WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.
This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.
All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover Photo Credit: Meredith Farmer
Cover Design: Emelia Bell
The Big Performance © 2008 Emelia Bell
eXcessica publishing
All rights reserved
The Big Performance
By Emelia Bell
My footsteps rang loudly as I walked across the hollow flooring of the stage.
“Hellooo!” I called out just to hear the echoes around the empty auditorium. It bounced a couple of times, then whispered to a halt. Theatres are built so as to amplify, not to echo and I felt a little silly for trying. A stage manager should really know better.
I walked over to the wing to check the props table. It looked exactly as I’d left it last night—covered with all things romantic. It was the day before Valentine’s and we were preparing for a ‘Weekend of Romance,’ or three days of soppy sonnets, romantic skits and tear-jerking monologues. To be entirely frank I couldn’t think of anything less romantic than dragging your other half to see something like this, but then I’m just the stage-manager, not the director.
That’s the thing with these old, regional theatres though. They’re glorious buildings that were erected at the height of the music hall era when there was precious little else for the general populace to do in terms of entertainment, but nowadays they struggle to even half-fill the seats available.
As a way of pulling in the audience, theatres up and down England were putting on ‘seasonal’ shows to maximise attendance. This went beyond the traditional pantomimes and ballets at Christmas time to Hallo’w’een themed shows in October and so-called ‘Romance’ performances on Valentine’s Day.
I closed my eyes in the dimness of the wings. I loved these moments when the theatre was empty and belonged, in its entirety, to me. It was one of the very few perks of being a stage manager.
This theatre was a new one to me. I’d been asked to step into the breach by the director, who’d worked with me before, because the usual stage manager was sick. I’d spent the previous two days watching rehearsals, making sure I knew the performance inside out and back to front, checking the lighting cues, props etc… At least the costuming was fairly easy—black trousers and a pink or red top. I rolled my eyes, there were so many hearts and flowers in this show that they ought to rename it ‘Cliché Weekend.’
I picked up a copy of the script that lay, pages splayed, underneath the table. Hmmm…
“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” Yawn. How predictable were their selections?
I flicked through a few more pages…now this was interesting. I’d been so intent on watching the staging, lighting and little extraneous details I hadn’t bothered listening to the words properly—seems like someone had seen fit to include a little light erotica in the selection. I started reading out loud
“My
body trembles.
Is this passion just lust…”
I paused, this wasn’t bad. It deserved a better reading than that. I walked over so I was in the middle of the stage and, head up, read the first verse out loud.
“My
body trembles.
Is this passion just lust
Or could it be the
love
It so resembles?
My body trembles.”
My projection was good, but it
was a bit lacking in…expression. I tried the second verse,
this time injecting a touch of breathlessness and some longer
pauses.
“My body quivers.
I wait, tensed, for the
touch,
For the kiss that sends
Cascading ripples of little
shivers.
My body quivers.”
I had caught the rhythm of it now and read the next two verses in the same way, relishing every line. I had forgotten how much fun it was to perform. Hastily I flicked through the script, seeing if I could find another piece of poetry.
Oh…here was the group piece they were going to do today. I remembered the director winking when he’d mentioned it and assumed it was some ghastly sentimental dross like the other pieces I’d seen so far.
“Something…”
I read the first few lines through in my head, then muttered them out loud. I understood why the director had winked now—this piece was really something, and performed as a group piece…I heard the soft lines whispered and repeated, some actors repeating the base refrain while the primary actor spoke over the top. Oh yes, this was going to be good.
I dragged one of the chairs forward from the back of the stage and sat down on it in the centre of the stage. Rapidly I ran the lines through in my head, trying to memorise them. I wanted to try my hand at this before I heard how the actors performed it. It had been a while since I’d last recited and I’d stopped because it was so deathly dull and prescribed, but a piece like this could be…played with.
“Tight pulse, pulse pulse
And growing dizzy”
I intoned the words in a rough, breathless voice, running my hand down over my breasts towards my waist.
