Fucing a Star

"Okay, Okay cupcakes. Time to wake up!"

Oh, the voice was toooooo loud. She was sooooo tired.

Emma White stuck her head under one of many plush pillows scattered around the bed. The pillow reeked from the odor of hot, sweaty sex. She loved the smell. She wanted to remain in this comfortable cocoon of heady, warm, sex musk---the sweet bouquet of sweat, semen, and her secretions, remnants of some mighty late-afternoon fucking.

But the voice persisted, "....Time for you to get up. Time to move your beautiful ass. Do some perambulating, stretch those long lovely legs." Wendell's deep voice, combined with his annoying alliteration, managed to penetrate the fog of sleep clouding her mind. She forced her eyes to open.

Her first impulse was to shield her eyes. She was tired. She looked at him and it was as if a burst of energy invaded her body. She felt the jolt of excitement Wendell engendered start just above her chest and run up and down through her body.

Wendell Thurgood; The Man. That was his nickname, "The Man." It was the way the world knew him. Ask an average citizen in Oslo or Taipei who "The Man" was and that person would shout out, "Wendell Thurgood."

For just the briefest instant, she allowed her eyes to linger at his crotch. So round, so firm, so fully packed.

She shuddered.

His prowess on the field of play was legendary, chronicled in newspapers, in magazines, You Tube and television. His prowess between the four corners of this bed, was rumored but was known to only a relative few very lucky women. And now Emma was one of those lucky few. The pleasure that the cudgel hanging between his legs could bring had not been a false rumor she could now confirm. Whatever else, the rumors of his PhD. in the art of fucking were true. More than true. Much more than true.

He was the man. That's what they all said. And she could happily attest to that.

Indeed!

"C'mon girl, let's get a move on."

His voice cut through the distance between them. She could feel the insides of her pussy wetten; she could feel her clit harden. She blinked her eyes. By dint of extreme effort, she managed to move her stare away from his crotch. There was something she had to take care of. It was there, somewhere in the back of her mind.

"What time is it?" she asked.

"Eleven." he answered.

Her thinking wasn't totally up and running yet. She needed to get her head working.

"What day is today?"

He just looked at her. He looked at her like 'what the hell, girl?' He looked like an impatient dance master in a painting by Degas, his head tilted, the back of his fist against his hip. "C'mon girl......Girl tight and buff as you are can't be that tired. We didn't.do that much fucking?"

Emma was in the gym six days a week, and she worked hard there every day. She was strong and she was fit, but fucking Wendell, well really, being fucked by Wendell, had been more exhausting than a competitive 5k run had been in college..

Oh, my God, she just realized what it was that she had to do. It was 11 p.m. It was Tuesday. She had been here and everywhere with Wendell since five days ago. It was great for sex, great for her business, great fun, and it had been a great workout. BUT,

Harris.

Harris was her fiancée. They were engaged. They were already deep in planning for their wedding a year from now. She was sure he knew where she was. She had told him that. She was pretty sure he knew what she had been doing with Wendell, although she hadn't told him what. What else could she have been doing?

She jumped out of bed

"Now you moving. That's the girl. We got to get going if we are going to get to the club on time."

"No, no, no," she said, looking around for her panties, her dress, her shoes before she saw them hung, folded, cleaned and sorted out on an end table against the wall. Somehow, everything was always cleaned up almost as soon as it got messed up here at Wendell's place, "Oh fuck Wendell, what about Harris? You know, he's waiting for me." Harris at least deserved an update if she didn't leave here for his apartment. She told Harris, Harris Henderson III, five, six hours ago, minutes after his plane had landed from Chicago. She had told him she would be home soon.

Wendell knew all that! Fuck, Wendell was on top of her, fucking her, sliding that magnificent cock of his in and out of her wet cunt all the while she was trying to talk to Harris. He was banging his crotch bone against her shivering pubis and she was trying to talk nice while trying to muffle the impulse to grunt or gasp or yell or to grunt, gasp and yell at the very same instant

It wasn't the most lucid of conversations. But she did remember telling Harris that she would be home soon. She remembered that, not much more of the conversation, but she remembered that. And of course she remembered Wendell's inimitable smile all the while he pounded her towards an orgasm and she spoke to Harris.

