did you intend to make that terrible pun, or …”
Once more he shoved me
down on his spit-shiny glans. “Shut up and suck. People don’t want sleepy little town fluff these days. They want tawdry suburban scandal. Or, in this case, tawdry backwoods scandal. You leave after you make me cum.”
“Yes sir,” I grumbled around his penis.
Derek Tremblay was the editor-in-chief of the Sudbury Review, a medium-sized newspaper publisher in Sudbury, Ontario where I’d worked for the last three years. I was an acquisitions editor who doubled as a reporter when I first got the job, but after expertly sucking Mr. Tremblay’s cock I quickly moved up the Review’s ladder. He made me his executive editor after we started fucking. I take that as a compliment.
My name is Greg Butler, and I’m a journalist, which you probably already guessed. Well, truth is, these days I don’t go out and get the stories much anymore. I stay in my nice, cushy exec office and edit them. Believe me, it’s still hard work red penning those puppies, particularly when we get a new crop of journalists fresh in from college, but sometimes I miss going out there and getting into my work, too.
However, not a journalist at the Review wanted to cover the yearly Darmoor murder legend story. Though not an old legend, only ten years have passed since the event, it’s well known and just scandalous enough to make the little town it happened in … well … legendary.
So why doesn’t anyone want to cover it? Well, in the past we’d do a boring blanket story. Someone would go down to the archives and pull up all the old files on the murder that happened in the sleepy little suburb of Chestnut Lane, only a fifteen minute drive from my office in Sudbury. Not exactly thrilling reporting, combing through archives and sneezing your way through a decade of dust.
But to get to Hans, the center of this local melodrama, I’d have to go all the way out past Chestnut Lane, into a rural district that was bordered by an old growth forest. No one had gone to interview Hans in years, and he rarely allowed strangers in his home, or so I’d heard.
Hans Muller was a witch who had been accused of murdering his lover. He was cleared of the charges due to lack of evidence, but most of the Darmoor people still think he did it. Hans keeps to himself on a little piece of land at the Darmoor limits. And it looks like I’m going to be his houseguest this weekend.
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