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theGreatxIam

Silver Surfer #5:
Royal Dynasty
By theGreatxIam

NOTE: They used to talk about Stagedoor Johnnies, the
men who hung around theaters with flowers and candy for
the showgirls. Then women and girls got liberated and
got horny, and they called the starstruck ones
groupies.

But there are some of us who call ourselves by another
name. We are drawn to a special class of classy ladies,
to those mature beauties who appreciate a man who
appreciates a vintage affair. We call ourselves the
silver surfers. And this is one of our stories.

----

Ian M., London

I suppose you've heard about the "casting couch." There
was a time, at least so legend has it, when young
lovelies slept their way into good parts by paying
court to directors' or producers' naughty bits.

It's not like that anymore, more's the pity. If you
even glance at a young actress's legs she'll have you
up on charges faster than you can say Cherie Blair.

Makes me a bit nostalgic for the old days, which is odd
when you think about it because I wasn't alive then,
was I? No, just a gleam in my Dad's eye and a lump in
his trousers, that's what I was.

But I heard the stories when I began working in the
theatre, and they may have spurred my desire to move
toward directing. So imagine my dismay when I find no
birds ready to succumb to my wiles. Not that I had all
that many wiles to begin with.

I had to give up my dreams of easy conquests. Settle
for peeping up a few skirts at rehearsals, a bit of
slap and tickle at cast parties. Or actually woo the
crumpets with dinner and. Bloody hell, that's a bother.
But one does what one must. I resigned myself to it.
Well, actually, what I resigned myself to was not
getting any. I am, I must admit, a bit of a
fuddy-duddy. Not to say a namby-pamby. It isn't that I
don't want a bit of the all right, it's that I had
rather hoped my bit would sort of come with the job.
But, sadly, my willy got nilly.

Well, then, as you can imagine, it knocked me for six
when the casting couch made a comeback. Only with a
twist.

This time, it's not the young starlets getting seduced.
It's the aging actresses, and they're not being pushed
into it. They're positively leaping.

It all started when Nicole Kidman went starkers on a
London stage. She's no vintage star, but she taught
producers what the tabloids here have known for years.
Give the punters a little tits-and-arse and you'll have
to beat them off with a stick. If they don't beat
themselves off first, so to speak.

So some brilliant producer thought, any fool can get a
young actress to take her knickers off onstage these
days. Blimey, it's all you can do to keep some of them
on. A drug on the market, they are. Not worth sixpence
the lot.

But what if you got some actress who was up there in
years to do the peel? Some old girl who'd been keeping
her naughty bits under wraps these many decades? The
sheer curiosity factor would guarantee six months' run,
everybody wanting to see if anything was sagging. They
got the likes of Kathleen Turner and Jerry Hall to bare
it all, and, sure enough, box-office gold.

Soon every producer was looking to get in on the act.
Shouldn't Lady MacBeth strip off to really get that
damn spot out? Surely "Mamma Mia" would be more true to
the whole Abba sensibility if the older women did a
nude scene -- well, not the fat one, of course, that
goes without saying.

And so the call went out for older actresses willing to
do the Godiva. But a funny thing happened. Once the
doors were opened, every fading star saw stripping as a
sure thing. Directors could take their pick. The
preference, surely, was for the ultimate: women who had
never gone naked in public before. That made those
who'd already shown their all before a touch desperate.

So it was, when I was selected to direct the Queen's
Royal Theatre production of "The Vagina Monologues: The
Illustrated Version," I was set upon by a bevy of
England's well-aged cheesy actresses. Dames and ladies,
"Coronation Street" walkers, a thousand Christmas panto
pussies in boots, they all wished to raise their skirts
-- all in the pursuit of art, of course.

One day in particular remains in my memory. I had just
turned down a pot of money from Diana Rigg to display
her skeletal form onstage. I had an appointment for tea
at Brown's with Dame Edna Everage -- and the prospect
of that edifice starkers would have given the stalls a
whacking. I was enjoying a rare moment of solitude when
my office door flew open.

