Is He There...with You?
By Don Winslow

Part 1

"Is he there.. .with you?" The voice was low, barely audible, but 
unmistakable - that raspy, by-now-familiar voice that inevitably launched a 
shiver of electricity up her spine.

She turned her close-cropped, blond head to glance over her shoulder, as if 
to assure herself of his presence, although she knew quite well that the boy 
would stay put.  He hadn't moved; still sat there, slouched back in the 
comfortably in the white-upholstered, wind-backed chair, legs crossed, one 
booted foot on the pearl gray carpet, the other swinging idly as if he were 
relaxed.  He watched her with a half-smile playing across his lips.

"Yea, he's here," Renata whispered, turning her back to the phone, bringing 
her lips closer to the receiver. Already her words were being choked by the 
rising sense of anticipation she felt, the familiar tingling his phone calls 
always stirred up in her.

"What's his name? Do you know his name?"

She swallowed, hard, twice, before she could speak. She took a deep breath. 
"It's Alain. His name's Alain...he's a student," she added helpfully, sensing 
the guy behind her shifting in his seat at the sound of his name.

"What's he look like?"

Renata resisted the impulse to turn and inspect her guest. Instead, she 
lowered her head over the phone, spoke into the receiver, talking from 
memory.

"He's young, probably early 20s; slim-build; with dark, wavy hair. He's 
wearing a T-shirt and jeans. And one of those black leather jackets. Looks a 
little like James Dean."

There was a pause. Renata waited.

"And you? What are you wearing?" The disembodied voice bore in on her in that 
flat, insistent monotone of his.

Of course, there was no need for him to ask that. He knew perfectly well what 
she was wearing. He knew that by now, she would have received his printed 
instructions in the mail   And she'd follow those instructions, just as she 
always did, to the letter, wearing whatever he wanted her to wear.

"I'm wearing a white dress, with buttons up the front. It has a loose, 
pleated skirt. And stockings, also white, of course and a pair of matching 
heels." She was about to add: 'just as you wanted'; but she bit off the 
words. There was no need, and besides, he might take it as an impertinence.  

Renata waited in silence for what seemed a long time.  Only the hollow sound 
of the open phone; his faint, shallow breathing, assured her that he was 
still there -out there, somewhere in Paris.

"And what else? What do you have on under that pretty white dress of yours?' 
his deepening voice teased.

Alain, sitting behind her, could not see that blond face, as the tip of the 
tongue emerged to quickly lick across working lips. The tense woman sucked in 
a breath before continuing on in a conspiratorial whisper, super-aware that 
her companion, although he seemed totally indifferent, was, in fact, 
listening to her every word.

"Nothing. I'm wearing a garter belt to hold up my stockings. That's all." The 
words came out in a low, breathy voice.

"You're not wearing underwear?" The voice was tinged with mock surprise.

"That's right," she nodded, her back carefully turned towards her curious 
guest, as she hunched over the phone

"Say it!"

"I'm not wearing underwear," the girl breathed into the phone.

"No brassiere?' He was goading her, forcing her, not for the first time, to 
humiliate herself by using her very own
words.

"No brassiere." Renata felt herself warm with the flush of embarrassment. 

"And no panties?'

Renata took a deep breath to steady her labored breathing. With her free 
hand, she raked clawed fingers
through her close-cropped shag.

"No panties," she acknowledged in a hoarse whisper. There was another pause.

"What's he doing now?"  The pace of questioning quickened;  Renata smiled to 
hear the eagerness her controller was unable to suppress. 

"He's sitting here... not far from me, just across the room, in the chair by 
the windows."  This time, when she glanced over her shoulder, she found the 
young man grinning at her, his eyes sparkling with interest.  She realized he 
was starting to catch on, intrigued, clearly enjoying the unfolding game. She 
quickly locked away, ducking her head to hide her embarrassment.

"And he can see you clearly, from where he's sitting?'

"Yes."

"Good! I want you to turn your back on him, and than lift up your skirt" The 
woman closed her eyes as the shudder of lust slammed through her, leaving her 
weak in the knees. She swayed forward, had to put out a hand on the desk to 
steady herself.

"Do it!" he hissed.

Renata pulled herself together; straightened. Keeping her back towards the 
boy, she cradled the phone in the crook of her neck and reached behind her to 
gather up the beck of her dress, grabbing handfuls of material to hoist the 
skirt up, uncovering the entire lengths of a pair of slim, tapering legs, set 
close together in their sheer, white stockings.

"Have you done it?"  he wanted to know.

"Yes." Her whisper was barely audible. She felt her insides go soft and mushy 
as she stood there, holding her skirt up, knowing she was brazenly baring 
herself; showing her buttocks to the young man's astonished eyes. Renata 
obeyed....did it because she had no choice. Months ago, she had surrendered 
her will to that raspy, hypnotic voice -- her "controller".   The name came 
to her, as she thought of his phone calls, his remote, clinically-detached 
voice.  That was how she thought of him now, and would always think of him -- 
"her controller," somewhere out there.


Part 2 

As she stood studying the dusky rose of the patterned wallpaper, the 
embossed, elegant swirls of intricate design, her thoughts went  back to that 
misty day in April, when it all started.  How effortless it all had seemed -- 
to slip into that fantasy world he offered up to her.  It was easy, and safe.  
A simple thing really. to pretend to be all hot and bothered; worked up by 
his hoarse words, to fake an orgasm over the phone, even as she lay in her 
peach silk lounging pajamas, languidly draped along the brushed velvet of the 
scrolled divan, idly flipping through a glossy fashion magazine, the phone 
cradled to one ear.  She didn't have the speaker-phone then.  That came only 
later -- his idea, of course.  Renata (not her true name, then, or now), 
always had a flair for the dramatic; she thought it might be fun to play the 
role, a bit of a lark, nothing more.

She really wasn't prepared for a life after Jean-Paul; a middle-aged woman, 
who still had her good looks, but who had lost her moorings.  She found 
herself at loose ends, bored, restless, and wanting something vague and 
unreachable. And then this happened.  She sometimes thought it might be 
amusing to answer one of "those" phone calls.

The only one Renata knew who had actually received such a call was Veronique, 
who one day over lunch, had regaled them with the tale of her encounter with 
a "heavy breather."  It was a funny story, how she had led the poor creature 
on, only to put him firmly in his place at the end.  Veronique threw back 
that thick, burnished mane of hers and let out one of her low, throaty 
laughs, an infectious laugh that had them all joining in, giggling like 
schoolgirls and shaking their heads at the male of species, and those poor, 
perverted souls who had to resort to the telephone because their sexless 
lives were so barren.  

