Sex with a Sting: Six Erotic Fantasies with a Kink in the Tail (11 page)

“Yes. Ah, help me to the bed or
something.” But she wasn’t listening. She grabbed her iPhone.

“Still 40 seconds left baby.”

“What?”

“40 seconds! We’ve done six – we
can break the world record!”

Matt stared at her with a look that was
half fear and half disbelief. At that moment he genuinely thought she might
have gone insane. “Olivia. I am in
agony
here. And, just so you know,
that is not a real world record! I made it up!”

“Shut up! We can do this! And I need to
come! I’m so fucking close here!”

30 seconds: Banana Splits

“Olly, what are you doing? Seriously
Olivia, what the fuck?” She had stood up. “Olivia!” Her feet either side of his
hips. “No!” Very slowly, she allowed her feet to slide apart and away from her.

“I can do it baby. I can still do the
straddle splits. I think I can!”

“No, Olivia! No! My back is
fucked up
!”

“I’m sorry baby, I need to come! I can’t
think of anything else!” She was just above his cock. With one hand she pressed
down on his stomach, causing him to yell in pain, and with the other she
somehow managed to position him so that he slipped easily back inside her. She
closed her eyes, placed both hands on his stomach, and gently rocked herself up
and down, her legs splayed.

She felt it again. His very tip poking at
that nub of nerve endings. She helped her cunt roll up and down his prick,
once, twice, three times and then she felt the rush returning for the third
time in the last couple of minutes. This time she wasn’t going to miss out. She
increased the speed as she rode him, satisfying herself, her profound, intense
pleasure blocking out his helpless cries for her to stop. A little faster now
and she felt the release coming, she felt her vaginal muscles tense harder than
she could ever remember, she screamed in pure ecstasy and then, in almost
unbearable waves, her muscles contracted until her climax reverberated through
her body. She grabbed at her hair, bouncing harder, clasped her tits, fucking
him mercilessly, and then finally dug her nails into his stomach, causing him
to yell again, as she felt the lustful tumult rock her very core for seconds on
end. Finally, she collapsed on top of him, drawing another squeak of
disgruntlement. The stopwatch beeped as the time ran out.

A few moments later, she managed to
breathe a few words. “I’m sorry honey. Really. You just looked so perfect
there, with your massive erection like that. I was on the brink, I wasn’t
thinking straight.”

“It’s okay, it’s okay. Look, if you can
just get off me now, I’d like to try and get on the bed. I think we might need
to call a doctor.” He sounded in genuine agony.

“At least we broke the world record!” she
said, brightly. He stared at her and shook his head.

“If you can just get off, Olly. Olly… Olly?”

“Shit.”

“What?”

“Shit.”

“What? Look, can you just get off? I’m in
fucking pain here!”

“Seriously, Matt, I… I can’t move. My
legs. I can’t move my legs. I think I went too far with the splits. I’m stuck.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake!”

“World record, though! Totally worth it!
Wasn’t it?”

“Top-up, Claire?”

“Thank you very much, kind sir!” Paolo
expertly tipped the bottle of Veuve Clicquot and filled Claire’s flute until
the bubbles foamed at the top of the glass. They clinked glasses. Claire took a
sip, surveying the bar for a moment, before turning to notice that Paolo’s eyes
had not left hers. There was a pause, almost an awkward pause. Then he broke
the silence.

“It’s been a good year, hasn’t it?”

“Very good! It amazes me how far we’ve
come in such a short time. Are you enjoying it here?”

“Of course! I couldn’t be happier.” He
looked into her eyes again as they both swallowed a sip of champagne. “It’s a
great business, we’re busting the recession, we’re being paid… and, of course,
we have the best bosses in the world,” he laughed.

“Flattery will get you everywhere,”
replied Claire, rolling her glass between her fingers. She looked at him with a
slightly raised eyebrow. What was going on here? Was he hitting on her? Or was
she imagining things? Perhaps the champagne and the Christmas spirit had gone
to her head.

