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Seven Days

By: Shamus121074



Standing anonymous amongst the congregation, he watched as friends and family precariously lowered the rain-drenched coffin into the collapsing grave. Six burly men leaned over the open chasm, striving to maintain balance in the torrential rain; as the coffin slowly disappeared from view a barely audible splatter resonated from beneath as it finally hit its waterlogged bed. All the Pallbearer’s shoes had once gleamed with pride; now they stood caked in mud, housing feet that struggling to maintain a grip on the slippery grass verge.

He could see the look of relief on each of the men’s faces as they straightened up dropping their straps; he suppressed a wry smile as one grimaced with a seized lower back. He always found this part of a funeral darkly comic. The risk of falling in; the pain of a aching back; the look of worry on the Pallbearer’s faces as they carried the coffin to the graveside, struggling with the responsibility of staying balanced whilst preserving a decorum of dignity. Things like these always seemed to help ease the tension felt at a graveside. At least that was how it was for him; looking around the grave at his fellow mourners, he wasn’t so sure.

Thunderous clouds hung heavy in the morning sky, the heavens using their own tears to merge with those of the congregation.

The woman stood close to him, almost side by side. He instantly recognised his Foster Mother – a tall, robust woman he’d not spoken to in years… not since he’d left home under the blackest of clouds. Her strict Catholic beliefs had always gotten in the way of their relationship - his school days had been a living nightmare - but he’d never forget the day she banished him from her house - the day he told her he wanted to marry his Foster Sister.

Her trembling body was sufficient evidence her cries were heading beyond control. Grief had taken this woman and wasn’t going to give her back without a struggle. With her head nestled into her chest, persistent rain cascaded from the brim of her hat. A large black coat entombed the Woman’s traditional Funeral wear, the hem stroking the base of her knees. Her black veil clung to soaking skin, masking her face - it hid her anguish, but the rain cascading down it mirrored her tears. Her sobs reached out to all who stood around the soaking sepulchre, ripping through their hearts. He looked at her with a mixture of pity and sympathy. He wanted to speak to her, say sorry for the past, tell her it was all over, but he couldn’t. Not now, now it was too late - too much had happened.

But perhaps if she knew, she’d understand. It might even help.

He turned away, ashamed, his eyes focusing on the graves crumbling walls; questioning why he was here.

The dead man had ended his life in a car accident not too dissimilar to the one he’d suffered years earlier. He’d survived, the man lying six foot below obviously hadn’t. He’d been walking back from his Girlfriends house, returning to his Wife. Crossing the road, he was oblivious to the approach of the oncoming car. The driver, in such a state of inebriation he’d left pissed far behind, failed to see him emerging from between the parked cars. After being hit at over 50mph, some of his clothing got caught on the bumper, the driver, that far gone he figured he’d hit only a dog, carried on home, ignorant of the extra weight being dragged beneath his feet. 

He got quite a shock when he pulled into his driveway a mile later.

The driver called the Ambulance but by that time it was too late. Even if he’d stopped and called the moment he’d ploughed him down, it would’ve been too late. Reports claimed death had been instantaneous.

At least when someone hit him all those years earlier, he’d been thrown from the car before the driver carried on with his journey.

Standing next to his Foster Mother, he thought of these things. Vile images clouded his mind. He saw the dead man being dragged across the floor, the sight that would have met the driver as he emerged from his car. The blood. Always he saw the blood… but something else.

Each time he closed his eyes, the dead man would open his.

He’d been unable to sleep since the accident. He and the Dead Man had been close, close enough to share every secret. But the dead man had practiced things - dark things that he knew now led to his visions. The dead man had told him everything - he knew what was coming. From the first moment he saw those eyes staring back at him - blood tears slipping down a mangled face - he knew. He’d never believed till then - despite all he’d been told and seen - he’d refused to accept the truth. But now it was too late. It would happen today, seven days later.

Even now, he wondered if it really was an accident… or suicide.

The Chaplain finished his sermon, his comforting words of eternal peace lost on the wind. The congregation began to drop items on to the coffin - objects they’d not been able to place in the coffin due to the lack of a viewing… the body had been beyond the skills of even the best embalmer: traditional soil and roses were followed by intimate knick-knacks: CD’s, clothes and finally the deceased’s Wife stepped forward. With the aid of those around her, she bent down dropping a parchment of brown paper; it’s crumpled form masking its relevance. She refused to stand until it’s gentle flight ended with its landing over the brass nameplate. He witnessed none of this -he refused to look up from his feet till all had finished paying their respect. When he felt people around him move away, he stepped forward, wanting to do what was right before it was too late.

Suddenly, it was too late.

No one else around the grave seemed to have heard the scratching coming from inside the coffin.

But he did. He knew.

He stood, frozen with panic. Listening over the rain, he could hear fingernails eagerly scratching into the wooden surface of the lid, it’s occupant desperate to get out. Yet still he didn’t budge. Slowly, the congregation continued to move away, gradually walking back to their cars, ignoring him as he stood over the precipice. Only the deceased’s Wife remained behind, head lowered, her dry eyes transfixed on the dirt smothered coffin, watching the parchment she’d offered as it soaked up the falling rain. 

She was his only company but he failed to see her, instead he focused on the centre of the coffin, his eyes bulging as the scraping got louder. He knew what was about to happen but he couldn’t do anything. Fear tightened its grip on his innards, his stomach threatening to release its contents. Cold sweat merged with cool rain, sheathing his pale face, washing past his lips. He tasted salt. He tried to scream but…

He failed to see the Wife move, her departing footsteps lost in the rain.

The scratching stopped. Eventually he began to breathe again, calming himself, trying to return to normal. He’d probably been hearing things, obviously upset at the day’s events. After all, if he’d been able to hear the grating, surely someone else would have, and only he reacted. Feeling relieved at his rational thought, he stood on the edge of the abyss, pleading in a whisper, ‘Rest in Peace…please!’ under his breath. Turning towards the graveyards exit, he was almost knocked back into the open grave by the figure of a woman as she came rushing back to the graveside.

Standing over the edge, she let fly a vicious glob of phlegm, laughing a victorious snort as it splattered over the wet parchment.

He stood there, stunned by all he’d seen, but shocked more so by whom it was... the woman. What the hell was she doing here? He tried approaching her, wanting to speak and find out what was going on, but she ignored his approach, pushing past him as she climbed into her car. He could still hear her laughter as the car pulled off, trying to catch up with the rest of the procession.

The scratching started again. He ran to the side of the grave preparing to climb in, eager to end the incessant noise. Searching around, he tried to find the Gravediggers – wondering if they were preparing to return from their shelter – nothing; the rain was obviously keeping them at bay. He crouched down.

The scratching stopped; his mobile rang.

Scrambling his pockets for it, confusion replaced his fear – why was it on? Surely he’d turned it off before entering the cemetery? His questions seemed irrelevant when he saw the number… he answered, recognising his own voice.

“It’s over.”

That was it. Nothing else.

He stood there looking at the phone, confused. Minutes passed before realisation hit him: It’s over – the waiting is over. Despite it making no sense, it was the only explanation - the woman who pushed passed him, ignoring him. She was the dead man’s Wife… his Wife! He thought he’d been at the Funeral of his Foster Brother - but he hadn’t... it was his own! People had talked about the accident on the approach from the cars to the graveside, he’d overheard them but had paid them little attention, but now, thinking about it, he couldn’t remember anything leading to the moment of passing through the graveyard’s gates. One minute he was walking down the street, the next he’s standing over a collapsing grave in the pouring rain. He’d no recollection of preparing himself for the day’s events, no memory of travelling, dressing, nothing! The accident they’d described was his. He hadn’t survived like he’d originally believed… he’d died.

He couldn’t understand. The dreams, the visions… why was he seeing his Foster Brother’s eyes open from underneath the car’s bumper? 

No one had touched, spoke or even acknowledged him at the funeral. He’d figured it was because he had been ostracised by the family, but it wasn’t. It was because he wasn’t there. 

Actually, that was wrong, he had been there, standing at the back whilst also… also lying in the coffin.

He’d been a guest at his own funeral. The irony was totally lost on him.

With realisation came anguish. Torturous pain tore through his head, emanating from his mouth: his canines were growing, pushing towards his bottom lip. He realised…

He remembered.

His Wife - his Wife and his Foster Brother had done this. That parchment that she’d thrown into the grave must have been the ancient transcript… the one that told of how to turn the innocent into a vampire without the need of even touching them. His Foster Brother had shown it to him on more than one occasion – he’d seen it so often he felt he could recite the incantation backwards – so he’d known about it, but he’d never believed it. It seemed impossible – unreal. His Foster Brother and supposed ‘friend’ claimed it was a document discovered by the Marquis De Sade and was later taken b Alistair Crowley but at the time, his claims had seemed ludicrous, but now… Up until moments before, he’d believed he was attending the funeral of a Foster child – and he had been - his own - but never this. First he had to deal with the realisation that he was a ghost, but moments later, he’s trying to believe that he’s also a vampire!