Renata found the memory of that lunch with the girls coming back to her at 
odd times.  And then, one day, such a call actually came her way!  She found, 
to her surprise, that she was intrigued, even a bit aroused, actually turned 
on by the game being so masterfully played out over the telephone lines.  Her 
fingertips dipped into the slippery silk, sampling the slick fabric, sliding 
the thin filmy material up and down along an inner thigh.  She felt the urge 
to touch herself, to relieve the pressure, to fondle her needy sex  -- just 
at the moment when he ordered her to do that very thing!   The man's timing 
was impeccable!  He made it all seem like the most natural thing in the 
world.  

Then there were the things he would make her say:  forcing her to talk dirty, 
to say the most unspeakable things, describing sex acts in graphic detail for 
him in halting words that, once they started to flow, made her quiver with a 
deep, perverse thrill.  Poor Renata could do nothing else; simply surrender 
to his voice, to the man who called her on the phone, her will evaporating 
before his.  For him, she became "Renata," his Renata, no more than putty in 
his hands.  A girl who would insert a finger, or two in her vagina at his 
insistence, squeezing her cupped hand tight between clenched thighs; gulping 
in shivering mouthfuls of air, squirming in incredible, unbearable heat.

"Well, are you doing it? Are you showing him that pretty derriere - waving 
that naughty ass of yours in his face?" he wanted to know, so pathetically 
eager to have her say the words that his desperation crackled through.

"Yes, I'm showing him.my bottom?" Renata breathed, surprising herself by the 
whiskey huskiness that lowered her voice.

 There was another pause.

"Your ass," he corrected, dryly.

"My ass."

"Your bare ass."

"My bare ass."   The white-blond head nodded her shuddering agreement; eyes 
tightly shut.

"What's he doing?"

As she stood there, holding handfuls of her dress up around her waist, she 
looked over her shoulder at the young lad to see him sitting upright, 
straining forward in his chair.  He looked like a hunting dog, a black-haired 
pointer, alert and poised. The look of curious interest that had appeared on 
his face, was gradually yielding to a lines of shrewd lust.  His gray eyes 
narrowed as she watched her, calculating his chances. His restless gaze 
flickered from the blonde's perfectly rounded, tight-cheeked bottom, to that 
face that looked over her shoulder at him.  He was searching those deep brown 
eyes for an invitation he felt sure was there.  He fought the urge to go to 
her, to take her in his arms.  He didn't dare to move.   As for Renata, she 
gave him no encouragement, just looked back at him with that frank, 
unwavering stare.

He knew the rules.  The minute they stepped into her flat, she had warned him 
-- he must stay seated in that cream-colored chair in the corner by the 
window, no matter what happened. He dared not disobey.  If he stood up now, 
the spell might be broken; this astonishing, unbelievable game come to a 
swift end. Above all, he mustn't let that happen!

Young Alain couldn't believe his luck: to be picked up by this beautiful 
blonde; brought up to her tastefully-furnished flat in the fashionable town 
house; apparently to be witness to the seductive pas de deux she played with 
the telephoned voice, as if he had walked in on a play in progress, one that 
he didn't quite understand.   So he did nothing -- sat there with a growing 
erection, paralyzed, feeling awkward, and suddenly very immature, in the 
hands of this sophisticated lady.
		
Renata kept her gaze carefully neutral, boldly meeting the lad's questioning 
eyes.  In the end, it was he who turned away.  Only then did she turn her 
back to him, to mutter into the phone.

"He's just sitting there, looking at me." The words came out in a heated 
rush. The flush of deep humiliation rushed through her to the roots of her 
hair. Her voice slipped into the same detached monotone her controller so 
often used, although she had to work to keep her mounting excitement from 
breaking through at every word he spoke.

"Regardez vous, Monsieur Alain. Look at what our Renata has to offer to a 
man!" the voice boomed.

"Such an ass! A womanly ass; perfectly shaped, nicely plump, with a certain 
of air of impertinence, don't you agree?  An ass designed to make love to, or 
possibly even to spank a bit, if that sort of thing appeals to you.  Renata 
would not object, I can assure you.  And she loves showing it off, you know.  
You should have seen her last summer, at Saint-Tropez, prancing about in 
those absurdly high sandals, wearing nothing but a pair of oversized 
sunglasses, and the skimpiest of throngs!  Truly, a shameless hussy!  

You know, Mon Ami, our Renata has always been a show-off, .a born 
exhibitionist!  Even as a child, she loved to pick up her party dress and do 
her dance for them at the least provocation, a cute little girl with big 
brown eyes, charming the adults around her with her upturned smile, showing 
them her brightly flowered underpants as she swirled about in mad, giddy 
circles.  I know all about her, you see.  Renata has no secrets from me. I 
know how much she wants to flaunt it, even now, to show you all she has, to 
wag that saucy ass of hers in your face -- Ma Cheri; ma fille de joie." 

Throughout this soliloquy the slender girl never moved, just stood there, 
hoisted-up skirt bunched in her clenched fists.   Her young observer studied 
her back, wondering what thoughts were going through that pale blond head, 
while she heard the secrets of her childhood revealed to a complete stranger.

And what of Renata?  She stood stock still, her skirt hitched up around her 
naked haunches, staring at the wall.  Her thoughts were not of childish 
pleasures, but of the day when he first made her take her clothes off:  
undressing for him in the privacy of her own flat, tingling with sexy 
readiness.  What was it about knowing that he was there, imagining what she 
looked like, at the other end of the open phone?  And so she did it; took off 
her clothes for him, just as she would do whatever he wanted, absurdly, 
childishly eager to please this man -- her controller.  She learned to listen 
for the first hint of delight in that normally emotionless voice, a tightly-
controlled voice that sometime cracked under the strain, sending a thrill of 
triumph rocketing through Renata.  He might be pleased, yet he was never 
satisfied, this disembodied master of hers.  The man was insatiable, tearing 
from her one gut-wrenching orgasm after another, until she was left 
exhausted, sprawled out limp on the velvet divan, her heart pounding, 
sweating and quivering, panting like a racehorse after a spirited heat. 

"Now, if you've had a good look, Monsieur Alain, we must get on with it." The 
voice that broke into her thoughts took on a fresh crispness.  Orders were to 
be given!

"Renata, you may lower your dress; then open up the front, three buttons 
should do it, just enough to give our 'James Dean' a peek at those pretty 
breasts of yours.  Make sure he stays in that chair! I want you to go to him, 
and kneel down right in front of him, close enough so he can see down the 
front of your dress.  And then I want you to put your hand on the front of 
his pants, directly on the crotch. Go on, now.  Do it!  But first, turn on 
the speaker-phone."

