Madame B: Ecstasy

"Oh," she said. "Had you forgotten we're having the place refurbished? The builders are in for a couple of weeks as of today." She rolled her eyes. "So we can all look forward to sexist jokes and the smell of bacon for a while."

But Zoe's chatter faded into the background as a familiar figure emerged into view behind her. There he was, in his dirty T-shirt, hard hat, and, if I wasn't very much mistaken, hard-on encased in paint-splattered jeans. I felt my body turn to quicksilver with relief and lust. I was about to call out to him when he gave me a secret smile and put a rugged finger to his lips.

"Shh," he said.

This confession is such hot stuff that I thought twice about sharing it. A beautiful, internationally famous fashion model relayed the story to me at a party in Paris. It's one that every journalist and gossip columnist in the country, in the world, for that matter, would kill for: that of eye-wateringly hip ubermodel Anna Lamb and her fiery, on again /off again relationship with her equally famous, adrenaline-junky boyfriend, Joey. The risks they take in pursuit of the ultimate orgasm shocked even me.

I've changed her name, of course. I could tell you who she is, but I think you'll have much more fun working it out for yourself. For twenty seconds the cobbled Milan side street was illuminated by the pops and dazzles of a hundred flashbulbs as Anna Lamb's chauffeur-driven Mercedes pulled up to the back entrance of a huge white marquee. Photographers risked life and limb, throwing themselves onto the hood of the car, pressing up against its windows. Forget the designers or the clothes; the English Rose supermodel was the real star of Milan fashion week. The car also contained Anna's boyfriend, the enfant terrible of the British rock scene, singer Joey Harper. A photograph of them together was such a rarity that it could sell for thousands of dollars. A photograph of them kissing could fetch up to a hundred grand. For the paparazzi, it was worth the risk.

Inside the car, Anna gave Joey a chaste peck on the cheek. Although they'd left their hotel bed only an hour ago, the urge to pull him to her and kiss him deeply and passionately had already taken hold, but she fought it. She didn't want to give the photographers a single shot that might make their fortunes. But more than that, she knew that if she didn't kiss Joey now, she'd want him even more desperately later.

As Anna reached for the door handle, Joey pressed a gold paper bag into her hand. "Something to make today's show a little more interesting, baby," he whispered. "I want you to wear this for me," and, when Anna raised an eyebrow at him, he explained, "It's all part of the game."

Ah, the game. They had been playing "the game" for the six dizzying months they'd been together. Drunk on lust, addicted to each other's bodies, they had become addicted to taking risks, making love almost-but-not-quite in public, daring the paparazzi to catch them at it. As Anna walked from the car to the marquee, eyes hidden from the flashbulbs behind huge Jackie O sunglasses, she thought about the adventures they'd had and felt a familiar pang between her legs. There was the time she'd gone down on Joey before a gig. On her knees, on the very edge of the stage, just out of sight of twenty thousand screaming fans, she'd taken him in her mouth and made him come seconds before he strapped on his guitar. Or the magazine cover shoot Joey had interrupted when he'd walked into the studio, carried Anna to his waiting car, and slid his fingers in and out of her pussy until her orgasm flushed her cheeks and ruined her makeup. Or last month, when they'd had hot, urgent sex on the hotel balcony in St. Tropez, with photographers waiting to catch a glimpse of them just two floors below. And today Joey had a new game planned. Anna could hardly wait. She didn't know what Joey's bag contained, but she was wildly excited. The creative and dangerous flair with which Joey filled his music manifested itself in their sex life, and she always knew that whatever he had arranged, it would create-and satisfy-a breathless, desperate sexual longing.

Inside the marquee, Anna had her own dressing room. True fashion royalty, she glided through the assorted sea of clotheshorses, dressers, and makeup artists. The younger models, who'd idolized their icon for years, froze, awe-struck. She might be nearly thirty, but there was something about Anna Lamb's amazing face, coupled with that hedonistic reputation, that still silenced a room when she entered. She kept her sunglasses on, not (as rumor had it) because she was too stuck-up to talk to the other models or was threatened by them, but because she didn't want her glittering and glazed eyes to give away her excitement.

In the privacy of her dressing room and with unsteady hands, she tore open the bag. There was something inside wrapped in dark purple tissue paper. As Anna unfastened the package, the paper crackled, echoing the electric excitement, almost hysteria running through her veins. The violet tissue held a pair of sheer, pale pink lace panties, near-invisible wisps of string joined by a pale, soft pink triangle to cover her pubic hair. Not that I need it, thought Anna with a smile, remembering how Joey had shaved her pubic hair with the ice-cold blade of an antique straight razor just that morning. She slipped out of her second-skin jeans and put the panties on. There was something small, cool, and hard inside them that pressed directly on Anna's clitoris. She laughed out loud at the shock of something firm and unyielding against her clit but also in admiration of Joey's ingenuity: Trust him to find a pair of panties with built-in stimulation.

Anna could take her pick of millionaire playboys or Hollywood A-list celebrities. The fact that she had fallen instead for this scruffy rock urchin set the gossip columnists on fire; journalists speculated endlessly about their enigmatic relationship. Forget column inches. Anna and Joey had column yards devoted to them. But these writers never hit on the truth of the matter, which was, in a world full of men willing to be Anna's slave, all she craved was to be mastered. While richer, taller, better-looking men had wined and dined her in the finest restaurants, Joey just took her back to his studio apartment in the East End and fucked her. He'd kissed her roughly, then thrown her back on a dirty mattress, pinned her arms by her sides, and fucked her until she succumbed to a rippling orgasm that brought her close to tears. With characteristic charm and arrogance, he bit her on the neck, slapped her ass, called her a little slut (which Anna had loved), and wrote a song for her. No other man had stood a chance since.

She walked a few paces, sticking out her slim hips, noticing the way the little bump caressed her clitoris with each step. Even sitting still, she was aware of it, although she had to move to feel any real stimulation. So she kept moving, crossing and uncrossing her legs, swaying her hips, dancing, allowing the little nodule to grind against her clit. If she wasn't careful, she'd come before she even was dressed. Anna was saved by a knock on her door.

"Miss Lamb?" A timid, Italian-accented voice approached. It was the makeup artist, ready to transform the model from beautiful blank canvas to otherworldly couture creature. Anna usually hated sitting through hair and makeup. But this time, rocking gently in her seat, letting the frisson between her legs build, and imagining how Joey would finish what the panties had started, she relaxed. She allowed herself to enjoy the stylist's fingers working on her scalp, to relish the feathery teasing of powder brushes on her cheeks, eyes, and collarbones where they caressed her, the ghosts of kisses. At one point, the makeup girl had to conceal a love bite on Anna's breast, another leftover from this morning, thought Anna with a delicious shiver, reliving the way Joey had bitten down on her tit while fucking her. Anna savored the girl's soft fingers as she applied concealer to the imperfection on her perfect body, feeling the soft pressure on the faint bruise.