0 comments/ 45697 views/ 5 favorites Hot to Trot, or Too Buff to Boff? By: Sir Galahad After the theme music and the applause died down, Pennie Layne announced, “The women on today’s show are gorgeous, but they say men shy away from asking them out because of their physiques. Let’s meet them.” The things you do for relatives. I’d made my pile in the tech stock market of the ‘90s, parleying my initial investment into multiple millions over the course of six years. The parallels to the Great South Seas Bubble of the 1600s started to bother me in 1998; and recalling what Castenada had said, I quietly cashed out and shifted to a diversified portfolio that produced revenue from sources so varied that it would require a total collapse of the global economy to bankrupt me. The dotcom boom’s going bust didn’t affect my position at all. Taking another lesson from history, I turned some of my assets into cash and bought low, taking a position in New York City real estate. As a result, I was now sitting pretty and would never need to work again. After taking the time to establish myself as a legal resident of a state with no income tax, I settled in Manhattan in a townhouse that had once been the permanent mission to the U.N. of an African nation that had gone broke fighting a war and been forced to move to more modest quarters. Five floors plus a rooftop conservatory and a full basement (and prize of prizes, its own off-street parking) gave me all the room I needed. A quiet restaurant two blocks away that hasn’t been ‘discovered’ by the gastronomic press and ruined for its regulars kept me fed well and a reasonably happy camper. I had time to watch the market for the odd opportunity, surf the Web, and read a variety of newspapers, books and magazines. A simple life, maybe; but apart from the absence of a permanent female companion who wasn’t after my money, I was content. My peaceful existence was interrupted one early summer evening by a phone call from my Uncle John and Aunt Dorothy in Kansas. Cutting to the chase, they were finally going to take the Great Vacation in the Big City that they had always talked about, now that Cousin Jack was married and able to take care of their spread as well as his own next door; and where should they stay in the Big Apple, and what should they see, and could I possibly get tickets to The Pennie Layne Show? Gah. The Pennie Layne Show was a smudged carbon copy of Maury, Montel, and the other voyeuristic crap that had replaced game shows on daytime TV. With the Beatles’ song as her theme music, Pennie Layne specialized in find-the-babydaddy DNA testing, makeovers of various kinds, Can You Spot The Transsexual games, sending out of control teens off to military high school, the giving of ultimatums to a lover/wife/husband, and the-ugly-ducklings-that-now-are-swans-and-smell-ME sort of TV that has the same morbid fascination for some that a really spectacular highway accident has for motorists. She was immensely popular among the kind of people who thought ‘culture’ was Masterpiece Theater. b I’d sooner have spent an afternoon listening to a politician running for office than attending a Pennie Layne taping; but they were my relatives and they weren’t hinting that relatives ought to stay with family in the big city, so I made the call and got the tickets. I made sure theirs were down front where the cameras could easily find them for their friends back home. I also made sure mine was on the crossing aisle about halfway towards the back so I could stretch out. (I might have to endure this function for the sake of family, but I refused to be uncomfortable in the process.) When show day arrived, I rendezvoused with Aunt Dot and Uncle John in Times Square. When they said they liked Mexican, I took them to lunch in a little place nearby where the food is good and the beer is better. We got caught up on who’s doing what in the family and the whatever-became-ofs of folks I’d met when I’d spent summers on the farm with them. Soon enough it was time to get to the studio for the taping. In the studio, Pennie Layne was introducing the women that were the subject of today’s show. By ‘physique,’ she meant they were bodybuilders. They came strutting out onto the stage, mostly dressed in bikinis and high heels, with catsuits or skintight trousers with form-fitting blouses varying the fashions. Taken as a group, they were intimidating. Two or three looked as if they could bench-press Arnold Schwartzenegger 100 times before breakfast. One black woman put me in mind of Grace Jones in her prime, had Grace gone for bulk instead of speed and snap in her bodybuilding. The forbidding looks on a couple of them would give a Marine DI pause, considering they looked as if they could