A Seductive Blonde By: Patricia T. Campion It was her screen name… A Seductive Blonde… and from the first exchange he had known she was truly that… seductive. Now, he could think of no other word to describe her. Her power to draw him in was as tangible as a pair of persuasive hands. He would never forget the first time he saw her. Their encounter had been brief, yet it was enough to stir the coals of hunger. The way she dressed, the way she moved. Even her words were well chosen. There was forethought and purpose in everything about her. Her name was Angela. An Angel? "I am a minion from hell," she would tease him. It was a typical Saturday night. It took twenty minutes to find a space in the parking deck, a narrow vacancy that no one else dared challenge. After slipping between the Expedition and the Blazer, he switched off the engine, turned off the lights, caught for a moment in a sudden hum of silence. He sat back. He needed a moment. His heart pounded like an anxious fist. Images of that day at his condo had never left him but now they flashed through his head like a caffeine charged slide show. Their intent had been lunch. The plans changed. So much for the mutual agreement to move slowly. Just as water will seek its own level… need finds need. What is to stop a force of this nature? It was the first private kiss, deep and passionate... Then, maybe it was the scent of her hair or the way she sat on his counter with her knees just slightly apart. She was like a drug and he could not get enough. He stepped between her legs. She welcomed him. Even now he could feel how they wrapped around him. He was charged by the way her body responded, he fed on it. Where he needed direct physical stimulation from most women, just the thought of her would inspire a raging hard-on… and he loved the taste of her mouth. He closed his eyes. He wanted to give full attention to the thought of how it felt as he lifted her from the counter. The weight of her, the reality… It still intoxicated him. He opened his eyes. A flash of headlights swept the barrier wall in front of him. He looked down, past the steering wheel, viewing with great scrutiny the tiny little spot of moisture just to the right of the bulge behind his zipper. He grinned. She had done it again. * * * * * Like a river with many currents, the streets of Ybor overflowed with people. An eclectic throng of magnificent diversity gathered in mutual purpose to shake off their weekly baggage. It was the younger crowd that Ybor attracted most, the twenty-somethings. It was loud, garish and churned with levels of estrogen and testosterone that made most in the older sect nervous which was, to him, its redeeming quality. It was raw, unedited. It was a place where the daring could find adventure and the ready could find each other, an erotic sanctuary, undiluted by the pretense of the pompous and self-righteous who lived in denial to feel safe. "Be fruitful and multiply"… It is by Devine Order we want to fuck. That was another thing they had in common, another thread, a shared belief that it was a potent gift and not a curse of damnation to be human. Mark's pace quickened. He could see the neon sign ahead. The Rare Olive. So appropriate. * * * * * It was a popular martini bar, thick with the din of a conversation and a haze of cigarette smoke. The band was on break and the sound of house music throbbed through the speaker next to her. She was bored, hit on one too many times. Her eyes shifted toward the door again. They had planned to meet this way, a scenario, which he had once shared in an e-mail. She would go alone, take a place at the bar and he would arrive later to find her and simply observe for a while. Mark was creative, boldly sensual and he had the capacity to appreciate this similarity in her without the need of alteration or ownership. It was difficult for a man to gain her interest, harder still to maintain… nearly impossible to elevate. To her, this was difficult to resist. He knew how to inspire what the others stumbled miserably to find. With ease, he could conjure irresistible curiosity… desire… passion… Where most men didn't have the talent to make it through the foothills, he had the skill to coax you up the mountain in search of the highest peak. Only then was the view worth the climb. Only then was the journey worth remembering. Mark was different, uncommon. Even his occupation placed him in an exclusive class of men. He was a Fly Boy, a fighter pilot enlisted in the Air National Guard. She had more than once entertained herself with the image of him in his flight suit. And he was a cyclist. She had seen a photo of him on wall in his condo, sleek and powerful in his canary yellow spandex leaning with full confidence into the sweep of a right-hand turn. He was a thrill seeker, a man unafraid to test the limits of his own boundaries or to challenge the same in others. This was what attracted Angela most, his compulsion to push the envelope… Or maybe it was his eyes, intense and disarming… Sticks aren't the only things you rub together to make fire. She ordered another martini from the gothic barmaid, a fresh out of high school sort whose courteous effervescence gave conflict to the dread of her appearance. The goth-maid returned and Angela reached