Finally, after collapsing on the muddied grass over the edge of the grave, his head in his hands as he tried to hold back the pain, the realisation washed over him. This was her revenge – revenge for the Girlfriend. His Wife obviously knew about his ‘bit on the side’ and certainly knew about the parchment – anyone who knew their Foster Brother knew about the parchment. No doubt she’d been to her Foster Brother, frantic for a solution – for revenge. He could believe it of him – when he wanted to be, his Foster Brother had tendencies of pure evil – but he never expected her hatred to run this deep. He never saw this happening. Thanks to her vindictiveness, his own stupidity and his Foster Brother’s malice, he now had to spend eternity, floating around trying to feed off others. Except he was different. In folk law, vampires were solid, yes they were the dead raised, but they had a form. Standing at the graveside with everyone surrounding him and no one knowing he was there proved he wasn’t like the Nosferatu in the books. An eternity, dying from starvation – it was what the parchment claimed it could give – and now he discovered it to be true. He was a ghost, unseen by living eyes, and a vampire, unable to touch those who could satisfy his everlasting hunger.

He understood now. It was his body trying to get out of the grave; it was his ‘inner soul’ that told him it was over. The manifestation that stood over the chasm was his trapped ‘outer soul’, an entity unable to touch, taste. Love.

He had to get his body out of the coffin - it was his only chance of becoming solid again! His souls and his body had to become one once more. 

Jumping into the grave, he lost balance and landed awkwardly, his right foot slipping down the side pushing the parchment and personal effects into the water beneath his coffin, his left leg collapsing fro underneath him and sending his back crashing into the coffin’s apex. Lying there, he heard the approach of the Gravediggers as they made their way to the graveside, eager to make the most of the oncoming dry spell and conceal the nightmare he was stuck in. He had to act fast. Struggling to steady himself on the wet shell, he turned and bent down to pull at the lid, concentrating on the right hand corner nearest the head.

His hands fell through the coffin, touching the body’s shoulders inside. He was transparent! Cursing his stupidity, (after all, he was a ghost) he prepared to slip into the coffin, merging his soul with his carcass.

As the rain finally passed, the sun struggled to reveal itself from behind dissipating black clouds.

The Gravediggers picked up their shovels; their days work about to commence.

For a moment he stared at himself, face to face, shocked b what he saw, but recognising the scars from his dreams. Carefully, he turned himself towards the inside of the coffin lid so he could simply ‘fall’ into his body. The smell was repulsive – forcing him to gag - but the claustrophobia was worse. As he began to descend into his body, an intense fire burned behind his eyes; a pain only surpassed by his growing teeth erupted from his head... his ironic thoughts were of wishing death would be quick… within seconds, it was over… Collapsing into his body and gathering his breath, witnessing his dead chest rise and fall with his breaths, he used his remaining dead eye to study his surroundings - he was entombed in a timber shroud. Looking at the wood, he felt the fear rise in his throat – he saw the walls getting closer, suffocating him; crushing him. He could taste sulphur in the air, scorching his lungs as it entered his soul. The coffin was trying to kill him! His mind was closing in, collapsing as panic took hold. With sudden realisation, he knew had to get out. He desperately had to get out of this nightmare and release his soul from the suffocation - but the thought of not being able to resolve his horrors brought him back round. He calmed down, letting the tension drain from his shoulders. His body was dead but it had moved before, calling to him, and now that his soul was joined, it would move again. He directed his energies on the scorched timber, concentrating, focusing on the scratches, and using them as his point of exit.

The gentle thud of soil hitting wood inches from his face told him the Gravediggers had started.

He would be seen but he didn’t care – he had to get out. His Wife had to pay for doing this to him… but most importantly, so must his Foster Brother. He dug his nails deeper into the woods, intensifying his efforts, using his anger and hatred for motivation. 

Above him, the Gravediggers increased their pace.

Using the sounds if the soil landing directly in front of him as motivation, he increased his pace to match and then beat that of the Gravediggers… within seconds, his finger was through. He could feel the dampness of the fresh soil encompassing the coffin cooling his digit. Feverishly he pulled at the wood, inserting more fingers through the gap, pushing the moist soil away. He could here the shocked screams from the Gravediggers when the saw the earth moving unassisted; he laughed as he heard their shovels being thrown on the coffin, their aim hopelessly off target. Pulling aside more soil, he listened to their footsteps fade into the distance as they ran for help – he didn’t care, he reasoned he’d be long gone by the time they returned. He pushed his hand through, moving the soil, his skin tasting the cool air.

Immense pain like he’d never felt before tore through his body, it’s epicentres in his hand, but also in his stomach, beneath the escape hole he’d created. All thoughts left him as he screamed from the agony he was enduring. Frantically he scratched at the coffin, desperate for a release from the pain yet not knowing where it would come from, but it was no good - sunlight tore a hole into his body.

In his efforts to remove his body from the coffin, he’d been ignorant of the fact that he was a vampire. Oblivious to the fact that sunlight would kill him. 

As his decomposing body died, he tried to release his soul - quickly sink into the earth below – or even jump up into the killing air - and live an unknown life of emptiness, but the sun’s rays entrapped him. Somehow, the warmth and shards of sunlight encased his soul inside a rotting shell. For the second time in seven days, he was dying.

As his withering body slowly turned to dust, the rays of the sun acted like knifes, slicing his body into thousands – even millions - of pieces. Before a new death took him, he thought of his Wife… he still loved her, despite all of this, he still couldn’t allow his hatred to destroy all they had gone through together. But there was something else… 

Deep down he knew he’d deserved this; he knew this was his fate. Despite his promises, he’d hurt her on more than one occasion and with more methods than just ‘other women’. Her revenge had been the sweetest.

His last sorrowful thoughts died as his soul dissolved into the pile of dust that had once been his bones.

V

She stood on the edge of the grave, silent, impassive. 

The wind slowly brushed past her, gently moving her clothes as it made its way into the tomb, lifting the grey dust and carrying it through the morning air. She felt nothing. She’d expected to feel some sort of satisfaction, pleasure or contentment… but no - nothing. No regret; no joy; no sadness. Her husband was dead, her revenge complete. So what? It had been seven days – seven long days. Days in which her supposedly loving Foster Brother had put her through every indignity imagined just so she could get that parchment to work. Just so she could try and restore some of the self-esteem her Husband had stolen from her. He’d promised her the world, and gave her nothing. Separated her from her family so they could be together then subsequently humiliated her with his various affairs. She’s put up with so much for so long and perhaps that would still have been the case… if he hadn’t been sleeping with her Sister – her REAL Sister - a girl she’d not spoken to in years but a relationship he’d managed to destroy in minutes. As much as she wanted to, she couldn’t blame her estranged relative; she didn’t know him… at least not the real him. He’d repeatedly proven himself over the years as a ladies man with a predatory streak, but even her newly discovered Sister was something new for him. She had to stop him before it got too much. That was why she paid to have him run over: pity the stupid bastard driving the car didn’t think to do it sober, but she’d paid him through too many contacts for the ‘accident’ to get back to her. She was safe, no body knew, not even her precious Foster Brother.

And now it was over.

Her husband’s dust floated around her, purposely avoiding her hair and clothes. She turned and slowly made her way back to the car - somewhere in the distance she could hear his voice.


Seven Days



This is a story I first wrote under a pseudonym (Proc0cateur) and since then I've wanted to improve it. Grateful thanks to Cambria for her superb editing skills. 

THURSDAY, DECEMBER 15TH -- MEETING STEVE RUSSO 

It was four o'clock in the morning and Daniel dropped through the gears as he raced his top of the range Lexus LFA around another corner. The heavy rainfall flooding the roads made driving conditions ever more difficult and it was becoming an effort just to keep the car on the road. 

The loud, rumbling crashes of thunder and spectacular flashes of lightening seemed in keeping with the sinister happenings that had first become evident seven days ago. They were now coming to a head and it was clear that the world was under significant threat. That was why he and Susie had undertaken their long journey in such a violent storm. 

"You okay?" he asked, glancing sideways at the redhead.

She was one of the two female vocalists in his band, which was ironic—in a sense—as that was where this had all started. He just hadn't realised it at the time. Susie was his one link to the future, although he was hoping that number would double in the next hour. 

Her faint smile seemed forced, and she pulled the black coat more tightly around her nude body as she stared out of the window. 

"I'm okay. How much further?"

"Not long," he answered, pulling the car back on track as it skidded through a pool of water again. 

Was this weather never going to let up?

Driving naked didn't help. Even with the car heater turned on full, he was feeling the intense cold. Their wet clothes were spread on the heated seats in the rear of the car, drying out for their arrival. 

"We turn left at the crossroads," he told her, checking the car's inbuilt satellite navigation system. They'd driven along so many narrow country roads he'd have been lost without it. "Then we're just a mile or so away."

Despite their lack of sleep, the adrenaline running through his body kept him alert. He'd need all his wits about him when they reached Steve Russo's home. Explaining the danger and convincing the Professor of the need to act wouldn't be easy, although he remained unsure of how much 'Old Man' Watkins would have told him. 

If Tom Watkins hadn't been able to explain their concerns, Russo might simply turn them away. Who would believe something this incredible, especially when the story was conveyed by two strangers turning up unannounced at his home at four in the morning?

It seemed Susie's thoughts were aligned to his. 

"Should we have called him?"

"No way," he irritably snapped. 

He had no intention of giving anyone prior notice of his movements unless he was certain he wasn't walking into a trap.

"Not until we're sure," he added, almost as an afterthought.

He paused, letting the implications of his words hang in the air between them like the Sword of Damocles. They fell silent for a moment, each lost in their own separate thoughts.

The minor road he turned into when he took the left turn at the crossroads was practically under water, and ran along parallel to a high stone wall. It looked like a back road to nowhere, but within a couple of hundred metres they reached an entrance on the opposite side of the road. They'd reached their destination!