tie a rifle into a knot and use it as a scarf. Their muscle definition would do for anatomy textbook illustrations. What got me was the hostility they radiated. Not the chip on the shoulder kind men sometimes get from aggressively lesbian females, though sexual orientation wasn’t relevant here. This was more the ‘Are you looking at ME?’ challenge I’d have expected from morose laborers in a blue collar bar after one too many. It was an ‘I dare you to prove you’re more of a man than I am a woman’ look. I settled back to watch the show, letting the flashcard we’d each been given on walking in with “Hot to Trot” printed on one side and “Too Buff to Boff” on the other, lie unused on my lap. As it unfolded, the hook Pennie Layne wanted to hang the show on was obvious: that ordinary guys were so intimidated by the physical strength and the size of these women, they were afraid to come near them. She went from gal to gal, collecting stories that ran the gamut from ‘Oh, pity me,’ to ‘Prove you’re good enough to go out with me or stop wasting my time.’ I listened to them talk when the cameras were off during breaks in the taping. There was only one that to me seemed worth a guy’s romantic attentions. She was about 5’7” or 8” with pale blonde hair moussed into a high flattop crew cut. Her pale skin and invisible eyebrows marked her as a genuine blonde, likely of Scandinavian extraction. Her fine-boned figure suited the B/C cup size of her breasts. They appeared larger than that because of her pectoral development, enough to pop them forward without making them look like they were on a platter beneath the paper-thin smooth leather halter that showed the outline of her nipples. She had clearly worked to bring her waist down; six-pack abs looked good on her above a skimpy barbarian-leather bikini bottom that showed off her small, tight buttocks. The skintight, thigh-high boots concealed exquisitely shaped legs. She looked like a tigress at rest, not the female Charles Atlases some of the other women resembled. I wondered what her story was. The lights came back up to taping intensity. Pennie began interviewing the blonde I’d been eyeing. “This is Birgitte,” Pennie said, walking over to her. (I idly wondered if Pennie Layne realized that this woman made Pennie’s figure, which normally contrasted favorably with the overweight guests she typically had on the show, look like a heifer in a cornfield.) “She works as a dominatrix, but says she wants a real man that will treat her like a real woman and not a bitch-goddess. Isn’t that right, dear?” “That’s right, Pennie,” said Birgitte, arching her back and lacing her fingers behind her head for a minute before standing up straight again. “I see all kinds of men in my work,” she went on, a trace of foreign accent in her speech, “but all they want is to lick my boots, have me tie them up, abuse them with speech and beat them. They don’t see me as a woman.” “And how long has it been since you’ve been out on a date?” Birgitte paused. “More than a year, I think. Yes, Christmas a year ago. My friend Angela – “ “You mean to tell me that you haven’t had a real date in a year?” interrupted Pennie. I don’t believe it!” Turning to the audience, she demanded, “What do you think? Is Birgitte hot to trot or too buff to boff?” The audience reacted like trained seals, with green and yellow “Too Buff to Boff” signs waving for the cameras as a rumble of boos and dislike rolled toward the stage. I noticed the men and women booing and waving their signs with the most enthusiasm were all overweight and unattractive, their plainness accentuated by the glee on their faces as they gave back some of the mockery they’d received over the years to someone they saw as a Pretty Person. The few favorable red and gold “Hot to Trot” signs were lost in the shuffle. Pennie smiled, secure in her ability to manipulate the sheeple. I loathed her for it. She moved on to the next step in the dance. “Do you mean to say that there isn’t a single man in the audience that has the nerve to ask Birgitte here for a date? Not one of you?” A fresh wave of derision washed out from the audience. Birgitte flushed, whether from shame or embarrassment I couldn’t tell. “I can’t believe it!” called Pennie over the crowd. “There isn’t a SINGLE GUY with enough guts in this audience to date a dominatrix?” More catcalls. Suddenly I’d had enough, more than enough and a long way past enough. “I DO!” I shouted, getting to my feet, striding along the cross-aisle and down the wide steps that defined the rows of seats. Cameras swung to follow me. I reached the bottom and stepped onto the stage. I could see Pennie Layne motion out of frame to the security people starting toward me to stay where they were. I addressed