My apologies to those who read an earlier version of this that I uploaded prematurely. I hope knowing the story won't spoil your enjoyment of this version.
***
When Debbie got up to speak, she spotted Craig straight away. The tiny little bit of eye contact they had as she walked on stage almost startled her. Who was this guy? He was so focussed on her, so obviously there just for her. Everyone else was at Sexpo for the tits and arse (and why not? Hey, go for it) or for the cheap drinks after the presentation (ditto).
In fact, Craig was there just for her. Normally, he would never have even considered going to Sexpo, but he'd been checking out the babes in the newspaper ad for Sexpo and he spotted her name. He'd discovered Debbie a year or so earlier when he'd stumbled upon one of her videos on the internet. It began with her in skimpy lingerie, moving sensuously, stroking herself, showing off her lithe body. Ordinarily, Craig thought a bit of cover-up was much sexier than nudity, so he was doubly impressed when, after a few minutes, she took off her top in such an arousing manner that he kept watching. Still she stroked and wriggled and when she took off her bottom, Craig was even more aroused. Then she began to masturbate – lightly, stroking her pussy, licking a finger and slipping it in.
Craig had never seen anything like this before. Occasionally, when he was surfing the net, he'd come across explicit stuff, but it was never very sexy. The women's faces were like masks, their performances false and wooden. But Debbie was so natural. She seemed to be genuinely enjoying herself, smiling at the camera, licking her lips. At one point her whole body trembled and Craig thought to himself, you can't fake that, can you? Then Debbie got out the dildo and vibrator and began to masturbate more heavily. This sort of thing would ordinarily put Craig right off, but he was convinced that it was genuine when her face became a bit tense, a bit anxious, as she worked her way toward orgasm. If this was faked, she'd be throwing salacious looks at the camera, tossing her head back and crying, "Oh baby, do it to me!"
She had to work to bring herself to orgasm but when she came, crying out, her body heaving and trembling, Craig couldn't believe it. He thought he'd died and gone to heaven.
Debbie's topic for her speech was "The Slower You Go, the Higher You Get" and she gave a little demonstration. To make her point, she was wearing a lot of clothes: she had heavy-rimmed glasses on with her hair tied back, a white cotton blouse with a men's vest and tie, a grey woollen businesswoman's skirt. Underneath was all black: black lacy bra with a centre clasp, lacy full-back panties with a black silk thong underneath, black garter belt made of leather and lace, and black stockings with the 1950s-type seam down the back. The shoes were red – bright red patent leather stilettos with straps that wound all the way up her calves.
As she spoke about the joys of flirting, of teasing, of foreplay and of slow sex, she took off her clothes, piece by piece, one by one. First the glasses and the hair-tie. She shook her long black hair loose and it fell across her shoulders and her breasts. Already her nipples were hardening, partly from the tension, but also, she was enjoying herself. Craig was right about her videos. Debbie was always aroused by the idea of others getting off on her performance, which of course, made the performances magic for him.
For some reason, Debbie had started off tonight feeling nervous. It wasn't easy, doing a striptease without music while delivering a coherent speech. She'd done this sort of thing a few times before, back home in the States, but she was worried about what Australians might think of her. So she loved how completely focused Craig was on her: every time she removed another bit of clothing, she'd look into his eyes and she felt calmer. She felt sexier.
Next the vest. She nearly tore the vest off for drama – to demonstrate that a little bit of fast is good. A little bit of
urgent
. The tie came off next, and then one by one she undid the buttons on her blouse.
Now she locked eyes with him, and Craig could feel himself respond. His breath became deeper, heavier, and his skin cooled slightly as a thin film of sweat glazed his skin. His cock had been tingling since she'd walked out on stage, but now it was hard, throbbing.
Debbie smiled, showing her teeth, her tongue. She looked into his deep, deep gorgeous eyes, licking her lips slowly, as if she was tasting his response. And she could see him respond. She loved his smile, she loved how delighted he seemed. She craned her neck to see if there was a bulge in his pants, but the person in front of him was in the way.
She gave a little shimmy and the blouse dropped to the floor.
The skirt had a short zipper at the side. It may have been short, but it took forever for her to unzip it. She used the time to talk a bit about one of her favourite positions, called the "unemployed" because it kind of assumes that you have nothing – nothing – else to do. The man lies on his back and the woman gets on top. The woman moves around, a bit, but not too much. The idea is to keep the man's penis erect inside her, but not get too aroused, because what you mainly do is chat. About anything, anything at all. Later that night in the hotel room, they did the "unemployed" and talked about silly things, like whether make-up is good for your skin or whether Pluto is really a planet. And all the time she had his cock deep inside her, with her clit rubbing against his pubic mound and her warm juices trickling down his scrotum.