Daniel pulled the Lexus to a halt on the grass verge, and stared in resignation at the height of the protective wall. The ugly-looking barbed wire set along the top further complicated matters, as did the wrought iron electric gates that guarded access to the entrance itself. 

Gaining entry undetected wasn't going to be easy, especially as his swollen hand was throbbing now. Had he broken a bone when he'd punched his way out of the studio?

"What now?" Susie asked, staring out of the window into the spine-chilling darkness outside.

It was a good question. He sent her what he hoped was a comforting look as he turned in his seat and reached for their clothes in the back of the car. 

"We find a way in," he told her. "Let's get dressed."

The redhead's hand stopped him mid-movement. She'd shrugged the coat from her shoulders, displaying her fabulous body to his gaze. Those full breasts and dark nipples wouldn't have looked out of place on a porn star, and his cock began to lengthen as she spread her legs for him and ran the fingers of one hand between her thighs.

She was feeling the need again. So was he. And he'd already learned that such a powerful emotion couldn't be denied. The insatiable need for sex was somehow linked to the cursed fate awaiting the world, and it continued to gather strength no matter how often they fucked.

"That's it," she huskily murmured, watching his erection grow as she lewdly fingered herself. "I want you nice and hard."

And then she was leaning forward, stretching her slender fingers around the base of his hardness as she met his gaze. That look was in her eyes again. Like an animal, needing to feed. And despite their circumstances, exactly the same sensation was running through his own body. A need to quench a thirst that couldn't be denied...

His gaze held hers as she dipped her head and licked around the head of his cock. When she took him inside her mouth and swirled that wonderful tongue around his shaft, he could feel himself grow another couple of inches.

"That tastes so good," she mumbled, looking up at him.

A string of saliva hung between her red lips and his cock. The way she sexily sucked it inside her mouth gave him goosebumps. Then she was moving again—quickly, frantically, like a cat—crawling across the leather seat and finding a way to straddle his naked body in the confined space.

"That feels so good," she huskily groaned, wrapping her arms around his neck as she sank down on his cock. "Fuck me good!"

PROFESSOR STEVE RUSSO

Steve Russo stared out of his bedroom window, enthralled at the way the rain bounced off the outhouse buildings. The thunder and lightning that alternated in the darkness was spectacular, too. He loved stormy nights like this, when the weather was so vibrant. 

Night? It was nearly morning. The green illuminated dials on the small clock sitting on his bedside table registered four thirty.

His mobile phone vibrated in the pocket of his checked robe as the next flash of lightening lit up the sky. He allowed himself a smile of satisfaction as he checked the message. Ayesha's taxi had only left his house half an hour ago and it was the third text she'd sent since then. The first two had described in graphic detail what she wanted to do to him the next time they were together. This one listed the things she wanted him to do to her!

His cock flexed inside his robe. 

He'd met the Indian Air hostess on his return flight from Delhi, having represented the Government at a hastily convened meeting to discuss what was scientifically becoming known as the global 'Armageddon Phenomenon.'

His focus should have been solely on the destructive forces that had been identified during the top secret conference, but his recent shortage of sex was making him grumpy and Ayesha had impressed him by recognizing him and asking for his autograph. 

So... they'd got talking, and she'd casually dropped into the conversation that she was free overnight once they'd landed at Heathrow. Russo had thought about it for no more than thirty seconds before inviting her to stay at his place.

They'd made love within ten minutes of arriving at his home, and had christened just about every room in the house before he'd needed to call her a taxi this morning. But it was their final fuck that would keep him warm until he saw her again. She'd leant her slender body against the cold glass of the bedroom window, arms spread out wide either side of her, ass pushed back, while he'd taken her doggie style. 

His cock flexed again, and that made him smile. He had turned sixty only a few weeks ago and yet he was still able to maintain an almost constant erection despite their frantic non-stop fucking over the last twelve hours.

And yet ... the adrenaline inhabiting his body after their intense sex was tinged with a keen sense of guilt. He'd come away from the conference with a mountain of research work to do, all of which demanded his immediate attention, and the Prime Minister was expecting a report from him as a matter of extreme urgency. 

With Ayesha gone, he had some rapid catching up to do. Starting now! 

But just as he began to head towards his study, the sudden sound of his dogs barking downstairs put his mind on high-alert. The golden Labradors never caused a fuss unless they were disturbed—

He glanced out of the bedroom window again, but he could see nothing untoward. Marching quickly across the room, opened the bedroom door and stilled the dogs with a sharp command. 

"Max! Bess!"

The chime of the front doorbell stopped him in his tracks. What the heck? He had a visitor at this time of the morning? 

Alarm bells went off in his head and he stealthily returned to his bedside table, sliding the Taurus M85 Ultra Lite Revolver into the pocket of his robe. It was unlikely that any potential intruder would alert him by ringing his front doorbell, but after the conclusions of the Delhi conference, he had no intention of taking any chances.

AYESHA 

Ayesha's groan of pleasure had nothing to do with the recollection of the rampant sex she'd enjoyed with Steve Russo. For someone of his age, his stamina had been amazing and she would be trying to schedule her next couple of flights with the intention of seeing him again.

But right now, it was the hard cock driving in and out of her that was making her growl out like a bitch in heat. Even the rain that pounded down on her half naked body didn't dampen her need. Perched high on the hood of the black taxi, the cab driver was fucking her like a machine.

It had become clear soon after they'd had left Russo's home that the roads were close to becoming impassable. It seemed they would have little choice other than to turn back, even though that would mean her missing her assignment on the Miami flight. But then, she told herself, it was unlikely there would be any air traffic in these conditions.

The rain was heavier now, splattering against the bonnet and her body. Her clothes were already soaked, sticking to her skin, but that only added to her frantic excitement. Was there any better feeling than being fucked in the driving rain, with the thunder pounding the sky and the lightning flashing across her lust-fuelled body?

"Fuck me harder," she told him, digging her nails into his skin. "C'mon!"

She began to rock her body against him, crossing her ankles around his back. Being fucked like this was so uncomfortable and yet so incredibly hot. The changed angle as she bounced on the bonnet saw her aroused clit rub against his shaft and her nails dug in harder. 

"Faster," she grunted, locking her ankles more tightly around his thrusting hips. 

Her palms rested flat on the bonnet behind her so that she could better pump upwards. Despite her marathon session with Steve Russo, this was just what she needed right now—raw unadulterated fucking that was gradually emptying her mind of all other thoughts.

"Fuck me," she chanted. "Fuck me ... fuck me..."

The blonde taxi driver had stopped the cab on a small side road only ten minutes or so ago, turning around towards her to explain he couldn't take the vehicle any further. She'd been caught in two minds. Her devotion to duty had told her she needed to make it to Heathrow at any cost, but the thought of returning to Steve Russo's mansion was equally appealing.

Before she could make a decision he'd signalled to her to lean closer. When she had, she felt the puff of smoke that emerged from his overly-large nostrils permeate all the way down between her thighs.

She wasn't sure what happened after that. 

The refreshing feel of rain splattering against her body told her that they had exited the cab. She had a vague recollection of someone positioning her on the bonnet and then dragging her panties down her thighs. It must have been the driver. When he thrust inside her pliant body, she was so wet his cock felt like a knife slicing through butter. 

She hadn't been sure she should let him fuck her, not at first, but then another puff of smoke had emerged from his nostrils. And with it came the urgent need to have him fuck the life out of her.

Strangely—and gloriously—it felt as if that was exactly what the beautiful bastard was doing. Fucking the life out of her!

"C'mon," she'd rasped again, throwing her head back so that the rain splattered across her forehead and cheeks. "Fuck, yes, like that..."

His head was leaning closer to hers as his pounding hardness gave her even more of what she wanted. He had dyed blonde hair, like so many others nowadays, and his dark eyes were sunken into their sockets. But she didn't care how spooky he looked. All that mattered was his cock.

When his mouth found her neck, it felt like he was sucking on her flesh like a vampire would its prey. She chuckled to herself. Why had that thought occurred to her? She'd never met a vampire, had she? 

She groaned again as she pulled her face back to look him in the eyes. He had a vacant expression on his face, not at all what she'd expected. 

When his tongue flicked out again, she saw that it was long and blue, like that of a reptile. Even as the shock hit her system, it was piercing the skin of her neck, burrowing inside her flesh as his cock seemed to force its way up and inside her stomach. 

"Oh shit..."

6 DAYS BEFORE THE MEETING WITH STEVE RUSSO

Donna Wilkinson smiled that all-knowing smile of hers as she watched the delivery boy leap back onto his motorbike. Then, pushing closed the deep red front door of Daniel's London Mew's home, she sighed contentedly.

Fixing a loose strand of her long, black hair behind her ear, she ripped open the envelope, wanting to make sure her photographs were up to the standard she expected before showing them to her boyfriend. 

Boyfriend? She let out a deliciously throaty laugh. 

Yes, Daniel Hesston-Smith was her boyfriend. He was quite a catch and she had set her sights on him ever since he'd taken over as manager of the band. Their fortunes had soared under his guidance and, with a couple of number one records behind them; it seemed their future was assured. 

He was sophisticated, intelligent, fun, and most of all he was rolling in money. Despite the variety of women all chasing after him, she was the one who had him, and she didn't intend letting go.

After all, Donna Hesston-Smith had a nice ring to it! 

She might be the lead singer of his band, but it was better to be the wife of a man who was going places. The next Simon Cowell, maybe. She would quickly be able to get used to a life of luxury, homes across the world, travelling in a personal jet, sumptuous holidays...