It was the famous Wendell smile. She had seen it in thousands of commercials. Wendell Thurgood, THE MAN.

"No, no, Wendell. No club. I really should get home." Why hadn't he mentioned the club to her before? Emma knew that if she went to the club, she'd stay over here another night.

Emma had found her panties and was getting ready to slip them on. "I told him I would be home. You heard me. You were fucking me while I was on the phone." This would most likely be the last or close to last time for her to receive the pleasure of being fucked by Wendell, so she was sort of not totally committed to going home.

She suddenly began laughing at her memory of that conversation, laughing at the absurdity of this whole thing.. Harris must have had some inkling that something was going on. It was impossible for her to keep the cadence of the fucking completely out of her voice. And then her abs tightened, transmitted messages to her toes, to her tits, to the top of her head. There was no way she could hide from transmitting the news that an orgasm was imminent. But just a millisecond before she screamed out a top-of-the-mouth yell that she was cumming, she managed to end the conversation.

She hung up.

She had not given thought to Harris and what he might make of her hang up, or of the bouncing cadence of her voice as they spoke. She was too caught up managing one more uncontrollable, rolling thunder of a fabulous screaming orgasm courtesy of Wendell Thurgood..

After the orgasm, she remembered, she let her exhausted body splay itself, spread like a patient etherized on the bed, unconscious and sleeping the just sleep of the just fucked.

"Why didn't you wake me up earlier?" She demanded of Wendell, "You knew I had to be home by seven."

"Miss Emma, Miss beautiful slut, Ms. Emma White," Wendell looked down at her from his 6'5" height, "We didn't quit fucking until like 10 O'clock. You looked so pretty, I almost wasn't going to wake you up even now. But I got to be at the party. And you did say you wanted to go. And didn't I tell you that after the party we'd have the best fuckin sex anyone ever had."

The promise of the sex should have been good enough to make Emma decide to go to the party. The party was just as good a reason.These parties Wendell took her to were better than good for her business. When Emma's name had appeared in a page seven gossip item as being Wendell Thurgood's date at a party a couple of days ago, business at her art gallery had more than doubled, almost tripled.

"Wendell?" her voice, without saying it, was asking him what she ought to do.

"You got the nicest bootie."

"What did you say?"

"I said you can't go home, anyplace, like you are, skanky as you is."

She looked down at herself. She could almost see the smell of sex rise from her body. Skanky wasn't too bad a description.

Looking down she knew her pussy hair was matted with the admixture of Wendell's dried cum and her slippery sex juice. She knew that she looked and smelled a mess. Shit, she had sweated and been sweated upon, cum and been cum upon for a solid she didn't know how many hours, but it felt like it had been at least 7 hours, maybe eight. Maybe nine. A lot.

"I'm going to jump in the shower. Just a second," she said.

"Want company?"

She looked at him. He wasn't kidding. He was ready to hit the shower with her. That man was without a conscience. He could fuck forever; she thought. Then, taking a quick look at him, she walked to the bathroom.

Emma had given her a tutorial on the shower compartment, how to adjust its computer controls to get the height, direction, warmth, strength, and pulse of its water flow just right. So now the just hot enough water poured onto her back, with a soft force unto and beneath and between her shoulder blades, running down her back along her spinal column. It was the perfect temperature. It felt nearly as good as a wonderful massage. She stretched her body beneath the cascading shower water. Wendell certainly knew how to live the high life. , She purred.

She was such a slut.

Her hand held a bar of sweetly fragrant soap. Slowly, she edged the bar of soap's corner against the hairy slit of her so-cozy cunt. She let the long side of the bar brush her clit. But lightly, not hard enough to bring her to an orgasm. That she didn't need. Wendell had taken care of her orgasm needs plenty and over and over. But the slippery soap against her grateful, happily sore clit, the warm water pulsating against her pussy, her recollection of Wendell's lovemaking brought a smile to her face.

He certainly knew how to fuck.

She spread her legs and planted her feet firmly. She pushed the long side of the soap softly along her slit, pressing gently, pressing slowly, closing her eyes as she continued to manipulate the soap, now slightly less than an inch into her cunt, now out.