Renata let her skirt fall into place, smoothened it down with a prim gesture. 
With her back still towards guest, she covertly worked open the top few 
buttons down the front of her dress. Then she straightened, switched on the 
speaker, and walked over to the utterly-fascinated lad she had picked up at 
the bistro, less than an hour before. From under a shock of smooth black 
hair, his eyes looked up and widened as the attractive blonde closed on him. 
He started to rise, but she smiled down at him; slowly shook her head. 
Without a word, she placed a hand against his shoulder and pressed the gaping 
lad back down into the chair.  With a single finger she touched his cheek, 
traced a line down the side of his face, looking down on him with a teasing 
sparkle in her deep, brown eyes.

END OF PART 2



Part 3.

Alain was afraid to move a muscle.  He sat with mouth fallen open, utterly 
fascinated to see this elegant, mature woman submissively take her prescribed 
place, falling to her knees before him.  His eyes were instantly drawn down 
the billowy front of her dress, held there by the seductive sway of her loose 
tits - small, tautly curved, defiantly jutting tits.  They nestled cozily in 
the gaping bodice.  He need only reach down to scoop out those frisky, 
unfettered breasts.  It was a temptation he had to fight to resist.

As the kneeling girl reached out to steady herself, her hand touched his 
knee, burning though the denim jeans.  And before he could react, the other 
hand planted itself, quite deliberately, directly centered on his crotch!

"Well?  Where are you?  Have you done it yet?" The ethereal voice abruptly 
demanded, filling the room, startling both the participants.

"Yes, I'm kneeling at his feet," the woman acknowledged, all the while 
looking up at the barely-controlled boy from under her fine lashes, studying 
his reactions with those wonderful brown eyes as her inquisitive fingers 
found the tented lump of his semi-rigid penis.

"Bon!  And your hand?   It is on his lap?"

"Oui."

"Tres bien.  So now you can feel his hard, young cock.feel it right through 
his clothes?"   He wanted to know.  Her controller's voice had picked up a 
tinge of excitement -- that made Renata smile.  Splaying out her fingers, she 
avidly explored the tented outline of Alain's bulging manhood.

"Yes, I can . . .feel his cock." The words came out in a breathy growl that 
sent a shiver of electricity through young Alain, who, having planted his 
booted feet flat on the floor, now let his knees fall weakly apart.

"Good.  Now, I want you to play with him. Don't take it out," he cautioned 
quickly, stopping her hands in mid-air just as they reached for the zipper. 
"Just handle him a bit through his clothes. Get him nicely up-standing for 
you."

Renata thrilled as the unmistakable surge of raw masculine power infused the 
young man, who stiffened under her touch.  Swelling and lengthening, the 
lust-engorged penis uncoiled, expanding into full blossom. The boy squirmed 
in his seat as his covered prick stirred, sprang upright, tightened the front 
of his jeans. Renata laid her flattened palm along that solid shaft and 
pressed firmly, deeply caressing the still-covered, quivering cock with her 
deliciously slow hand.

Alain tore his eyes from those enticing, sexy breasts, to look up and find 
the girl regarding him from under lowered lashes.  Her hand kept up its 
exquisite torture, the slow, rhythmic stroking of his throbbing prick. Alain 
sucked in a shivering hiss of air: his hips arched up, instinctively seeking 
ever more of that deep-seated pleasure.

"A randy little minx, our Renata,"  the words came to him, as he slid lower in 
his seat.  "She just can't keep her hands off the nearest cock. She loves 
it..loves a big, stiff cock. Don't you, Ma Cheri?"

"Ohhh, yes, I love it, . . . love a big stiff cock," she breathed, repeating 
the lewd words with such genuine sincerity that a shudder of lust rippled 
through Alain. 

An exaggerated sigh of weary forbearance filled the room. One could almost 
see the remote controller slowly shaking his head.  "Ah well, that's our 
Renata for you, Mon Ami.  She's really nothing but a whore you know, one 
might think of her as an expensive whore, to be sure, but still a whore.  She 
can't help herself when anything in pants walks by.  Tell us, Ma Cheri, how 
do you like this young man's prick?  Can you feel him growing in your hands?  
You must tell me when you have him ready."

"Oh...he's ready!" the words came out in a low, earthy chuckle; taloned 
fingers closed on the spongy-yet-firm shaft, giving the lad an urgent, hard, 
reassuring squeeze through layers of pants and underwear.
	
"Yes, he's ready," the voice agreed knowingly.  She could imagine him nodding 
sagely -- her controller, the man who reached out to her from somewhere far 
away.  "A randy young stud like our friend Alain, your 'James Dean', he's 
hard as a rock, always ready to fuck, no?"

'Yes, he's ready to fuck."

"To fuck you," he added.

"To fuck me," she agreed, pale blond head nodding her acquiescence.  Renata's 
lowered voice had taken on a dream-like quality, and her searching gaze never 
left the astonished boy's handsome face, as her adept, pleasuring hand kept 
up its slow, seductive dance with his straining manhood.

By now, Renata's hand seemed to have a life of its own, the fleshy heel of 
her palm pressing in, moving up and down in even rhythm to the dull voice 
that floated through the air.  Driven to the very edge, the poor lad gulped 
down the creamy rise of pleasure that threatened to overwhelm him. A wild 
thrill rocketed through him; he was instantly torn between sprawling out to 
surrender himself to the deft, feminine touch, and grabbing the girl to stop 
the maddening, unrelenting hand before things went too far, and he creamed 
his jeans like some horny teenager.

Abruptly, a tickling surge of lust threatened to erupt in him, and he 
instinctively reacted, bolting upright. In a flash, his hand shot down to 
clamp that slender wrist right over the gold Cartier watch she wore, stopping 
the dreamy masturbation in mid-stroke. A silly grin was plastered on his 
face. Renata understood, of course.  She nodded, relaxed her grip, releasing 
her captive, although she kept her hand in place, still covering his 
throbbing, tented prick, just letting her soft hand rest there while allowing 
her helpless victim the time he needed to swallow down the rising lust, and 
recover a bit of his rapidly-slipping control.

"Tell me, Monsieur Alain, what do you think of my Renata?"

Alain's mouth was dry. He struggled to form an answer; to say something, 
anything!  He felt like a child who had fallen in among adults, mysterious 
grownups who were playing a game he didn't totally understand. This was 
incredible! It couldn't be happening to him!  The woman before him shifted on 
her knees, then settled back to perch on her tucked-in heels.  The hand 
stayed in place.  He savored the heat of that soft, cupped hand burning 
through his pants - that elegant hand that rested so protectively over his 
still-quivering cock. The lady was watching him, painted lips curled in a 
thin, knowing smile.

