Premiere Dani Devines Diary 1

Hello diary. I am Dani—Danielle DeVine. I’m a 28-year-old Account Executive with Asherah Advertising, a top twenty-five firm. Successful in business, I have been unlucky in love—or just too busy to bother. Even Frank (my boss; the one who’s name is on the firm) occasionally tries to set me up with his friends and acquaintances—most of whom are as straight laced as Mr. Asherah himself. I get enough business talk at work; flirting, too, for that matter. That’s what comes of working in a building that the girls giggling call “the Phallus Palace” because of its tall tapering walls, mirrored windows, and capping glass dome.

Oh, I’d like a successful man, of course, but he needs to have depth of character, acute intelligence, and a broad range of impish humor to go with it. In short—there aren’t any men, or at least any I’ve met, who fit my bill. So, when it comes to romance I’m pretty much at sea; when I need some love I curl up on my satin-sheeted bed, pile on the lace pillows, light the lavender and vanilla candles, and put on an old movie. Or maybe read a naughty novel while munching on gourmet chocolates. Or, if I’m really horny, I put on Saxy jazz, run a bubble bath, and pull out my little waterproof jelly friend—who satisfies every time (as long as I remember to keep him stuffed with double-As), never quits before I do, and is always willing to just hang around waiting for the mood to strike me.

That’s why I was less than thrilled when Frank insisted that I accompany Miranda, his wife, to the opening of a film by one of our clients. “Down and Dirty” was a man’s shoot-em up, car (and skirt) chasing, adventure movie and its stars were muscle men and buxom blondes—no recognizable names in the bunch. Frank had to fly to Tokyo and didn’t want Mir to have to go alone. Why me? But, it was a good excuse to go out and buy a designer gown—and I’d put it on my expense account, to boot. I went down to Plesir, my favorite dress shop, and picked out a sweeping number; purple silk, draped from a clip on the left shoulder across my breasts (silk always feels sooo good), and tied with a hand-beaded knot to puddle to the floor from my right hip. The way the gown was made I didn’t have to bother with any “foundation” garments, so I just grabbed up a pair of thigh high hose, strappy high-heel sandals and beaded bag.

I left work early that night and hurried home to get ready. The new outfit made the “date” worthwhile. After a quick shower I dried my long brunette hair, twisted it into a French knot and put it up with diamond pins. I began to dress— or rather accessorize since I was standing in the bathroom stark naked except for the fresh-water pearl rope that was so long it bounced against my pubic hair. Next came the diamond studs with the pearl jackets-- also extra long; they brushed my shoulders deliciously, sexily, heavy. I dusted down, and up, and down again with fragrant powder then brushed it off, tickling myself. I didn’t want to look like that commercial where the woman throws flour on her face—not one of ours, but memorable.

Carefully applying my makeup to complement my pale complexion and turquoise-blue eyes, I was proud of my ultra long, ultra dark eyelashes and batted them playfully at myself in the mirror. Then I walked to the closet where my incredible gown hung. It was beautiful and I couldn’t wait to be seen in it. I took it down, pulled it up over my shoulder, adjusted my cleavage to best advantage, and then stepped back to take a look in the Chevalier mirror by the bed. The slit up the left side showed off my smooth, if not tan, leg— even a little more than I had realized. I’d need to be careful if I danced or I’d show more than the top of my thigh-highs.

Glancing at the clock I thought I’d better hurry; Mir and her limo would be arriving soon and I didn’t want to keep the bosses wife waiting. I pulled on my hose, carefully smoothing the lace garter top, and strapped on my sandals just in time to hear the bell. It was Ramon, Mir’s driver, announcing their arrival. I grabbed a lacy-fringed silk shawl and my bag and ran out the door. Ramon opened the car door and put his hand on my back to steady me as I stepped in…then he let it slide down and gave my ass a pat. What nerve, but I decided to ignore it.

Mir was waiting inside. She was a model and still quite beautiful – 6 feet tall, all leg and tan with no lines – I wondered what she ever saw in stodgy old Frank since she had her own money. Her dress was flesh tone stretch lace—and there were a couple of places it didn’t stretch enough to fully cover. I sat on the seat across from her as she poured me a flute of champagne. She toasted me, her chaperone for the night, and promised I’d have a good time with her. Rapping on the car glass with her finger, she signaled Ramon to take off.