“Wanting…something
Anything
Something”
My voice grew more urgent now, trying to communicate that need that I could feel building up inside me as I said the words.
“Slow
and steady,
Hot and heavy;
Something like the something that
you gave me before.”
“When you touched me
When
you fucked me,”
I stumbled a little over saying ‘fucked’ out loud on a stage, but I liked how it sounded and repeated it a couple of times. It would be great to have the actors repeat that bit over and over—challenge the audience’s preconceptions of theatre…
I closed my eyes then, imagined what it would be like to be on stage for real, in front of an audience full of people and saying “when you fucked me” over and over. My body was hot and tingling and I put my hand between my legs, running my thumb over the seam of my jeans, sending gentle pressure down to the hot and responsive spot underneath.
“When you touched me, When you fucked me, When you touched me, When you fucked me, fucked me, fucked me, fucked me.”
I was so turned on now. I loved the thought of sitting up here, stroking myself and saying dirty words with a whole theatre-full of people watching me, getting off on me getting myself off.
I pulled in my stomach and slid my fingers down inside the waistband of my jeans. I pushed the soft cotton of my panties aside and slipped my forefinger into the crease of my pussy.
I couldn’t believe how wet I was, the moisture had seeped all along my lips and wetted my finger as soon as I touched myself. I circled my finger a couple of times, then added a second finger.
I ran my fingers down between my lips, slumping down in the chair so my hips were thrust forward to give me easier access. I pictured myself naked, or in skimpy underwear sat, just like this, on stage with a busily silent auditorium.
I could hear my own breath harsh and ragged in the silence, filling the huge, empty space. My hand was working fast now, slipping and rubbing across my pussy as I panted for breath and muttered those two lines from the poem over and over.
It turned me on so much to be doing this most private of acts somewhere so public—a space devoted to observation of a performer and I was performing. Something inside me urged me on, prompted me to look at my watch and determine that I was the only person who had access to this theatre for at least two more hours.
Hastily I pulled off my jumper and t-shirt and sat there in my bra and jeans, stroking myself. I wanted more, though—more exposure, more risk, more bare skin exposed to the cool and theatre-scented air.
I reached behind myself and unfastened my bra, closing my eyes and freezing for a moment in anticipation and shock at my daring before letting it fall to the floor.
Next I stood up, brazenly facing the rows and rows of empty seats that faded away into the gloom. I stood tall with my shoulders down and back so that my breasts jutted out shamelessly.
Shameless. That was a good word for myself, I thought, as I kicked off my shoes and shoved my jeans and panties roughly down my thighs. I scrambled out of them with some kind of feeling that it was far more undignified, should I be caught, to be caught half undressed like that than wholly and shamelessly naked.
I revelled in that word. It described a person I could only be behind closed doors. Shameless. Brazen. Whore. Tart. Slut.
I licked the two fingers that tasted faintly of the sea and tilted my hips so that I could touch my pussy with them. Standing there, naked, playing with my pussy, I felt more excited than I could ever remember being before.
Although I had only dared to do this because I knew for a certainty that the theatre would be entirely deserted for the duration, some small part of me wished that there could be an audience. I loved to be watched, loved to be examined intricately—observed as I did dirty things.
Once or twice when I was online late at night I had done private webcam shows for men who I sometimes talked to. I put the camera, with a desk-lamp behind it, close in front of my pussy so that everything was brightly lit and then played with myself.
The image was sharp and clear, all the details of my deep pink folds of flesh, drops of moisture and frantically rubbing fingers being relayed to a man who was almost a stranger—who I had never met. I watched the camera footage on the screen as it was relayed to distant places all over the world, the sight of it and the knowledge that someone else was watching turning me on even more.
One time I had deliberately exposed myself to a man who lives in the building opposite me. I had seen him leaning out of his window and watching the people who went past and I wanted to tease him a little—show him there were things worth watching even closer to home. I gave him a strip show then played with myself as he looked and the fact that he was there watching me was intoxicating—even more so than the webcam.