Something in a Burberry raincoat -- I couldn't at first
make out just what, it moved too fast -- exploded into
my small room. In its wake my secretary, a timid lass,
appeared flustered and disconsolate in the doorway.

"I'm sorry, sir, I told her you were occupied," Miss
Watson said in a soft wail. "But she didn't listen..."

Indeed, it was obvious my visitor was oblivious to all
around her, for even as she planted herself in a
leather chair opposite my desk, she was chattering away
about dinner plans. It was only when I realized that
the beetle-like insect she seemed to be trying to
dislodge from her face was, in fact, a cell phone, that
I understood the reason for her distraction. I waved
Miss Watson away, and she shut the door as she bowed
out.

The intruder looked at me, wide brown eyes framed by
fluttering lashes. I opened my mouth to speak. She held
up one well-manicured index finger and continued her
telephone conversation. Well, rather. I mean, I must
say, I generally do not allow the talent, so called, to
treat me so. Establishes the wrong relationship.

And so I ignored her finger and began to speak. That
got her attention. Show her who's boss, and all that.
She told the person on the phone to wait a bit and
turned her full attention to me. I paused to collect my
thoughts.

She rushed into the gap. "Do you mind? I was speaking
on the phone, darling. It's rather rude of you to
interrupt. Be a dear and wait 'til I'm through, won't
you?"

She caught me wrong-footed. I could only hem and haw --
mostly haw, it was outrageously silly when you thought
about it. I did hold the whip hand, after all: I chose
the cast. I sat back to see how long she would play the
diva game.

She nattered on for a few minutes. I picked up my desk
phone and she quickly ended her call.

I considered pretending to make my own call, but the
game was getting old. And I had a point in my favor
because she'd gotten off the phone; best not to push
one's luck.

Then she made a tactical error. "Don't interrupt your
call on my account," she said. "Go on about your little
business. No need..."

I cut her off. "No bother," I said. "Indeed, no call. I
suspected you'd stop that little act when you were no
longer the center of attention. It appears I was
correct."

She showed her teeth. "How very droll." She had good
teeth. Not a small thing, considering she was British.
But then, one had to wonder if, in these days of EU
imports, the teeth were quite as British as the rest of
her. One suspected she was not all original equipment.
She was, according to the recent stories about her
young swain, a rather ripe 68.

But on her, it looked good. I said as much, albeit
phrasing the sentiment a tad more diplomatically. Not
much more, I must say, but she let it pass, which told
me everything I needed to know. Joan Collins wanted
this part. She wanted it very much.

"Now, young man," she said, bestowing another smile
upon me, "I understand you have a play that needs a
star. A star of, shall we say, the proper magnitude."

A magnitude of about 50 or older, I thought. Joan was,
if anything, overqualified on that score.

"I am willing to consider the part," she continued.
"Presuming, of course, that the compensation is
satisfactory."

I gave her a thin smile. My own teeth were 100 percent
English; I kept my mouth closed as much as possible.
"Quite an honor to our little company, I'm sure," I
said. "But you surely know that we are not quite in
Andrew Lloyd-Webber's league. Our salaries are more
modest than I'm sure you're accustomed to."

"Ah, yes. Well, no need for us to worry about such
details, of course. I'm sure my agent will be able to
come to a suitable arrangement."

"Providing we are indeed interested in your services,"
I said.

"I assure you," Joan said with one eyebrow raised, "my
services will definitely interest you."

"Perhaps," I said guardedly. I waited for her to open
her dark, shiny red lips in protest before I cut her
off. "Perhaps I should tell you what we're looking for.
Are you familiar with the original play? Good. We have
taken the liberty of making certain... adjustments to,
ah, appeal to a broader audience. In particular, of
course, the role now requires some nudity. A fair bit,
in fact. I trust you would be comfortable with that?"

A smile flickered across her face. She dipped her head
an inch. "I have never been unwilling to do what was
required to get... that is, to play a part."