"She's very.. .pretty," was the best he could manage to get out, instantly 
cursing himself for his stupidity. To make up for it, he tired to give the 
woman who knelt at his feet, the most winsome smile he could muster.

"Yes, she is pretty," the voice agreed. "More than pretty, beautiful in fact. 
You'd love to fuck her! What red-blooded male wouldn't? A highly attractive 
woman, my Renata. Put a woman on her knees, and she becomes the most 
desirable woman in the world. Just look at her! What I am offering you is not 
a roll in the hay with some silly college girl who might be talked into 
opening her legs for you because you're 'cute'. No, what you see before you 
is a mature, sensual woman; an experienced woman. She's intelligent, 
charming, sophisticated, and quite sexy.  And she has the kind of body many 
younger girls would envy. The body of goddess; the soul of a whore. Here, let 
me show you."

"Stand up, Renata.  I'm sure our guest would like to more fully appreciate 
your manifest charms.  Now, stand up, and take off your dress."

The half-smile the blonde girl was giving the dark-haired boy never wavered 
as she rose to her feet. Alain watched those exquisitely-made hands as they 
went to the front of her dress. The fingers began undoing the remaining 
buttons, while she looked deep into the eyes of her beholder. Hypnotized, he 
watched the slim blonde silently disrobe, peeling the loose dress back, 
freeing supple arms, twisting naked shoulders. She let the loose dress 
slither down her torso, baring a pair of taut, low-slung breasts that fell 
forward and settled with a soft wobble; showing them to him, letting him take 
in her jutting curves.

The student from the streets sat with legs splayed open, sporting an aching, 
incredibly hard erection.  He was helpless; could do nothing but watch in awe 
as this attractive, mature woman stripped for him, riding the bunched dress 
down her streamlined loins, stepping free of the white dress, tossing it 
casually aside to stand erect, like a reigning monarch.   She was a queen 
impervious to mere mortals, those who might look, or not look.  It was all of 
sublime indifference to her. Her calm, unruffled manner took the lad's breath 
away as he beheld the blond girl poised before him; her neat, sinuous lines, 
splendidly nude, but for the lacy white elastic of the tautly-stretched 
garter belt, which hitched up those smooth, nylon stockings.

As his eyes took in the aching beauty of that mouth-watering nude, the 
omnipresent voice intruded, suddenly filling the room:

"You have before you a woman who was created to be appreciated, I'm sure you 
will agree. Look at those breasts!  Not a very generous bosom, it's true.   
In fact, one might say she is a small-breasted woman.  Yet those lively tits 
of hers are firm and out-standing, emboldened with those wide aureolea.  And 
our girl's sensitive nipples are really quite responsive, of that I can 
assure you".

Alain's gaze took in those jutting, conical breasts with their protruding 
nipples, the lithe shoulders, the sinuous flow of that extended torso, the 
low-slung hips, their points so prominent, the shallow curve of that 
insloping belly, to fall ultimately, upon the furry delta so serenely, so 
unassumingly presented between those still, sinuous legs. Young Alain was 
contemplating Renata's furry vulva, when the voice broke into his reverie, as 
if reading his mind:

"And what of her cunt, eh? A most attractive pussy, no?  As you can see, 
Monsieur Alain, the color of the hair between her legs is not true to that on 
the lady's head.  A fact that does not escape the notice of her more intimate 
companions.  Still, our Renata, like all women, must be allowed to have her 
secrets, eh?"

In fact, the nude girl sported a netherbeard of soft brown curlings, a puffy 
tuft of fine hair into which the tantalized lad longed to dip his fingers and 
sample the silky pussyfur.  Under the shadowy haze of that wispy pubic hair, 
the labia could be dimly seen, a neat tuck, pursed lips of dusky pink, 
embedded in a slight bulge.

END OF PART 3


 
Part 4

*****

Heads turned when she walked by:  a glamorous blonde making her way through 
the crowded boulevard Saint-Germain. From behind her dark glasses, the girl 
watches her progress in the windows of the chic boutiques that line the 
block.  On a warm summer's day, she would be wearing a thin, lightweight 
frock, something flowery and sunny, with a loose skirt, a wide vinyl belt, 
and spaghetti straps that loop her lightly-tanned shoulders.  A passel of 
brightly colored shopping bags hang from the hooked fingers of one hand, 
while the other hand rests easily on the smart, compact purse which rides at 
her hip. This is not some casual shopper, but a woman striding confidently, 
with a purposeful click to her high-heeled sandals.  The eyes that follow 
Renata as she strolls along the boulevard are drawn by both her striking 
beauty, and her marvelous savoir-faire.

And because Renata was such a self-confident woman, she never doubted for a 
moment that she could contain her secret: this hidden life she had with her 
"controller."  One part of her brain told her it would be quite easy, 
absurdly easy really.  She need only pretend, to play act for him.  But to 
her growing alarm, it wasn't long before things started to slip away from 
her.  All too quickly, the game had become an obsession, both players locked 
in, each seeking greater and greater heights of stimulation. 

He was insatiable! The man pushed her constantly, forcing her to extend 
boundaries, driving the distracted girl to the outer fringes of sexuality, as 
her resistance weakened under his steady, unrelenting assault.  Soon her real 
life began to bleed into the private world he created with his calls.  It 
became impossible to keep the two worlds separated, to keep things from him, 
not to tell him the truth, the whole truth.  He was very strict with her.  
His raspy, impatient voice entered her very soul, demanded honesty, ruthless, 
detailed honesty, and she yielded to him, acquiesced in his bizarre wishes.  
She sensed instinctively that he would know if she held back, that he would 
be displeased.  Her controller.

He insisted she have no secrets from him.  He wanted to know all about Jean-
Paul, her marriage, and the divorce.  What was he like in bed?  How did they 
make love?  How did she like to be touched?  Just where, and in what manner?  
What did she like most about being with a man?  He wasn't satisfied until he 
learned all about her love life, her needs, and her wants.  Even her secret 
fantasies were dredged up, and held up to the light to be examined.

She was made to recount her first girlhood experiences, her sexual awakening, 
her adolescent dalliances, the boys and young men; the romantic interludes 
that marked her life before Jean-Paul.  These torrid descriptions invariably 
led to her pleasuring herself while he stayed on the phone, and even as she 
was in act of self love, she had to keep up a detailed account.  She would be 
forced to pleasure herself, and then describe what she was feeling, how she 
was responding to each of his commands:  the tingly feeling in her wrists, 
her insides turning to mush, the rising heat of passion, the throb in her 
loins, how her breasts got that certain heaviness to them.   Her sensitive 
nipples, tightening with excitement were the first to betray her, as they 
always did, and then there was her copious flow, the wetness between her legs 
that saturated her pussy hair, and sheened her inner thighs.  He had her dip 
her fingers in the wetness, bring her fingers to her nose, inhale deeply, 
drink in her own musky smell -- the smell of a bitch in heat.  He made her 
lick her fingers.
 