On the drive to the party Mir kept me entertained with stories of fashion shoots in the rain, swimsuit elastic that just didn’t hold up, and the absurdity of gay photographers arranging her limbs into sexy poses. She talked about the studly star of the show whose name I have already forgotten again; his six-pack abs, tight ass, and the rumors of how big his cock really was or wasn’t. She said it really didn’t matter how big it was, just how good he was at using it. With a wink she moved over next to me and patted my leg. I looked back to say something, but she was rubbing her own crotch and beginning to moan. It was a little embarrassing; sitting there while my boss’s wife masturbated.

It was a little provocative, too, in a way and I was begging to get a little slick listening to her panting. I slipped my hand into the top of my gown and tweaked my nipples; sure enough they were hard and erect. When I looked up Mir was watching me and she reached over. Her hand, still slick from her own juices, rubbed up the inside of my thigh. I stopped her progress and gently put her hand back in her own lap, all the while looking out the window thinking there better be some intelligent men at this gala.

Finally we arrived at the party. Oddly Ramon didn’t drop us off at the red carpet, but parked with the other limos. He opened the door and helped me out. As I stood waiting for Mir to join me, she poked one leg and her head out the door and told me to go on to the fete she had to give Ramon his tip then she’d join me. I turned to walk away, but I saw Ramon out of the corner of my eye slipping into the back of the limo with Mir. I didn’t know whether to be indignant or laugh— poor Frank. Still I couldn’t just stand there on the sidewalk, so I crossed the street and walked right up to the red carpet.

As I got to the street end of the crimson path, a black sports car roared up and stopped. The door flew open, a guy jumped out, slid across the hood, and tossed the keys to a valet. He was obviously late—and rude—knocking into me as he landed on the sidewalk. I twisted my ankle, but managed not to fall. My attacker just asked if I was ok, waited for my nod, and took off down the carpet at a run. I was stunned, but really all right and dusting myself off looked up to see a client of Asherah Ads, Marty Stan, arriving. Marty took my arm and we walked (I only limped a little) down the red carpet and into the theatre for the show. Marty wanted to know where Mir was since she had called and told him we would be there together—alone. I said she had to tip the driver, and he nodded knowingly.

Marty was a dear, finding me a seat then going out to get us drinks. When he came back Mir was with him and three other men were with her. I’m sure she would have introduced us all had the film not been starting right then. Luckily we were seated at a table for six; as the lights dimmed I could see one of Mir’s companions whispering to her—or was he licking her ear? Across the room at the head table sat the rude Mr. Sports Car; he must be connected with the production somehow. The THX roar came and went, and the movie began. It was just one blast, chase, fight, sex scene after another until the final blast, chase, fight, and sex scene. All in all it wasn’t that bad—but I wish it had a story line.

The lights came up slowly, the applause subsided, and the producer was introduced. Damn if it wasn’t… yes, Mr. Sports Car, knock ‘em over and leave ‘em, Derrick Sexton. I’d been nearly flattened by the hottest young producer in Hollywood: Derrick Sexton. And he was getting a standing ovation. I pulled Marty down beside me and asked him if he knew Derrick Sexton. Of course he did, didn’t everybody? Well I didn’t, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to either after he’d almost flattened me on the sidewalk. Marty took me by the arm and told me I should give Derrie (I giggled at the nickname— sounded like it was short for derriere) a chance to apologize. I doubted that he even noticed he’d run into me, but let Marty take me over to him.

Surprisingly, Derrick Sexton did remember, bowed humbly and begged my pardon, then asked me to dance. I was so shocked I said yes. Derrick, um Derrie, was a good dancer; his moves were easy to follow and his sense of rhythm was dead on. I saw Mir surrounded by adoring men, and a few goo-goo eyed girls, all dancing together in a throng. Marty had found a partner, Rob, and they were gyrating together. When the fast music ended and a slow song began I excused myself and went to grab a bite to eat. So far I’d had three drinks plus the champagne in the limo, and the room had begun to spin a bit.

Piling my plate high with stuffed mushroom caps, giant shrimp, and chocolate covered strawberries, I found an out-of-the-way table and sat down to watch the craziness. Everyone was dancing, or talking on their cell phones, or both. Group gropes were happening all over the dance floor; and the band was making love to their microphone stands—which is the only reason to have stands anymore. If I hadn’t promised Frank to hang with Mir I would have taxied out of there in an instant. Still, the demographics were interesting and if there ever was a quiet moment I might make some good business contacts.

I kicked my shoes under the table and put my feet up on a nearby chair. A waiter came by and offered me more mushroom caps and champagne; both of which I gratefully accepted. Across the room Mir had begun an impromptu limbo using one of those non-essential microphone stands for the pole. A photographer placed himself strategically on the far side and was obviously fishing for some beaver shots. I’d lost track of Mr. Sexton, Derrie, but supposed he was there somewhere.