Funny thing: The temperature in the room seemed to be
rising. I certainly felt it. Evidently so, too, did
Miss Collins, for she doffed her raincoat, revealing
what certainly appeared to be her warm-weather kit. The
little black dress -- if such an appellation may be
awarded to so few square centimeters of cloth -- had
such a deep V at the neckline that it threatened to
dive straight down to the bottom hem, if not indeed all
the way to the patent-leather pumps that had heels only
slightly less dangerous than an epee. As for that
bottom hem -- two centimeters higher and one would have
needed a change at Charing Cross to get from there to
her knees.

Speaking of trains, the one carrying my thought was
nearly derailed when she leaned forward to tap a pointy
silver fingernail on my oak desk.

"So?" she asked.

I was as baffled as Bertie Wooster.

"So," she said, taking my hands in hers, "when shall we
start rehearsals, dear boy?"

I shook myself, trying to ignore the thick, musky
perfume wafting my way. There was something I needed to
say -- but what? My, that was a particularly
interesting scent. I...

Just then, my eyes lighted on a sheaf of papers on the
desktop -- last month's box-office receipts and
expenses. The report had a distinctly carmine tinge. It
all came back to me. I pulled my hand from Joan's
grasp.

"I'm sorry," I said, "but there's a bit of a sticky
wicket here. The theatre is looking for -- ah -- a
certain cachet in the actress for this play."

"Darling, I have cachet. I have so much cachet it's
just oozing out of me!" She extended a long leg in its
silky-smooth black stocking and placed a hand
delicately on her thigh.

I stared, for it was indeed a leg worth staring at. Of
course, the fact that it was propped up on my desk,
pointing directly at me, made it difficult to ignore,
like the Ubangi in the drawing room.

Still, business is business, and all that. I kept my
eyes on her limb as I spoke.

"I am sure that you have a coterie of devoted fans,
Miss Collins. But. Well. To be frank, it isn't so much
cachet we're interested in as, er, cash."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Again, to be frank... We need cash. Money. Pounds.
Dosh, loads of it. And that means we need someone who
must be, shall I say, something by way of a guaranteed
draw? We need box office, Miss Collins."

"Young man, I... I... That is..." Joan's pale face had
turned a delicate shade of purple. She drew a deep
breath, nostrils flaring. As she let it out, her brown
eyes bored into mine.

"I have never had complaints about my box office
performance," she said in very precise, clipped
syllables.

I averted my eyes. "Just how many weeks did 'Over the
Moon' run? Or was it days?"

She gasped. Bravo, I thought: Quite convincing. And I
noted that she had managed to draw my eyes back to her
narrow face, with its aquiline nose and pointed chin.
An arresting face, quite upper-class. Which, as I was
sure she knew, made her next line all the more
shocking.

"Touche. But have you considered the possibility that I
had a rather different box... office in mind?"

And then, in a bit of business that made Sharon Stone
look like a nun, Joan slowly slid forward in her seat,
leaving her tiny dress behind. With one leg still
propped on my desk and the other now spread far to the
opposite side, I looked directly into a gaping vagina
winking below a tuft of dark hair trimmed into a neat
rectangle.

It was a somewhat disarming sight, with a curiously
bifurcated effect on my body. Above the waist, all was
frozen. I believe I did not blink for at least a full
minute. My right hand, halfway to reaching for
something -- I'm afraid all memory of what I was
reaching for fled my brain at that instant -- my hand
stopped in midair, suspended like a construction crane
at the end of the workday. Most unseemly. But below the
waist, there indeed was activity. Most ardent activity.
In a word, I became erect.

Or I would have, were there room in my trousers to
permit it. Instead, i became painfully semi-erect, my
stiffened member being held back by the tight, durable
cloth of my Saville Row suit.

It definitely was getting hotter in my cramped office.
Positively tropical. I ran a finger inside my shirt
collar and found it sopping wet with perspiration. Most
baffling. I awkwardly unbuttoned the collar as I spoke.