“In that case, may I say that you are
looking particularly stunning tonight, Mrs Holmes?”

Claire laughed. “You may, but please
don’t call me Mrs Holmes. You make me sound like a frumpy school teacher.”

“Frumpy?! I think that’s just about the
last word I’d use to describe you.”

Claire blushed. Now, it had to be said
that Paolo was incredibly sexy. In fact, it was his smouldering looks that had
given Claire and her business partner Zoe pause for thought before they finally
decided to hire him as their Social Media and PR Officer. There was no doubting
his credentials. But Claire in particular was concerned that his easy charm and
obvious allure might be overriding their better judgement. Was he definitely
the best person for the job? Or did he have the edge over the other candidates
because, unconsciously or not, they were both keen to add some eye candy to
their all-female office? In the end, they decided that charm and allure were
pretty desirable aspects for any half-decent PR person, male or female. got the
job.

Paolo was born and raised in England, but
his mother was Italian, hence his name. Neither Claire or Zoe had ever met or
seen his mother, but they could only assume she was some kind of Roman Goddess
along the lines of Sofia Loren, because Paolo was pretty much the sexy Italian
stereotype made flesh and blood. Thick, black, wavy hair, dark, soulful eyes,
olive skin, sleek physique. His dress sense was immaculate, too, and at least
once a week everyone in the office was blown away by a beautifully fitted suit,
or perhaps a pair of exquisite Italian shoes. He prowled their small office
space like a panther. Available yet unattainable. Flirty yet never lecherous.

Claire and Zoe had built their business
up to employ eight people on permanent contracts, apart from themselves, and
Paolo was still the only male. His knowledge and love for fashion was so acute,
so honed, that a casual male observer may have lazily believed him to be gay.
For any woman, though, this was obviously untrue. Paolo exuded a sensual sex
appeal that every female in the office was extremely aware of. Behind his back,
co-workers often fanned their faces or blew out their cheeks in their
exaggerated appreciation of him. Yet, as far as Claire could tell, even though
he appeared to be single, no one had yet managed to coax him on a date.

Paolo had been at the company for ten
months and now it was Christmas. He was part of the furniture. And, it had to
be said, he had not let them down. In fact, appointing a beautiful man to the
PR role had proved something of a masterstroke. It was a role often taken by
women, so when it came to promoting the company through magazine pieces, events
and so forth, he stood out from the crowd like… well, like a stupendously
attractive Italian man in a sea of PR girls. He was easy to remember. Indeed,
their coverage in fashion and style magazines had seen a marked increase within
just two months of him taking the job. Even at 26, it was obvious that Paolo
had a great career in front of him. He was smart, well-organised, suave and
ambitious.

“So, do you always come here for the
Christmas party?” he asked.

“No, new venue this year. We needed
somewhere a little larger.” Briefly, Claire remembered her and Zoe’s first
Christmas party, ten years earlier. It consisted of three bottles of cheap wine
at their shared flat in front of the television. Now they had hired a plush
upstairs bar and been able to invite suppliers, boutique fashion designers,
clients and plenty of friends and acquaintances from the media world.

“Beats drinking warm white wine out of
polystyrene cups in an office – I’ve been at a few companies like that!”

“Well, that was us not so long ago!”

“Really? I can’t imagine
you
ever
drinking from a polystyrene cup!”

“Hey, back at Uni, I used to drink wine
from whatever vessel I could get my hands on. A pint glass was the usual!”

It was just after ten. The evening had
been a great success. Claire, with her natural pessimism, had obsessed for days
that no one would turn up; that there would be some cooler party somewhere else
across town that would steal all their guests. Zoe had been forced to constantly
reassure her that it would be fine. And, of course, she was right. The room was
packed and the atmosphere festive and a little hysterical with drunken
laughter. Claire had done several circuits and made sure she saw the people she
needed to see and pressed the right palms. Now she could relax, in the corner,
where she felt a little more comfortable, away from hub of the revelling.

