James Evers - Melissa_s suck job

Melissa quickly checked to see if she had been caught, and locked eyes with the only man in the aisle across from her. He was a stylishly dressed, extremely bold-featured man who had definitely been watching. Her face flushed when he lifted from his seat to cross the narrow aisle, and seat himself next to her.

"I wish I had that effect on my women," he joked, his manner somehow soothing the awkwardness of the situation. "Whoever he is, he must be a hell of a guy, and he's got a hell of a woman."

"Yeah," she mumbled, not quite knowing what to say.

"You ever been to New York?"

"Nope," she snapped.

"Look, I didn't come over here to hassle you. I just felt I'd like to get to know you if it's possible. I knew if I stayed in my seat, there was no chance, and if I came over here, there was at least some possibility. My name is Larry Roland, and here's a card. If things don't work out for you, I'd be glad to show you New York. Okay?"

She took the card, thanked him, and watched as he returned to his seat. She glanced at the card, noting that it contained his name and an agency logo that read, Supremacy Management. She guessed he was probably an actor, and barely glanced at the penciled-in address and phone number before tossing it into her purse.

Darren was waiting at the gate when she debarked, and the reunion was warm and passionate. Her stomach swiveled in her belly as his tongue heralded his welcome deep into her mouth. She might have taken him on right there, the public be damned, had he not laughingly scooted her off to the airport bar for a couple of drinks.

It was the bustling, unatmospheric quality of the place that filially cooled Melissa's fires enough that they could just talk. They caught each other up on a year and a half's worth of separation, and discussed briefly the next hour's interview for the other network bigwigs.

It was not until they were riding to the studio building that she began to feel truly nervous.

"Oh, shit, Darren, what the hell am I going to do on TV? I hold my interviews in people's bedrooms, and I'm afraid that just won't work in front of the cameras."

"Is that the only way you can get your information?" he chuckled.

"No… but it sure helps. Without it my material would be like everyone else's."

"Well, then keep it up."

"Oh, sure! When did you start running an X-rated news show?"

"No, dum-dum. Just do a pre-interview. Warm them up privately, get your information, and then bring it out on camera. You'll be the same brilliant Melissa the people love, to read."

"You think it could work?"

"Well, you're going to have to do a screen test. Find someone big and test it out. I suspect you'll do just fine."

Melissa's mind suddenly clicked. "Darren, who's Larry Roland?" She began searching her purse for the card.

"Ooooh, you know him?"

"Soft of."

"Great choice. He's a big soap-opera actor, the public loves him. An interview with him will carry a lot of weight with the bosses, too. He's on our network."

"Well, what the hell," she sighed, suddenly grateful for the tiny card clutched hopefully in her hand. "It's worth a try!"

Larry Roland's bedroom was a lavishly decorated affair, only a small part of his Riverside Drive penthouse suite. But Melissa was hardly in a position to notice as the two naked bodies rolled playfully around the huge wall-to-wall bed.

For several minutes now the groans of mounting passion had been the only sounds in the room. It was not until Larry's head lifted from its mouth-probing kiss that human speech reoccupied the space.

"I wonder if you'd be up for something a little out of the ordinary?" he asked, sitting up on the edge of the bed. "I was kind of hoping that your actions on the plane shows a lack of inhibition. Are you interested in something a little different?"

"What'd you have in mind?"

Quickly he rose, pulling her by the hand, and leading her into one of the apartment's high ceilinged rooms. Melissa stopped short at the sight that greeted her. It was a large room, the left and right side of which contained nothing but costumes. The walls were covered with object littered shelves, pennants, swords, shields, and hangings of every conceivable type and period. The center of the room was dominated by a large oak table with a throne-like chair at its head.

"I keep a significant momento from each play I've done," he said, his hand sweeping the array of artifacts. "And here, I have every costume I've ever worn on stage."

She ran her hand down the long rack, marveling at the various fabrics and styles, finally stopping at one long, velvet robe, richly trimmed in fur.

"I wore that one as Henry the Eighth," he said fondly, putting it on over his naked body. He grabbed a crown from one of the numerous shelves, and seated himself in the throne, his voice raised high as the full Shakespearean lines flowed from his throat.

Melissa was captivated by his manner and delivery, and thrilled at the private performance he was giving. It was not until a few seconds later that she realized the other wall contained nothing but women's clothes. Momentarily she was confused. They could not be his. Did he have a wife? Whose were they?

Then suddenly she understood why they were there. These clothes were for his women. His acting extended even into his sex life. If that was it, Melissa was all for it, and while he chanted on, she ran to the rack and quickly slipped into a long, flowing, empire-waisted gown.

She now turned and spoke, cutting into his speech in the hope she was right.

"I am here, my lord."

He paused to look at her, the high-waisted gown cupping the perfect mounds of her tits. "And who might ye be, fair lady?"

"I am Anne Boleyn, here to do my lord's bidding."

She was pleased with the look that came over his face. She had guessed right. The sight of this woman so beautiful, so willing to play his game, so quick to understand his needs, lit a fire of passion in his eyes that almost seemed to bum her in its lusting gaze.

He now rose, crossing to her, circling her, devouring her form under the soft folds of her dress.

"Are you worthy? The king must have a worthy servant."

He now grasped the top of the gown, pulling it down to her waist in one slow, continuing move. His smile widened as her tits slowly bobbed from beneath the satiny top, her firmly erect nipples staring at him in open invitation.

"Yes, you are worthy indeed," he whispered.

Melissa could see he was completely caught up in his role. He was no longer Larry Roland eyeing the luscious tits of Melissa Dansin; he was Henry, staring at Anne, his subject.

His hands now came up and cupped the gently swaying melons, his fingers and thumbs coming together to squeeze her taut nipples in their firm pinching grasp.

"You have much to offer your king. Are you a willing subject?" His hands crushed the giant jugs in a slow circular motion.

"Whatever my lord wants, is his," she moaned, her head bowed humbly, her eyes locked on the tip of his straining cock as it jumped between the open flaps of his robe. "I am here to serve." And her tongue came out to travel the full circumference of her open lips.

At the sight of her obvious gesture, he was lost in his game. Sure of her, cooperation, his voice began barking its kingly orders, his commands echoing their hoarse passion throughout the large room.

"On your knees. Humble yourself before your king."

"I am your slave!" she cried, dropping quickly to her knees, her face now poised before his throbbing cock.

"Kiss it!" he cried, throwing open his robe. "Kiss the royal staff. It is the divine symbol of my power."

His hard-on thrust out hungrily from his aching crotch. She stared at the swollen, red shaft quivering before her. She brought her lips up to it, her tongue coming out to circle slowly around the bare, smooth crown of his cock. Her head moved forward slightly, her moist lips closing around his prick-head. Her tongue flicked lightly across the very tip to scoop and swallow the tiny trickle of sperm that ran from his burning balls.