"Really, Miss Collins. You're putting me in a bit of a
difficult spot. Surely you understand that I cannot
allow other... considerations to take preference
over... Miss Collins! My word!"

"Stop nattering, darling," Joan said matter-of-factly
as she rose to her feet. "We both know what's going to
happen here."

She crawled up onto my desk on her hands and knees.
"Don't we?"

Grabbing hold of my loosened tie, she pulled me
forward, so close I could feel her breath on my face.
"So let's get to it, shall we?"

Joan crawled forward, pushing me back into my chair.
Leaning forward, she pressed her lips to mine, muffling
my final protests. She tasted like strawberries. Rather
irrelevantly, I thought of Wimbledon.

Breaking our kiss, Joan twisted around on the desktop.
Papers, pens, phone all went flying. She ended up
sitting on the desk, a shapely ankle resting on each of
my shoulders. Her open cunt was staring right at me.
Subtle, she wasn't. But there's something to be said
for the direct approach. I was aroused, to say the
least.

All the more so, I must admit, when Joan pulled her
legs back slightly, planted her heels on my chest and
pushed. My chair flew the short distance to the back
wall and fetched up against it with a thunk. At the
same time, Joan slid off the desk -- her dress bunching
up around her waist, leaving her fully exposed -- and
knelt before me.

Up close, Joan age peeked through here and there, like
long-ago wallpaper showing through fading layers of
paint. The flesh under her arms was bunched up like a
shar-pei's neck; the makeup was cracking at the outside
corners of her eyes. Oddly enough, that seemed to make
her all the more attractive to me. I chose not to dwell
on the psychological significance of that.

It seemed wiser to concern myself more with matters of
more immediate moment -- to wit, the fact that Joan
Collins was undoing my fly. Indeed, she had already
undone my fly and was applying herself to my belt.

I shall spare you further sartorial details. Suffice it
to say that in a trice the lower portion of my raiment
was bunched around my ankles and my staff of life was
on full display.

"Well, someone looks happy to see me," Joan said,
giving my penis a firm kiss. When she pulled back, the
tip was the same bright red as her lips.

I saw it for only a second before the tip, along with
the rest of the rubbery head, disappeared into Joan's
pursed lips.

Miss Collins does not have the acting skills of a
Stanislavski, but when it comes to fellatio, she does
have a startlingly good method. She alternated between
sucking vigorously on the head like a lolly and
devouring it all over like a sausage roll.

Imagine, if you will, looking down at your lad to see
your willy ensconced in Joan Collins' mouth whilst she,
cheeks hollowed, looks up at you with wide eyes
outlined in kohl. Or you see her running her tongue up
and down your member and then shaking that selfsame sex
organ, slapping it against her cheek so that flecks of
your precum spatter her powdered face. Either way, not
a sight one would soon forget.

She was a most enthusiastic fellater. In just a minute
or two I felt my precious bodily fluids come to a boil.
Forthwith, cum was boiling out of me. It gushed
mightily, yet Joan swallowed it all.

Even more, she held my member in her mouth as it pulsed
and then deflated. When I thought I was through, she
showed me how wrong I was. Her tongue danced around my
penis -- a soft-shoe, at first, when it was extremely
sensitive. But then with increasing vigour, through
waltz and foxtrot, samba and bossa nova, to a frantic
polka. As my shaft responded, Joan grabbed it by the
root and began to massage it quite briskly. In a trice,
or so it seemed, I was hard as Gibraltar again.

At that point, she relinquished my penis and rose,
slowly, to her feet. She undressed me first, tossing my
clothes aside with abandon. Then she stepped back and
performed a swaying strip-tease, until she was down to
a small lace garter belt holding up her hose.

To be brutally honest, Joan Collins is one of those
women who looks better when the imagination is whetted
by revealing clothes than she does when cold reality is
actually revealed. She doesn't have a distinguishable
waist; her body dives straight from her shoulders to
her hips. No doubt the passing years have had something
to do with that.

