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From: max_wojtylak@yahoo.com (theGreatxIam)
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Subject: {ASSM} Royal Dynasty (MFF, celeb, hum) Silver Surfer #5
Date: Sat, 13 Apr 2002 08:10:07 -0400
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NOTE: I hereby grant permission for all archiving and other uses of
this work, public or private, free or paid, in any format whether
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made to the body of the work. Copyright 2002, 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 All-Nude 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.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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