Once the zip on the skirt was undone, she gave another little shimmy and it, too, fell to the floor. And there she was, just black lacy underwear and red leather stilettos. The heels on her stilettos tapped out a steady heartbeat rhythm on the wooden floor as she strutted around the crumpled clothes. She realized she was moving her hips as if she was already having sex. She quickly glanced into Craig's eyes once more and then, pleased by how aroused he seemed, pointed her bum in his direction and bent over to pick up the clothes. She felt her pussy squeezing out between her thighs, the silk of the thong forming folds between her labia.
Her arse was now high in the air, two mounds like the top of a love heart and she thought, now's a good time to take off the stockings. So she loosened the straps on the stilettos and undid the clasps on the garter belt, while she spoke about delayed orgasm, all the time grinding her bum round in little circles. She squatted down and rolled onto her back as she pulled the stockings off, inching them down over her smooth thighs, her shapely calves, her heels, her toes and then she tossed the stockings into the audience.
One stocking floated down onto Craig's face. His cock pounded and throbbed, responding as much to its sweet scent and its warmth as to its barely perceptible touch when it settled on his lap. His shoulders rolled forward as his body trembled and he began to think about weeding the garden in an effort to ward off what felt like an orgasm rising inside him.
Thankfully, Debbie decided it was time to turn down the temperature a bit, and she just stood at the podium for the last few minutes of her speech. Then, just as she finished the last sentence, she whipped her bra off like a teenage college flasher at Cancun Beach. The applause was wonderful, thunderous, but when she looked at Craig, she saw him still sitting quietly, holding her stocking to his face, breathing through her stocking, and then she realized he was wiping tears from his eyes with her stocking. He was holding back tears and when their eyes met she could see that she'd moved him. Her performance had taken him somewhere special.
Debbie needn't have worried about what Australians would think of her. The applause, the wolf whistles and the cat calls went on and on, filling the convention hall with noise. Three times she had to return to the stage for another bow, each time giving the audience a little treat – a wiggle of her bum, a squeeze of her breasts. It was warm in the hall, and by the time Debbie did her third bow, her body was glistening with sweat. Craig couldn't take his eyes off that little bead of sweat that trickled down between her breasts and over her belly. It was just for him that she caught that bead with her finger and, putting her hand into her panties, placed it right on the tip of her clit. God, it felt good. Her pussy was warm and moist and her clit was full and pounding with blood. Everyone else thought it was just an act, but he knew. He was there for her. Just for her.
***
It was one of those hot, humid nights in Sydney, when even inanimate objects seem to sweat, when an ordinary lamppost or brick wall feels warm and damp. Wanting to be anonymous for rest of the evening, Debbie skipped the drinks and went for a walk. Despite having lived in Miami for three years and despite the thin veneer of glamour that went with her job, Debbie was really a small-town girl. She'd never been further than California before, so she was living in the moment, walking beside Sydney Harbour along the promenade by the Opera House, with the lights reflecting in the water, on the other side of the planet from home. It was fabulous. As she walked, she was looking up at the lights on the Harbour Bridge, not really watching where she was going, and that's when she bumped into Craig. Literally.
Craig had been staring out across the Harbour, oblivious to the noise from the traffic and the ferries, not really noticing the boats and the people around him while he played over Debbie's performance in his mind. Suddenly he'd been knocked off balance and when he looked toward the source of the problem there was Debbie.
She recognized him. He was the guy with the deep blue eyes and the gorgeous smile. And of course he recognized her. They both went into automatic response, doing the "Oh, I'm sorry" and "Beg your pardon" stuff and she looked into his eyes again and he started trying to think of something else to say, but then she felt her nipples hardening and he looked in her eyes, deep into her eyes, and she realized – she knew – that she could trust him. Without another thought, she stepped toward him, pressing against him with her breasts, her hard nipples against his chest. Her lips met his and he thrust his tongue into her mouth as her tongue wrapped around his and slid into his mouth.
She kept stepping forward, pushing him backward until he'd backed up against the wall of the Opera House and then she could really push her body against his. She slipped her hands under his t-shirt at the back and pulled him even closer, tighter. His hands were on her waist, moving up, up to her breasts, lifting and squeezing her breasts, their bodies were tight against each other, their mouths locked together. Then his hands moved down, down over the small of her back and onto the cheeks of her bum and then he, too, was holding their bodies closer.
Then – somehow – he got one hand down into her panties, pressing against her pussy. He slid his fingers between her labia as she became wet, feeling the moist warm flesh, stroking her clit as it swelled up, hard against his fingers. Then he slipped his middle finger into her cunt, then two fingers. She felt her hips start to grind and that's when she realized, they had to go somewhere. Now.
"Are you from around here?" she asked, hoping he'd know of a good hotel they could go to.
Debbie and Craig, both addictive romantics, have never tried to contact each other since that night, preferring their memories to any unlikely email-based friendship that may have arisen. But if they had stayed in touch, if they'd become good friends, reliable correspondents across the Pacific, then Debbie would be duty bound, from time to time, to give Craig a hard time about the look on his face at that moment. To Debbie it seemed to be the sort of look that people must have when they've just tripped over a rock and they're heading face-first toward the ground. He looked
