All Eyes On Her 1

"

Girls like you don't write sex books,"

my nasty little inside voice said.

"Maybe you should go back to temping?"

This was the inner demon torturing me as I scanned the room of famous and fabulous people lingering inside the pricey loft. And maybe she was right? What

was

I doing here?

The invitation had been addressed to me, and as much as I'd been tempted to add a plus-one, I'd resisted and come alone. But it was late and I was bored, and the daily nine-to-five that kept me occupied and alive was already calling my name.

Lately, it seemed, I was always going to parties alone. I didn't mind that so much; it was going home alone that really annoyed me.

I gave the room another visual once-over and took one last sip of my complimentary wine while I considered starting for the door.

I attempted ignoring my pesky inner voice, but in the past six months her tenacity had gotten more intense; she'd even begun picking at my sexual urges; it wasn't bad enough that I had to listen to her about my weight, I'd even had to listen as she attacked who I found attractive.

"Maybe that's why we're always going home alone; you haven't had your boobs done."

I changed my thoughts again; I wanted to be happy while I drank.

I remembered one very memorable party I went to several months ago when this incredibly drunk girl, who said she was an avid reader, practically tore my clothes off on the balcony of her ex-husband's condo.

Those experimental lesbians never seem to get it right, but they can be so much fun to play with.

One minute she was in tears about her divorce and the next her tongue was inside my mouth and her hands were groping my ass.

Here's the thing though: drunk, aggressive straight girls are a huge turnoff. Okay, yeah, I did let her grind on me a little - she was really cute - and I got just a tiny bit wet when she opened her shirt and pushed my face between her tits; I hadn't been getting any for a long time so I let it go too far.

The best part though, was after she stumbled backward while trying to get her clothes off and dropped on her ass in front of everyone. She was fine, but one of her friends was apparently checking me out while the two of us were sort of making out.

The drunk chick had started unbuttoning my shirt while she was macking on my neck and I hadn't noticed it was still partly undone when her friend came up and very sweetly told me she liked my bra.

Now, no ordinary girl just walks up to someone late at a party and tells you how much she likes your bra unless she wants to see your panties too; and she really wanted to see them.

That's what I thought anyway.

We made out in the spare bedroom a little until she told me she was in a relationship and that she wasn't sure how she felt about eating me out while her girlfriend was gone for the weekend.

That's what else you have to be on the lookout for, tempting dyke girls in relationships who can't keep their mouths shut about their feelings.

She had great tits with those little pencil eraser nipples, and she didn't wear any underwear and she smelled like fresh-baked bread.

After she told me about her girlfriend - which, by the way, she did after she'd taken my panties off and rubbed her face up the length of my stomach and across my tits - I told her I was actually celibate and that I was violating my own no-sex rule by letting her undress me in someone else's house.

I was lying, of course, but I didn't want to give her the satisfaction of denying me the fantastic sight of her face between my legs while I grabbed her hair and held her there while her tongue licked every inch of my clit.

She never did though; she was too uptight about her girlfriend finding out so she stopped before things got too personal for her.

What a Venus flytrap lesbian tramp; she sure knew how to kill my buzz.

I left that party and went home and masturbated, first with my fingers and then with my vibrator; I pictured her between my thighs the whole time.

I would have been moaning her name except she never said it. I didn't get a name or a number or anything, just her pathetic

'I have a girlfriend'

sob story.

Her words were still in my head but so was her scent, so I breathed her in while I fucked myself silly.

But that was a good party.

"That was last year, girl. You haven't had any real sex since."

Reality is such a bitch sometimes.

I shook it off and tried focusing again on the happy faces of the beautiful people and the rhythmic beat of the eclectic Euro music; I even thought about the shoes I'd picked for the party; I thought they made a statement, but nothing seemed to quiet the mounting trouble inside my withering self-confidence as the uneventful minutes ticked by.

Why hadn't anyone even tried to pick me up? I looked cute; I'd made a point to wear my glasses so everyone there knew I was cute

and

smart.