She remembered his thrusts into her during their last fuck a couple of hours ago. Slow and deep they were at first. Quiet, slowly entering her eager cunt, and inch-by-inch filling it. He repeated his slow, deep thrusting as she had widened her legs and lifted her knees tight against his waist offering him better access for she had no idea how long until, suddenly, without warning, - - - - -the movement of his hips became piston-like, quick and hard, and deep, deep, deep, fast, deeper as her eyes opened wide in surprise, again, for how long she didn't know. Each time his cock had entered as far as it could, his pubic bone rubbed hard against her pubis and thrummed her clitoris to the edge of an orgasm. And then the angle changed and his steel-hard cock now pressed upwards until it found the curve at the top of her cunt. Her quivering clit was pulled tight against its taut sheath with his every powerful thrust into her until she began to cum and cum, cum and cum again and again. She thought she would never be able to stop cumming.

She took the soap away from her pussy. He was a GREAT fuck, but he was also a major self adoring, self centered son of a bitch!

Emma recalled his smile as he looked down at her, his finally untumescent shiny black cock freshly lifted from her still twittering cunt lips. "Most of the women I fuck, they usually, you know, write a little note of appreciation, you know, like a letter of recommendation."

She thought he was joking, but he was serious. He had shown her the book with the approbations. They were there. Some were proudly scrawled, a few were neatly printed, two had been drawn. She had recognized the names of a few of those who had written to celebrate their experience in Wendell's bed; one of the signatures she recognized was that of an academy award actress. .

Any one else had fucked her as good as Wendell had or even close to as good as Wendell had usually asked "if it had been good for her."

Harris would have been grateful for the opportunity to pleasure her.

Wendell wanted an essay, 350 words or more. Subject: the prowess of his cock.

She'd have to make a decision pretty soon about whether to go the party with Wendell or go home to Harris, who, she knew, was waiting patiently at the apartment. The decision should have been a no brainer. Harris wasn't really the problem. Emma knew she could get him to go along with whatever. They were the perfect couple. Their marriage was destined to be announced in the N.Y. Times Sunday Style section. He'd not make waves.

But staying with Wendell another night. It was just that one more night. Wendell Thurgood was leaving for Los Angeles and Seoul and who knew where else and his relationships were notoriously short lived. They were hook ups, nice and sweet, but hook ups nevertheless.

And how much was one more evening's sex with him worth?

The ladies were always there for him, the coolest maker of advertisements, the greatest athlete, most valuable player on the championship team, the subject of articles, columns, television specials, books. Emma estimated that after tonight she could expect maybe, a telephone call maybe once if he was in the mood ....that was, if she went to the party with him tonight. If she left to meet Harris, she was pretty certain that Wendell would be home with some other babe on his arm before the sun came up.

But time was being wasted.

Emma stepped out of the shower and took a towel from the towel dispenser. The fresh towel was soft and warm. She wrapped it around her torso and took a second towel from its dispenser. Again, it was soft and warm. Emma had been in many a fancy bathroom, but never before had she been in one as luxurious and well appointed as Wendell's. She dried herself, blow dried her hair and put on the beautiful robe that had been folded and left for her to wear. In the next room, the bedroom, she knew that the clothing she brought with her was all nicely cleaned, folded and ready. Just for the hell of it, Emma pulled one more towel from the dispenser. She dabbed at a hint of moisture at the back of her knee. She walked into the bedroom.

Wendell was not waiting for her when she returned to the bedroom after her shower.

For a second she thought he had gone. And for that second, but only for that second, she was glad. Her decision whether or not to go to the party had been made for her. But then she heard the door open. And she saw that Wendell hadn't left, was still waiting for her. She slipped into her panties, smiled.

She looked up at Wendell. "What time does the party begin?"

Emma kicked off her shoes and, backing her knees against the bed, plopped down. She threw her hands up and out from her body in a gesture of victory. She was happy. The evening had been a great success! And, soon, frosting on the cake, she would be getting a promised magnificent shagging from Wendell Thurgood, The Man.

Wendell was off, calling his agent and answering the texts and other messages that had accumulated while he was at the party. They were always there, messages from friends, fans, agents, journalists, proposers of propositions, old and potential girlfriends. At least he didn't message or text while he was at the party, or while he was having sex with her.

Emma had still not called Harris. She thought for a minute that she ought to call him now, but she decided the call could wait. It was already late. If she called now, he'd for sure complain about that. And, right now, she wanted to relive the party. It had been great, a huge success. She smiled.

