AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is a fantasy based on Madonna's public persona. It is in no way intended to defame the character of the real-life Madonna Louise Ciccone.
***
Want to hear a true story about how Hannah and I fucked Madonna?
"Yeah, RIGHT!" you're saying, "In your dreams, pal."
And, I don't blame you one iota for doubting such a preposterous claim. I sometimes find it hard to believe myself. I've lost count of the number of times I've rolled over in bed, waking from a half-dream, and gazed deep into my pretty Californian wife's blue blue eyes and she's just smirked back 'cause she's known what I'm going to ask before I even ask it. I guess I must just have this bemused "did I really just win 6 million pounds on the lottery?" expression plastered over my face.
"What is it, honey?" she'll ask, humouring me as she playfully twists strands of silky red hair around her finger. (Hannah's always playing with her hair - not in a nervous way, you understand. It's just this cute little habit she has.) "Have you forgotten how to speak, is that it? Has your tongue ran off to London to see the Queen?"
She's a real smartass, sometimes, my wife. I love her for it. I'm English - born and raised in Oxford - and so Hannah takes every opportunity she can get to wise-crack about the British weather, dreary soap operas or our dear monarchy. She seems to think it winds me up but I just think it's funny. I'm second-generation Irish, so I'm sure you can imagine that my Royalist sympathies don't run too deep.
"No, listen!" I'll say. "I need to know. I've not just dreampt all this have I?"
"Dreampt what, babe?" she'll giggle.
"Don't tease me, Hannah - you know what I'm talking about. Did it really happen that night? Did I really fuck Madonna?"
"Yes, you did, honey," she'll say, patting my head like I'm some little lost puppydog.
"Really? So, I've not just finally gone completely fucking insane like your weird old Uncle Jasper?"
"Oh, well now, I didn't say that."
"And, she really... you know... she really went down on you?"
My wife usually moans a little at this point, her cheeks flushing red and her eyes getting all kind of misty and distant as the memories flood back. "Oh, my God, yes she did."
"Tell me again," I'll whisper, snuggling into the warmth of her body.
"Well, I was just sitting there butt-naked on that cold hard chair and she got down between my knees and she was kissing the inside of my thigh and you had your hands on my breasts and... and then she just did it, without any build up whatsoever, she slid her tongue inside. I can't believe our daughter has a poster of this woman on her wall. Jesus Christ, Joey! She licked my pussy. Madonna licked my pussy."
By this point I'm laughing out loud in glorious disbelief. You can almost imagine me hurling bundles of ten pound notes up into the air and watching it shower down on us like snowdrops. "So, all that other stuff really happened too?"
"Uh-huh. All of it." Then Hannah'll get this real serious look on her face and kind of chew distractedly on her hair. "Look, baby, I need you to do something for me. I need you to lick me. Right now," she'll say as she's pushing my head down under the covers. And when she switches off the bedside lamp I know that in my wife's mind it's Madonna's face down there buried between her sweet thighs, Madonna's nose pressed into the fragrant mound of red hair, her tongue running up over Hannah's vulva, parting her labia and slipping between the soft folds. And when my wife curls her fingers in my hair, tightening them into a firm grip, she's imagining Madonna as the black-haired siren we once knew, or the peroxide-blonde Goddess that writhed in the 'Justify My Love' video or maybe even the sensuous soft-curled Rodeo Mama of today.
"Uh, yeah. That's so good," she'll whisper, "I want you to lick my clit now, honey," and she may as well be whispering, "I want you to lick my clit now, Madonna," cause in Hannah's mind it's the popstar's tongue that's swirling around her engorged bud, flicking softly over it so she shudders and sighs. And, when Madonna sucks my wife's clit in between her lips and tongues it roughly, Hanna arches her back and squeezes at her own pretty little breasts, pinching the long red nipples between her fingers, the honey of her arousal flooding out over Madonna's mouth and chin.
*** My God, it was wicked while it lasted, that little episode in our early marriage. Madonna was this debauched Tasmanian devil-woman that just whirled into our lives for two weeks and then was gone - away on some other raucous adventure with God-only-knows who. But, that was cool as far as we were concerned. Hannah and I have never really been the bitter "oh, how could she just forget us like that?" types that always come out of the woodwork whenever some fireball young thing strikes it lucky and hits the big-time. She had her mission in life and we had ours. For one brief moment in time our destinies brought us crashing together and then we were spiralling off in opposite directions like fragments from a meteor collision. I wouldn't for a second want to swap what I have with my wife and daughter for Madonna's glamorous popstar lifestyle. It's never really been my bag, that whole fame thing, but I guess that's exactly what Madonna Louise Ciccone always fantasised about. It's the dream that filled the void in her life when she was just this awkward melancholy little mid-Western kid who cried herself to sleep every night over a mother that died too young and a daddy who just didn't understand.
***
Still not convinced by my story? Of course, I wouldn't expect you to just take my word for it - it's way too 'National Enquirer' a tale to be true: a lowly immigrant New York cab driver and his student wife have wild sex sessions with the biggest female pop icon in the world. Nice story, buddy, but that kinda thing just doesn't happen in the real world. Right?
Well, here's the money-shot, my friend. We've got the whole thing on film.
Yes, you read that right. I've just sat watching it with Hannah, for the first time in 20 years, and it's incredible. That Pamela and Tommy Lee wedding video thing doesn't have a leg to stand on compared to this, believe me.
The last time we saw our little movie was about a week or so after we shot it. We sat down, all four of us - myself, Mr DiPrima (I'll give you the low-down on him later), Hanna and Madonna Louise - and we watched it in the dark, projected up onto that big white screen that Luigi had through in one of his back rooms. Every once in a while, naughty little Miss Ciccone would get this wild look in her eye, getting herself all turned on as she watched our three pink bodies thrusting and writhing on the screen, sticky with love-making, and she'd lean over to Hanna, clutching a clump of her silky red hair in her little fist and she'd French her so sweetly at the same time as she was pulling my hand up under her cute black leather skirt into the furnace between her legs. After about half an hour of this, my wife had that skirt hiked right up around Madonna's waist and was tickling her fingernails through the future pop-star's thick black pubic hair as I slid two slippery fingers in and out of her sex.
From this point on, I noticed that old Luigi DiPrima was more intent on watching our impromptu live sex show than he was his precious movie. I guess he had all the time in the world to study that in close detail after we left but what he had before him right now was a blink too long and you might just miss something deal.
As the film flickered to an end, Luigi swung his chair around and hit a switch on the wall, illuminating the room in a cacophany of tacky multi-coloured flashing disco lights. Ordinarilly I would have collapsed on the floor in laughter at the sheer inappropriateness of the display (we were kind of stoned, to be honest) but Madonna had already sunk down onto her knees before me and was pulling my jeans down over my hips. My cock sprang up, bouncing against her chin.