I wondered if I looked too intimidating; I'm tall, but I don't make a big deal about it; I never wear heels.

I attempted to act distracted and ran my fingers around the rim of the empty glass while I casually made my way toward a bar tray; it was time to go.

But as I tried setting my glass down, something - rather, someone - grabbed hold of my attention. I tried to avoid looking across the room at the very center of all the activity, but resisting the pull of a powerful magnetic attraction only increases the tension.

It was HER. Cinderella had finally made it to the ball.

There she was bathing in the spotlight of all that interest, radiating self-confidence and gesturing appreciatively at the many gracious compliments I'm sure she was getting as she made her grand entrance.

I couldn't take my eyes off her and I hated her for it.

It was the one and only Giselle Freeman, and the light pouring down on her impressive body looked as though it had been tailor-made to emphasize her curves.

She was shorter than I had imagined and her shoulder-length, light brunette hair was done up casually; her makeup very natural around her eyes, and those luscious, natural breasts of hers filled out her top and stood at attention all by themselves under the sheer material.

Those

were tits to die for.

Her hair, highlighted by the halo of light, floated around her face like she'd just stepped out of a shampoo commercial.

She stood there, dressed as though she'd been painted, in a short, black, slit skirt, see-through top (of course), and sexy-as-hell-hot-girl glasses.

The worst of it was how adorable she got when she flashed her smile; and that laugh, it was infectious.

How dare she be

that

good-looking?

I was suddenly very horny. Two glasses of wine and already I was horny. Okay, maybe I'd had three glasses of wine, and to be honest, I'd been horny for weeks.

"Damn, she looks good,"

my inner me acknowledged.

The party was for her; Giselle was there to promote her book, The New Age of Sex, and everyone at this oh-so-chic party was eager to get close to her. My own book, A Young Girl's Guide to Personal Pleasure, had been a fantastic flop, so I was there hoping for insight on publishing a successful sex book.

Yes, and I was really there because I wanted to meet her.

I had published a sex book and I couldn't get laid except by posers and timid girls who were already in relationships; this world can be cruel.

I picked up a copy of Giselle's book when I came in just in case I did get the chance to talk with her. Yes, I was horribly jealous and thought she was the most beautiful demon I'd ever seen, but I was also extremely curious.

And yeah, I was horny, okay; the more I watched her the hornier I got; she was the devil; no horns, no tail, just all body out on display.

One glance at her photo on the back cover was all the convincing I needed; she looked more like a smart-girl lingerie model than any writer I'd ever seen.

For weeks her name seemed to be everywhere and I had made a point to check her out when the book splashed all over the place like a new sex trend.

As I continued studying her every move from behind my empty wine glass, I desperately wanted to be in that conversation, to be one of the fabulous people smiling and laughing at everything she said and did.

My big problem though, the gigantic problem racing through my increasingly tense limbs was this: I wanted to be her, and I wanted it all.

The more I witnessed the spectacle, the more I wanted to race home from the party and tear the pages from my own book.

With every delicate gesture she made, and with each look of adoration those fans gave her, the more I began to question why I'd ever accepted the invitation if all I was going to do was torture myself.

Maybe I just needed another drink.

I was getting really steamed and even hornier.

As I watched her pretend to laugh at the ridiculous comments I was sure people were making, I started to wonder if she'd actually written the book or was she, as I suspected, just a very sexy carrot dangling out for all to see.

"Now you're talking. She's just a fake; a literary mannequin."

Talk about false advertising; how did a girl who looked like

that

write a sex book?

She probably couldn't spell S-E-X.

It was eating me up; I had to know for sure.

That was it; maybe that was why I'd come to the party; maybe that was the reason I'd tolerated all the neglect of my own efforts.

She was so incredibly irritating, and it was seriously turning me on, so tell me if this makes any sense: There's this thing about girls in glasses that turns that private knob inside your stomach before it creeps down into your thighs and then makes its way back up between your legs until your pussy screams out the need to meet her and ravish her and have her scream your name as you drive your tongue against her wet, hot clit.

I'm right, aren't I?

