Nicola Jane - Follow Your Fantasy - Deeper

You gasp as something hard parts your lips. It's smooth and cool and it's definitely not Julian. But he returns a brush to your clit and you stay quiet as he moves what you realise is the handle of another brush inside you.

'So when he arrives, she asks him what he wants and he says this time he wants her . He tells her he is going to fuck her and she'll be the Queen he fucked. And she says no. He's angry, you know, he tasted her just the night before and he wants his prize. Giving her gold for straw is nothing to him but he wants what he wants. She's clever though. She tells him she will be the Queen he fucks instead. He makes her promise and he says he'll take her first born son if she doesn't keep her word.'

The handle and the brush work together now, plunging in and out, painting pleasure over and around your clit. You work your hips, rising and falling to speed yourself to the edge and over. The miller's daughter didn't get her satisfaction on the third night but you're going to. Everything pulls into the centre concentrated at the tip of your clit and then suddenly expanding outwards to take in your pussy, thighs and spreading upwards across your slick stomach, tightening your nipples and shaking your arms and legs. You cry out and the image in your head vanishes with Rumpelstiltskin's completion of the deal.

You lay limp against the cushions and the handle slides out of you. 'Story's over?'

'Not quite.'

You open your eyes expecting to see Julian stripping off but he's busy re-corking the bottle and wiping the brushes on a cloth.

'She becomes Queen and she forgets about Rumpelstiltskin. Until she has her first baby. Actually, even then she doesn't remember him. But then he appears in her bedroom and demands his price. She's used to her Queenly power now and she refuses. But he says he'll take the baby prince if she doesn't give him what he wants. But she still says no so he makes her another deal. That if she can guess his name, she is free of her debt. She makes two guesses on two days and gets them wrong. But the third day, after she's sent messengers everywhere to learn the name of the dwarf, one of them comes across him, dancing around a fire, singing about his victory and how she'll never guess his name is Rumpelstiltskin…'

Julian gets up and takes his camera off the tripod to bring it back and show it to you. You sit forward and curl your legs up, crossing your arms over your breasts. It's clear that he's not going to jump on the cushion bed with you but you can't complain. That was pretty sensational and, you have to admit, you're curious what the camera caught.

'When she guesses his name, he's so furious he stamps his foot all the way through the floor – here you are.' He holds the camera so you can see the screen. 'And gets stuck.'

He flicks through the images, close ups on your face and long shots of your whole body as well as very graphic photos of your spread pussy, everything gleaming with the oil he painted you with. Even in the pictures where you can see only your eyes, you can tell something is dilating your pupils and giving that glint you saw in the paintings.

'He's even angrier then and he tears himself in half trying to get out.' The last of the pictures whizz past. 'And they all live happily ever after.'

'That's quite the story!' you say, sitting up as he goes back to hook the camera up to a laptop and pulls his easel around.

'It was the way you told it,' he says, distractedly.

You can't help asking, 'Do you ever…ahh, go for the happy ending for yourself?'

'Nah,' he says. 'I never touch, remember?' Now what he said in the bar downstairs makes sense.

'Never?' You can't believe it.

'Nope. This is love, sex, fucking. The work. I'm, like, superstitious about it. What if I know and then I can't capture it here?' He taps the canvas with his finger.

'You can't paint the same thing forever though.'

'Maybe. Maybe not.' He shrugs. 'Do you mind? I'm really turned on and I need to channel.' He nods his head towards your pile of clothes. 'This next piece should be up in a week or so. Stop by and have a look. I think you'll like it.'

You get dressed. He's not unfriendly but you can just tell he's entering another mode and, although he smiles when he thanks you and says goodbye, you descend the stairs alone and let yourself back out into the bar. It's not much busier than it was before and you exit onto the street, sure you'll be back to see the painting.

Ten days later, you're at X 3again. Only this time you're dressed as yourself, casually. You find your painting hung in the centre of the wall in the most prominent position. You're instantly recognisable but the strange thing is, he's captured you more than Giselle by painting you as you were under the makeup you had on that night. Your hair swims around your ethereal face and you're reclining with your legs wide, just as you remember, in all your pink and slippery glory, nipples hard and glossed.

But between your legs he's painted something that wasn't there in reality – the grey, stunted form of the dwarf, bending over you on all fours. He has a long black tongue that's so realistic it strains with tension as it laps inside you.

You're not surprised when you look back up at the eyes – your eyes – and see they remember all too clearly the story that was spun that night.

The end

6

In the half hour you've been gone, the queue has tripled. You wander from the end of the queue to the front as if you're inspecting the linee and deciding whether it's worth joining it but, really, your decision rests on the guy who was there earlier. You've remembered who he is now. Jack Rogers, ex football pro, fitness trainer to the stars. Half of any red carpet owes its killer bodies to him and the other half has sampled his – if the rumours are anything to go by.

He's no longer anywhere to be seen and you can't face the queue on the chance he'll even still be in there, let alone unaccompanied, by the time you get in. If you get in.

You've missed your chance.

The end

7

You're used to Giselle making fun of you by now.

"Are you going to keep me in here all night?" you ask, trying to inject a playful tone into your voice and rise above the tormenting teasing that marks so much of Giselle's interactions with you.

"It doesn't look as if you're going to be much use there," she replies. Her breath hitches in her throat and she braces her arms and starts moving against Anton. You wonder if this is what she wanted you to see. The screen isn't big enough, or the camera isn't angled right, so you can't see any of what's going on nor anything else about Anton.

The lift pings and the doors open. You lower your head and see that the screen has gone dark. You're relieved to get out, quashing thoughts that this interaction wasn't fair – even by Giselle's standards. Maybe Anton has more charm in person.

The lift is at the end of a corridor so at least you can only go in one direction. The corridor is surgically white with twists of platinum cable lighting that subtly call attention to monochrome and sepia toned artwork on the walls. The corridor opens out into a penthouse suit that's half taken over by an enormous round bed.

Giselle is naked now, facing towards you on all fours with Anton behind her, her face contorted in what looks like genuine pleasure – not that it's always possible to spot when she's faking. He smiles broadly as you walk towards the bed and then comes loudly and slaps her ass as he withdraws. She scoots to one side, allowing you a good look at his diminishing erection before he sits up against the pillows.

You halt awkwardly. Maybe your arrival was what made him climax but what are you supposed to do if there's nothing to join in with anymore?