Okay, she was a long way from getting married to him. They weren't even engaged. But she had been blessed with great looks ever since she was a child and had learned very early how to use her body to get anything she wanted. It amazed her how men would do virtually anything to get their hands on a woman with big tits, a flat stomach, a tiny waist and a heart shaped ass!

Why should Daniel be any different? Okay, he didn't think of their relationship as anything permanent right now. For him, it was just a casual arrangement. But that was fine, she could be patient, and she had contingency plans, of course. 

Nothing in life went smoothly, after all. 

She had told Daniel she'd needed to visit her mother last weekend, whereas in fact she'd spent the two days in the Caribbean with Tommy Becker. The entrepreneur was old enough to be her father, but that hadn't stopped him from coming onto her. He'd been chasing her for a couple of months now. She'd kept him on a string until he'd offered to arrange a photoshoot for her, at which point she'd rewarded him by agreeing to join him on his yacht. It hadn't exactly been a chore. He'd treated her like a princess and had proven to be an exceptionally good fuck.

The results of that photo shoot were in her hands right now, and would be worth every second she'd spent with him. Flicking through the photographs, she felt her heart leap. My God, they were even better than she could have hoped for. 

Her tongue danced across her full pink lips as she admired one after the other. Bruno, the photographer, had been true to his word and even better, he apparently had contacts with Playboy! He said he'd talk to them, to see if there was a possibility of arranging for her to appear in the legendary magazine. As a reward, she'd let him take a few naked ones. 

He'd promised they were for his own private collection, but Donna wasn't naïve. The photographs could find their way all over the internet. But if the potential prize was a spread in Playboy, then it was worth the risk. To seal the deal, she'd given him the best blowjob he was ever likely to have, before they had finished the shoot. Well, a girl had to make the most of her talents to progress in this world. 

She was meeting Bruno again this evening, when he'd promised to let her know what his Playboy contacts had said. If it was good news, she'd promised she would let him fuck her this time.

Gathering the photographs in her hand, she hurried along the long hallway, and took the stairs two at a time until she reached the bedroom. Daniel knew nothing about the background to the shoot, so she had invented an innocuous story that would keep him happy. And she couldn't resist letting him see how hot the photos were.

He was his usual self, talking to a contact on the telephone while rushing around the room as he dressed. She'd surprised him by arriving at his apartment in a fur coat and nothing else, and their resultant early morning lovemaking session had made him late. 

"Want to see my photos?" she drawled, in that sexy way she put on when she wanted something.

She leant in the doorframe and ran a hand through her long, glossy hair. Yesterday's visit to the hairdresser may have been expensive, but it had been more than worthwhile. Besides, Daniel's management company was paying. 

"I'd love to but I really don't have time," he said, checking his watch.

"Sure you do," she murmured, pouting sexily as she walked across the carpeted floor towards the small dresser beside him.

Placing her hands on the surface behind her, she pushed herself upwards until she was sitting on the top. When her thin robe fell open, his eyes were instantly drawn to her exposed breasts. 

The robe had opened when she'd met the young messenger who had delivered the photographs. The spotty faced kid hadn't been able to believe his luck as he'd gawked at her naked tits, and she'd got a kick out of allowing him to ogle them as she'd signed for the envelope.

"What do you think?" she asked Daniel, holding one of the photographs up so that it was framed between her naked breasts. 

"Fabulous," he told her, with genuine warmth in his voice. 

He was such a sweetie. 

When she sexily shrugged the robe from her shoulders, his gaze returned to her breasts. Who could resist them? 

"I'm horny again," she simply said, casually shuffling her legs further apart and dropping her right hand between her thighs.

He never had been able to resist when she masturbated in front of him. 

His eyes burned into her as she stroked her fingers across her labia. The sight was more than any red-blooded man could withstand—Tommy Becker hadn't been able to—and Daniel hesitated for only a second before he began to rip off his clothes and reach for her.

*

"Nice of you to join me," the Old Man sarcastically told him, when he eventually made it into his office. 




Seven Days



Tom Watkins, otherwise affectionately known as 'the Old Man,' was Chairman of the advertising agency. He and Daniel had been personal friends for a few years now. He'd called ahead and asked Watkins' secretary to push the meeting back half an hour, but even so, the Old Man wasn't going to let him off the hook so easily.

"Been fucking one of your floozies?" he brusquely asked.

Daniel's grin widened. Tom Watkins might be in his seventies, but he remained as bright as a button. 

"Sorry, Tom, he settled for answering. "But I'm here now."

He might even have made it for the original meeting time, had Donna not joined him in the shower after their quickie. She'd gone down on him beneath the cascading water and ... well ... that girl could seduce the Pope with that mouth of hers. He'd never known a woman who so loved to give head and who was so good at it. 

When she'd had him hard again, she'd clung onto the shower rail and wrapped her legs around his waist while he fucked her again. 

"I hope she was worth it," Watkins added, unable to resist one final barb. "I've told you for some time you should be settling down now."

The comment didn't require an answer, and Daniel didn't provide one. Tom Watkins had wanted him married off and settled down years ago, but he wasn't the marrying kind. There were just too many women in the world to commit to just one. Whoever captured his heart would have to be special, and it hadn't happened yet. 

He watched quietly as the Old Man painfully eased himself up from the large chair behind his imposing desk, no doubt wishing that his darn rheumatoid arthritis didn't make life such hell. Maybe the chestnut, leather couch might be more comfortable? 

"Here," he growled, once he was seated. "Sit here with me."

Daniel quickly joined him on the couch and no sooner had they settled themselves than the office door opened. 

"Coffee," Dorothy announced, bouncing into the room. 

The forty year old woman had been Watkins' secretary since he'd become Chairman. The Old Man might be the figurehead, but Dorothy made things tick behind the scenes.

"And before you ask," she added, "yes, it's decaffeinated."

Daniel shot her a broad smile. She was the only person in the agency who could get away with that tone when addressing her boss. But although she gave as good as she got in the verbal stakes, she fiercely protected him in a business where everyone wanted a piece. No one got to Watkins without being interrogated by Dorothy first. 

"About time," the Old Man said, although there wasn't any doubt that the gaze he turned on her was an affectionate one. 

"I know," she laughed, as she placed the tray of coffee on the table beside them. "The impossible I do in seconds. Miracles take a few minutes longer."

"Miracles? Making coffee is a miracle?"

"Getting it to you within a nanosecond of your asking is," she dismissively said, winking at Daniel.

As she leant forward to pour from the silver coffee pot into each of the china cups, both pairs of male eyes dipped into the healthy cleavage offered by her white silk blouse. The action seemed innocent on her part, but the way she held the pose for a few moments longer than necessary told Daniel otherwise. For as long as he'd known her, she'd always been a flirt.

"Shout if you need anything else," she said, shooting him a grin as she straightened. "I'll put on my Wonder Woman outfit and get it to you before you have time to blink."

"Wonder Woman," the Old Man murmured as she left the office, winking at Daniel. "Now that's a sight I'd like to see."

Both men laughed before Watkins continued. 

"So, where were we?"

"You asked me here to discuss a business opportunity," Daniel reminded him.

"Oh, yes." 

Watkins shuffled uncomfortably in his seat as he reached for his coffee cup. His rheumatoid arthritis seemed worse every time Daniel got to see him.

"I had lunch with Emilio Silva yesterday," he continued, after taking a sip. "You know, the fashion Guru..."

Daniel nodded. He'd met Silva before, at one dinner or another, and didn't like the guy. He was too up-himself. But if they were talking money, he was willing to listen.

"They're launching next year's new line in clothing soon, and he wants us to come up with something different as part of the promotion. So I suggested we use your band."

"My band..." Daniel asked, unable to hide his incredulity. 

One of the first decisions he'd made when he took responsibility for the band was to change the crass regimented outfits they'd previously favoured. Okay, he'd made sure that Donna and Susie, his two lead vocalists, dressed similarly. But they fronted up the on-stage performances and it was hot to have them dress alike in such a sexy fashion.

As for the backing group, he'd allowed the guys the freedom to choose their own style, and it had instantly paid off.

Frankie insisted that his fur coat and top hat were needed to help him to perform his magic, although he was always sweating buckets by the end of the evening. He'd always been an oddball, but he was the best keyboard player in Britain. On sax, Patrick went the other way, his tiny singlet displaying all those muscles he worked on in the gym. Harry's flowery shirt and black leather trousers gave him a hip look—drummers were always a little bit crazy, he'd often confessed. Tony, on guitar, provided the final contrast in his Brian Ferry-like dark suit and tie.

Daniel couldn't even begin to imagine how they would fit in with Silva's more sophisticated style. 

"How would my band help promote their new fashion range?" he asked.

Watkins laughter at the question turned into a cough, and it took a few moments for him to compose himself. 

"All it needs is a little creative thinking," he croaked, when he recovered. He eased the harshness in his throat with a gulp of coffee before continuing. "Your band has built up a massive following with the target market Silva's new designs are aimed at. The question is how we tap into that."

Daniel waited patiently for him to continue. If the Old Man had an idea he thought would work, he was happy to go with it. He'd lost count of the number of awards the agency had won for its creativity.

"We have an option on a date for a Wembley concert," Watkins explained, with a twinkle in his eye. "It will be a sell-out, of course, all your concerts are. We get the band to dress in the new clothing line, adapted to their style, naturally enough, and I've secured rights to televise it worldwide. Silva get unprecedented coverage for his new range and we'll use some of the concert outtakes as a series of television advertisements. We can supplement all of that with a poster campaign."