Still, hers is not, objectively, a perfect body. Yet
one's overall impression remains that of overpowering
sexuality. It is an amazing feat. Never, I believe, has
one woman done so much with so little. When she stepped
toward me and climbed onto my lap, my shaft was as long
and hard as Cleopatra's Needle.

Up close, all Joan's imperfections melted away. She was
an exceedingly aggressive woman, a character type I had
not previously realized I was attracted to. But when
she grasped my manhood and held it in place as she
squatted above, I was smitten. When she poked it into
her vagina and slid down its length in one fell swoop,
I was entranced. When she proceeded to ride my penis
like a mount at Ascot, I was... well, in point of fact,
I was randier than a royal. And, of course, these days
that's quite randy indeed.

"You've got a wonderful cock," Joan said then. "So big
and hard for me! Yes, darling, so big -- you're filling
me up!"

I knew it was acting, but who cared at that moment?
Whether it was her skill or my desire, I found her
histrionics more believable then than ever.

"Oh, oh, yes," she whispered. "I could ride you all
night. So wonderful!"

Indeed, at least from where I sat -- literally -- it
was wonderful. Joan was a very active lover, which more
than made up for a certain roominess in her
accommodations, if you perceive my meaning.

To put it crudely, she had a loose cunt. Clearly, she
was not an inexperienced maiden. But just as clearly,
with experience had come skill. Her pacing was
exquisite. Bouncing on my staff, she would surge to a
furious speed that had me so gripped by passion that my
head thrashed about and my fingernails dug into the
leather padding on the arms of my chair. Then, just as
I was sure I could take no more and must either find
release or die of ecstasy, Joan would make one more
descent, achingly slowly, and pause with my penis fully
engaged and her wet labia dripping over my crotch.

Thus she would remain for a minute or more, hugging me
closely or licking my face and upper torso. I would
gradually become aware of those portions of my body not
intimately engaged with her, realizing, for example,
that my back was drenched in sweat and had become glued
to the back of the chair.

Just as my heart rate returned to near normal, Joan
would begin to move again. Her rhythm was as regular as
the British Rail schedule -- before privatisation --
and her motion as inexorable as a train pulling away
from the station. Slowly at first, almost lifting off
me entirely, settling back down bit by bit. Then
picking up speed, with no pause at top or bottom of
stroke. Then faster yet, pounding away. Finally top
speed, up and down, up and down, no surcease, all
motion fast fast fast... And then back to where she
started.

At first, her artistry held me spellbound and I let her
control everything. In time, excitement overcame me and
I began to respond. Tentatively in the beginning, I
confess, but with increasing boldness and, if I may be
so immodest, no little amount of flair. As Joan sank
down on my penis I would thrust savagely upward,
impaling her deeper and deeper.

It was during one such enthusiastic thrust that Joan
let out a precipitous wail which echoed off the
claustrophobically close walls of my office. I feared
that, moreover, it would penetrate them. Indeed, even
as Joan's body was beginning to quiver, I saw the door
open and Miss Watson's nose precede her.

"Is everything all right, sir?" She got that far before
she stepped fully into the room. "I thought I heard...
Oh! Oh, my! I... " My grandmother, a rose fancier, had
a favorite varietal, named after an exceedingly obscure
former Princess Royal, which was, at full bloom, a pink
so ethereally luminescent as to glow at twilight. I
mention this fact because, at that moment, Miss
Watson's face was precisely the same hue.

She stood frozen in the doorway as Joan groaned through
an impressive orgasm. Hers was a climax on a par with a
classic performance. "The little death," the French
call a woman's orgasm, but there was nothing little
about Miss Collins's passionate gyrations and
exultations.

As she wound down, Joan must have noticed that my eyes
were transfixed, but not on her. With all the instincts
of a consummate actress, she turned just enough to see
who or what was stealing the scene.