I hated her so much and was staring so intently at the way she moved, that I hadn't realized I'd pressed my wine glass against my boobs and had begun making small circles with it. Felt pretty good, too.

It wasn't until I felt my nipple harden against my bra that I understood the effect she had on me.

My hand seemed to be acting on autopilot and pressed more circles with the wine glass against my nipple. Oh yeah, right there.

I carefully crossed my legs so I could squeeze my thighs together tighter.

Her intoxicating mixture of dark hair, big eyes, and those dark glasses pushed all my secret buttons, and as I stared at her I knew that my senses had been set on fire.

I think by this point I was actually dripping inside my panties.

Watching as she casually laughed at another story only intensified the urges rushing through my body. This tan, literate beauty was the white-hot source fanning the flame inside me and I wanted to roast.

"You don't stand a chance. Now get home so you can sleep."

And there it was; once again, my inner voice ruined everything I was trying to do. I uncrossed my legs and pulled the glass away from my chest.

But as much as my little voice had a point, what could one more drink hurt? Besides, both my nipples had gotten hard and my thighs were ablaze.

I did make a quick trip to the bathroom though to check if I'd left any evidence on my pants; my tiny panties weren't going to hold back that much excitement and I knew I couldn't have survived that embarrassment.

...

I sipped my third, or maybe my fourth, glass of wine while the party lingered on and people started fading. I'd been making tighter and tighter circles around Giselle's group while I moved about the room and milked every last drop of my drink until the crowd around her started thinning.

Every once in a while I even picked up a word or two of their conversation.

When I saw Giselle cover a small yawn while listening to one of the publishers carry on about market shares, I knew time was getting short; that's when I made my move.

I had my copy of her book and made sure it was visible as I walked up. I strolled casually and looked for an opening in the conversation.

I smiled uncomfortably at a few people, still unsure what I was going to say or how I was going to introduce myself; I hadn't really made much of a plan.

"Amanda Donahue?" Giselle asked as her eyes lit up and her arms opened wide as though she'd just seen a long-lost friend: "You're Amanda Donahue, aren't you?"

"Um, what?" I blurted out as the attention shifted dramatically toward me.

"You wrote, A Young Girl's Guide to Pleasure, didn't you?"

This was a moment I had in no way prepared for; everyone in the center of the room had turned to look at me; they were all looking at me.

I took a well-earned emergency sip of wine.

"I. Actually," I said, quite unprepared for such an instant reaction, "it's, A Young Girl's Guide to

Personal

Pleasure. And yes, I did."

"Oh, right, sorry. But what a book. You're my inspiration."

Giselle Freeman was talking directly to me and I froze.

All those probing eyes were staring and I was in shock. The looks on the faces of her groupies abruptly changed from arrogance to mild acceptance, but the pressure from those eyes was bearing down on my ability to speak.

"Come on, say something else. Everyone is staring at you."

I shook the sound of my own voice from my head and stood dumbfounded. Of course, I must have imagined it; Giselle Freeman had not just called me by name.

I could feel my cheeks heating up so I gulped back the rest of my wine.

"This is so unexpected," she said as she brushed past the empty faces of her onlookers. "We have so much to talk about. Where have you been?"

Before I knew what was happening, Giselle, my sexy literary idol, the supermodel author I secretly wanted between my thighs, grabbed my arm, pulled me tightly to her, and started walking me swiftly toward the bar.

Her body was next to mine, our arms were locked together, and her fingers intertwined with my own; I thought I was going to faint.

And not a word from my pesky inner voice.

It seemed my heart might burst as the scent of her perfume cascaded across my nose and numbed the parts of my brain that would certainly mess with my ability to say anything again if that's what she wanted.

We were actually arm-in-arm.

I could feel her right boob pressing against me, and the sway of her hips pushed lightly against my leg. I was beginning to think I was imagining the whole thing.

When we reached the bar she turned to face me, her figure highlighted once again by the light shining down from the heavens, her breasts intimidating me through the fabric of her top which barely concealed them.