Daniel smiled softly. He had to give it to the Old Man. He was the very best at what he did. 

"You and your band get the profit from the concert," Watkins' added, winking at him, "plus your own exposure. It'll be huge, of course. And that's not all..."

He finished his coffee before continuing, making Daniel wait. He'd always had a flair for the dramatic. 

"Tell me this," he said, clearing his throat. "What's the latest craze?"

Daniel thought for a few seconds, and then burst out laughing. 

"I thought Silva was launching a new clothing range, not advertising hair products?"

Men and women across the world had begun to dye their hair blonde, for no apparent reason. Not that there usually was one. These things happened out of nowhere. New fads suddenly became the rage until they disappeared back into obscurity again. 

"I've seen lots of fashion trends in my time," Watkins said, "but this one really takes the biscuit. Started in Japan, didn't it?"

"I heard India, but no one seems to know," Daniel answered, shrugging his shoulders. "But what I do know is that it's quickly gathering pace. And it's not just a youth thing, Tom, it's all ages." 

"But we'll focus on the youth," the Old Man said, leaning forward enthusiastically. "I already have my creative people working on how we can incorporate it in the campaign. Maybe the members of your band can dye their hair blonde for the concert? Something of that ilk. How about it?"

"I'll dye my hair, too, if it helps," Daniel quipped, his mind kicking into gear.

There would be around eighty thousand fans at the Wembley concert. That meant megabucks. And if it was transmitted worldwide as the Old Man was implying, the television exposure would see the band become a household name. They hadn't cracked America yet, but this idea could see them reach that market overnight. 

Watkins laughed heartily as he painfully eased himself to his feet. It was his traditional way of indicating that the meeting was almost over. 

"I knew you'd like the idea," he chuckled, breathing heavily as he flopped down into his black leather chair. "I'll talk to you again when we have all the details worked out, and I'll need you to attend the meeting with the Silva Executive, just to show some willingness. But for now, why don't you get back to your floozies again?"

*

Donna waited patiently in the Irish-themed bar. Her heart was racing like a schoolgirl's on the first day of class, or should that be a teenager on her first date? If Bruno was able to make the connection between her and Playboy, she was going to fuck him for sure. She'd fuck anyone, man or woman, to become a Centrefold. 

But then she saw him enter the bar.

Was this the same guy she'd given a blow job to in the studio? His hair was dyed in that new, crazy, blonde fashion that was becoming all the rage, but it was the look on his face that stunned her. It was kinda vacant. Was he on drugs?

When he scanned the tables for her, she waved weakly to attract his attention.

"Hi," she said, as he almost mechanically took the bar stool next to hers. 

Close up, he looked even worse, as if he'd been up all night. His eyes were sunken into their sockets, with dark rings encircling them. He'd better have something positive for her, she told herself. Otherwise she was outta there before he could blink.

"You liked the photographs?" he asked.

Even his voice had changed. It was monotone, without any sort of emotion. He had to be on drugs, didn't he?

"Yes," she cautiously told him, trying to disguise her nervousness. "They were great, thanks."

When he reached across the table and covered her hand with his, she had to fight her instinct to pull it away. His touch was cold and sent the wrong kind of shiver through her body. Maybe he didn't have any news for her? Perhaps he just wanted to another blow job? That wasn't going to happen. She'd been stupid to let things go as far as she had in the studio. Could there be a way of getting those 'personal' photographs back from him? 

"I've some news for you," he began.

His eyes were dull, too. He'd been full of life in the studio. How could he have changed this much?

"Yes?" she anxiously asked, only to be frustrated when his phone chirped.

She sat back on her stool as he answered the call, rubbing her hands together to warm them. Don't keep me waiting, she silently screamed at him. Is it good news or bad news? Just tell me, and don't fuck me around. But he was already talking into the phone.

"Yes."

"Yes."

"I understand."

"Yes, I understand. I'll be right there." 

He hung up and looked at her with those sunken, dark eyes. 

"I need to get going—"

She stared at him for a few moments before she realised he was being serious. What the fuck? She reached out to grip his arm as he rose from the stool.

"You said you had some news for me, Bruno?"

That hollow, cold gaze seemed to pass right through her, and the unease she was feeling began to spiral out of control. But when he spoke again, her demeanour changed instantly.

"I've been speaking to Heff's people."

"You have?" she gushed.

That changed everything. Okay, his appearance had spooked her, but maybe it was his blonde hair that emphasized his different look? She had to admit he'd done a good job. There was no sign of any roots. 

"That's really good of you, Bruno," she responded, tugging his arm so that he sat back beside her again. "What did they say?" 

"They're interested."

"They are?" she excitedly gasped. "Tell me more..."

"They want to see you."

Oh fuck. They did? Every nerve end in her body began to tingle. This connection could earn her a lot of money, not to mention the fame. If things didn't work out with Daniel, there wouldn't be any shortage of rich, influential guys who would want to be seen with her.

"When..." she began, but it seemed like he hadn't heard her. 

"I have to go," he mechanically said, turning away from her. 

Donna fought back her frustration. She would dump the bonehead as soon as she could, but she needed him right now. Her hand dropped to his leg and her fingers casually stroked along his thigh as her expression changed into a warm smile. 

"That's okay," she said, more calmly than she felt. "Look, we're doing a small gig tomorrow night. Why don't you come along as my guest? We can chat more over a drink afterwards."

5 DAYS BEFORE THE MEETING WITH STEVE RUSSO

The charity gig had been arranged in repayment of a long-time favour by Charlie Morton, one of the band's early sponsors. The club owner had never been shy of pointing out that his money had kept them going in the early days, before Daniel had taken over. Without his early investment, they would probably have disbanded long ago. 

Daniel had eventually, albeit reluctantly, agreed to Morton's request for the band to play at one of his clubs. But that was it. Debt repaid.

As it turned out, Daniel didn't reach the venue until the last moment. Tom Watkins' phone call had delayed him halfway there. The Old Man had confirmed that the final detail had been agreed with Emilio Silva and he wanted Daniel to attend tomorrow's final meeting when everything would be rubberstamped.

True to form, Charlie Morton was waiting for him when he arrived, sitting in the reserved booth just off the front of the stage. It was all polished black wood with red-velvet upholstered seats. If anything, he was even more overweight than ever, and couldn't resist a wide smile as Daniel slid into the booth beside him. 

"You made it," Charlie said with a grin. 

He was sitting with both feet up on the small table, a large Havana cigar in his fat hand. Taking a slow draw, he blew the smoke out and grinned at the attractive blonde woman sitting next to him. 

At first glance, she didn't seem his type. His usual female company was women young enough to be his daughter, with very little between their ears and their huge tits on display. This woman was the polar opposite, oozing sophistication rather than pure sex.

"Welcome to my world," Morton added, sending another plume of smoke spiralling into the air.

Daniel nodded at them both, before turning to the club owner. Even at the best of times, he could be a real cocky ass. 

"Isn't that against fire regulations," he quipped, nodding at the cigar.

Charlie threw his head back as he laughed. 

"This is my club, my rules," he said, holding his arms out wide. 

Then he nodded at the bottle of champagne on the small table beside his shiny shoes. All three glasses next to it were filled, although Morton's and the woman's were already half empty.

"A small token of my gratitude," he said, pulling his feet off the table and sitting up.

He pushed the full glass across to Daniel, smiling confidently at him as he then topped up his and the woman's.

"I know you're doing me a good turn by bringing the band here tonight. It's my way of saying thank you."

Daniel's lips tightened. That was the thing with Charlie Morton. He'd play it cool before hitting you with what he wanted. The only time he'd ever heard the club owner say thank you was when he was about to ask for something else. 

"It's your way of asking for another favour," he countered, leaving the champagne untouched. "What is it this time, Charlie?"

Morton crinkled his nose as he scratched his clipped beard. It was full of grey flakes. Then he closed one eye as he looked at Daniel. 

"I guess you know me a little too well," he said, his smile hardly creasing his lips. "But this time it's me who's doing you a favour..."

He paused as he glanced at the blonde beside him.

"This is Lydia," he continued, taking another puff on his cigar and allowing the smoke to unfurl towards the club's high ceiling. 

The woman leant across Charlie to offer her slim hand to Daniel. It felt surprisingly cool when he took it, especially as the room was so warm. Until now, the conversation had gone on around her, but now he took the chance to study her more closely. With her high cheekbones and shiny, golden hair, the more he looked at her, the more beautiful she became.

"She has the most beautiful voice I've ever heard," Morton enthusiastically continued. "I was thinking, if you ever need a third vocalist to go along with Donna or Susie, this is the woman..."

Daniel didn't respond right away, although Charlie couldn't believe for one moment that he was seriously thinking about the proposition. There could be only one reason for the request. The club owner was trying to impress the woman. Clearly, he hadn't fucked her yet.

"I don't need three vocalists," he eventually said, thinking carefully about how to position his response. 

Despite his distaste for the guy, it didn't pay to make enemies in this business. Charlie Morton knew some important people. 

"But if you're looking for work, I'll be happy to speak to a couple of contacts," he conciliatorily added, looking at Lydia. "They might be able to help with an audition."

Charlie's happy chortle suggested that he was happy with Daniel's olive branch. His large hand settled on the woman's bare thigh as he turned towards her.

