More Stories to Make You Blush (5 page)

 

Dear Julian,

It's been very hard to get in touch with you lately. I almost thought I'd never see you again! That would've been too bad, I think you'll agree. I hope I measured up to your expectations the other day; I did my best to make a good impression!

I won't tell you why I didn't stay the last time, it's not important. But I'll be in Quebec City for your next show. Maybe we'll have a meeting as nice as the last one—or nicer?

Until then,
Love,
X

Quebec City. She would be in Quebec City! Julian adored that town. Besides being beautiful, it was warm and alive; anything could happen there. And maybe, just maybe, “everything” would! He was almost jumping out of his skin with impatience. He forced himself to calm down, thinking about the unpleasant things that could happen.

Maybe, as he feared, she was as ugly as a toad, in which case he would regret having let his impetuous cock venture into that mouth, but would file away the episode as a “lapse of judgment.”

Maybe she was totally unbalanced and would threaten his life if he wasn't attracted to her.

Maybe it was some kind of bad joke—the kind only women knew how to play—where he had been chosen by chance, a helpless victim.

There it was. “Is that all? The risks aren't
that
bad!” he concluded. “And if she does what she did last time, what's a little humiliation compared with so much pleasure?”

* * *

Once they got to the hotel in Quebec—though “hotel” was just a fancy way of saying “seedy-room-with-sagging-mattresses-as-usual”—the musicians, according to ritual, drew lots to decide who would have the supreme privilege of a room to himself. Julian was the lucky one this time, and he felt this was a good sign. They quickly showered, then headed to the venue.

By 10 p.m., the place was packed. Local radio stations had done a publicity blitz for their arrival in Quebec and gave them star treatment. But though the show went well, it did not have the magic of the last one—as though the musicians were trying too hard, or their minds were elsewhere. But the crowd did not seem to notice, and they got two standing ovations.

Julian was impatient. He liked to play; he loved the tension and the spectators' appreciation. But he could not stop thinking about what would happen after the show. Would she keep her promise? He had no reason to doubt her, and he knew he should take her at her word. He did his best to maintain the illusion of being totally absorbed in the music.

When the show was over he did not follow the others right away, preferring to remain in the wings. He told himself that if he waited there, it would make things easier if she meant to drag him into some dark corner. But ten minutes went by and she still had not appeared. He decided to go back to the dressing room. He met the other band members on their way to the bar, where they were awaited by some tall cool, blonde brews, and, if they got lucky, maybe some tall hot, blonde fans as well.

“Are you coming, Julian?”

“I'll be there in a minute.”

“Come now, our fans are dying to meet us!” Julian resigned himself to going for a tall frosty one before getting changed. Maybe she just wanted to test his patience; it was still early, after all; anything could still happen.

* * *

The dressing room was locked. Each musician had been given a key and was told only they would have access to the room. He opened the door and fumbled for the light switch, which was covered with adhesive tape! The door closed behind him. She was there, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“You knew I'd come,” she whispered.

“I was hoping …”

“Oh! So you liked me the last time?”

“I'm only a man!”

He guessed she was passing in front of him. She took his hand and put it on her naked shoulder. The young man shivered. Was it possible she was wearing no clothes? She guided one of his hands to her naked breasts, placing the other on the hollow of her hip. The male hands touched smooth flesh, soft as velvet, whose proportions, at least to his blind palms, appeared perfect. He felt long, silky hair tumbling down her back; he loved long hair.

She went to him slowly and gave him a long kiss. She tasted of mint. Pulling his shirt out of his pants, she patiently unbuttoned it, then rubbed her generous bosom across his hairy chest.

She murmured into his ear:

“You're going to know who I am very soon, but before that, I want to taste you. I've waited for so long! I promise you won't be disappointed. I'm trying to be different so you'll always remember me, in case I never see you again.”

“But why? Why wouldn't we see each other again?” he whispered.

“Only you know …”

With these words she took one of the man's fingers and brought it up to her mouth. She licked it, sucked on it languidly, then brought it between her legs.

“See the effect you're having on me?”