Now, as I came closer and closer to orgasm, the wet sound of my fingers in my pussy clearly audible, my legs spread as far apart as I could get them as I sat back down on the chair I longed for someone to be watching me.
My breath was coming fast and shallow in little pants and I was saying things, random profanities and dirty talk.
“Fuck me, yeah, oh god, so good, fuck me, watch me, oh god, oh god…”
I kept my eyes fixed on the gloom of the auditorium as I neared orgasm, staring so hard I convinced myself I could see the shape of someone standing there. Maybe I was just hallucinating, because I wanted to be watched so much, but I pretended like it was true and started talking to them.
“You like watching me, don’t you. You like seeing how dirty I am, what a slut I am. Why don’t you come play too, you can come and prove how much of a whore I am, come on, you can watch me from close up…”
As I gabbled all these things I felt that familiar tightening sensation in the pit of my stomach, a feeling that my whole being was drawing in to a tiny, fragile point that swells and grows until it explodes in a starburst.
The shadow in the darkness shifted slightly and, as I watched with fragments of lights glittering in my vision, stroking myself faster and faster, a shape detached itself and I clearly saw a foot step forwards and down.
Someone was watching me. I didn’t care who it was or whether they were turned on by me or anything, all I knew was that someone was watching me and as I saw them slowly come down the stairs into the dim lights in the stalls I came in a rush, my body convulsing violently as I cried out in passion.
The wave had crashed now and, as I felt the adrenaline seeping from my body in the aftermath of my orgasm, I started shaking all over again.
What on earth was I doing? I was sitting naked and prone on a stage in a theatre, my sticky hand still resting between my legs and walking towards me now was a man, a stranger, who had been watching me as I brought myself to orgasm.
My whole body flushed with shame, I could feel my face hot with the blood rushing there. I tried to stand up as he got closer, but my legs were weak and wobbly and I stumbled, having to hold onto the chair to support myself.
He was right at the front of the auditorium now, inches away from the stage. I could see his face, all sharp angles and shadows with strong brows and a cleft chin. His dark hair was tied back in a pony-tail and the blue shirt he wore reflected his glittering eyes.
He was smiling.
“You liked me watching, didn’t you?”
It was a question, but he said it as a simple statement of fact.
“I, I wasn’t sure that you were there,” I stuttered, “I was just…pretending, or…hoping?”
He put his hands flat on the stage and swung himself up easily, even though it was at shoulder height. Slowly he got up off his knees and took a step towards me.
“You know, you made quite a picture sitting there…”
I stuttered something incoherent about thinking I was alone.
“You were.” He smiled. “I had to pick up the spare keys to come in. The director wants to change the lighting scheme.”
I recognised him now, once of the technical crew, always hanging around in the shadows with a group of other shadowy men.
“Why’d you wait till you were alone? Sounded to me as if you liked being watched…”
“I…” I stumbled, cleared my throat and tried again, “I do. I like the idea of it, but it’s scary and finding the right person and how do you set that up? I mean on the internet you can, but they don’t know it’s you.”
I stopped. I wasn’t making much sense, but he was nodding anyway. Perhaps he understood what I could barely comprehend and certainly couldn’t articulate. I looked up into his eyes and tried to express something of the feelings I was experiencing.
He held my gaze for a moment, then took another step towards me. He was only a few feet away and I became even more conscious of my nakedness. I folded my arms across my chest, trying to hide my breasts from him.
“It’s a bit late for that, isn’t it?” he asked in a low voice, stepping closer again. “I’ve already seen everything you’ve got.” He stepped closer again. “And I liked what I saw.”
His voice was so low now that it was almost a growl and he was close enough that I could smell the tangy scent of his cologne. The hairs on my arms stood up as I shivered at his nearness and all I could see was the tip of his tongue flicking against his teeth as he enunciated each word clearly and distinctly.
Hot and cold chills ran up and down my body, I could feel my breath coming in long, shallow pants and I licked my lips nervously.