About then another waiter handed me a fresh champagne flute and dropped in a sugar cube. I looked up to thank him and was face to face with Derrie. He had wondered where I had gotten to and come to find me. I really didn’t want to dance anymore, my feet were killing me—strappy sandals are beautiful, but not so great for actually wearing. Derrie laughed, lifted my feet from their chair, sat down, and began massaging them. That was so weird, but it felt wonderful. We talked about his business and my business, about Marty and his house on the beach, about Frank and Mir. Before I knew it I had relaxed and really started to like this guy.

He asked me to dance again—telling me to leave my shoes under the table. I said ok this time and we headed for the dance floor; but before we got there another slow song came on. Derrie’s slow dancing was incredible; he molded his body to mine and as his hands slipped down my back to caress my buttocks he ground his pelvis into mine. Wetness oozed from my pubis and slicked the tops of my thigh-highs; his penis was hard as he rubbed against me. When the slow song was over we didn’t stop but kept right on dancing; Derrie moved like a dream and I was trembling to his rhythm. Just when I thought I could take no more he led me off the floor, back to the table, retrieved my shawl, bag and shoes, and steered me right out the door.

In a daze I followed him, but caught myself at the door. I couldn’t leave without telling Mir. Fortunately Ramon was waiting just inside the building and promised with a wink that he would tell Mrs. Asherah and see she got home. Derrie slipped Ramon a twenty, and gave a puzzled look when I said it wasn’t the way he usually got tipped. By the time we reached the road the black sports car was already there, top down and engine roaring. Derrie helped me in, took over the wheel and we sped off into the night. At the first stoplight I took the diamond pins out of my hair, pulled off my pearl rope and stowed them safely in my bag; shaking my hair free into the wind.

Derrie turned onto the River Road and sped by the water; the powerful engine revving and shifting under us sent sexy vibrations up my spine. Up into the hills we went, twisting and turning with the road. Finally at the summit was a beautiful little park; no one else was there, so Derrie turned in and shut down the engine. Looking out over the city he showed me his kingdom. It was beautiful, sparkling like diamonds, and quiet.

Derrie put a CD in; it was Albright on Sax—one of my favorites. We got out of the car and began to dance again, but I couldn’t last long on my shoes. He told me to kick them off, but I didn’t want to ruin my hose. Derrie had a remedy for that, too.

I sat back down in the car and he slowly removed my thigh-high hose, one at a time, kissing from my wet thigh down to my tingling toe on each leg. He took off his jacket, and removed his tie; I helped with the cummerbund and really wanted to loosen his pants, but he told me to wait, not yet. He lifted me out of the car and we danced. He put his arms around me, pulling me to him, and kissed me deeply rolling his tongue inside my mouth. I gave as good as I got nibbling his lip and sucking his tongue while taking the studs out of his shirt. He rubbed my back and slid his hands inside my dress squeezing my bare buttocks; he rubbed my front and slid his hands inside my dress squeezing my hard nipples. I pulled off his shirt revealing his sexy tank undershirt and nibbled his chest through it.

Derrie laid me back on the warm hood of his car, held me there with his hips, reached up and removed the tank in one sweep. He undid the clip on my shoulder and pulled the silk away from my breasts; his large hand rubbed one while his mouth was sucking on the other. I grabbed his crotch and squeezed his boner, sliding my hand up his zipper to the top and undoing the hook there. Derrie slipped a hand into the side slit on my dress and rubbed my wet pussy, pinching my clit and sliding a finger into my love canal. I wriggled with pleasure; then unzipped his fly pushing his pants down with my legs.

His bikini briefs couldn’t hold his manhood which popped out one of the leg holes. It was beautiful, velvety, pulsing and warm. I arched my back as he unzipped my dress and let it fall to the ground. He stepped back and I leaned over taking the head of his cock in my mouth as I pushed his briefs to the ground. He stepped out of them and grabbed both my breasts rubbing hard. Moaning he picked me up again and deposited me on the hood, then reached into the glove compartment for a golden coin— it was a condom that he donned in record time. Soon he was pumping into me like the pistons we were lying atop—it was heavenly, the sax crooning, the stars above, and his stick ramming into my cockpit in double time.

We made love five ways and seven times that night and many nights since. He touches me places I didn’t even know I had. His sense of humor is outrageous; he’s a cum Laude graduate of Columbia; he’s ambitious and adventurous; and his talent is going to earn him an Oscar any day. He’s playful and free, into open relationships, gives great massages, and bangs like a sexpert. But most of all he wants me, and I want him. Derrie has asked me to move into his townhouse with him and I think I’m going to do it. What do you think?