forward with a the cash. "Put it on my tab," said the man next to her. She guessed him to be in his mid-thirties, attractive and on the prowl. It was evident in his entire demeanor that these were the only ingredients necessary to obtain her helpless desire. It was his third attempt. "No thank you," she said, more to the barmaid than to him and with a cheerful smile the girl snapped the bills from her hand. "Keep the change." Angela stood and lifted her glass from the bar. "You leaving?" The persistent one asked. "Moving," she corrected, which shifted his frustration to annoyance. "What's the matter?" He inquired, half under his breath but with clear intent that she hear. "You don't like dick?" She stopped, returned to his side and a sultry smile pulled back at the corners of her mouth. She leaned in quite close, daring to brace her hand on his thigh as to look directly in his eyes. "Oh, but I adore them," she enlightened him, her voice hushed. "It the ass that yours is attached to that I am not very fond of." The couple behind them snickered. His expression was priceless. * * * * * Mark loved to watch her, the way she handled herself and those whom she encountered. She had a definite effect on her environment and he was impressed by the way her passage could be marked through a crowd by the unison of turning of heads. She did not see him as he slipped toward her, so close he had but to lift his hand to touch her. "Ms. Minion, I presume," he whispered. She turned, smiled. How handsome he looked in his crisp, white button-down and khakis. "You presume a lot, mister," she responded. Angela lifted a hand to his shoulder, slid it behind his neck and she urged him close for a soft, tempting kiss. She remembered his fantasy completely. She looked exquisite, a short, black dress with the thinnest of spaghetti straps. Her long, blonde curls fell in a soft cascade over the slightly tanned skin of her shoulders. He loved the way her nipples teased him through the thin fabric. She smiled and lifted her chest at his notice. "Can I buy you a drink?" She asked. They danced, strolled. They teased each other mercilessly. Each reached deep into their seduction arsenal, feeding from response it pulled from the other. They loved sparring. For them it was as natural as breathing. On the drive to his condo she followed in her platinum Sebring convertible. The top was down and she would cruise beside him now and them, affording him a frustrating glimpse of her thighs as the wind tossed the hem of her dress. It was the flashes of bare skin above her stockings that charged him most… brief glints of streetlight from the metal clasps of her garter… the way her hand slipped between her legs… Then, without so much as the slightest glance she would pass him, her long blonde curls waving behind her in the wind. He loved her independence. They entered Mark's place through the garage. More steps this way… more opportunity to admire the way her short, black dress clung softly to what he saw as the perfect ass. She wore her favorite stockings, black, back-seams with the Cuban heel… Those taunting little lines that traced up the back of her legs as if to say, "follow me…" The stilettos were the proverbial nail in his coffin. She lit candles, and as Mark poured the wine she slipped a newly burned CD onto his counter. The day's date was visible through the clear, velum window of the cover. "For tonight," she said, and the corner of her mouth lifted as if by the finger of a wicked thought. "And for tomorrow," she added devilishly, "when you have an urge to remember what happened." The first track was from Supernatural, "The Calling", an erotic guitar dual between The Masters, Carlos Santana and Eric Clapton. Even this was perfect. As the music played, Angela began to dance, her moves as fluid as the wine in her glass. He could only watch, motionless, barely breathing. Afraid he might waken himself from this dream. "Bring a chair," she instructed, pointing toward the next level where four sat around his dining table. There was no hesitation. Mark completed the task without question and he stood it near the base of the steps where she indicated. She urged him to stand in front of it and she kissed him. Her lips were warm. They tasted of wine. He wanted more. "Sit down," she grinned, and as he settled into the chair he looked up at her hungrily. Her smile broadened and she handed him her glass of wine. His hands were full now. He could not reach for her… which was precisely her intent. Angela was as graceful and provocative as any professional dancer… but this had a purity that money couldn't buy. Her objective was to sear her memory into his mind for no other purpose than to elevate his bar by which all other women would be measured. It was a dance of seduction, a demonstration of power. It was for the primitive purpose of driving him crazy with lust. As she bent to kiss him, he leaned to meet her. A hand to his chest prevented him. Angela moved in close, her lips touching his. Her tongue teased across his mouth. She pulled back at his slightest advance. She straddled him and sank slowly onto his lap. He was already hard and she grinned with the rush. She ground her pussy against him, feeling a surge of heat between her own legs as his cock twitched. "You're