"Didn't I tell you," he rasped, pointing his cigar at her. "I told you that Charlie would help make you famous, just like I did with the band, huh?"

If she was impressed, she didn't show it. She sat quietly, simply acknowledging the offer with a slight nod of her head. It occurred to Daniel that she hadn't spoken as yet.

"Well, that's settled," Morton said, breaking the sudden silence by pushing upwards to his feet. He reached for Lydia's arm. "Why don't we talk about it back in my office?"

She slowly stood with him, but the indifferent look on her face told Daniel that the overweight club owner would have to come up with something much more tangible if he was going to get his rocks off with the blonde. 

"I take it you've primed the band so that I get my money's worth tonight?" Morton crassly said, his final act of bravado before they left. "I don't want any of my potential investors going home disappointed. These people could make me a lot of money." 

"They'll be on their usual form," Daniel said bluntly, giving him one last weary look before checking around the room.

It was full now, and the sudden sound of the band's introductory music was greeted with a cheer. But there was one thing that struck him more than anything else, and that was the number of people in the audience who had dyed their hair white. 

It seemed that the phenomenon was really gathering pace.

*

When the band took to the stage, the noise level increased instantly. As usual, Frankie led the way in his fur coat and top hat, followed by Patrick in his tiny singlet, Harry in his garish flowery shirt and Tony, who looked as sophisticated as ever in his dark suit and tie.

But it was when Donna and Susie stepped to the front, looking every bit as hot as they always did, that the whistles and applause became deafening. 

Both women were dressed in their traditional tight waistcoats and lacy elbow length white gloves. The outfits had long since become their trademark and he'd suggested to the Old Man that Silva should think of introducing something similar into his collection. 




Seven Days



Donna's long dark hair provided a sexy contrast to Susie's red locks, but that wasn't the only difference. His girlfriend simply dripped sexuality, having perfected the ability to make men think the dirtiest things as they watched her perform. Susie was more subtle and refined, but with an even better body that promised everything.

As the introductory cheers and wolf whistles died down, Donna extended her slim, long arm and pulled the microphone down to her full lips. 

"Hi, my name's Donna. This is Susie. Are you ready to rock?" 

The enthusiasm that greeted her words surprised even Daniel. 

But the ease with which the two women quickly had the audience eating out of their hands didn't. These two sexy creatures were the heartbeat of the band and knew how to work a crowd. 

Halfway through the gig, their waistcoats had been unbuttoned, and then removed to reveal the skimpy camisole tops worn underneath. Donna's was white and Susie's black. Each garment narrowed and then disappeared into the top of their low-rise jeans. 

Every so often they turned their back to the throng of cheering fans, with their legs spread wide and arms stretched high above their heads. It was a pose they'd made their own. Hips grinding sexily from side to side, pert asses on display, they were sex on legs.

The crowd was with them at every stage, and as the gig entered its final stage the two vocalists provocatively used each microphone stand like a giant phallus, squeezing them tightly between their legs as they humped her hips forward. 

Even Daniel thought they must be fucking the damn things. God, they looked hot. It wasn't just their voices that sold records... 

*

Donna waited until the 'after-gig' party was in full flow before slipping away. Daniel was surrounded by people, as usual. He was always in great demand and she didn't know how he coped with it. Tonight, it suited her purpose. She didn't want him, anyone, to know about her assignation with Bruno. If she read the signs right, a Playboy contract was just around the corner. 

She knew the photographer wouldn't be too far away. She'd spotted him during the performance and had given him the eye as she'd gyrated on stage. He had the same blank expression on his face, but so had quite a few of the blond-haired members of the audience. She'd even seen some of them slope away with a female fan in tow. You didn't need to be a genius to know what they were up to.

She found Bruno as soon as she left the party—dutifully waiting like an obedient lapdog close to the dressing rooms. Despite his sunken eyes, with the dark rings encircling them, she could tell that he wanted to fuck her. They all did, didn't they? In Bruno's case, his chances were totally dependent on the news he had to tell her. 

"Well?" she asked, sidling up to him.

There wasn't any point in small talk. If he wasn't able to make the connection she wanted, then she'd be better off at the party. If he was, she would need to keep him onside until it had all been set up.

"Well what?"

She fluttered her eyelashes, wondering if he was deliberately trying to play it cool. He was so different to the guy she'd blown in the studio, but that's what drugs did to you. It made it appear as if the person was suffering from a personality transplant. 

"You said Heff's people were interested," she prompted, leaning in closer. "They wanted to see me?"

When she brushed herself against him, his body felt surprisingly cool. She shivered at the connection, but didn't pull away. 

"Well?" she impatiently asked again.

"I spoke to them again this afternoon," he told her, his cold breath on her cheek. "They want to set the meeting up."

Donna's eyes lit up. They paid megabucks for centrefold spreads and the coverage would make her one of the most sought after women in the music industry. She wouldn't need the band. She wouldn't need anyone. She could start out on her own.

"They do?"

The way he nodded mechanically gave her the shivers again. Why didn't he show the same emotions he had in the studio. He'd been fun then. Now he was like a robot. 

"We need to talk specifics," he said. "Now. But not here."

Donna glanced around. She daren't be away from the party for too long, otherwise questions would be asked. But she needed to know the full details.

"I need to get back soon..." she explained, forcing a smile as she stared into the vacant face. "Quickly. Tell me."

"I will," he said, taking her hand. "I have a place where we can speak without being overheard. Follow me."

The narrow corridor led to what appeared to be a small office on the right. How could he have known the layout? He must have checked it out while he was waiting for her. A desk, small cabinet and a couple of chairs were enough to fill the room.

"Bruno—" she began, suddenly feeling vulnerable now that they were completely alone.

She half turned to him as she spoke, enough for their heads to clumsily bump together. Suddenly, his mouth was on her neck. 

It felt more like a suck than a kiss, and the hardness pressing into her stomach felt much bigger than it had been when she'd sucked him off? She'd known he wanted to fuck her, but he was going to have to settle for another blow job. She'd only think about going all the way once she'd met Heff's people and heard what they had to say.

But even as the thoughts flashed through her head, his hands were taking hold of her wrists. He raised her arms up above her head, holding them tight against the wall as he began to rub his erection against her. 

"Bruno—" she half-whispered. 

But there was no time to think further. As she stared into those sunken eyes, his nostrils flared. It was strange; she hadn't previously noticed they were that large. A faint puff of smoke emerged from them, and her head jerked back in shock. Had that really happened? 

And then the aroma was engulfing her.

She felt the effect all the way down between her thighs.

When his tongue flicked out again and licked along her neck, her knees buckled. She must be hallucinating. It couldn't be long and blue, like a reptile's. Hadn't she read somewhere that a male lizard bit the female around the neck when mating? But this one wasn't biting her. It was sucking in long circles along her skin. 

As the aroma pervaded her senses again, she heard the sound of his zip being yanked downwards. When he dragged her hand to his cock, it was impossible to believe he could be that thick and hard. 

She tried to speak, but another emission from his nostrils stilled her. The sweeping tongue snaked across her neck again as she felt him turn her around to face the wall, and then spread her legs apart. His hands were on her thong, a single tug ripping it from her body.

He was going to fuck her...

*

The door to Charlie Morton's office was half open as Daniel approached it. He had no idea why the club owner needed to see him so urgently, but he quickly understood when he saw Lydia with him. Did the man never give up? Clearly the blonde was holding out on him until she got exactly what she wanted. 

"Ah, Daniel, come in, come in."

But the smug look on Charlie's face suggested he had misinterpreted the situation. The overweight man was sitting in front of a computer screen, and looked like the cat that had just got the cream. 

"There's something I've been made aware of," Morton said, nodding at the screen infront of him. "We caught it on our CCTV cameras."

Daniel took a couple of steps forward to better see the monitor. It was a grainy, fuzzy colour but there was no doubt as to what was taking place on screen. The passionate grunts gave it away even before the picture did. But so what? From what he'd seen, a few guys with dyed blonde hair had been pairing off with women as the gig approached its end. What was so interesting about this one?

He sighed aloud as he turned to Charlie, but the gleeful look on the club owner's face made him check out the action again.

The blonde haired guy had his trousers around his knees and was moving perfunctorily as he fucked the dark-haired girl from behind. She was into it as much as he was. Her arms were infront of her, pressing against the wall for leverage as she violently humped backwards against him. Between her grunts, she was exhorting the man to fuck her even harder. 

That's when it hit Daniel. 

The voice was familiar. No, it couldn't be...

But when her thrashing head turned in the direction of the camera, exposing the look of frenzied unadulterated need on her face, he saw that his worst fears were realised. 

What the fuck!

4 DAYS BEFORE THE MEETING WITH STEVE RUSSO

"Françoise, pop into my office," Charlie Morton instructed.

Replacing the phone before his new secretary could answer, he unfastened his belt and worked his trousers and boxers around his knees. It would save time. 

Life was just getting better and better.

Lydia had introduced Françoise to him, in the club last night some time after Daniel had left. Fuck. What a body the teenager had! 

Lydia had convinced him that he needed a secretary, one who would look after all of his needs. She told him that her young French friend would prove to be the perfect. He didn't even need to pay her, she'd explained. The hot blonde teenager just needed the experience! 

Charlie laughed to himself. Some women were just so fucking naive.

But there was one proviso! If he wanted to take advantage of her offer, Lydia had insisted that Charlie allow her to sing at his club tonight. He'd agreed instantly, naturally, although her next request was trickier. She wanted him to arrange for Daniel to watch her perform. 