Everyone had been there: A couple of Wendell's teammates and their dates (or wives), three or four very prominent businessmen and their wives (or dates) a rock star and his wife and date, two rap stars, Wendell's owner (the owner of the team he played for anyway), a whole bunch of the glitterati. She didn't know exactly how many visits to her gallery and sales would result, but she thought at least a few, --- these people had money to burn and spend at her gallery.

She stretched her body out on the bed. She was feeling very satisfied. And tonight, she figured, she was going to get some powerfully satisfying fucking from Mr. Thurgood. Too bad it would probably be her final fuck from "The Man."

Tonight would probably be her last in Wendell's bed. Since they had met at her gallery, they had gone out to dinner, to a club, to several parties, and they had had spectacular sex at his apartment. His finely honed athlete's body had meshed muscles with her finely toned exercised body. It had been great fun.

He had given her a lovely ankle bracelet as a gift. 24 karat gold, no less, and it had been engraved "TO EMMA, THE BEST LITTLE GALLERY OWNER IN THE STATE." He had given it to her during the ride back from the party and put it on to her right ankle. She wondered how he had managed to get it engraved in time to give it to her. Vaguely, in the back of her mind, she remembered something about anklet bracelets and right ankles and urban myths. She thought to remind herself to take it off before she got home.

Emma stood up and removed her dress. She kept her panties on.

Instead of laying down on the bed, she began to do some stretching exercises. She was in very good shape. But Wendell's fucking was especially vigorous, and she needed to get her muscles loose. He was so good at fucking, but she knew that, like The Tango, it took two to fuck, and she wanted these probably last fucks from him to be as good as they could be.

She began a few yoga poses.

She heard Wendell come into the room while she was a minute into her Kapotasana pose, lower legs flat on the ground, toes touching the back of her head and her belly button the highest point of her body.

"Even the Kama Sutra don't got any positions like that," he said.

She dropped out of the position and laughed, "Like to try to see if you can manage it into your repertoire?" Wendell had once studied yoga. Together, he and Emma had earlier adapted a few yoga and semi-yoga positions into their sexual explorations.

"Hey, what I been doing, not good enough?"

"Better than good enough," she said. "Read the note I left in your 'recommendation' folder.

He smiled and began to take off his shirt.

Emma held her breath.

He'd be removing his trousers next and just a few inches below those rippling abs of his he be unveiling his wonderful tool. Her eyes watered.... tears of happiness. Her cunt watered.... juice of excitement. Her mouth watered..... saliva. He dropped his pants. He slipped out of his silk briefs, and there it was, the longest, thickest, most talented cock it had ever been Emma's pleasure to get close to. It just hung there, between his legs, only semi tumescent. But even now, in its pre-super-substantial condition, it seemed the most magnificent cock Emma had ever experienced. She leaned forward and took it into the palm of her hand, feeling its weight, fondling its heft, admiring it as it quickly grew to full glory.

Wendell put his hand under her shoulder and lifted her up. When she was standing, he moved his long, thick fingers past the waistband of her panties and began to slowly slip the panties down her lovely, long tight legs. She lifted one leg, and he slipped the panty leg over her ankle and off her foot. She lifted her second foot, but he shook his head 'no.' "Leave them hanging from one ankle," he said. "It adds a bit of extra sluttiness to the scene." Emma smiled.

Tonight sounded as if it would be good interesting she thought. Well what do you know, she asked herself. Wendell Thurmond was turning her into a slut. And she loved it. That long, thick cock of his surrounded by the whole other part of him, his legs, his arms, his chest, his face.......She didn't know about tomorrow or any day after that, but tonight she would all the pleasures prove that a slut could get proven to her by the best fucker in the world, just like those letters of recommendation said.

He was standing in front of Emma. She sat down on the bed, her head about a foot away and level with his crotch. Still smiling, conscious of the panty hanging from her ankle, she put one hand under the purple sac holding his balls and hefted the sac as if to determine its weight. Her thumb and first finger pressed softly against his perineum. They'd had a lot of sex these past few days, so Emma knew he wouldn't mind her taking some of the initiative. She pushed him down to sit on the bed and squatted herself down between his legs.