the hostess. “You asked if any male in the audience has the guts to ask this woman for a date, dressed as she is and knowing what she does for a living. Well, I do.” Turning to Birgitte, whose eyes were wide with surprise and who had one hand in front of her mouth, I extended my hand. “Come with me if you want to have some fun,” I said, belatedly realizing that I sounded like Arnold in T-2: Judgment Day. Probably NOT the image I should be projecting here. As hostile as some of these women were, I might wind up as the guest of honor at body-slam practice! Birgitte looked at me for a minute, sizing me up. Obviously the show staff had briefed her on what to expect, but someone from the audience calling Pennie’s bluff and departing from the script hadn’t been covered. She was on her own. She reached out and took my hand. “Let’s go,” she said softly. Without further ado, I began to lead her back up the steps to the exit doors as the audience applauded. “WAIT A MINUTE!” shouted Pennie. The crown quieted and we looked back at the stage. “You can’t just run off with my guest!” “Well, DUH!” I replied. The audience laughed and Pennie flushed, on the verge of moving the guards in. I waved for quiet and went on, “Look, this is obviously a makeover-and-listen-to-the-pshrink show, and maybe a blind date as the capper. You can’t make eight women over in thirty seconds. It’s two o’clock now. What time will you start unveiling the makeovers?” “Five o’clock,” came the director’s voice from the control booth through the speakers. “We’ll be here,” I promised. “You, with the portacam on your shoulder, grab a fresh power pack and get moving. We’ll be at Bloomingdale’s.” “Stay with him, Charlie, we’ll catch you up” said the disembodied voice. “Go with it, Pennie.” Pennie shot me a dirty look for spoiling her ‘surprise,’ but total pro that she was, resumed taping. We could hear her talking as we left the studio, “Well, it looks as if there is at least one man in New York who has the courage of his convictions. We’ll bring you reports on Birgitte as they happen. And now…” Charlie the cameraman, out of breath, caught up with us at the elevators. “We have limos on call; I just called for one. Easier if we’re together.” We introduced ourselves as we rode down to the parking garage under the building. While we waited for the limo to turn up, I helped Birgitte into my trench coat to conceal her ‘working clothes.’ Enroute to Bloomie’s, I got hold of the manager and explained the problem and what I needed. He had me give my phone to the driver and gave him instructions. Shortly afterwards, we pulled into a loading dock on East 60th Street and took the freight elevator up. Charlie had obviously shopped at Bloomingdale’s before and was surprised when the elevator stopped at the seventh floor. “I thought Bloomie’s only had six floors.” I showed him my Bloomie’s charge card. Unlike the typical Bloomingdale’s card, mine has 3 gold stars in one corner. “This card gets you onto the seventh floor. There are private showrooms and shops for celebrities and people that can afford the prices up here. Believe me, you pay for this privilege. Come along, Birgitte, we have to be back by five and there is much to be done.” My first stop was at a famous clothing designer’s shop. Colette was the saleswoman on duty. I had dealt with her before. Her eyes widened when Birgitte took off my coat, but said nothing. At my request, she provided a long robe and measured Birgitte from head to foot in the dressing lounge. Telling Colette where we were going, asking her to please box up Birgitte’s costume and that I would be right back, I took Birgitte on to the hair salon in the robe. There I instructed the stylist to redo Birgitte’s hair in a style that was softer yet complemented her face, to redo her nails in French tips, “plus whatever else she wants that can be done in an hour, and send for a selection of perfumes, makeup and lipsticks that go with her skin.” Charlie stayed in the salon to document this part of the makeover. Going back to the designer’s, we walked through the showroom. I selected half a dozen outfits that Colette and I agreed would show Birgitte off in the best possible light. Calling in a favor, Colette persuaded the salesman at the shoe salon to look over our selection of clothes and bring shoes to suit. He did so, pausing to peruse our live Barbie doll and measure her feet first. While he was thus engaged and Colette was laying out the wardrobe, I made another call to a little lingerie shop I know, requesting part of my order be delivered to Colette here immediately and the rest to be sent to my townhouse. I then visited the shoe salon and selected one pair of pumps and a pair of strap sandals to be added to