“You're having the same effect on me, but the guys are going to be back soon, and …”

“No they're not, I took care of everything.”

Their words were almost inaudible, charged with urgent desire. He smiled in the darkness. He was ready for anything, and had never been so hard in his life. He told himself once again that he should take advantage of this pleasant distraction, which would probably be shortlived. If only it were up to him. He conjured up a picture of the young woman and was suddenly filled with doubt: what if it was all a serious mistake? But his body told him it was too late to think: time to act! He explored the thighs that offered themselves to him, and the mysterious place between them. She was wet, even juicy. Completely shaven, every inch of her sex was exposed to his probing finger. He caressed her for a few moments and she pulled him to the floor, lying him back on the rug. A leg that felt long and slim shoved between his thighs, discovering his cock in all its vulnerability. Her hair tumbled down over him, tickling him from face to knees, lingering over his groin. A velvety tongue slid over his skin, leaving a trail of sweet saliva.

She sucked him between her lips and into her open throat. She was talented, using just enough pressure with her hand and just enough suction with her mouth. It was delicious, and the man felt his organ grow almost a whole inch longer. She sat up and stroked him with her slippery hand. He guessed she was rubbing herself with her other hand. There was no other sound but the sound of her breathing, which was more and more rapid. He felt the vibrations of the woman's hand on her body, and the mounting pleasure she was giving herself. He felt her climax approaching, sensed her body straighten up and grow totally still for a few moments, then relax. She had come in silence, without giving him the chance to participate in or share her pleasure. But she quickly recovered and went back to stroking him tenderly. Straddling over him, she put him inside her and sat down on him, impaling herself. Remaining still for an instant, she leaned over and gently kissed him before starting to move her hips with a regular, lazy movement.

He was her victim, with no control over the situation. Not that he had any intention of trying to change anything! He was being spoiled! Someone other than himself had taken over the wheel. She hovered over him, light and supple. She got up on her heels so that she seemed almost weightless as she moved up and down over the man's body; a little higher, a little lower, ever so gently.

He felt himself being pulled backwards. She had turned around. Still gliding, but more insistently, she took him by force, mastered him. Her sex crushed against his pelvis, making him softly cry out. The young man wanted to get on top of her and show her what he was made of, but she guessed his plan, and seized his arms. She led him to the door and tied his hands behind his back with a scarf that had materialized from somewhere. How had she found it in the darkness? He had no idea, and actually, did not care in the least.

Tied to the doorknob with his cock pointing forward, the victim had no other choice but to let his assailant have her way. On all fours in front of him, her thighs squeezed together, Janelle forced him inside her from behind, making him go faster and faster. She was like a wet, warm velvet pouch inside, squeezing and crushing his cock mercilessly. His torturer's buttocks smacked against his belly, her long hair flew back against his sweaty face. He did his best to control his thrusts, to keep rhythm with the woman's movements, trying to force himself upon her. He felt he was close to letting go, but wanted the sweet torture to last a little longer. She had other ideas. Leaning on her elbows and spreading her legs, she shoved back against him, charging and squeezing him in the most intimate embrace until the man, unable to hold back any longer, exploded inside her with jerking shudders of pleasure.

She hurriedly undid his bonds and dragged him back down on the floor, huddling against him. He did not know what to say, and anyway, his throat was so dry it was impossible to speak for the moment. He was completely subjugated, stunned, speechless.

He felt her get up and heard her getting dressed.

“I'll be right back, I'll just get a few beers. I can come back without hiding, now …”

And out she went, leaving him momentarily, the better to claim her place in his life. Janelle walked toward the bar with a wide, dreamy smile on her face, very proud of herself and what she had just accomplished.

It took her mind a few minutes to process the sight of Julian's figure coming toward her from the bar. He should be coming from the dressing room, where she had just left him, no? She was confused, nothing made any sense, unless …

Although he was staring at her questioningly, all she could do was stare back and wonder where things had gone wrong. Julian's voice finally broke the spell.

“Janelle? Is it you? What are you doing here?”