And so Renata spiraled down deeper and deeper into this strange affair.   
There was the still the occasional flare of rebellion, like the day she first 
blurted out a protest, accusing him of wanting to be her "controller".  He 
paid not the slightest attention to such half-hearted resistance; seemed not 
even to notice.  But thereafter, that was how she came to think of him, 
whenever she picked up the phone and heard that raspy, disembodied voice -- 
her controller.  The words sent a shiver of lust through her.  

And so Renata moved through life like some mindless robot, following each 
sexual demand to the letter, even though she knew he could never be 
absolutely sure of her obedience.  It didn't matter.  She would follow 
orders: no matter how bizarre, perverse, or outrageous.  She would do 
whatever he wanted, all alone, with just his voice, in the privacy of her 
flat, squirming hotly on her divan, on the thickly-carpeted floors, 
masturbating for that disembodied voice that controlled her destiny from 
somewhere in the city.  

With his insatiable demands, and her own growing obsession, the game followed 
its inevitable course.  Then one day, he took a step from which there was no 
turning back.  He sent her out -- out of her comfortable flat, her sanctuary.  
Taking their secret with her, she went into the city to do his bidding.  It 
scared her, but by now, she had no choice. She had this uneasy feeling: the 
game was spinning rapidly out of control.

That was the day Renata, with butterflies of excitement in the pit of her 
stomach, was sent to a certain hotel at an address he had given her.  It was 
a small, undistinguished place, along the Seine, overlooking a quay that was 
cluttered with river traffic.  It was a dingy old building, quite 
nondescript.  The facade was dull and gray; dirt-streaked windows blankly 
faced the street without apparent interest.

The desk clerk squatted on splayed elbows, slumped half-way over the sill of 
the high-set opening in the door of the reception area.  He reminded Renata 
of a complaisant lizard.  The half-lidded, reptilian eyes lit up when he saw 
the attractive blonde stride through the doors.  This was not the sort of 
clientele to which his hotel was accustomed.  Normally renting rooms by the 
hour, to fun-loving sailors and dock workers, the desk clerk had become 
accustomed to part-time lovers.  But here was a single, glamourous woman, 
crisply self-confident, well-dressed in a trim business suit.  This was a 
woman of obvious taste, who might well be entering to inquire as to the 
address of a more respectable hotel.  Renata strode up to the lizard's cubby 
hole, ignored his smarmy grin, and coolly ordered a room for one, a room 
overlooking the river, as "he" had specified.  'No', she told the inquiring 
lizard, meeting those beady eyes with a  bold stare as he handed her the key 
-- Madam had no luggage.

The room, like the hotel itself, was non-descript: a plain, sparsely-
furnished box.  It contained a thread-bare rug, a bed covered in faded rose 
chintz, a small chest of drawers complete with a tarnished ovaled mirror, and 
a single chair.  The room's only redeeming feature was the set of tall glass 
doors that opened onto a tiny balcony surrounded by a wrought iron railing.   
Renata was immediately drawn to the window with its view of the quay below.  
She paused to consider the view for a moment or two, before stepping back 
from the window, and beginning to take off her clothes.  As she removed her 
jacket, she noticed that her hands were shaking.  And as she opened the first 
button on her blouse, a wave of randiness rippled through the girl. 

 She forced herself to take her time, stripping methodically, carefully 
removing and folding each item of clothing, till she was wearing nothing but 
her watch.  Then, she plunked her bare bottom on the chintz bedspread, and 
waited for the phone to ring, sitting on the edge of the bed, legs crossed, 
without a stitch on, contemplating the bleak walls, nervous, occasionally 
checking her watch.  And when it did ring, it startled the keyed up woman.  
She glanced at her watch.  Right on time, of course.  With her heart pounding 
with excitement, she brought the receiver to her ear.

"Are you naked?"  her controller asked.  He never wasted time on polite 
preliminaries.

"Oui," she whispered.

What followed were detailed instructions.  It was expected that they would be 
obeyed, to the letter. She was to go to the glass doors, to reach high 
overhead for the drapery rod, to spread her legs, and then to press her nude, 
splayed out body up against the glass -- "so I can see you" he had said, in a 
heated whisper.  The prospect made her shudder with a surge of excitement as 
she realized that the man was out there, undoubtedly spying on her, perhaps 
with binoculars, or even a telescope mounted in one of the tall buildings 
across the river, the ones that towered over the modest hotel.  

She followed his orders, her body tingling, heart racing, stretched out 
naked, up against the glass, hoping no one below, some four stories below, 
would pick that moment to look up.  She was made to hold the pose for five 
full minutes.  And she did so, swallowing down the rising tide of lust, 
biting her lip, clutching the drape rod tightly, arching her body to press 
her flattened breasts hard against the glass, showing herself to him.to the 
world.  The orgasm that followed, once she was released and allowed to throw 
herself on the bed and masturbate furiously, was earth-shattering, and 
profoundly moving.

******

Thus was the first of a series of excursions Renata was to make.  One night, 
after a particularly intense bout of remotely-directed, self-love, she lay 
sprawled open and panting, thoroughly depleted, the sheen of  wetness on her 
inner thighs slowly drying in the warmth of the room.  She was only half-
conscious, savoring the afterglow of a tremendous climax that slowly ebbed 
away, when he gave her the order that wrenched yet another throbbing surge of 
lust through her spent body.

She was to shower and dress, put on her makeup, and brush her cropped hair, 
and then slither into a tight, provocative dress, shiny black.  Smoky nylons 
and the absurdly high heels of a painted whore completed the sexy outfit.  
And thus brazenly dolled up, she was to go out into the night.  The thought 
brought a flush of heat to the points of her fine-boned cheeks as she 
examined herself in the mirror, tugging the snug dress into place.  Made up 
like a call girl in her short, shimmering dress, she was to frequent the 
bistros by the big hotels, in the tourist district.  It was made clear to her 
that she was being sent out on the prowl, to pick up a man, any man, and 
bring him back to her flat, keeping him there with her, while the two of them 
waited for a certain phone call.

He assured her it would be an easy matter for her to pick up a man -- a 
pretty girl like her. She need only glance their way, raise an eyebrow, and 
men would follow her with their tongues hanging out, like a pack of slavish 
dogs in heat.  He would send Renata out into the night on a mission to pick 
up man, or perhaps even,.a woman.  He had hinted about last possibility on 
more than one occasion, though he had thankfully not followed through on that 
particular threat, at least not yet. 