He stood right over me then, taller than me by nearly a foot with a broad frame. I felt small beside him and a little bit helpless as he ran his finger thoughtfully down my arm, then took hold of my upper arms in his big, strong hands and squeezed…
He pulled me closer and held my arms tightly as he lowered his face to mine. A fraction of an inch from my face he paused and looked at me closely; he was asking for confirmation. He wanted to take me, here, in public, but he didn’t want to rape me. He wanted me to agree, to be a willing and complicit partner in an act of exhibitionism I had only considered in my most breathlessly aroused moments.
I met his gaze and moved in so that my lips grazed his. As soon as our mouths touched he was back in control. He pressed his mouth firmly against mine and thrust his tongue between my lips. I responded eagerly, opening my mouth, allowing him to take me.
I let my eyes wander briefly and was jolted back to the reality of my situation. I was on a stage in a public venue, utterly naked and locked in an embrace with a man whose name I did not even know.
A man who was picking me up, throwing me across his shoulder and carrying me, with one of his hands between my thighs—tantalisingly close to that part of me which longed to be touched more than any other right then.
He carried me to the back of the stage where there was a raised platform of rostra set up. Carefully he placed me on the rostrum—standing in front of him like that my hips were level with his face and he leaned forward and kissed me very softly, with wetted lips, in the little hollow below the round of my belly, his breath tickling the soft hairs just below his mouth. I sighed and waited for his next move.
“Lie down.” Softly though he said it, this was a command, not a request. “No, not like that. So your body is side on to the auditorium. So you can see the big, public space with all the seats that could be filled with people—people watching me fucking you.”
I lay as he requested, so that my head and feet were pointed towards the wings. He knelt in front of me and parted my legs, pushing them roughly with his hands. I was still slightly dazed, I felt as if I was under some kind of spell—why on earth was I letting him do this to me? The touch of his rough and calloused hands on the delicate skin of my thighs made my stomach flutter.
He smoothed his hands along my thighs, over my calves, up my belly, round my breasts. Each scrape of his rough skin against my soft flesh tantalised and teased. I closed my eyes and arched my back as his palms brushed over my tits. My nipples sprang up against his touch, hardening in his hands. I opened my eyes to see him smiling predatorily, hungrily.
He let me go, then, and stood back looking at me with his arms folded across his chest. I lay spread-eagled, panting and longing for him to touch me again.
I waited for him to say or do something, but all he did was look at me—devouring me with his eyes and examining every square inch of skin, every detail. I felt like I did when I showed myself to men on the webcam—alive and sexual and my arousal grew with every moment he did nothing but look.
When he moved, it was to step forwards onto the rostrum in between my legs where he stood looking down at me before slowly unfastening his belt buckle. It was a well-worn brown leather belt, the strap dry and cracked, the leather moulded about the struts of the buckle. He undid it with the muscle memory of an action performed many times, not taking his eyes off me.
He pulled the leather out from the buckle with a faint snapping sound, then unfastened the button fly of his jeans with the same slow, ritualized movement with which he had undone his belt. The tension of the atmosphere heightened my awareness of every movement whilst slowing time down to a sticky trickle. It seemed to take him hours before he had finished.
My body was frozen in place, rigid with anticipation and a fear of exposure. Now he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his jeans and inched them down over his hips, forced them past the swollen flesh between his legs, then let them slip gently down his thighs.
Languorously he stroked his hand over the fabric of his black, tight-fitting shorts, caressing himself with casual ease, letting me know he had time, letting me know he was in charge and could choose what he did now.
I licked my lips, which made him smile, then shifted a little, arching my back and raising my hips towards him. My body was crying out to be touched and penetrated and he was standing so close to me that I could smell the hot, musky scent of him.
Carefully he lowered himself so that he was kneeling between my legs. He pushed down his underwear, allowing his cock to extend fully, thrusting from between his legs like a hunting dog eager for the chase.