Julian was just as confused as she was. And finally, it dawned on him. “X.” Janelle. It was her! Ahh. He knew; he just knew anything could happen tonight. Anything at all.

 

 

 

Brigitte looked at her traveling companion, half skeptical, half flabbergasted.

“You're not serious?”

“Totally.”

“I'll have to think about it.”

“Don't take too long.”

She thought about it, trying to get used to the idea he had so candidly suggested. “Well, I guess it's possible,” she said, then nodded.

She thought back on the week they had just spent together. Brigitte had come to Mexico to work. Since she did not have to go to work until around 10 p.m., she spent her days lying in the sun, letting her skin drink in the warm rays.

The man had appeared the first day of her trip, a lone jogger struck down by a cramp or some other problem. He was hunched over, wincing, with his hands on his knees, obviously trying to ease the pain. She thought he was truly suffering, and hurried over to see if she could help.

“Are you okay?” she asked in English, not wanting to make a fool of herself with garbled Spanish.

He looked her straight in the eyes and smiled broadly. “And you even speak English!”

It took her a few seconds to realize she had been tricked. Pretending to be annoyed, she exclaimed:

“That's not very funny! I thought you were really in pain!”

“No, not at all, but you have to admit, my approach was original!”

His innocent smile was irresistible, like the smile of a little boy caught red-handed, who knows he's done nothing really wrong and will be forgiven. And Brigitte did not hold it against him. He was a very handsome man. Tall and muscular, without looking pumped-up, he had a superb suntan that accentuated the sweat gleaming on his skin. His hair was jet black, and like a perfect vacationer or seasoned charmer, he had not shaved for at least two days. His radiant face with its beautifully sculpted features, sported a dark five o'clock shadow. His piercing eyes were the same color as the ocean. The man exuded sexuality.

“If I go for a dip, you won't run away, will you?”

She shook her head. The man pulled off his tank top and ran into the warm ocean waves. He swam out with a strong front crawl, dove into the foamy breakers a few times, then came back out. Brigitte had gone back to her chair.

“You got here yesterday.”

“That doesn't sound like a question.”

“It's not; I saw you arrive. We're staying at the same hotel. Are you here for long?”

“Just a week. But I'm not really on vacation, I'm working.”

“Pretty nice work!”

“The best!”

“What do you do?”

She had been waiting for this question. It always came up sooner or later. But she had no intention of revealing the nature of her work to this Adonis! He would probably mumble an apology, then think up some excuse and leave. They all did, at least the interesting ones. So instead she answered:

“I'm a model for a Montreal fashion designer. I do private shows for certain customers. It's not as exciting or prestigious as magazine work, but it's pleasant, even if I mostly work at night. And it allows me to travel.”

This was not so far from the truth. She actually did do shows, but not modeling clothes. Quite the opposite! Brigitte was an “exotic dancer,” a stripper, and she loved her work. Unfortunately—and this was her only regret—some of her colleagues gave her profession a bad name. But most of them did not do it in the same conditions or for the same reasons as she. Brigitte danced for pleasure. For practical reasons too, of course; after all, it paid very well, the hours were flexible, and she could travel. But most of all, it allowed her to satisfy a powerful need to unveil her charms for the eyes of an admiring audience.

The first time she danced was on a bet when she was a student. She had gone to a strip bar with a few friends who had dared her and two other girls to get up on stage and strip. The sum of the bet grew with the boys' desire to see their classmates take their clothes off. Within minutes the stakes had become quite interesting for a penniless student. But Brigitte quickly realized that even without the money, she would have done anything to get up on stage in front of her friends. She was drawn by some indefinable instinct; yet she had never given it a thought before that moment. The idea pulled her like a magnet. The two other girls finally declined, leaving Brigitte to rise to the challenge alone. With an air of determination she knocked back her drink and got up on stage in front of her amused companions. They were sure she would just do a quick little appearance, take off her clothes, and hurry off the stage—a joke was a joke. But much to their surprise, she firmly planted herself at center stage. With the first bars of the music she took off her shoes, then her blouse. She spent the entire song taking her clothes off, one piece at a time, until she stood there completely naked.