Now Renata was torn, her heart was pounding.  The woman was frantic, unsure 
as to what to do.  Could she do it even if she wanted to?  Could she pull it 
off; follow such an insane order?  It was no longer a safe game they played 
in the privacy of her flat; now their little game held a definite element of 
danger.

In the end, of course, she acquiesced, as he knew she would.  Once again, 
Renata called upon her acting ability, determined to take on the role to 
which she had been assigned. Her first "guest" turned out to be a 
businessman, middle-aged and balding, through not bad looking.  He was so 
absurdly grateful for the good fortune that he offered her money, practically 
begged her to become his mistress!  Then there was the American, a tourist, 
whose French was passable.  He was older, warm and friendly with kindly eyes 
and a shock of gray hair, like an affectionate uncle. 

As she gained confidence, she became determined to find someone she found 
more attractive, and so she had settled on Alain in his short, ankle-length 
boots, and his black leather jacket: young and handsome, with a certain macho 
swagger, and a youthful arrogance she found so delightful. It would be the 
boy with the thick, wavy hair, the dark-haired James Dean, she decided; he 
would do quite nicely.

END OF PART 4


Part 5

Renata stood with feet together, legs straight, hands at her side, showing 
herself, naked and open  before the seated stranger.  Every nerve in her body 
tingled with anticipation.  She was warmed by the look of hunger she saw in 
his eyes; felt the answering ache of longing in her own loins, a need that 
grew with gnawing urgency.  Neither player moved.

"You want her, eh, Monsieur Alain?" His voice was there, filling the air.  
"She's ready for you.  You can tell.  Test her if you like.  Go on.  Renata 
has no objections," he urged; confident, sure of himself.  Then, to the 
waiting nude: "Come Cherie, spread your legs for us."

She moved to obey.  Putting her hands on her hips, she widened her stance, 
planting stockinged feet more widely on the thick carpet.  Alain leaned 
forward in his chair, and looked up to her inquisitively, as though seeking 
permission; but she took no notice of him.  She held herself aloof, eyes 
locked on some distant horizon.  He reached out to touch her lightly-furred 
sex, loosely cupping his hand to insert two fingers just between her legs.  
He used the fingertips to lightly trace along her slick labia.  His touch 
between her legs nearly caused Renata to swoon.  She swayed dizzily, closed 
her eyes; stifled a tiny moan.  Alain retrieved his fingers to find them wet 
with the woman's sexual spendings.

"She's wet, isn't she?" the voice asked, as if reading his mind.  And when 
there was no answer from the seated lad who was looking up her, and rubbing 
his fingers.  The voice persisted: "Well?!"

"Oui, she is dripping wet.

There was smug satisfaction in the response.  "Yes, she's easily turned on, 
you see, a veritable little fountain."  And then:

"Shove a finger up her cunt!"

The effect of the lewd order was electric.  The young lad shifted eagerly 
forward in his chair.  His eyes flickered up to that impassive blond face.

He reached for her, fingered the moist netherlips, probing between the slick 
folds with his middle finger.  Then the finger was in, smoothly penetrating 
to slide right up the silken sheath of Renata's gaping cunt.  Now he held her 
by the soft, warm pussy cuddled in his palm, one finger hooked up and 
inserted in her vagina.  She looked down at him, her eyes widening as the 
finger inside her wiggled. Renata sucked in a shiver of air.  He jiggled his 
hand. She put a hand on his shoulder as she quivered and her vagina spasomed 
on his finger.

The two lovers stared into each other's eyes, connected by the stiffened 
finger the guy held deep inside her.  The voice blithely went on in dry 
narrative, as though delivering a medical lecture on sexual functioning.  

"Let me tell you one more secret about our little whore, here.  You want to 
fuck her, of course.  And you can be pretty sure she wants to fuck you.  No 
matter what she may say, her body will always betray her.  Observe the flood 
between her legs; those excited nipples of hers, hard and protruding right 
out as if begging a lover to suckle them.  Oh, she wants to fuck all right, 
loves to fuck.fucks like a mink, as they say.  But if you want to know what 
really turns her on, what she really loves, what she secretly craves most 
from a man, I can tell you.  

Our Renata wants nothing less than to be mounted and fucked up the ass!   Oh, 
she may demur at first.  But pay no attention to those weak protests, the 
flimsy excuses.  You see, my young friend, Renata, like every woman, must be 
seduced, before she is conquered.  On occasion she will get coy as a 
schoolgirl, wanting to be coaxed into it.  Of course, there are reasons for 
her reticence.  The act can be painful for the woman, if not properly done.  
But you, Monsieur Alain, I'm sure you're a sensitive lover; a man who would 
know how to properly handle a woman.  Besides, what do you have to worry 
about?  I'm here to assist you. 

What do you say?  Do you want to mount this sensuous woman like the stallion 
that you are, to ride her bucking and shaking beneath you, to fuck her up the 
ass? That perfectly-made rearend of hers?"

The young student, looking into Renata's deep brown eyes, yielded to the 
sudden urge to shove his finger all the way up her slick cunt, driving it up 
as far as it would go, and when she winced and gurgled from deep in her 
throat he jiggled his wrist, diddling the agitated blonde with his deeply-
ensconced finger.

"Yes, I'd like that .very much," he said with boyish sincerity.  His mouth 
was dry, his voice strained, and he was watching her face as she closed her 
eyes and bit her curled lip, while jogging silently on his pistoning finger.

The voice tried a new tack, turning his attention to the girl.
 
"Tell me Ma Cherie, does the thought appeal to you?"

The answer he got from the agitated blonde was a tight-lipped grunt.  The 
voice became instantly alert.

"What's going on?  Why don't you answer me Renata?  Tell me what's 
happening?"  The voice was almost frantic.

"He's fucking me.with his finger," the juddering girl managed to get out, 
between tight grunts.

"Bon!"  He seemed genuinely delighted.  " So, Monsieur James Dean, you like 
playing with our Renata?  You want her, no?  Want to fuck this beautiful 
woman up the ass?  Ah, but such an intimate violation would require the 
lady's permission.  What about it Cherie, do you want this boy's prick up 
your ass?"

"Yes." The hushed whisper was followed by a plaintive moan.

"Then you must ask him."  The words were dry, matter-of-fact. 

Alain's hand abruptly stopped its jiggling motion, but he kept his finger 
inside her, feeling the woman's heat, her copious wetness, as she looked down 
at him, her eyes narrowing in lust. Then Alain heard her utter the most 
incredible words he had ever heard in his young life:

 "Alain, would you take me.up the ass?"