He hooked his hands underneath my knees and pulled me towards him, bending my knees up and outwards so that I was completely open for him. His cock nuzzled at the hot, moist folds of my pussy and I wriggled as I tried to impale myself upon him.
He leant forward until he was on his hands and knees over me, his arms either side of my face and his face close enough for his breath to brush my face.
“You’re such an exhibitionist,” he said in a fond voice, smiling at me. I smiled back as he nudged my cheek with his nose and whispered in my ear,
“You’d like it if we had an audience for this, too, wouldn’t you?”
I nodded fractionally, a sigh escaping me at the thought.
“It’d turn you on if a group of big, burly men were all standing there, in the shadows of the auditorium, watching you, naked on a public stage as I fuck you. Wouldn’t it?”
I nodded again, his words coursing through me like whisky down a dry throat.
“Well,” he said, moving his hips to position his cock at the entrance to my aching pussy, “keep looking out there, because the lighting crew said they’d be here for 11 and it’s nearly quarter past.”
He thrust forwards as he said those words, timing it so that the meaning of what he said registered in my consciousness at the same moment as the sensation of him inside me.
My head snapped to the left, even as my body rose in an arc to allow him to enter more deeply. Were there people standing out there, watching me being fucked? I strained my eyes into the darkness to try and distinguish any figure. Perhaps that dark spot over there was a person—perhaps that click was someone taking a photograph on their mobile phone.
My mind was panicking as I pictured all these unknown men standing out in the theatre watching us, but my body only responded the more eagerly. A moan escaped me, then grunts as he drove into me harder and harder.
“You’re looking for them, aren’t you? Don’t you believe me? I texted them when I saw you getting yourself off on stage and told them to meet me in here instead of the foyer. You seemed to be enjoying your audience of one so much I couldn’t deny you a larger audience.”
My breath came in pants and gasps. Every fibre of my body strained to reach that elusive zenith of pleasure as the friction of his cock increased. I slid my hand in between our bucking bodies and started to stroke the burning, hungry point above his cock.
I could feel orgasm building now—was I being watched? Was this wanton, slutty behaviour being observed? I couldn’t see anybody, but his suggestions had taken root in my imagination and as far as I was concerned I was the star of an on-stage porn show.
I could feel momentum building, every muscle in my body was tensed and straining to attain that heady peak. My legs quivered with the tension and I pulled my stomach in, tightening myself to get there faster. It started to happen then, that first flicker of spasm, followed by a deeper fluttering, then that sucking, pulling, all-over concentration of your awareness into the physical sensation.
I must have cried out as I came, because my throat was raw for hours afterwards and I know that my body heaved and bucked, because I remember fighting against his weight as he subsided on top of me, his own satisfaction reached.
I have maybe had better sex in the past, as far as technicalities go, but that was the hottest, most raw and sexy sex I have ever had. I gave over control and dominance to him and revelled in the physical sensations gained by the mental submission.
We lay like that for a while, my body suffused with heat and feeling limp. He, too, was limp which made him heavy, crushing my chest and breathing hot pants of air against my neck.
In a daze I struggled to stand up, every muscle crying out as I did so. I pushed him off me and let him lie on the rostra, tucking himself back into his jeans while I gathered up my clothes from the stage.
Bizarrely I felt more uncomfortable about dressing on stage than I had undressing. I don’t know whether it was the post-coital anti-climax kicking in or whether it really did seem that much more personal to get dressed in public, but I took all my clothes into the wings to put them back on again.
I wiped myself down as best I could with some tissues, then slowly and thoughtfully started dressing. Obviously he’d just said that there were people watching because he knew it got me off. I watched him getting up and walking to the front of stage. Would this go any further? I hoped so…he was a sexy man and obviously had some of the same kinks as me, but whether it would go beyond sex was another matter. I knew nothing about him.
I finished pulling my top over my head and tried to smooth my hair down with my fingers. I could hear voices now, gruff, male voices. Thank God we’d finished when we had or we really would have had an audience. I smiled smugly to myself and ran my fingers under my eyes to remove any smudged mascara.
