Chapter Four
The Next Valentine's Day
"I'm ready for my close up, Mr. DeMille," said Monica haughtily leaning against the balustrade looking nothing like Gloria Swanson for whom she supposedly emulated. For one she was too tall and lithe, not the petite silent movie star. Secondly she was way too young. And, perhaps most importantly, she dressed in a sheer flowing robe that did little to conceal her pert tits and the small nipples that topped them and the dark hair that crowned her pussy. But somehow she still expressed the insanity and the excitement and the intensity of that formidable final shot of Sunset Boulevard. Monica could act.
And she did for the 16mm Bolex movie camera whirring in my hand.
I couldn't pull back to reveal a throng of cops and journalists there for her arrest for murder. I didn't have any extras. All I had was the cool balustrade, provided by the house of her parents in the Hamptons. They had the perfect timing to be vacationing in the heat of the Bahamas.
I briefly glanced at my best friend from high school clutching the boom mic to capture her words and the hard-on I could see pressing out his pants. I could relate.
But I had to hold the focus as her face filled the frame. Another shot would hopefully match it, one shot by Jill manning my camera, because when it pulled back, I would be in the scene floating on my back in a pool seemingly dead except for the erection I sported like a periscope. Monica enclosed that shaft in her mouth, rolling on a condom and squatting down on it before the scene shifted mid fuck to a waterbed.
What was I doing plunging into a woman's hole not my true love's? Art. Pornographic art to be specific.
I always wanted to make artistically rendered pornographic film.
We'd been working on it all that week. We'd already shot the swimming pool scene. Monica's ridiculously wealthy parents had an indoor/outdoor heated pool in their mansion. And the fuck scene on the waterbed as well.
We included Monica and Dave, my old best friend who I had convinced to move to Manhattan for his jeweler and watch fixing career. And my other high school best friend who currently resided on Manhattan Island for his residency at Columbia Medical School. And friends of his, two nurses who shared him and each other and their formidable bodies for my art. Bob always had a knack for attracting women, often without much effort, the lucky bastard. Finding lovely and sexy and intelligent bisexuals to share his bed definitely became a peak for his streak of luck.
And Jill.
"That's a wrap," I said. It couldn't have come soon enough.
"At last," said my lover, reading my mind, removing the camera from my hand and filling my arms with her taut and shapely little body. I bowed down to take her lips in mine, the passion intensifying when I penetrated her mouth with my tongue, meeting hers for an electrifying battle for occupation, her mouth and mine.
When the embrace broke, she led me to our room, or at least the room we'd been staying in, passing by the embrace of Dave and Monica.
Truth be told, Dave's decision to move had more to do with meeting Monica during a visit than any hold I might have on him or the perhaps more varied watches to fix compared to those found in Minneapolis. He shared her vision of fun, often drug fueled. Despite that and because unlike me he had two Jewish parents, her parents actually liked him (they never met me). That she stood inches above his short stature didn't seem to bother either one of them. Jill and I had a far more extreme difference in height, nearly a foot and a half compared to a few inches. Maybe a hidden sexist attitude made me consider their height difference vis a vis their gender somewhat odd. Jill thought it cute.
Speaking of Jill, she led me into a room shuttered from the midday sun with only candlelight dissolving any gloom, albeit with quite a few candles. Their sensuous ever shifting light revealed a bed with turned down covers covered in rose petals. And no, it wasn't a waterbed, thank god. That was the parents'.
After another lengthy kiss, our hands defining each other's shape, including her breasts and the heat of her inner thighs and the bulge in my trousers, we separated and stared at each other as we stripped naked. Nothing fancy. There was music, the sensuality of Eno's Discrete Music, but it wasn't there for dancing. We simply stood in awe of each other and the revelation of our bodies. Seeing her curvaceous perfection never got old. And for some reason she loved my long lean body, nothing profoundly muscular about it. I had neither a six pack (she nearly did) nor exaggerated pecs, but muscles were there, just lean and subtle. I was actually in the best shape of my life.
Unlike me though, who loved every curve of her, from her broad thick shoulders to her taut, shapely abdomen, to the gently narrowing of her legs from powerful thighs to shapely calves, and definitely her large proud tits capped by impressive areolas and nipples and her full and awesome ass, my lover had a definite preference. Not just the lengthy narrow cock that filled her perfectly, but that entire area, including my butt. "Cute face, cute butt," she'd tell me, often giving both sets of cheeks a rub.
My cock bouncing free of my tighty whities struck her interest as well as literally as it bounced against her chin when she knelt in front of it. "Naughty thing," she murmured, restraining it with her petite hand and bringing it to her mouth. Those words ended our silence.
I ended mine with, "Oh fuck." I loved the way her bee stung lips expanded wide for my glans, sliding across them as they journeyed across the edge and back. Wet heat felt even better when her tongue slathered it with spit and incredible caresses.
She played the head like a veteran musician creating exquisite tones from her instrument before pushing it deeper. The disappearing shaft got the tongue treatment as well. And when she extracted it from her oral depths using suction bringing greater pressure to it, it felt amazing. Like opening up a tight virgin, she kept the ever deepening occupation of her mouth by my cock a breathtakingly slow journey until the tip tapped at the entrance to her throat. She immediately pressed forward as if welcoming the quiet knock by flinging open the door and embracing, swallowing against the gag reflex which caressed my sensitive glans briefly before it passed the entrance and filled that tight space. Best of all, she watched me grimace as I moaned, "Fuck Jill." Despite her well filled oral cavity and throat, I could see the smile in her eyes as they shone damply in the candlelight. In fact her eyes had never strayed from my face throughout the blow job, watching my ecstasy. She loved seeing it, knowing she gave it to me.
Bobbing into me, her lips meeting the base of my cock, the bottom one pressing into the top edge of my scrotum before withdrawing, three, four, five times she sent my cock deep. Then I felt air as she let herself breathe, her hand replacing her lips rubbing my hard yet spongy glans. Not long recovering, she let my cock once more thrust past her uvula and into her throat. And repeat.
Pleasure weakened me. I could barely stand. My legs widened for support. I never held her head though. It's one thing she couldn't get comfortable with.
The fourth time inside her throat she could see my face tighten and feel my cock expand. She kept it deep longer, ruffling her throat muscles across it, sending me into climax.
"Jill," I roared. "Gonna cum!"
Pulling it out until her lips clasped the helmet edge of my glans, her hands milked my shaft with perfect pressure, milking the sperm right out of my balls. I spurted and she swallowed, gulping down mouthfuls of hot, sticky semen. The smile in her eyes never disappeared. In fact it intensified, filled with pride of accomplishment and glee for giving me such pleasure.
When her strokes became too pleasurable to stand, I eased away. Instead of letting me get too far, she gripped the base of my cock and gently licked the last of my ejaculate oozing from my pee hole as my cock slowly softened. After a final kiss of the head, she began to stand. I helped her and embraced her once on her feet and kissed her, my tongue sharing the burden of my less than flavorful essence.
"Champagne," I grinned.
"Good idea," she replied, returning the grin. She sat on the bed as I popped the cork with a waiter's finesse and poured the Moet et Chandon into two fluted glasses, handing her one.
We tapped glasses. "Happy Valentine's Day, Sweetheart."
"Happy Anniversary," she returned.
We kissed softly, gently, warmly, lovingly, before sipping more of the delicious effervescent liquid.
"Keep drinking, my love," I said, setting my own glass down after a quick swallow and kneeling between her lovely legs. Licking up her thighs, moving ever closer to her center, when I got there I tasted her own liquid, my favorite intoxicant, better than the best champagne in the world.
