Madame B: Desire

As Olivier stood up, I lay down on my front, wincing as my sensitive pudenda brushed against the bedclothes. I was eye level with his hard, upright dick.

"You don't need to," he said as I extended my tongue and slowly licked the underside of his cock, but his voice was wavering. "Tonight is about me giving pleasure to you."

"I need to taste you," I said, and I meant it; I was possessed by the need to wrap my lips around him. Enthralled, I studied his rod from his black bush to the glossy pink tip. I put my lips together to kiss the tip of it, teasing him, swirling lips and tongue around, daring him to penetrate my mouth. I could feel how excited he was. A drip of clear pre-cum fluid leaked from the tip of his penis, and I relished its sharp saltiness. The self-control that Olivier had exhibited all night suddenly evaporated; he began fucking my face. I let him shove his big dick right into my throat, watching his face relax as he abandoned himself to pleasure, pleasure that I was giving him. I could have sucked that dick all night. The more I sucked, the hotter and wetter my pussy got. I was astonished; after an orgasm as intense as the one I'd just experienced, I thought I'd used up my quota of sexual pleasure for at least a month. But as the tip of Olivier's dick banged against the roof of my mouth, I realized that I was ready for round two. Olivier pulled out his dick from between my lips. I knew he would have come in my mouth if he hadn't. He pushed my body back on the bed, and, with his hands on my breasts, he kissed me on the neck again, making my body spasm as a droplet of liquid leaked out from between my legs. As he balanced on his forearms and leaned over me, the reflections of my jewelry cast tiny brilliant lights on his skin.

He paused for a second to retrieve a condom he'd placed on the chair beside the bed, and I watched him unroll it onto his dick, which was bouncing and twitching and growing even bigger by the minute. Then he was inside me, his huge cock filling me up and about to split me in two. He was kissing me, his tongue thrusting in and out of my mouth in time with the vigorous thrusting of his penis. If Olivier was just going through the motions of passion, he was a brilliant actor; I had never felt more desired. With a strong hand, he pulled up my thigh so that it was level with his side. This change in position meant that his dick was rubbing furiously against my clitoris. This is it, I thought as I began to rush and my vision began to blur. It's going to happen, it's going to happen soon.

Pounding and panting, he exploded inside me, pressing down on my exhausted, engorged clit as he did so. We came at the same time, breathing in each other's breath as our bodies pulsated and convulsed, less intense than the first orgasm but longer lasting. It was the sweetest relief I had ever known. As I lay on my back with Olivier on top of me, I could feel his spent dick grow limp inside me. After a few moments, he withdrew, got rid of the condom, cleaned himself up, and kissed me again.

I looked at my bedside clock. It was two thirty a.m. Olivier and I had been in my apartment for around an hour. That fuck had cost me $2,000. I got up and reached for my purse, safe in the knowledge that it had been worth every penny. But when I tried to hand a wad of crisp $100 bills to Olivier, he shook his head and refused the money.

"I usually have to pretend," he said, smiling. "I usually have to fake it. But that was the best fuck of my life. That one was on the house."

"Thank you," I said, flattered and pleased. I watched him dress, savoring my last glimpse of his body before he let himself out of the apartment and hailed a cab in the street. I waved to the taxi, wondering if I'd ever see him again. Probably not. Why risk spoiling a perfect memory? And I might never get another fuck on the house.

Turns out that the best things in life are free, after all.

Do you believe in love at first sight? No? Well, what about lust? Okay, so what happens when you fall madly in love with someone who you've never even met? Does that count? Can it be real? I would have said a definite no before I heard Carrie's story. You probably won't know who Carrie is, but you will know the man she loved from afar for years. A champion boxer, a household name, she had known he was the man for her from the minute she saw him on television. But would meeting him in the flesh live up to her expectations? Yes. Oh, yes… The first time I saw him I felt like someone had reached a hand deep inside me and pulled all my organs in toward the bottom of my pelvis. Funny little hot and cold pangs I'd never experienced before manifested themselves between my legs. I was only fourteen. I didn't know who he was or what he did. I had no interest in sports of any kind when I saw this beautiful, rugged man in a suit on a sports program that my dad was watching one Sunday night many years ago. There he was, this man whose body, voice, and very presence on the screen made me feel so strange I almost fainted. There was something about him I couldn't explain. Of course, I now know that what I was feeling was my first thunderbolt of pure lust, that all I wanted was to feel his erect cock inside me. But back then, all I could have told you was that there was something special about this man who was fifteen years my senior, a world-famous athlete, and a perfect stranger. I felt a connection to him. I reckon anyone else watching that night just saw a tough guy, 200 pounds of solid muscle, a nose that had been broken a dozen times, and short, dark blond hair. But I saw something different. I saw vulnerability behind the tough-guy body language, softness beneath the scars.

They say you can't love someone you haven't met, but I knew differently. Overnight, he became my obsession, my focus in life. I, who had never been interested in any sport before, sought out his name and his entire career history. In short, I became an expert on boxing. I read the sports section of my dad's newspaper and spent hours in the library searching the archives for every one of his past fights. Sometimes, when I looked at pictures of him that had been taken in the ring, I'd find that my hand had slipped down the neckline of my top or was between my legs and that I'd been touching myself without even realizing it. Certain pictures-the ones of him naked but for his shorts, covered in sweat, his blond hair so plastered with his own wetness that it was almost brown, those blue eyes puffy and swollen-would get me so hot that I would place my thumb on the special place between my legs, squeeze my thighs tightly together, and rock back and forth until that warm, liquid feeling engulfed my body. I taped his fights, waited until I was alone in the house, and played them back, touching myself as I gazed at his body. I was transfixed by his brute strength, his lumbering grace.

I was sixteen the first time I went to see him fight. I was so excited that I dressed as though I was going on a first date: I shaved my legs, had my bikini line waxed for the first time, wore matching underwear, washed and blow-dried my hair. It was ridiculous. I didn't expect to meet him or anything-it was enough just to see him in the flesh-but I still felt that I had to look my best. My parents glanced at each other indulgently as we took our places in the second row, content to humor this teenage crush that they thought I would grow out of one day. But that night remains one of the most memorable experiences of my life. When his coach doused him with water at the end of the second round, droplets from the bottle actually flew onto my face. Tasting water that had been in a bottle pressed to his mouth, sucking my lower lip, I convinced myself that this was the next best thing to sucking the man himself.

I never got over this teenage crush. I finished school, left home, and entered the work world, but I still followed his career and attended every fight I could. I always sat in one of the front few rows, no matter how much it cost me. And I always looked my best for him. Sometimes I'd close my eyes and silently will him to win. Other times I'd get to my feet and cheer him on with an enthusiasm that bordered on sexual hysteria. During the mundane moments of my life, I could always imagine his gloved hands held aloft in victory at the end of the match, and I'd quiver and fantasize that he was waiting for me at home.