The searing words sent a powerful jolt of lust rocketing through the lad, 
instantly rejuvenating his achingly stiff penis to impossible heights, so 
that he feared the slightest movement would set him off.  He dared not touch 
himself, though at that moment, that was the one thing he desired so 
desperately to do.  His mind was racing furiously.  What should he say?  Do?  
But as he struggled to formulate some reply to this unbelievable invitation, 
the voice took over.

"Renata, where are your manners?" The voice chided.  "You must ask him 
nicely.  I believe the proper request would be:  ' Please fuck my pretty ass, 
Monsieur'."   He forced her to say it, word for word, and she submitted.

"Please fuck my pretty ass, Monsieur."  The whispered words came out like 
some rote memory from the lips of the tense woman who stood with fine lashes 
lowered over slitted eyes, a man's stiffened finger lodged well up her cunt.

"Magnifique!"  The voice crowed jubilantly.  "Well, young Alain, do you 
agree?"  The boy could do no more than nod his head, smiling up at the naked 
woman.  "You must agree, Monsieur,' the voice was prim and proper.

"Oui, I'd love to fuck your ass,"  Alain growled, addressing Renata, looking 
her right in the eyes.  He suddenly felt a surge of self-assurance, of 
masculine pride, and with that surge of renewed confidence he half-rose from 
the chair.  This time, she didn't stop him, and he went on to gain his full 
height, to stand just inches from her.  For the first time he realized he was 
a taller than the nude girl, who having abandoned her high heels, now looked 
up at him with questioning eyes.

"Then go with her, Monsieur.  Renata will know what to do."

The older woman leaned towards him, stretched up, cupped a hand around 
Alain's neck, and guided his lips towards her own.  She delivered a 
lingering, passionate kiss.  At last his hungry hands gained that enticing 
body, but before he could fully savor the bare hips he held, she broke the 
kiss, and slipped out of his arms.   Immediately, she took the boy by the 
hand.  Of course, Renata's controller couldn't see the scene he had 
choreographed, but if he had, he would have seen a fully-clad young man in a 
leather jacket and short zippered boots, being led by a naked woman across an 
elegantly furnished room to an ornate, Provincial desk.

Renata opened a drawer, extracted a tube of lubricant, and held it up to 
Alain's eyes.  He recognized the tube for what it was, gave her a huge grin, 
and immediately started to strip, yanking back his jacket in his haste to get 
out of his clothes.  But she stopped him in the act by laying a flattened 
hand on his chest, and shaking her head -- a silent 'no'.

Now it occurred to Alain for the first time that by communicating silently, 
she was cutting the controller out of their amorous play.  The realization of 
what she was doing brought a conspiratorial smile to his lips. He stood 
there, hands at his side, as she silently dropped to her knees before him.   
As he looked down on her blond head, Renata reached for his belt buckle.  Her 
fingers opened the belt, and the front of his jeans, drew down the zipper, 
eased the loosened jeans down till they collapsed straight down his strong 
young legs, revealing a pair of white briefs with an obscene bulge tenting 
the front.

"What's happening?" The controller, unable to tolerate the long silence, was 
growing impatient; wanted to know.  He demanded to be kept informed.

"I'm taking down his pants."

"Tell me all about it.  Leave nothing out."

Her eyes were on the bulging virility jutting out before her.  "He wears 
white underwear.  Cotton briefs.  I'm going to take them down."

"Aughh."  It was a short, strangled sound, but Alain was sure that what he 
heard coming from the phone was a shivering groan of rutting lust.

Renata placed her hands on either hip, curled hooked fingers into the elastic 
waistband, and dragged the briefs straight down, freeing that fully-erect 
penis that screamed for liberation after the stifling confines of the cotton 
underwear.  Her eyes widened at the sight of his naked manhood springing up 
to quiver before her.  'A handsome prick,' she thought, smiling to herself.  
She decided to say nothing, perversely denying the impatient controller the 
one thing which she knows he so desperately wants.

Now she got to her feet, placed a hand on Alain's face, and rose up on 
tiptoes to kiss the young man who stood with accordiened jeans, the displaced 
underpants inside them, still hobbling his legs.  This time when he reached 
for her, she pressed close to him, and the two lovers embraced.  As they 
kissed, tongues battling furiously, Renata sent a hand slithering down 
between their tightly-pressed bodies to grab the hardened prick that pressed 
into her soft belly.  And when they broke the kiss, and stood panting and 
tingling with excitement, she kept a hold of him.  She gave the boy an impish 
smile, and used the grip she had on his cock to gently pull the lad forward 
to the desk.   

Renata opened the tube and pressed a slug of gel out onto her fingers.  She 
began to apply the greasy ointment to Alain's super-ready cock, but he 
instantly grabbed her wrist.  She looked up at him, but he only snatched the 
tube from her, so he could grease the shaft himself, lest her touch send him 
shooting off prematurely.

"What's happening!"  The intruding voice was loud, childishly insistent
 
"I'm standing up against the desk; he's behind me," Renata reported.

Alain, his slightly-bowed prick jutting out obscenely, closed in on her from 
behind, threw his arms around the naked woman, let her get the feel of his 
naked prick up the crack of her ass as it snuggled up between those heavenly 
pillows.  His hands found her breasts, and Renata squirmed back against him, 
and clenched her butt on his solidly ensconced penis.

"Is he ready?  Is he going to fuck you in the ass?"  The excited voice asked. 

"Yes, he's ready," Renata managed to get out the words that rode on a low, 
shivering breath.  She closed her eyes; her face took on dreamy expression as 
she savored the feel of his manhood, hard and solid, digging into the 
softness of her plump bottom.

"Lean over the desk, reach back, and spread your cheeks for him."

Her lover gave her up her breasts reluctantly, then eased his hips back, to 
allow the girl to move forward and bend down, resting head and shoulders on 
the padded desktop.   Renata shifted her stance, planting her stockinged feet 
wider on the carpeted floor, before reaching back to dig her curled fingers 
into the crack of her butt, and pry open the pliant rearmounds letting the 
young stranger see her most intimate, private parts.  Alain was shaking with 
excitement, as the fascinating blonde held herself open to him in lewd 
invitation.  Between her spread legs, her gaping vulva was exposed:  a slight 
bulge, lightly-furred with dusky pubic hair.  She eased lower onto the 
desktop, arching her back and looked back at him over her shoulder with eyes 
that were bright and shiny.

"Have you done it?"

"Oui."

"Bon! Then she's yours, Monsieur.  Fuck her!  Fuck the lady up the ass!"  The 
breathless demand came out in a heated rush.