Espying Miss Watson, Joan curled up the corners of her
brightly painted lips. "Close the door, love, won't
you? Or were you planning to sell tickets? Your
employer, here, doesn't seem to think I'd be much of a
draw."

Miss Watson blinked twice, then blindly fumbled for the
doorknob behind her back and clicked the door to. With
a blank expression, she turned away from us and took a
half-step toward the closed door. She stopped with a
jolt, as if surprised to find it there.

Whilst that was occurring, Joan had climbed off my
still-rigid penis and made her way around the desk. As
Miss Watson turned slowly back toward me, her brown
eyes already open wide, she was confronted by the sight
of Joan Collins, stark naked, advancing upon her. I
shuddered in sympathy, knowing just how she felt, as
Miss Watson cowered back against the door, groping for
the knob.

I was momentarily distracted by swaying orbs of Joan's
bum, so I am not quite clear just how she accomplished
it, but next thing I knew she had peeled my secretary
off the door and was ensconcing her in my visitor's
chair.

Joan was patting Miss Watson's hand and stroking her
cheek, which I took to be attempts to deal with what
appeared to be a mild case of shock. I was disabused of
that notion when Joan's stroking drifted downward to
encompass the younger woman's ample bosom.

Miss Watson's eyebrows shot up. "Really, sir," she
said, "if this is the sort of thing that goes on in
this office, I believe I shall have to give my notice.
Me mum warned me about you theatre people. Perverts,
the lot of them, she said."

"Er, yes," I hazarded. Naked as I was, and quite
tumescent, it was somewhat difficult to deal properly
with Joan's indiscretion. Still, Miss Watson was a
dependable and quite efficient secretary. I set my jaw.
"Just what are you playing at, Miss Collins?"

The actress's bum was wiggling directly in my face.
Most distracting. It was a relief when she turned
slightly toward me. "Don't be so huffy, darling. I am
doing this for you, you know." As she said it, Joan
began to unbutton Miss Watson's frilly white blouse.

"For me?" I sputtered.

"For him?" Miss Watson tremoloed.

Joan sighed. "Oh, really now. You know very well what I
mean. If we're all going to work together, we should
get past all this faux indignation. It's becoming quite
wearisome." She finished with the buttons and spread
open the blouse. Miss Watson, it was more evident than
ever, had the figure that Joan lacked. Her impressive
breasts were spilling out of a white lace brassiere in
a most fetching manner.

I could not agree with Miss Collins's assessment of my
indignation as false, but at the moment it seemed
rather a moot point. The view of Miss Watson's --
Emily, I remembered dimly from her application form --
the view of Emily's china-white breasts made me
reluctant to intervene in whatever Joan had planned.

My silence did appear to disconcert Emily. "Sir? Sir,
won't you do something?"

"He'll do something soon enough," Joan said as she
pulled down the zip of Emily's wool skirt and tugged it
off her, Emily lifting her hips absent-mindedly to
help. "Just you wait, sweetie darling. Joan's going to
have her fun first."

It was with rising interest -- not to mention a rising
penis -- that I watched Joan complete the stripping.
Emily frowned but obeyed as Joan instructed her to lift
her arms; off went the blouse. Her breasts popped free
when Joan unsnapped the bra. Last to come off were her
black tights and white cotton knickers. There Emily
was, naked as the day she was born, albeit much more
developed.

Emily was the only naked woman I'd ever seen who was
utterly devoid of tan lines -- indeed, utterly devoid
of tan. As a result, her skin retained the freshness
and softness of a baby. I shall not mention the obvious
contrast before me as Joan stroked my secretary's body.

Emily's lips were compressed to a thin line and her
arms were tight to her sides, but she offered no
resistance as Joan's fingers explored her everywhere.
Indeed, I do mean everywhere. In what I can only
describe as a Wilde scene, Joan inserted a finger into
Miss Watson's vagina. In less time than it takes to say
"Don't tell Maggie Thatcher," Emily's legs were spread
wide and Joan had two fingers inside her, diddling with
abandon.