Partying and networking was very much
Zoe’s department. She had always been better at the social side of the
business, even from the start. She was the one that would go out and make new
contacts, not just because she was good at it, not just because it needed
doing, but because she loved it. Going for drinks, whether with friends or
business acquaintances, was her specialty. In the meantime, Claire kept an eye
on what Zoe would see as the duller parts of their work – cash flow,
contracts, IT, general management issues and the deals with clothing
manufacturers, designers and retailers. That, really, was why the company had
been such a success – hard work, naturally, but also the way the two
women complemented each other because, and this became more obvious the older
they became, they were so different and brought contrasting skills to the
table.

Time ticked past 11pm. They had the bar
until 1am, but Claire was already considering ducking out. Paolo had been
telling her about his family back in Rome and his childhood visits to the city.
Claire loved Italy, always had. To her, it was the perfect holiday destination.
She could fly to Milan and indulge in bashing her credit card on incredible
clothes, then she could spend a week on the beach further south, or at Lake
Garda, eating fresh fish and sipping a late night Grappa in the warm Italian
air. She suddenly realised, though, that she and Paolo had been locked together
in conversation for over an hour. Her head was a little fuzzy with alcohol and
she found herself mesmerised by his lips as he spoke softly of his childhood
memories. She checked her watch again and drained her glass. She should
probably head home.

“You have to get back to your husband?”
he smiled.

“Well, it is getting a little late…”

“Hey, in Italy we’re barely leaving the
house at 11pm! Stay for one more, come on. One more can’t hurt. Your husband
will be asleep by now anyway, right?”

“Well, actually he has drinks tonight,
too.”

“Exactly, so he’ll be late home. You’ve
got a free pass.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” she smiled.

“In that case, I think it’s time we had a
cocktail, don’t you?” He pointed a finger at her: “Don’t move!” Before she
could protest, he was off through the crowd, swaying between bodies with the
grace of a ballroom dancer, his hips bending and swerving, his hands
occasionally, gently, resting on a pair of hips to allow him to slip by. Every
time this happened, the woman in question would turn and grin at him. Claire
followed his progress and paid special attention to the females: almost every
single one gave him an admiring look, or at the very least checked out his
behind. Several raised their eyebrows at each other, wordlessly yet obviously
communicating their approval.

Once he got to the bar she took out her
BlackBerry and checked her emails and texts and tapped out a couple of replies.
He was soon back, laden with two tall glasses of a deep red liquid. He handed
one over. “What’s this?” she asked.

“A Royal Plush. Ever had one before?”

“Can’t say I have.”

“Ah, well, it’s the height of decadence,
really. Red Burgundy and Champagne. Perfect for a cold night like this. Very
Christmassy.”

She took a sip and it was delicious
– warming yet fresh. “Lovely.”

“It’s a favourite of my father’s. We
always have them around Christmas, but you don’t see it that often on a
cocktail menu. It was a nice surprise to find it here.”

They chatted on, almost locked in their
own cocoon. As soon as she finished her drink, Paolo was off to get her a
refill. The room began to empty, and occasionally she or Paolo would be
required to wave a goodbye or kiss a cheek. Yet if he ever left to bid someone
farewell, he always swiftly returned to her side to continue their conversation,
asking about her university years, about how she met Zoe, about her favourite
foods and films and so on. He even made several notes on his iPhone of movies
he must watch and books he had to read on her recommendation.

By half past twelve, and with two and a
half Royal Plushes inside her to add to the several glasses of champagne,
Claire knew she was a little more than tipsy. Not roaring drunk by any means,
but comfortably happy, totally relaxed, in a place where she did not have time
to think about her words before they tumbled out of her mouth. Paolo seemed
fascinated by everything she said. When she made him laugh he occasionally
touched her arm and, once or twice, her waist. Despite herself, Claire started
to believe that he may be hitting on her.