enjoying this little game," he guessed, trying not to spill the wine as she deliberately increased the difficulty. "Aren't you?" She gave a silken laugh. She leaned back, holding one hand to his shoulder as the other drifted softly down the bare skin of her chest. Her fingers traced along the edge of her low neck-line, teasing over the swell of each breast. Her nipples taunted him, pointing stiffly from beneath the fragile fabric as she strummed her fingers across them. Mark's cock throbbed almost painfully, humping against the heat of her pussy as she squirmed against his crotch. She ground her hips hard. Her hand clasped to the back of his neck as she pulled his mouth to hers. The power of her kiss was electric. He had to concentrate hard not to crush the glass in his hands. Angela pulled him back. Her smile was mischievous. She eased from his lap, kissing him, mocking his groan as she slowly unfastened his belt. He was so ready… and she raised up, looking down at him with a deliberate grin. She took her glass from his hand and pulled a long sip, her eyes fixed on him over the rim. As she danced, her fingers toyed beneath the delicate strap of her dress, which gently slipped from her shoulder. The other was not far behind, and the weight of the dress caught behind one arm before revealing anything more. It was torture. And she was very good at it. Angela moved behind him. He could only hear, and imagine. From over his shoulder, she handed him her empty glass… dropped her black dress into his lap. Even through his cotton shirt her hands were hot, her palms flat as she smoothed them down over the firmness of his chest. She squeezed at his flesh, teased her nails over his nipples then slid both hands down the flatness of his abdomen. She loved the feel of a hard, well trained body. She unbuttoned his shirt from the top down, pulling the tail free of his khakis. The feel of her mouth on his neck was incredible, the way she peeled down the collar. The way she breathed in his scent, tasting his skin… as if trying to decide where to sink her teeth. She pulled his shirt from his shoulders, exposing his chest, his biceps… He loved this feeling of restraint. She stood in front of him then. His eyes brailed every inch of her; the lace thong and bustier; the garter, the stockings, the sparkle of her belly piercing. Angela was perfect from head to toe. She parted her legs slightly and the glint of something else caught his eye. Between her thighs, flicking back the light from the candles, a pair of ruby crystals dangled from two thin chains. Mark watched as she played them with her fingers, grasping them to give a slight tug. She moaned, her eyes closing slightly as that wicked smile returned. She slipped a hand down the front of her thong panties to enjoy the feel of what he could only imagine. The sound charged him. She was so wet, and she withdrew her hand to display the clip, which she held between glistening fingers. He wanted so badly to see it on, to see her wet pussy lips and clit pinched tightly by this clever device. But she knew that also. It was the hungry and not the satiated that remained at the table. She bent down for a kiss, but it was just to torment him. She slicked her tongue across his lips with one long stroke then stood upright to claim her glass. "May I have a bit more?" She inquired, with an almost convincing façade of innocence. He stood, so close that their bodies nearly touched. "I'll give you more," he said and his unreadable expression reaped the reflex he was hoping for. Angela moaned. It was his turn to smile. He straightened his shirt, leaving it open, and she followed him to kitchen where he poured more wine into their glasses. As she reached for her glass he slid it away, moving it further still as she leaned a bit more to attain it. He took a sip from his glass. His eyes never strayed from hers, and as she bent over the counter and extended her arm, he moved it intentionally out of reach. How fantastic her ass looked even from this angle. Mark moved beside her, drinking her in from each new perspective and as she lifted to stand upright again he planted his hand on her back. He wanted her to stay, and she didn't resist, even as he applied a little more pressure to urge her all the way back down to the surface. The polished, black granite felt cool against her skin. He walked behind her slowly, thoughtfully, allowing his hand time to glide deliberately over her bare skin. He admired the slope of her back, the way it arched. He loved the shape of her ass. No rush this time. Mark's fingers slipped from her and she watched as he lifted the chair and walked it back to the table. Angela grinned. He knew without looking. Who would cry "uncle" first? Angela moved in, daring him and she closed the gap between them with cool deliberation. Mark felt her hand on his thigh, gliding torturously close to his cock as it made its way to the buckle of his unfastened belt. Her expression never changed as she pulled the strap slowly from the loops. She turned from him and walked back to the counter, the tail of his belt dragging languidly across the carpet behind her. The sweet sway of her hips was outdone only by the garter framed view of her deliciously pear-shaped ass. She picked up her