Here's something else. I'm a taller girl and that gives me a certain sweet perspective when another girl, say, a shorter hot girl with great tits in a low-cut, shear top is six inches in front of me.

"Oh. My. God," she said with dramatic emphasis hitched inside her voice. "Thank you for saving me. You literally saved my life just now."

All I could do was stand in awe of her, those amazing tits, and those big, round eyes looking up at me from behind the frames of her hot-girl glasses.

I think my mouth may have been open.

"Say something, stupid. She's so HOT!"

My inner voice was pushing all the wrong buttons inside my head.

"Amanda Donahue in the flesh. My inspiration standing right here. I have so many questions and so many tips I need you to share with me."

"Tips?" I asked, still enamored by the fact that I was the only person she was talking to. And it was really difficult not to stare at her tits.

"Yes. Oh my god! I'm desperate to learn from you," she said as she set her palm down on the back of my hand: "I want to take lessons from you."

Shivers shot down my spine and straight into the very core of my thighs; my pussy was tingling and calling out her name before she finished her sentence.

"And you are so cute," she said as she studied me from top to bottom. "Where did you get this outfit? You're even better looking than your picture."

"What? Me? I...?" but my mouth froze up. I just stood staring into her eyes while her cleavage kept begging for my attention.

As I stood there, mostly helpless, I wondered if Giselle was aware of the effect she had on people - on me. Were beautiful women like this able to offer just the smallest hint of mercy to the rest of us?

Of all the girls I've been with, and no, I won't tell you how many, I never had sex with a girl who looked anything like Giselle; it just didn't seem possible; I had lowered my standards at a very young age.

Okay, okay, I think my number is up to 23, but I don't count the first one because she's my cousin. And we were drunk. And I don't remember all of it.

As Giselle waited for me to respond in some way that let her know I was capable of having a conversation, I felt the moment getting really uncomfortable and knew I had to say something; but still, no words came out.

"I'm so glad you came to this party," Giselle said as her piercing eyes and gorgeous tits paralyzed my ability to function: "I've been so bored and you're the first real person I've talked to."

"I don't understand," I finally muttered. "You just wrote a best-selling sex book. What are you talking about?"

She leaned in close and put her hand on my wrist; she was so close I felt my knees go weak and I grew more lightheaded as her scent consumed all the air around me.

She was so close it felt as though we were sharing a secret.

"Amanda. I need to tell you something," she whispered, "but not here. Let's get you another drink and then you and I need to talk."

Over her shoulder, I could see the cluster of fans she'd abandoned watching our every move, and she could tell we were the center of attention for almost everyone in the room.

"Stay right here. Let me just brush them off," she told me as she squeezed my arm, "then you and I will find someplace private, okay?"

"Okay," was all I could say.

"I'll have another white wine and get this girl whatever she wants," she forcefully told the bartender before walking back to her group.

I looked down to see that it was actually my wrist she'd been holding onto, the red indentations on my arm the proof I needed.

My head was spinning a little from the wine, but the rest of me was spinning out of control because Giselle Freeman was talking to

me

.

.....

All bets were off, so I ordered a serious cocktail and watched as they all watched me as Giselle gestured once again in her commanding way to wrestle their attention back to her.

I was nervous and stunned and embarrassed; horny had left the building along with my ability to express myself in any way other than to idolize Giselle.

I snuck a few more glances at the people looking my way as I tried to act natural while I stood at the bar drinking something I knew I was either going to regret or would give me the courage to speak to Giselle like a fellow sex book author.

"Don't say anything stupid, okay? I think she likes you."

And just when I thought I was bouncing back, my nasty inner voice hit again. This time, though, I brushed her off; I was sharing drinks with a supermodel author.

.....

It seemed like forever before Giselle started back toward the bar, back toward me. My drink was quickly passing over my lips as I tried quenching the thirst she was building inside my body.

"That takes care of them," she said as she picked up her glass. "I really don't like all this fuss over just one book."

"Yeah, right," I tried to say as I choked back my cocktail.

"But what about you?" she said as her face lit up again. "I bet girls are always asking your advice about sex."