A rosy flush spread across Emily's chest as her eyes
rolled back in her head. When Joan replaced her fingers
with her tongue, Miss Watson's head sagged back and her
delicate fingers became entwined in the older woman's
hair. To my own chagrin, I discovered that my hand had
found its way to my genitals and was performing the act
that made Onan famous. I staunchly forced myself to
desist, but I could not refrain from leaning over the
desk for a closer look at what I believe the movie
people refer to as girl-on-girl action.

Joan's head was by then firmly clamped between Emily's
thighs and she -- Miss Collins, that is -- was making
noises I have heard the like of only during my last
trip to France, which happened to coincide with truffle
season. Miss Watson, on the other hand, was murmuring
what I at first took to be the well-worn mantra, "om."
It was only after two minutes that it resolved itself
into "Ohhhhh my!"

After a series of juddering movements, Emily's legs
released their captive. Joan emerged with her makeup
utterly askew, dripping with Miss Watson's natural
lubricants.

She presented a facade not unlike a cross between a
Picasso and a Monet, an Impressionist abstract, lacking
only a gilt frame to qualify for display in the Tate.
Thus it was somewhat surprising when she spoke; it was
as if a sheep suddenly came wandering through a
Constable. "Your turn," Joan said to me.

I must have looked blank, for she went on. "Don't play
the fool with me. You two are made for each other. So
you might as well make each other. Oh! A joke! See,
darling, I can do comedy, too."

As she spoke, she was pulling Miss Watson out of the
chair and helping her up onto the desk. Emily lay on
her back, her long, shapely legs dangling off the left
side. She glanced at me -- I was so close that my
dangling rod was only centimeters from her nose -- but
quickly turned away and looked straight up at the
ceiling. I stared shamelessly at her body, spread
before me as if upon an altar. All those months Miss
Watson had been right outside my office door but I
noticed her only as much as one would a piece of
furniture. Then here she was, breasts proudly jutting
out, taut stomach, wide hips, and, of course, her
center of the world, her haven of bliss, her...

"You are going to fuck her, aren't you?" Joan's
interjection, with its use of the Anglo-Saxon
vulgarity, did at least serve to awaken me from my
admiring trance. I moved into position between Miss
Watson's legs, which spread apart as I approached.

I caressed her legs, letting their sinuous curves slip
through my fingers, and then placed her ankles on my
shoulders. As my penis brushed her waiting honeypot,
Emily looked at me through half-lidded eyes. And
smiled.

That was all the sign I needed. My shaft, abandoned too
long, greedily plunged into her slick, welcoming
tunnel. Scarcely had I entered, though, than I
encountered an unexpected obstruction. Could it be?
But, of course. I hesitated. I would have been a cad if
I had not.

But Miss Watson, gazing up at me, nodded and spoke.
"Take me," she said, "I'm yours."

Joan, who was standing behind me, added her
encouragement. "For heaven's sake, take her already,"
she said. And she suited action to the word by slapping
my bum. Instinctively I rocked my hips forward,
abruptly breaking my secretary's hymen.

"Oh," she said. "My." It was an entirely appropriate
response, and I felt honor-bound as a gentleman to
allow her to recuperate from the shock. Though, truth
be told, the temptation to begin stroking was immense.

Joan filled in the intermission, as it were, by
shuttling back and forth between Miss Watson and myself
whilst bestowing ardent kisses.

At last Emily bestirred herself, and I allowed myself
to hope. "Shall I?"

She smiled. "Oh, yes, please."

And so we began. It was a moving experience. Emily's
virginal vessel was a tight fit, tighter than any I had
previously experienced. To my delight, I found that it
magnified the sensations a hundredfold. As I stroked in
and out of her, I discovered a bliss I had never known
before. This was not mere sex; it was ecstasy. I
allowed myself a bellow of utter delight, and I do
believe Miss Watson was equally voluble in her
enjoyment. Indeed, she apparently felt moved to
unimaginable heights, for I would never have guessed my
demure secretary capable of uttering the memorable
phrase, "Fuck me harder, you big stud. More, more, I'm
still not satisfied!"