my order and delivered to the townhouse. Calling home, I warned my housekeeper of the impending deliveries and told her to make sure the bar in the library was properly stocked, including canapés. One can but hope, and it would not hurt to be prepared. It was closing on three-thirty when the hair salon delivered Birgitte back to me. The timing was perfect; Colette had taken delivery of the lingerie barely five minutes before, just time to unwrap it and lay it out. Still in the robe, I could see that the cosmetologists had manicured her top and bottom, and applied a subdued makeup that brought her eyebrows into visibility. Her hair had been cleansed of the stiffening gel and restyled into soft curls that hugged her skull, suggesting a close-fitting cap of feathers. The effect was marvelous. What else might have been done, the robe concealed. “Colette has a selection of outfits for you, I said, ignoring Charlie. A master of his craft, he was like a stagehand in a Chinese play: as unobtrusive as the camera light allowed him to be, never underfoot or in the way but never missing a shot either. I made a mental note to get his particulars and have him checked out; he was too good a cameraman to be wasting his time on a hack TV show. “Take a few minutes and try them all on before you decide which one to wear and we ship the others. But don’t be too long, because we promised we’d be back at five.” Smiling, and with an echoing smile and a raised eyebrow from Colette, Birgitte went into the lounge to play fashion model. “Pennie wants to talk to you,” Charlie said, taking the camera off his shoulder, flipping the viewscreen on and turning it outwards so I could see what he was having relayed to him and plugging in a headphone so I could hear. “Tape’s rolling.” “Will you be back on time?” Pennie asked. It felt strange to be taking to her this way, very Edison Carter of Network 23. “Barring a traffic jam,” I promised. “And what do you have in mind for after the show? The other girls will be going out on computer-matched dates over the next couple of days. Charlie can accompany you if you are going somewhere tonight.” “You know, it would be easier if we didn’t have to go back,” I said. “Could you work around that?” Pennie thought for a minute. “Yes, if you take her somewhere interesting. Can you shoot the ‘after’ footage where you are for relay, Charlie?” “No prob,” assured the cameraman. “It’s presentable, and I can get all the details as to whom to thank for the credits. Let me get set up. You’ll repeat it for the studio audience?” An hour later, Charlie was ready to go, listening to the audio track of the show over his headphones, with the mike shut off so the sound wouldn’t repeat. At his cue, Birgitte came out of the lounge with a runway model’s strut, her hips swaying seductively in a fawn colored skirt with brown piping that struck four inches above the knee, tight enough to show her ass to good advantage without being hooker-tight, plus a matching short jacket over an opaque, flowing ivory silk blouse with a plunging neckline. Pumps that matched the skirt, with three-inch heels that made those lovely legs even shapelier, enhanced the sway of her hips. A simple, heavy gold rope necklace and matching earrings that I had bought at the jeweler’s across the way after Birgitte and Charlie decided on the outfit completed the ensemble. She did a slow turn to show the line of the suit and her perfect legs, and then walked to where I waited against a neutrally colored wall. Charlie flipped one earphone around and pointed to me. I could hear Pennie Layne as if from a distance, but my attention was occupied by the gorgeous creature that had taken my arm and was looking at me with admiration. “Well! Quite a difference from ‘before.’ And what, pray tell, do you have in mind for the rest of the evening?” she asked, a wink-wink-nudge-nudge tone in her voice. “I thought that we’d walk over to the Park Plaza for drinks and dinner, and then perhaps a carriage ride in the park after; that is, if Birgitte wants to,” I said. “That sounds delightful,” said Birgitte. “In all the time I have been in New York, I have never taken a carriage ride. It will be a touch of home for me.” “And after the carriage, will you indulge in another kind of ride?” asked Pennie lewdly. I flushed as I heard the audience hooting at her ‘wit.’ Birgitte drew herself up. I was aware of her breasts jutting an inch away from my arm. Haughtily as any queen, she replied, “That is no concern of yours. Shall we go?” she asked me. “We shall,” I agreed, and we swept from the shop as regally as royalty could have done. “And, CUT!” shouted Charlie, just barely not laughing. “Stewart Granger and Katharine Hepburn couldn’t have done it better. Listen!” He extended the headphones. The applause and laughter coming from the studio explained the irritation on Pennie Layne’s face in the tiny monitor screen. In baiting Birgitte, she had forgotten that she was herself on of the Pretty People, and that the sheeple aren’t fussy as to which Pretty Person ends up with the egg on her face as long as they get to watch. I looked at Birgitte. “Somehow I don’t think Pennie Layne will be asking you back for a return engagement,” I said. Birgitte’s shy smile lit up her face and she blushed. “Somehow I don’t think I’m going to be needing one,” she said softly. We walked to the elevator, Charlie momentarily forgotten. He knew where we would be and would catch up at the Plaza. The walk to the hotel and the dinner that followed passed in a haze. I could have been eating floor tiles and drinking water from the East River for all the impression that the excellent food and wine made on me. All my attention was focused on the Danish beauty seated next to me on the banquette. She seemed just as caught up in me as we talked about ourselves. Hot to Trot, or Too Buff to Boff? We flirted with words and little touches of hands, stroking a finger down her palm, her guiding of a spoonful of dessert in my hand to her mouth. We both were oblivious to Charlie’s presence, though I occasionally noticed diners glaring our way. I was surprised to feel a bare foot caressing my calf under the table, covered from public view by the tablecloth. I responded by dropping my right hand to Birgitte’s thigh and slowly stroking it. Her skirt had hiked up when she sat down, and as I grew bolder I could feel the damp fabric where the panties covered her sex. Her face did not betray our teasing of each other, but I could tell from the flush on her chest and the deepening of her breathing that she was not averse to my actions. After we finished eating, we left the hotel, crossing the street to Central Park and picking up a horse-drawn carriage for a romantic drive around the park. Birgitte and I sat on the back seat of the carriage. Charlie sat facing us, filming as we cuddled together on the soft padded leather, arms around each other, trying to ignore the camera light and give each other the attention we deserved. Birgitte snuggled closer and turned her face up to me. I leaned forward and kissed her. Her lips opened under mine and her tongue invaded my mouth, hot and seeking. I responded ardently, my tongue riposting and pressing hers back, probing into her mouth in turn as she moaned softly against my lips. I broke the kiss and looked into those blue eyes. “Would you like to go somewhere a little more private?” I asked softly. Her eyes lit up and she nodded, her hair brushing my cheek. I picked my head up and looked outside the carriage, squinting against the camera light. We were stopped at a traffic light, a yellow cab with its roof sign lighted next to us. I sank back and whispered in Birgitte’s ear, “When I make my move, grab that cab next to us.” Watching the lights perpendicular to our direction of travel, I waited until they turned yellow. Jumping up, I leaned across Charlie, tapped the coachman on the shoulder and shoved a small wad of bills into his hand, as Birgitte vaulted over the side of the coach and yanked open the door of the taxi. “Take my friend here a couple of times around the park,” I said as I scrambled past him and jumped to the street, “we just want to be left alone!” Laughing, the coachman whipped up his horse as I scrambled into the moving taxi, leaving Charlie with his mouth open as he panned to follow the cab as I slammed the door and we moved past the carriage. “Where to, pal?” asked the taxi driver. Thank God, one of the rare born New Yorker hackies was driving the cab. A real stroke of luck, that. “First, lose that carriage. Second, take us here,” I said, and gave him my cross street off Park Avenue. Birgitte collapsed against me, shaking with laughter at the audacious way I had ditched our too-watchful watchdog. “What was dat all about, anyway?” asked the driver as he expertly threaded his hack through the busy streets enroute to our destination. “I’ve lived in Noo Yawk all my life, but I ain’t never been dropped inta an action flick befaw!” “Sorry, but it’s not a movie. Just a daytime TV show,” I said. “Yeah, right,” grumbled the cabbie. “Evahbuddy’s a comedian. So don’t tell me what it was all about! Whadda I care?” He dropped us where I’d told him to. Arms linked, Birgitte and I walked down the street to my place. I let us in, and showed her into the library on the first floor. “Do you have a bathroom?” asked Birgitte. I pointed to the door that led to the bathroom off the library and as she headed that way, went to the bar concealed