END OF PART 5




Part 6


Alain closed in, his achingly-ready prick bobbing before him, glistening with 
its oily coating.  He held his tautly ready manhood in a loose grip, while 
contemplating the sight before him: the clawed fingers that clutched each 
straining mound pointed towards the smooth valley, a tallow inner strip 
embedded in which was the small brownish rosette of Renata's anus.  Even as 
he watched, the little asshole spasmed, clenched reflexively from its sudden 
exposure. 

He scuttled forward; legs still hobbled by his bunched jeans.  He was about 
to bring his prick into place, when he was seized by overwhelming desire to 
kiss the splayed-open ass that Renata presented to him -- which is exactly 
what he did, leaning down to plant a kiss on her right cheek, and startling 
the girl who quivered, and sucked in a sharp hiss of breath.  The kiss 
thrilled Renata to the core; left her pleased, inordinately pleased to feel 
the boy's lips and tongue pay such obsequious devotion to her bottom.

Alain paused to get a grip on himself, forced himself to slow down, to stand 
still.  Naked from the hips down, but still wearing his open jacket, the 
randy young lad stood lightly fingering his cock, as he contemplated that 
puckered grommet.  He managed to control his shaking hands enough to squeeze 
out a dollop of gel onto his middle finger.  Then he placed that greased 
fingertip quite deliberately right on the little button, and pressed his way 
into the pliant right of muscle.  Renata tightened up instinctively, reared 
back, then dropped again and took a deep breath, forcing herself to relax 
enough to allow the penetration to take place.  The persistent intruder 
popped in and he worked his finger up the girl's anus, twisting his hand as 
he screwed it in, lubricating the clenching rear channel, while Renata 
squirmed and grunted with each inch that was gained.
 
He held his finger in there, well up her bottom, jiggled it slightly, then 
slowly began extracting the offending digit.  Renata let out a long satisfied 
groan of relief as the impertinent finger withdrew and popped free.   
Immediately, Alain moved to replace his finger with his cock, planting the 
bulbous head of his prick on the little portal, leaning into her, demanding 
entrance.   Renata whimpered, groaned, and arched back.  Increasingly 
agitated, Renata could not longer hold the pose, she gave up her rearcheeks, 
and threw her folded arms under her head, wiggling up on the desk, rubbing 
her mashed breasts along the padded surface. She felt his manhood poking, 
then pressing, lightly at first, and then with deliberate force, applying 
inexorable pressure against the tiny gate. A hollow rattle arose from deep in 
her throat.

"What's happening?" The all-but-forgotten voice whispered frantically.

But the two lovers were much too busy to reply.

She felt the press of his manhood, grimly determined to force her clenching 
reargate.  Renata let out a long shivering breath, again, forcing herself to 
relax.  At that moment, Alain lunged forward, driving his prick through the 
fleshy ring of muscle that now yielded to his determined assault. Craning 
back, Renata lifted her shoulders, threw her head back, and clenched her jaws 
as the widened knob of her lover's prick entered her, expanding her distended 
anus.  She arched her back and rose up on her elbows, craning backward, 
squirming back against him, rearing up and twisting her shoulders in sensual 
delight. She felt his rude presence: overstuffed; a dull throb of pain, 
quickly followed by a wicked thrill of illicit pleasure.
	
Alain held her by the hips and kept up the steady, unrelenting pressure till 
he was well through the tight ring of muscle, and his cock could slide right 
up her rectum in a single smooth penetration.  Renata's groan was a hollow 
rattle that rose up from low in her throat.

"What's happening?" the words came to them in a strained whisper.  

The skewered woman gurgled from deep in her throat and, as he worked his 
prick up her anus she couldn't help wriggling her shoulders, shivering with 
delight, struck by the perverse, wicked thrill of what they were doing.  He 
heard her long wavering "oooooh", a helpless moan, low and throaty when, with 
a thrust of his hips, he drove up into her all the way, penetrating Renata to 
the hilt.  Alain savored the smooth tightness that clasped his buried prick 
in a vise-like grip, wiggled his hips letting her get the feel of him, 
letting her know she had now taken his full length up her ass.

"What's happening???!!"   The distant voice was positively frantic now.

For Renata, what had started as a  painful intrusion, an uncomfortable, full 
sensation of being stuffed, was yielding to a deeper throb of pleasure, when 
an electric thrill rocketed through her, a wildly erotic thrill, a queer sort 
of delight that made her wiggle her ass back against her lover, seeking ever 
more.  And then he was moving, pumping into her, sliding his prick deep into 
the older woman's bowels in slow methodical  strokes while he held her by the 
hips.

"He's..fuck..ing.me,"  Renata managed to grunt out through tightly-clenched 
teeth, punctuating each thrust of the prick that ravaged her behind.

A long, wavering "Ooooooh," deep throated and plaintive, came in response 
from the speaker-phone.
 
Alain felt the tightness clamp his cock like a silken sheath, as he settled 
in to a slow, measured pace that brought forth a low groan of deep-seated 
pleasure from the impaled woman.  A thrust of her pelvis drove his prick all 
the way up her ass, and so that he could grind his hips against the jutting 
contours of Renata's handsome bottom.  It was then that he felt the first 
tremors of her excitement begin to build in her hunched-over body.

The young man threw back his head, and with a single brutal thrust, slammed 
into the mounted woman, buried himself in her bottom, and began fucking her 
with a driving, savage urgency that soon had the passionate woman thrusting 
back against him, crying out and squirming, ragging in an animal lust, 
totally out of control.

"He's fucking me.  He's fucking me.  He's fucking meeeee," she repeated 
mindlessly, tossing her head in a  delirium of pleasure, as her lover jogged 
into her with increased speed and power.

Alain knew his control was slipping, as he skirted dangerously towards the 
edge of climax.  The skewered blonde beneath him was thrashing about like a 
wild woman as they fucked in rapid, heart-pounding thrusts.
Then he felt a deep-seated quivering, the unmistakable convulsions of a 
tremendous orgasm that rose up in Renata's bent-over body.  With it came the 
wild escalation of his own pleasure -- a tremendous surge that rose up in 
him, and racked his stiffened, craning-back body.   An ecstatic thrill 
rocketed through him, and he was erupting, pumping jets of semen deep into 
the blond woman's warm, wonderful bottom, as she moaned her plaintive cry. 

The lovers hardly noticed the disembodied groan of profound satisfaction that 
came from somewhere far away.


END OF PART 6

END OF STORY

Comments: dwin2001@Yahoo.com
Copyright 2000.  Don Winslow.  All rights reserved.




  
Is He There