Monique St. Pierre was standing before the elegantly etched mirror; she was topless. Her plump rear was visible under the sheer blank lingerie she tugged up so as to stretch the flimsy fabric over each cheek accentuating their tight round shape. She looked at her bottom as she shook it playfully at the glass.
Miss November turned around and looked at her creamy, pear shaped breasts. The areolas were bright red and the nipples pink and firm. Her eyes, deep brown and mysteriously almond shaped, blinked seductively at the glass and she ran her delicate pink tongue over her parting lips.
"Hold it," the assistant AD called out.
The photographer stopped shooting and Monique stood up straight and peered out at the crew. She could not see much beyond the glare of the spotlights. She sensed the shadowy shape of a crowd gathering around the photographer. She could hear voices talking urgently; she sat down on the elaborate silver couch and crossed her arms demurely over her scrumptious breasts.
It seems that some celebrity had arranged to visit the fancy department store at the same time Playboy had arranged to shoot part of Monique's Playmate of the Year layout.
The lovely centerfold sat patiently when a familiar figure stepped over into the lights and sat next to her. Monique gulped realizing that she was sitting next to Barbra Streisand.
"You're..." she managed to gasp.
"Yes, I am. And you are?" Barbra held her hand out to shake.
Monique put out her hand while shyly keeping her bosom covered with the other arm. "I'm Monique, Monique St. Pierre. And Miss Streisand, may I say.."
"Call me, Barbra, please," the singer interrupted, still holding Monique's slender hand; it was moistening with sweat. "Monique St. Pierre? Sounds French. You don't look French, sweet heart."
"I'm German, actually.' The beautiful playmate's white skin was turning a sexy bright pink as she blushed in front of the celebrity.
Barbra was used this sort of reaction and soon put the pretty young girl at ease. In fact, the two sat there and chatted, making a peculiar picture for the waiting crew. Monique was completely naked except for the black lingerie barely covering her hips and black mesh stockings with high heels.
In their private conversation which the crew couldn't hear, Barbra asked Monique to do a special favor for her, an outrageous favor, and amazingly Monique agreed.
This is the story of that favor.
Later that night Monique stood nude in front of another mirror. She was in a large bedroom in a mansion in Malibu. The full moon glowed over the dark ocean filling the bedroom with a deep blue light. The soft glistening highlighted the silky sheen of her straight blonde hair framing the flawless features of her face. Every curve of her warm and supple body was etched in the soft blue light as if the man in moon were kissing her all over.
With slow and languid gestures Monique began to dress. She tugged some white sheer stockings up her athletic legs; her smooth skin glowed against the silky sheen. The white panties were silk too. Monique loved the feel of cool silk against her warm moist flesh. Even now her thighs got pretty little goosebumps as she slipped the flimsy lingerie up her legs; it barely concealed her full dark bush and her round plump bottom.
The cool white silk chemise made her nipples jut out. Then she pulled the silk white dress over her head. She stepped into black pumps and twirled in the mirror. The short skirt lifted up and showed her rear nicely.
She descended the stairs looking like a model on a runway, or a beautiful star stepping up for an Academy award, or maybe she looked like the most dazzling concubine descending the palace stairs to be ravaged by the king.
Monique had been waiting anxiously in the singer's mansion in Malibu. She was alone in the house waiting for a certain eighteen year old man to show up; he was the son of Barbra Streisand's chiropractor. Barbra couldn't do without her chiropractor; the chiropractor's son had a problem, and Monique was here to solve that problem and she had the run of Barbra mansion to do it in.
As instructed the son had let himself into the mansion and it's when Monique heard him enter that she had gotten dressed. Now she locked her eyes on him as she wriggled sexily down the stairs.
What she saw was a man complete bamboozled. He looked younger than his years and very shy. He was slim and tall and extremely nervous. Monique was nervous too; she wasn't sure she should be doing this.
What he saw was a siren gliding towards him with golden blonde hair falling straight to her soft shoulders where it gently curved up to accent her long and luscious throat. Her ruby red lips were parted ever so slightly with ends turned up just barely, but revealing the delight she felt in seeing him. Her eyes though, her eyes... They were dark, almost black but they smoldered and gleamed with life, yet they were soft and gentle, questioning and hoping. Their slight almond shape gave her the air of exotic mystery but the warmth of her rosy cheeks and her soft smile were so inviting.
"Aunt Barbra ... I mean Barb-- No, Miss, Miss, Ms, right, MS Streisand sent me over to meet you here. Miss ... No.... Nov... No! Miss St. St. Miss St. Pierre! She said..."
She stopped his chatter by gently laying fingers across his mouth. "You are a cute one, aren't you?" She smiled, noticing his washed and combed hair, crisp clean clothes, a hint of cologne. "Won't you sit down? And please, call me Monique."
He audibly gulped, but bravely returned her smile as she removed her hand. He said, "I..,I..,I'd love to."
She brought him a Coke and sat him on the couch.
"I am attractive, yes?" she laughed with a mock French accent.
She did a pirouette for him and virtually answered her own question with the display of her gorgeous figure.
"Y...yes...." he got out in a croaking voice.
"And you like my outfit, my hair?" She flashed a camera ready smile.
Monique let out a delightful laugh as she sat next to him on the couch. She took his hand. "Now, let's get to know each other."
They made simple conversation until he began to relax and open up (eventually he stopped stuttering). They discovered a shared love for Chinese food, college basketball, Fleetwood Mac and Stevie Wonder. They liked the same jokes, same movies, and many of the same books.
Monique was enjoying herself immensely. She flirted just a bit; she didn't want to make him too uncomfortable but she did notice he kept eyeing her long legs.
As she brought Ben another drink he suddenly jumped to his feet.
"I'm sorry, Miss St. Pierre, I mean, Monique. I can't believe how long I've stayed. I probably should go."
She stood as well. "Ben," she said. "I'm having a wonderful time." Placing her hand carefully on his arm, she met his eyes. "Please stay." Her heartbeat quickened, and his cheeks flushed slightly as her hand traveled slowly from forearm to bicep.
Stamping down the little voice in her head that yammered what are you doing? she stepped closer to her young guest. He was taller, so she had to look up in order to see his face.
"I'm very glad you're here." She said, caressing both his arms. He stood stock-still, a bit nervous, but she could easily see he was incredibly aroused.