behind a bookcase. I took out a plate of hors d’oeurves from the mini-fridge and poured two snifters of brandy. Setting them on a low table next to the leather couch in front of the fireplace, I lit a match, turned the gas valve, and lit the fireplace. I was just turning back to the couch when the door to the bathroom opened and Birgitte came out. She walked over to me, hips swaying like a palm tree in a breeze. Her breasts bounced a little with each step; she must have removed her bra while she was in the bathroom and unbuttoned two or three buttons on the blouse, for I could see deep into her cleavage. She looked at the fire, smiled, and removed her suit coat, draping it on the couch and settling on the silk Oriental rug gracefully as a cat. “So relaxing, to be able to sit by the fire and lose yourself in the flames,” she said, patting the rug next to her and leaning back against the couch. I handed her a snifter, which she accepted, and sank down next to her. We clinked glasses and drank. Birgitte shifted her position, leaning back against my chest. My left arm instinctively curled around her to support her. She sighed and settled closer, her head pillowed on my shoulder, eyes closed. We cuddled like that for a few minutes. My hand began stroking her arm and slowly eased its way across to her chest. I could see one of her nipples outlined against the silk, and my finger caressed it through the fabric, moving in a circle over the aureola and brushing the nipple itself, feeling it stiffen under my ministrations. Eyes still closed, Birgitte reached over and undid the remaining buttons of the blouse. It fell open, a tacit invitation to do more. My hands slipped though the gap, cupping her lovely breasts, squeezing them gently as the thumbs lightly rubbed the two hardened pebbles that tipped her boobs. She moaned softly deep in her throat. I leaned forward and found her earlobe, nipping it lightly with my teeth and licking it. She moaned again and her legs parted. Continuing to caress her tits with my left, my right hand slid to her thighs, displayed for my enjoyment by the hiked up skirt she had not pushed down after seating herself. My hand slipped under the skirt, moving it still higher on her thighs until I could feel her mound. My already-hard cock stiffened further as I realized she had had all her pubic hair removed and was not wearing panties. With a start, I realized she was hotly aroused; my questing fingers encountered wetness at the outer labia. Using it to lubricate my fingers, I probed between the inner lips of her sex, lightly stroking and finding her clit. “Ohhhh,” Birgitte moaned as I began tormenting her with light brushes of her love button, feeling it stiffen as blood flowed into it. Her hips began to flex, seeking to deepen that contact. I obligingly slipped two fingers into her pussy and let my thumb masturbate her clit as I kissed her mouth, roughly forcing her lips open with my tongue and twining it with hers as she responded with an ardor belied by her Scandinavian Ice-Maiden looks. My hand moved in and out of her cunt with a squishing sound. She was ready and eager for a climax, which she strove for with a single-minded intensity, moaning with need into my mouth, clamping a hand over mine to force my fingers deeper into her core as a third finger joined its mates. Without warning, she pushed me away from her. Eyes burning with lust, she stripped off the blouse and flung it aside. Two hands yanked the skirt all the way up to bunch at her waist. She lay back, her arms over her head, long legs splayed in invitation, the pink nether lips open, wet and eager. “Take me,” she whispered in total surrender to anything I wanted to do to her. I took a minute to strip our clothes off before I put a high-heeled foot on each shoulder and bent her legs back against her breasts, opening her even wider as I looked down into those beautiful blue eyes. Her pussy lay open before me. I put my head down and ran my tongue slowly over her clitoris, which swelled under my lips as I sucked it into my mouth. Birgitte gasped and her body arched under me, her hands pressing my head into her as she came in my mouth. I slipped my fingers back into her and moved them in and out with a squishing sound as I nibbled her clit, her hips bucking under me as I drove her toward another climax. I lifted my head just for a moment. “Talk to me, baby,” I commanded. “Please, don’t stop,” she pleaded. “Don’t stop, it feels so good! Ohhh, I’m close… I want to cum… please make me cumm… please… please…” Stopping was the last thing on my mind at that moment. I used my left hand to stimulate her clit while I glued my lips to her inner labia and brrr’d them the way I’d played my trombone once upon a time. She