glass, filled her mouth, and swallowed. "That's far enough," she said. She could feel him at the base of the steps behind her. He looked more exquisite by candle light, his face, half in shadow. How it gave such sharp definition and depth to his chiseled features… and those eyes. She loved those eyes. She sat her glass on the black granite and moved to the top of the three steps. From this vantage she took on an Amazonian presence. The commanding rank of her six inch stilettos had been magnified by the rise of each step. His belt dangled harmlessly at her side. Angela moved down one step. Her tits could not have been more perfectly presented. She smiled and slipped her free hand across his shoulder and behind his neck. Mark felt gooseflesh rise as her nails skid in circles across his skin, up the back of his neck through his hair… and she pulled him forward. Electric heat shot through his cock. His mouth was mere inches from her tits. He bent to kiss them. A clutch of his hair prevented it. "Beg," she whispered. "Please," he complied, and her grip loosened as she guided his lips to her skin. The touch of his tongue drew an instant sigh, pulling it from her in one long, heated breath as he slid a wet line along the fringe of her lace bustier. Her tits were full, her skin soft as velvet. Her grasp reclaimed him when she saw he lift his hand. She leaned down to him, pressing her cheek to his… kissing him gently at the base of his ear. "Did I say you could touch me?" She asked softly, so sweetly. "No," Mark answered and she relaxed her hold. She took his glass of wine, drew a long sip and she leaned to close her mouth over his, allowing the warmed sweetness to pour into him. He drank from her lips, sucking the taste from her tongue. Again, Angela stopped him, and with calm reserve she set his glass next to hers on the counter. Her eyes slid back to his. "Turn around", she instructed. She pulled his shirt from his shoulders, down his arms, letting it fall between them. She descended to the first of the steps, pressing her lace covered tits against his back. Her lips, the rush of her hot breath across his bare skin… His cock was so hard it ached. His body stiffened at the touch of cool leather. "It seems that we need to learn how to keep out hands to our self," she chastised playfully, urging his arms behind him as she fitted the belt strap around them. He heard the clink of metal, felt the loop tighten as she cinched it snug through the buckle. He was bound just above the elbows. The rush of captivity excited him. She instructed that he sit on the bottom step and she leaned him back so that his bound elbows were propped upon the highest of the three. His discarded shirt offered ample padding and when she was quite sure of his comfort she gave him a flirting smile. She propped a stiletto on the step beside him. His eyes dropped instantly between her legs. Another Santana tune played, Put Your Lights On with Everlast, and her hips swayed again. How delicately her hands glided over her own body. Purposeful and direct… slow and tempting... She was teaching him what felt good. Angela reached behind to unclasp the bustier, dropping it to the floor, her hands fondling their freedom as he could do no more than watch. She moaned as she played her fingers across her large, brown nipples, making them harden… and she pinched them lightly, pulling on them… He squirmed at her feet, his hips humping forward in reflex. One hand slid between her thighs, her fingers pressing deep against the soft, wet lace of her panties. Her sigh was heavenly. The fingers from her other hand slipped down inside and she manipulated the thin band of lace until it gathered between the lips of her pussy. Angela pulled upward, drawing it tight, tugging the cloth hard against her clit. It was an incredible sight, the way her lips hung down, swollen and wet. The scent of her filled his nostrils. She pulled the cloth to one side, using her fingers to grasp her lips and pull on them. A finger slipped inside. The sound drove him mad, watching as she worked them deeper, groaning as she pulled them free to smear her juices on the side of his face. With one hand on the counter to brace her self she stepped her other foot next to him. She straddled him now… her pussy was so close. She squatted slightly, teasing Mark cruelly. She gave a small laugh as he attempted a flick of his tongue. "Say please," she reminded him. "Oh please," he begged helplessly. Angela seized a fistful of his hair and eased her pussy closer, using her other hand to display what he could almost have. She parted her lips with her fingers, revealing her swollen clit and the tight, wet hole he could not reach. She pulled him to herself, wiped her pussy across his mouth then held him at bay to admire the way her juices glistened on his handsome face. She loved how Mark strained, how he struggled for more. Her grip tightened and she stuffed her fingers deep into her hole, manipulating such a delicious sound of saturation that he nearly cried out from the pain of his effort to taste it… but she would not have it. She only laughed at him. She knew he wanted this, that his cock was about to explode in his Dockers and she had yet to touch it. She pulled him away, refusing him. Mark had revealed too