Feeling vaguely presentable I walked out onto the stage again with my best attempt as confidence and insouciance.
“Hi.” I said, trying not to overdo it lest they guessed something was up.
“Alright love,” said one of them with a grin, while the others stood around avoiding my glance.
“That was quite a performance you gave. Shame this Valentine’s malarkey isn’t going to be something more like that.”
He smirked at me while some of the younger men tittered. My face flamed with a sudden blush. I had been watched after all. All these men who I now had to work with had been watching me naked and squirming, being fucked by…one of their co-workers? Their boss? Christ—hadn’t I heard a camera? Did one of them have photographs?
I looked for my partner in crime, but he was going over the lighting plan, and wasn’t standing with the technical crew. His face was hidden by his hand, but I could see that he was smiling.
There was nothing for it, I was going to have to tough it out or I wouldn’t be able to work with them any more.
“I know,” I said, my voice shaking a little. “Better than some schmaltzy fucking poetry, wasn’t it?” I felt stronger now, some of them were looking a bit wrong-footed and that gave me the confidence to finish what I was saying.
“Now we’ve finished fucking about maybe we can get down to some work. If you do a good job perhaps you’ll get a repeat performance.”
The dark-haired man jerked his head up and looked at me in shock. I wasn’t sure if I meant it or not, but it put me back in control and ensured they’d all work their bollocks off for the rest of the run. They all stared at me as I calmly ran through what we had to do that day, but I just ignored it and kept talking.
As they dispersed, whispering amongst themselves, I realised someone was still staring at me. It was Mr. Blue-shirt and his eyes held a question. I smiled mysteriously to myself before walking away and ignoring him.
Yes I was embarrassed, but the prospect of more fucking like that with him was a far more intriguing Valentine’s prospect than the usual ‘anonymous’ card you know was sent by your slightly obsessive ex, or, even worse, nothing at all. Fuck a day of romance, perhaps what everyone needed was a day of fucking fucking!
Perhaps I’d wear a skirt to work tomorrow. With stockings…
The End
ABOUT EMELIA BELL
Emelia Bell is a longstanding member of popular erotic story site, Literotica, where she has gained a large readership, a reputation for quality and even won some awards. Her stories range from sensual and romantic to dark and passionate, so there’s something for every reader. A born and bred Brit, Emelia takes pride in her cut-glass English accent and all her stories abound with quaint British-isms, so if you’re from the UK and prefer ‘knickers’ to ‘panties’ - or you’re not British, but are suffering from a massive case of Anglophilia - then Emelia’s writing may be for you.
Emelia was born and brought up in London but now lives in the beautiful English countryside where she pursues an outwardly virtuous life, all the time delighting in the perversity of being an erotic writer. When she’s not working on her good-girl disguise by baking cakes to help local charities Emelia loves taking part in various forms of dancing -from Belly to Burlesque – and taking photographs, usually self-portraits. Some of her pictures even grace the covers of her e-books, so you can have fun guessing which ones are of her!
Emelia’s blog, containing further information, excerpts of her writing and fun competitions, can be accessed here. She also has a Myspace account www.myspace.com/emeliabell or you can search for her on Facebook!
If you enjoyed THE BIG PERFORMANCE, you might also enjoy:
By Emelia Bell
Alistair is shy and retiring and his first day at university is already proving harder than he’d imagined. When Katie introduces herself and helps him to enjoy the University experience he develops a serious crush, but resigns himself to the fact that he would never stand a chance with a girl like her. He might have been proved right, too, if not for a fateful game of strip poker which turns everything on its head.
Now Alistair is being pursued by Katie, but will he realise in time to do anything about it? Katie, meanwhile, is loving the thrill of the chase and the idea of corrupting an innocent virgin, but the chase doesn’t turn out quite the way she imagined. Alistair seems to be having a civilizing influence on Katie, but Katie herself is nothing but a very bad influence…
Warning: This title contains graphic language and elements of nonconsensual sex.