He knew why, of course. Charlie Morton wasn't stupid. 

The woman was hoping to wheedle her way into the band. That wasn't going to happen—Daniel had already made that clear. Donna and Susie were too well established. But why should he try and dissuade her? All she'd asked was for him to set it up, and he'd done exactly that with a persuasive telephone call to Daniel no more than half an hour ago. 

So, he'd kept his side of the bargain and his immediate reward was entering his office right now. 

Françoise might have the personality of a wet fish, but she was young and she had a superb pair of tits. And right now, as she closed the door behind her, her gaze was fixed on the way he was idly fondling his erect cock. 

Charlie grinned crudely at her. He might be overweight, but women loved both his size and thickness.

"I've arranged everything I was asked," he told the French teenager, practically salivating at what his reward was about to be. 

The girl might be strange looking, with her pale complexion, sunken eyes and short blonde hair, but then she was no different to so many other young women who seemed to be adopting that look recently. And who was he to complain, especially as she was already unbuttoning her white blouse as she made her way around to his side of the desk. 

"Let me help," she breathed in that monotone voice, as she rounded the desk and sank to her knees.

Fuck, yes. The young French bitch was about to blow him!

And she was eager, too. Her hand knocked his away from his cock and she stared upwards into his eyes as she corkscrewed her fingers around the hard shaft. Charlie felt himself grow even further under her expert touch. Young flesh was his lifeblood and while there was never a shortage with his money and status, each new conquest was like an aphrodisiac to him. 

"Why don't you suck it," he gently told her, placing a hairy hand onto the back of her head and encouraging her mouth towards his cock.

When she instantly took the bulbous head between her pale lips, he tightened his fingers in her short blonde locks. Dammit, that felt incredible. She had wrapped her long fingers around the base of his cock and held him steady while her mouth worked on him. Fuck, it felt like she was curling her tongue around the entire thickness of his shaft. 

Impossible...

Even at his age, he maintained a sexual appetite equal to any younger man. He'd always thought of himself as young at heart. But the French teenager was every bit as good as any woman he'd ever had and if the sexy bitch kept sucking him like that, he'd cum soon. 

And he hadn't fucked her yet. 

*

"You're late," Dorothy said, although the over-the-shoulder grin she gave Daniel was as welcoming as ever. 

The Old Man's secretary was stretching across her desk to collect some papers from the far end, and Daniel let his eyes linger on her body as she all but posed for him in that position. 

She'd always been a tease. 

He loved her habit of wearing short designer business suits that displayed her curvy figure so well. Today was no exception. The little pinstriped skirt stopped high on her shapely thighs and, as she eventually straightened, her white blouse allowed just enough of her ample cleavage to leave a man wanting more. She really was looking good.

"I was hoping they'd get the boring bits out of the way before I got here," he replied, shifting his gaze back to her face. 

"Boring bits?" she quipped, tipping her head to one side. "There are no boring bits in advertising, are there?" 

They laughed together. Maybe that was why he liked her so much? Most everyone in the advertising or music businesses was either too over-the-top macho or lacked any kind of social skills. Dorothy was a breath of fresh air in a world full of insincerity.

"But I have to warn you," she added, confidentially leaning closer. "Emilio Silva isn't happy that you've dropped Donna from the band. He thinks it will affect their popularity, and that will impact on his sales. So be warned."

Daniel felt an uncomfortable lick of heat just beneath his loosened collar at the words. He didn't like Emilio Silva, never had done. The Latin American had carved out a name for himself in the retail industry as a shrewd operator but on the rare occasions they'd met, the man always seemed up himself. 

Dorothy waited a moment for him to absorb her comment, before turning on her patent leather pumps and taking him to the agency's boardroom. 

"Ah, Daniel, good to see you," Tom Watkins warmly said, as he entered the long, narrow room. 

The look in the Old Man's eyes told Daniel that he'd been behind Dorothy's warning. That meant he wanted him on his best behaviour. In other words, whatever issues were laid on the table during the meeting, he would take care of them afterwards. Well, that was okay, but he still wasn't going to take any crap from someone like Silva.

"You too, Tom," he responded, before glancing around the room. 

Watkins followed his gaze and quickly made the introductions. Daniel shook each Executive's hand, before taking Emilio Silva's. He was half expecting something slimy in the handshake, but the man's grasp was strong and firm. 

"Tom was explaining the problems with your band," he said to Daniel, still holding onto his hand.

There was a distant smile on his face, one that didn't quite touch his eyes, and despite his dark South American complexion, there wasn't even the hint of an accent in his voice.

"There are no problems," Daniel flatly replied, moving away and taking a seat next to Tom Watkins.

"You no longer have a lead singer? That's not a problem?"

"The band has two lead vocalists." 

"You had two lead vocalists," Silva corrected him. "But not anymore. What happened?" 

Daniel paused and glanced at Tom Watkins. He'd spoken to the Old Man earlier this morning, telling him that he'd dropped Donna from the band. He hadn't tried to explain why. That was his business. But right now, Watkins seemed happy enough to let the two of them spar.

His ex-girlfriend's infidelity last night burned bright in Daniel's head, although on reflection he shouldn't have been that surprised. Donna had always had a wandering eye. But he'd expected that she'd eventually use him as a stepping stone to bigger things, not fuck a fan in some Spartan back office of Charlie Morton's club.

He'd called around to see her first thing this morning, with the intention of tearing a strip off her and telling her their relationship was over. He'd wanted to see her face-to-face and find out what she had to say. Yes, he'd thought of dumping her from the band, but with the Wembley date arranged and the potential rewards so spectacular, that would have been counterproductive. 

Yet, in the end, he'd had no choice. 

Both her appearance and demeanour had stunned him. How could someone so vivacious become the polar opposite overnight? Her dark sunken eyes made her look ill, the vacant expression on her face suggested she was stoned, and it was clear from her hair new colour that she'd bought into the new craze. When had she the time to dye it blonde? He'd tried to talk to her about it but she hadn't even been able to hold a meaningful conversation.

When he saw two naked blonde-haired guys in another room, he'd lost his temper. How many fans had she fucked since last night? He'd instantly decided to dump her, even though it would be a major headache to quickly fill the gap in the band with anyone as talented, or as popular. 

"Well?" Silva rasped. "I asked what happened. This girl was the most popular member of your band. Without her, you're nothing."

Daniel fought back the instant response that had formed on his lips. The Old Man wanted him to behave and besides, Silva wasn't saying anything that hadn't already occurred to him. Donna was extremely popular, but it was the chemistry between her and Susie that worked so well for the band. How the hell could he find a replacement at such short notice?

Okay, he'd agreed with Charlie Morton to watch Lydia perform at his club tomorrow evening. Charlie was putting her on display, just for him. But however effusive the club owner was about his new 'find', Daniel just couldn't picture her as Donna's replacement. From the little interaction they'd had last night, she just didn't have the same of charisma.

"Susie is even more popular," he told the South American, hoping the reservations he felt weren't showing on his face. He didn't like to lie, but being economical with the truth seemed the easiest way out right now. "And Donna has been losing her edge lately. Moving her out now gives me the chance to have someone even better in place before the Wembley gig. I'm protecting your interests as well as mine."

The stare Silva gave him was chilling but then he laughed disarmingly. It was clear he didn't believe Daniel, and yet he couldn't be sure. 

"The point is," Tom Watkins interrupted, displaying his remarkable talent to step in at just the right moment. "We have all the ingredients for the most successful advertising campaign in history."

For once, all eyes in the room turned to look at the Old Man.

"Linking one of the hottest bands around to your new clothing range is a winner of itself," he calmly said, looking each Executive in the eye, one by one, before turning to face Emilio Silva himself. "And when we incorporate the new phenomenon sweeping the world, the campaign has the potential to earn you millions." 

"I like that thought," Silva said, although there wasn't a trace of humour in his pedantic voice. 

He sat quietly for a few seconds, thinking.

"And I'm happy to go with it for now," he eventually agreed. "But I'll delay any final sign off until I've seen the woman's replacement. I suggest we convene again in one week, yes?"

The Old Man nodded, happy to restore an order of balance to the meeting. And it bought Daniel a little time to find someone suitable, which had been his main objective.

But Daniel didn't respond. He was thinking, too. This craze for blonde hair was gathering pace at an alarming speed. Just look at Donna. But two other facets were simultaneously emerging. The craze was carrying a sexual freedom in its wake—people were revelling in some sort of new found sexual revolution. And yet, conversely, the people converting to the new trend appeared to be suffering from a personality bypass. 




Seven Days



Easing back into her comfy leather office chair, Tara provocatively chewed on a pencil for the sole benefit of one of her thirty-something colleagues a few feet away. He pretended not to notice how she teased the pencil back and forth, swinging her stockinged right foot at the same time, her stiletto heel dangling from her beautifully manicured toes. The growing bulge in his trousers however was a clear sign his mind had long since given up any interest in the financial report he was supposed to be analysing. 

Tara smirked. It was too easy. Oh, if only they knew half of what I get up to she thought to herself! She suspected most of the men would pass out in a combination of sheer excitement and extreme shock if they found the 500+ explicit photos on her adult fuck-buddy profile. Tara, the sweet office beauty photographed in all manner of degrading and humiliating ways. She knew it was a risk to set up the profile but her sexual yearnings and desires were far too strong. Overwhelming in fact. She hadn't regretted it for a second and was discovering more and more kinks with each passing day.