And so, of course, I was obliged to, as she requested,
fuck her harder. Regular as Big Ben I boffed her,
plugging away at her English flower. Miss Watson gave
as good as she got, meeting every one of my thrusts
with her own, shouting encouragement. So ardent was she
that her legs slipped off my shoulders. She wrapped
them around my waist and dug her heels into my
backside, riding me like the Queen's entry at Ascot.

All the while Joan was keeping herself occupied --
stroking Emily's bouncing breasts, giving me a wet
kiss, caressing our naughty bits.

It was a scene much wilder than I had ever dreamt of.
My visions of casting couches had involved furtive
fumblings on overstuffed sofas adorned with
antimacassars. Not a bloody orgy, which this had become
in all senses of the phrase, given the stain spreading
on my desktop from Miss Watson's initiation into the
full joys of womanhood.

Reveling in the moment, I continued to penetrate Emily
over and over at a furious pace. My previous escapades
with Joan apparently had endowed me with unusual
endurance, for I went well beyond the time normally
required to trigger my orgasm. So long, in fact, that I
was able to have the singular pleasure of feeling Emily
have her very first intercourse-generated climax, a
vibrating series of clenches and unclenches that tore
further indelicate expressions from her delicate mouth,
along the lines of "Oh, God, I can't believe it! Ergh,
ah, ahhhhh sweet fucking Godddddd!"

This was accompanied by her squeezing my body even
tighter between her legs and battering the backs of my
thighs with her heels. That, and just the length of
time we had been coupled, reduced me to a weak,
sweat-soaked automaton, barely able to stand. Miss
Collins came to the rescue -- a goer, she -- by
standing behind me, slipping between Emily's legs. Joan
hugged me from behind, spoon fashion, bolstering my
strength. And the feel of her curly pubic hairs on my
bum whilst I was connected to Miss Watson on the other
side had a most interesting effect. Quite the surprise
all round, I believe, when my member grew to previously
unknown girth.

With Joan directing from behind, in a spot of role
reversal, I slowed to a gentler, more languid rhythm of
sliding in and out of my secretary's hot, wet hole.
Emily's body slipped and skidded on my desk, now slick
with a variety of fluids. I had to grasp her hips to
hold her against me. I could feel her heart thumping
like the Westminster chimes. Her eyelids were
fluttering, half-closed, and her breath came in short
puffs in between my downstrokes.

I knew I was near the edge, but with heightened senses
the seconds stretched out like hours. For a minute or
two -- or was it a fortnight? -- I eased in and out,
giving every flicker of sensation its own moment in the
sun. With Joan plastered to my back, her hands running
over my chest, my entire body was on high alert.

Still I delved and Emily span and I played her vagina
like a violin. The crescendo, when it came, was a duet,
a symphony of sexuality. As I felt my insides tense,
Miss Watson's body arched off the desktop. As passion
exploded from my penis, her head thrashed from side to
side. My member pulsed over and over, white cream
oozing from her opening, as she reached up to her
breasts and squeezed them together, rolling the nipples
in her fingers. For a moment, or for an eternity, I
remained stiff and embedded in Emily's lushness, her
essence clutching at me in a close embrace. At last my
muscles lost tone, leaving me all the structural
integrity of a blancmange. Before I dissolved into a
pile of goo, I managed to crawl onto the desk and
collapse half next to and half atop Miss Watson. We
stroked each other's bodies softly and shared shy
kisses, basking in the afterglow.

"Very nice," Joan said. Emily and I looked up. She was
slipping into her dress. "You two go on as you were.
I'll have my people get in touch. I'm sure we shall
have a wonderful time collaborating." With one thin
eyebrow arched, she left the steamy office.

Certainly Miss Collins had made a strong case for her
talents, and she may end up with the role.

But Miss Watson suggests we bring in a few other
actresses first. I believe she has a point.