Excerpt From A BAD INFLUENCE:
As soon as she walked into the room she realised how much of her work had been done for her. The lights were low, he had arranged his bed-side table as a dinner table with a tea-light in the middle and Zero 7 was playing on his computer. It was a candlelit seduction. The salads were sitting in place and Alistair was holding the door open for her. She giggled as she went in, then smiled when she got a glimpse of Alistair. He looked nervous, no— strike that— he looked terrified, and she knew she’d have to take it down a few notches for him so she could build it back up again once he was a bit more relaxed. She held out the bottle of red wine she’d bought earlier and smiled winningly at him.
“Sorry, it’s only a Chianti. They’d run out of Lambrini…”
He smiled back in relief at her joke, poor as it was, and took the wine from her to open and pour out. She sat down and carefully selected a forkful of things from the salad in front of her. She was a little unsure about pears in a salad, but when she put it in her mouth the taste was amazing.
“Oh my God, this is so good,” she said, through a mouthful of food. “Wow.”
“Did you have a bit of ham with that pear?” he asked, holding out his fork with just those two ingredients on it.
She leaned forward, giving him a clear view of her cleavage in its ivory lace and took the food delicately off the fork. He gulped at the sight of her little pearly teeth and pointed pink tongue wrapping themselves about the tines of the fork.
“Mmmm!” She said very little else as she finished her plateful, barely noticing when Alistair left the room to fetch the next course from the kitchen.
“Close your eyes!”
“Why?” She looked around suspiciously, wondering when Alistair had left the room and why he was talking to her from outside.
“Just do it!” he ordered her from behind the door, waiting to bring the lamb in.
Three succulent pink slices sat on a small pile of crunchy green beans, surrounded by a ring of tiny new potatoes. The whole was drizzled with a deep purple glaze of tangy blackcurrant. The first mouthful he fed her was just a morsel of meat dripping in the rich sauce. He watched her lips close around it and curl up in a smile of pleasure as her tastebuds registered the flavour. This course took longer to eat, Alistair trying to hold up his end of the conversation whilst Katie flirted outrageously, reaching out to touch his arm and brushing his leg with her foot under the table.
The desserts were ready just in time and he served them smothered with double cream. The rich, tart nature of the plums against the sweet, crunchy crumble and the smooth richness of the cream created another magnificent taste explosion, and Katie wasn’t sure any more who was seducing who. She had thought she would have her work cut out to get this shy, innocent boy—probably an inexperienced virgin—into bed, but now she was melting all over his floor simply because he had fed her. It was impossible for her to hold herself back any longer now. She had to get laid tonight. Whilst Alistair cleared all the plates out of the room Katie hurriedly pushed the table back to the side of the room, chose some pulsing jazz music to replace the laid back, ambient Zero 7 and arranged herself artfully on the bed…
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And look for these other titles from EMELIA BELL:
By Emelia Bell
When Natalie responds to an article requesting a life model she knows she’s pushing her own boundaries. What she doesn’t realise is that the artist wants more from her than just a model to copy and he has one or two surprises lined up over the course of the modelling sessions. As Natalie tries things she’s only fantasised about before she finds she’s more adventurous than she ever thought, but as for the artists’ work the question remains—is it art?
Warning: This title contains graphic language and sex.
By Emelia Bell
We all sometimes wonder what life would be like if we’d taken a different path. When Andrew and Melissa accidentally bump into each other ten years after their teenage romance came to an end they are given the chance to find out.
Andrew cannot help himself from pursuing Melissa once he’s been up close and personal, but exploring his emotions and his sexuality leads him down a dark path that compromises his integrity and sense of self. Meanwhile, beguiled by Andrew’s seduction and the lure of passions past, Melissa risks everything when, in a heated moment of weakness, she succumbs to temptation.
Have Andrew and Melissa got a real chance of making it, or has fate thrown them a taste of ecstasy as part of some great cosmic tease?
Warning: This title contains graphic language and sex.
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