As another day in the corporate rat race neared its end, Tara found herself once more day-dreaming. Actually, fantasising would be more appropriate and it was one of her favourite hobbies at work. Her mind quickly turned to wicked thoughts of being roughly gang-banged in all her holes by seven well-hung studs. She pictured each of their distorted faces as they pounded her without remorse; feeling every thrust and the tightening grip around her soft neck. All these wonderful thoughts were suddenly interrupted however by a sharp call from the corner of the office.

"Tara, can I see you in my office please." The tone was serious and commanding.

She jumped a little in her seat as she spun round.

"Sure...of course," she responded shakily, a little visibly surprised. 

Several of her colleagues raised their eyebrows too. More than a few were asking themselves why their CEO would summon Tara directly to his office. He wasn't really an office guy, preferring to spend time on the floor with the team, praising and berating in equal measure. 

Tara stood up, straightened her black pencil skirt and made her way over to his corner office. Like so many times before, she felt the eyes of a dozen lustful men (and several jealous/sexually curious women) greedily devour her tight and luscious body. Her heels added several inches to her height and accentuated her feminine curves even more. She couldn't deny being in love with this kind of attention. It helped that she was actually quite turned-on at the moment. The gangbang fantasy, while only a few minutes old, had been powerful enough to get her wet and she could feel the slickness of her pussy seep through her silk panties. She wondered if her boss would notice the faint smell of female arousal.

Tara would be lying to herself if she hadn't admitted fantasising about her boss. She was naturally drawn to powerful men. And he was certainly powerful, climbing to the rank of CEO through his intelligence, decisiveness and sheer ruthlessness. He was a well-known and important man in the city - a man to be feared and respected in equal measure. A man not to be fucked with. Her heart often skipped a few beats when she overheard him verbally castigating some poor schmuck, which happened more often than not. The power and threat in his voice made her feel like a helpless, lost little girl. And that was exactly how she felt now entering his office.

"Close the door behind you Tara and take a seat," he said as she walked into his spacious office.

She closed the door and sat down opposite his sprawling desk. She sat up straight, crossing her legs first to the left and then to the right, trying to look as relaxed as possible. Tara could tell her boss was in a serious mood. He had a pensive look on his face and patrolled the office a few times before eventually electing to sit down facing her. She noticed he'd closed the blinds on the window facing out to the floor. Shit, that wasn't good, she thought, panic starting to rise in her body.

"Tara, we have a problem," he said bluntly.

"There's no easy way to say this, but something has been brought to my attention. Something quite serious."

Tara could feel her heart thumping hard and her palms turning sweaty. Wild emotions began flooding her brain as she stared straight ahead into his piercing dark eyes. It felt just like her college days when she could frequently be found sitting in the principal's office being reprimanded for a lack of concentration and frequent misbehaviours. Unlike the mistakes of youth though, this was much more serious. This was her career. Her livelihood. She tried to slow her breathing and gain some control. But then it happened. In the space of just a few seconds, her sordid secret was out as he flipped round his 28 inch monitor to reveal her adult fuck-buddy profile page.

"Oh God!" was all Tara could say as she buried her face into her hands, bent over on the chair. 

She'd been publically outed in the worst possible way - by her boss. The man who had direct control on her career, her integrity and her livelihood.

"Well, judging by your reaction, I guess I don't need to check this is definitely you. What the hell were you playing at?"

Tara said nothing as she slowly sat back up in the chair, her hands still gripping her bright red face. Gone was the sexy, office pin-up goddess. In her place, sat a publically humiliated, shame-faced slut.

"Answer me!" he suddenly spat.

His aggressive tone jolted her and she tried to compose herself. 

"I, I, it was just for...just for some private fun."

"Private fun? On a fucking public website!" He was angry now, standing up from behind his desk. The swearing shocked her. She'd never been sworn at by him before.

"And this doesn't look too fucking private either," handing her three A4 sheets of paper. 

They were face photos from her profile, which had been crudely printed from his personal colour printer. She looked down at the first picture to see her being fucked whilst deep-throating another man's cock. Shame convulsed through her body. She tried handing them back to him.

"No, no, I want you to look at all of them," he said, shaking his head.

She gingerly looked at the next picture, showing another woman greedily eating her asshole as another woman with black stiletto heels dug them sharply into her back. Again, she blushed heavily and felt his revulsion at her lewd sexual acts with other women. The final picture showed her gagged and bound with rope, her face flushed and her body red and swollen. For a split second, Tara swapped deep shame with the flush of intense sexual excitement at the memory of that forbidden moment. She handed them back to him.

"I've seen all the rest too young lady. Every single fucking one of them. And I've read everything you've written too. All that filth. Do you know what kind of damage these photos could do to the company?"

"I don't know what to say sir, I'm so sorry'. How did you..."

He cut her off, ''How did I find out? I've got contacts everywhere Tara. You don't get to a position like mine without having a strong network of people who owe you a favour or two."

She hung her head, staring down at her heels. She felt so small, stupid and powerless.

"Am I fired?" she said without looking up.

He didn't say anything. She looked up and faced him.

"I understand you need to fire me. What I've done is unacceptable." She bit her bottom lip and looked down at the floor again, hanging her head in shame.

He remained silent, keeping her in a tormented position. He walked around the office, peering through the closed blinds and let out a deep breath.

"Tara" he began.

"What you've been doing on this website is absolutely obscene. I thought you were a nice, sensible girl. I can't tell you how shocked I was when I saw all these photos. Jesus Tara, you're like some kind of porn star. I mean, there's hundreds of photos on here and each one is x-rated." 

He sat down and started clicking through the photos at random in front of her. He stopped on a recent photo of her inserting a pair of white shiny high heels into her cunt and asshole simultaneously. The next photo revealed her sucking on the heel.

"Christ Tara, I remember you wearing those heels to one of our work events only a few weeks ago."

She listened intently to his harsh reprimand, being told she was 'obscene" and 'x-rated'. And yet, she still hadn't been told she was fired. Tara remembered the night with the white heels well. Stuck in a hotel room, liberated by a few martinis and dressed to kill, she thought she'd have a little naughty photo fun, staining the carpet with her juices in the process.

He looked across at her. He put his elbows on the desk, sat up straight and interlocked his fingers. It was one of his typical power-play gestures and whenever he did it, he usually got what he wanted.

Softening his tone and with a hint of menace in his eye, he addressed her directly.

"There may be a way you can keep your job Tara."

She didn't say anything, still feeling like a rabbit trapped in the headlights.

"It's clear you're a very sexually liberated woman. I may have a need for such a woman. And let's face it, you're a fucking slut too!"

Her jaw dropped on hearing those last few words from her boss. It floored her like an uppercut.

"What...what...excuse me?" she stammered, trying to sound affronted.

He just smiled. 

"Tara, please don't try to deny what you are to me. That would be ludicrous. Look at these fucking pictures. They don't lie. Just how many cocks have you sucked? How many pussies have you eaten? It must be hundreds!"

Tara turned a deep shade of red, feeling herself grow even smaller. She was now being verbally degraded. And it continued.

"Fuck knows how many cocks you've had pound you? But that's what you like though isn't it?" he continued.

"ANSWER ME!' he barked.

"Yes sir'", she responded meekly and in defeat. 

She'd admitted it to him. Admitted she was nothing more than a cheap, nasty slut. A fuck toy and cum dumpster for other men and women to abuse and degrade.

"Well I'm glad you've managed to admit what you are to me Tara", he said calmly, as if he'd just asked someone to admit they were a secret fan of some third-rate reality TV show.

"That's an important first step in getting to keep your job. And the next step, well, I think you might just be up to the challenge!"

He was smiling broadly now, in complete control of the conversation and situation. Dominant and powerful, getting his way as usual by always having the upper hand over someone.

"What do you want me to do? Fuck you I suppose?", she replied despondently. 

"Do you think you're the first boss I've had to fuck?"

He threw his head back and laughed. 

"Tara, fucking me is the least of your problems! That's just the tip of the iceberg! You're going to find out just how much of a nasty, worthless little slut whore you are."

"I won't do it," she said defiantly, rushing up out of her seat.

"Oh yes you will my dear." 

He couldn't have said that more calmly if he was sitting on a desert island sipping a beer in a hammock.

"Because if you don't, these photos are going to become very well-known. Your friends, family, co-workers, well, they're all going to receive some very interesting packages with their favourite little Tara centre stage. And just what will they think? You won't be able to hold your head high in this town again."

"You bastard!" she cried. 

She slumped back down in her chair, feeling utterly defeated. He held all the power and they both knew it. There was no way out. She had nothing on him and he had everything on her. She resigned herself to submitting to him.

He became serious again. 

"Tara, there's some good news here. I only want you for seven days. After a week, you get your life back again. I'll also give you a 25% pay rise - for being a good, obedient girl." 

He smiled again.

"How can I trust you?"

"I'm a bastard Tara, but I'm also a man of my word. Besides, I get disinterested very quickly in my women. Do you think you're the only slut I've got dirt on? Although, you're by far the dirtiest and I plan to take full advantage of that!"

Tara felt she had no choice. There was no other option. She sheepishly nodded her head. 

"Just seven days though".

"Just seven days Tara," he said comfortingly, like a kindly uncle.

"And by the way, those seven days start right now. So get down on your fucking knees!"

She slipped off the chair and feel to her knees. Broken and resigned. Her ordeal was only just beginning.