screamed with pleasure and I was rewarded by a second gush of pussy juice as she reached her peak. I pulled back and moved up her body, forcing her legs harder into her tits. She didn’t resist. I looked down at her, boring into her blue eyes. “Please, please, take me! I need your cock! It’s been so long… I need your hard cock! Take me, please!” she whimpered in a voice roughened by lust and urgent need. I ran my cock up and down her slit for a minute, teasing her, feeling her love-juices wetting the head and mixing with my own pre-cum. Leaning forward, I thrust once, sinking deep into her ready pussy, taking her and marking her as mine. Her nails scored my back, drawing blood as I invaded her juicy depths. “Yesss!” Birgitte hissed as she felt me drive home, my pubic hair tickling her smooth pubes and clit. “Ohhh… so goood… don’t stop! Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me!” I fell to work, pistoning in and out of her liquid depths with full, steady strokes, using her thighs as springs to push me back out after each deep thrust. Her lovely head whipped back and forth on the slender alabaster column of her neck until it seemed she must twist it off, sweat shining on her brow, her eyes squeezed shut as she concentrated on the sensations coursing through her cunt. Her arms tightened around me, trying to pull me in even deeper as she sank her manicured nails into my shoulders. She moaned and gasped under my assault on her pussy, thrusting back as much as her helpless position allowed. The squashy noises produced by her vagina were testimony enough that she was reveling in my use of her for our mutual pleasure. Birgitte arched her back as she came again, groaning and crying out as ecstasy washed through her like ocean waves. One hand released a shoulder as she brought it down between us, fingering her clit, lightly using her nails on the clitoral shaft and my rock-hard penis for even more stimulation. Her eyes locked on mine. “Don’t hold back. I need to feel it… I need to feel your spunk shoot into me. Fill me with your red-hot seed! I want to feel it gushing! Fuck my cunt hard, lover! Cum in me! Cum WITH me! Cum, my stud, cum with your lover!” Her begging was an aphrodisiac. My cock got even harder, swelling to its greatest possible girth and length as I increased the rapidity of my strokes, shifting to the short digging thrusts that presaged my own climax. I could feel my balls churning as my juices boiled, demanding release. I couldn’t hold back any longer. I braced myself on her shoulders and with one last deep thrust I blasted my sperm into Birgitte’s ready pussy, feeling her muscles clench and ripple around my shaft as she cried joyfully with her own climax. We held each other as we fell down the far side into afterglow and my spent prick slipped out of her well-fucked cunt. When my breathing returned to normal I stood and pulled Birgitte to her feet before sweeping her up into my arms. Hers went around my neck and we kissed, tongues lightly dueling as we readied for the next bout. I carried her up two flights of stairs to the master bedroom. By the time I set her back on her feet, my cock was already stirring. Birgitte, clad only in stiletto heels, pressed herself to me, her kisses taking on an urgency that presaged another bout in the lists of lust. She broke the kissed and looked at me. “Do you know, my love, you are the first lover I’ve had who has ignored my breasts?” “Mustn’t have that,” I replied, bending to reach the pink nipples that pointed up in challenge. She moaned as I took one into my mouth, swirling my tongue around the aureola and nibbling the hard pebble at the tip as I freed a hand and gently squeezed the other, rubbing my thumb over it. Her hands pulled my head down to her tits and her hips began to buck against my groin. I could feel the wetness of her twat, a mixture of her love-oils and my juices. I could smell the musk of an aroused woman, the heady scent urging me to take her and use her. Her head was thrown back, eyes closed, as she savored the feel of my tongue, lips and fingers on her boobs. I came up for air and pushed her to her knees on the Oriental rug beside the bed, my now-erect cock in front of her face as she looked up at me. “Suck me,” I said, taking for granted that she would do what I asked. Birgitte willingly opened her mouth and closed her lips behind the head of my cock, her right hand coming up to caress my balls as she worked more and more of the shaft into her mouth, her tongue tickling the underside of my prick as she bobbed back and forth. I stroked her hair as she worked her mouth farther down my cock until she had taken all of it and the head rested in her throat. She hummed as she fellated me, the vibrations thrumming clear to the soles of my feet as my cock swelled to even greater size thanks to her ministrations. My hands went to the back of her head, my fingers twining into her hair as I began to fuck her mouth. Birgitte relaxed and let me use her, one hand rising to her boobs and squeezing them as the other disappeared between her thighs, her eyes closing as she moaned around the rod sliding over her talented tongue as the tempo increased. My ice princess could tell I was nearing my climax by the way I was moving and the way my hands grasped her head. Just as I was about to let go, she forced her head back. My cock popped out of her mouth and she took it in both hands, jacking the shaft frantically. A geyser of cum shot out of the tip, splashing over Birgitte’s face and into her open mouth, painting her face with sticky ropes of sperm as she purred in satisfaction at this evidence of her sexual prowess. When the last bit had dribbled out and she had licked me clean, I helped her to her feet, pulling her close. She snuggled into my chest and turned her face up to be kissed. I could feel my own sperm on her skin as I kissed her open, willing mouth. She broke the kiss and moved away just a little. “My room is down the hall?” she asked. I nodded. “I will be back in a minute,” she promised, heels clicking as she walked to the door, her lovely hips and ass seesawing as she moved. Although I much prefer the sight of a pretty woman walking toward me, the view of lovely callyphigean buttocks as she walks away from me is some consolation. When the door closed behind her, I moved into the bathroom for a quick wash at the sink. I came out of the bath wrapped in a terrycloth bathrobe just as Birgitte came in from the hall. She had changed into a black silk peignoir that set off her blonde hair and pale skin beautifully. She had traded her tan pumps for the pair of black six-inch ankle-strapped ‘fuck-me’ stilettos. The perfume she wore mixed with her own natural musk, the two producing a scent that should have been named Fuck Potion No. 9. A vision of sexual desirability, she glided across the carpet into my arms. “I am awed by the assortment of clothes you bought. Are they all for me?” “If you want them,” I said. “Those clothes, and that room, are yours for as long as you choose to stay here. I hope it will not be merely overnight.” Birgitte snuggled closer and slid a hand through the flap in my robe to find my erect penis waiting for her caress. “Must I spend the night in that room?” I picked her up and walked to the waiting bed, her arms around my neck. “Well, we can discuss that.” We discussed many things in between bouts of lovemaking that long, passionate night, opening ourselves completely to each other. The result was that the next morning Birgitte contacted her regular clients informing them that she would be unavailable for an indefinite period, and moved some of her clothes and personal things into my townhouse while I made arrangements for the rent on her place to be paid for a year and for an alarm system to be installed. We settled in with each other as naturally as if we’d always been together, in and out of the bedroom. Neither of us had ever been happier. EPILOGUE “Today, we are following up on some of our memorable past guests,” Pennie Layne said to the camera. “You may remember this show. Sometimes the unexpected happens here. Watch the monitors.” The monitors lit up. Grayed out, they showed an edited, abridged version of the ‘ Hot to Trot, or Too Buff to Boff?’ show. I saw the audience mocking Birgitte, myself calling out and striding down to the stage, my asking Birgitte to come with me, and her decision to walk out of the studio. This segued into the ‘after’ Birgitte, and Pennie’s attempt at humor that backfired on her, which dissolved into dinner at the Plaza, our carriage ride, and our escape from the camera. The colors came back to normal and the camera zoomed in on Pennie. “Today, I can report on the outcome of that show. Birgitte, are you there?” The screen split. Pennie, in the New York studio, was on the left. Birgitte and I were on the right as Charlie, on loan from the Hollywood studio where he now worked, closed in tight on our faces using a steadicam. “Yes, I can hear you, Pennie,” she said. “So, you’re still together?” asked Pennie. “Yes, we are,” Birgitte said. “We’re in Copenhagen right now.” “Do you think things are going to work out all right between you?” Pennie asked. Charlie backed away, his camera zooming out to take in the whole picture. Surrounded by her family and mine, Birgitte glowed with happiness in her white wedding gown while I beamed at the camera in my morning coat and ascot. “Somehow, I think everything is going to be just fine,” I said.