many secrets, given her too many weapons, which could be ignored by the self-motivated who sought only personal gratification or used by the devious to destroy. He needed to remember the rush of unbridled lust, to know the raw, primal element of a woman who knew her power. Mark needed a fuck like this. With a surge of triumph she stepped back from him and a strangely exciting shadow passed over her face as she studied him carefully. Her hand lifted. Her tongue licked at her drenched fingers before sucking them into her mouth. The smile she gave when he groaned… She enjoyed the hell out of it. She squatted at his feet, removed his shoes, and he assisted by lifting his hips as she peeled away his pants. She stood to look down at him, naked at her feet, and she used a stillettoed foot to part legs. His cock was magnificent, bobbing stiffly from his crotch, twitching for her notice. With a sheepish grin Angela turned her back to him, crouching to lower her ass in plain view. His body jerked as she gripped his cock in her hand and she used it like a toy, rubbing it back and forth through the drenched, velvet heat of her pussy. She teased the head inside, almost laughing at his agony when she pulled it out again. His cock was soaked, her juices slithering down the shaft to trickle tormenting lines down his balls. She fucked his cock inside, two strokes, then one… only to pull free again. One stroke… Three… Then once more… He thought he would loose his mind. Angela turned, straddled him again. She wanted to see the look on his face. Holding to his shoulders she took his cock deep inside, the molten, wetness enveloping every throbbing inch until her ass snugged tight against his lap. She did not move. She did not have to. The muscles in her tight, wet pussy clamped tight enough for response. It was reflex. His hips thrust upward and she lifted free, her head tilting with dismay. "Did I say you could move?" She asked, her chin dipped as to look at him from the tops of her eyes, and he froze, submitting. She took him in again. With every ounce of concentration, he forced himself to be still. She was determined to make him fail. As her hips moved in slow, rhythmic time to the music, her pussy clamped hard on his cock, milking it with unimaginable control. She turned up the heat, fucking him now, her eyes daring him to move. He was so close. He was going to crack. … and she stopped. Angela stood to her feet, turned and strolled casually up the stairs for her wine. * * * * * When Mark appeared in his bedroom doorway, the look on his face excited her. He stood feet apart, shoulders back, chest flexed as he glared at her on the bed. His hands were clenched, the belt hung loose from one fist. He was freed, ravenous… ready. The games were over. Angela arched her back, cooing, her knees bent slightly as she swept her arms up over her head. He dropped the belt, stalking her, closing in like some predator that had cornered his evening meal. He descended over her. His arms braced at her sides as he straddled her, caged her. She avoided his kiss… and again, provoking him to take a fistful of hair. Mark readied her, daring her, and he kissed her deeply. He parted her legs with his knees, urging them wide, taking her moans inside of himself as his kiss and objective became fierce. Using the weight of his body he pinned her to the bed, his other hand free to wander her body at will. He squeezed at her tits, pinching and tugging at her big, hard nipples until she gave him the scream that he wanted. She grinned. Her chest heaved with anticipation. "Fuck you", she challenged and he made her scream out again. His cock stabbed at her pussy, threatening to enter and she squirmed in attempt to have it. Mark pulled back, making her work for it, not letting her have it. "Fuck you," he countered. He clamped her wrists with one, strong hand over her head, his other still free to take what he wanted. Mark shifted a hand between her thighs and she spread them wide to welcome his attention. Her moan was like silk as his fingers slid over her pussy, her back arching when he found that one sweet spot that set her pussy on fire. Her clit was so swollen, so slick and hard. He teased it slowly, his steady, methodic manipulations never faltering no matter how desperately she fought for more. Angela struggled against his grip but it only seemed to charge him… Then he stopped, his eyes fixed on hers. "Did I say you could move?" Mark asked. The tables had turned. "Paybacks are a bitch," he grinned. He stood and pulled her to the edge of the bed, her legs back wide as he stood between them. He pushed his cock through the folds of her fat, soaking wet pussy. The sight was incredible. She was dripping. Mark shoved his cock inside. He nearly came when she cried out. He pulled back, closed his eyes. He bit his tongue in focus. "Look at me," she sighed. "Never close your eyes." He looked down at her. Her hands cupped her breasts like an offering. He thrust his cock deep, fucking her, pounding her pussy hard as she pulled at his hips for more. The pleasure was intense, the pain delicious. She was dangerously close. Angela sat upright, shoving him back and she grabbed his cock with one hand. Her mouth was as hot and wet as her pussy. He had never in his life met a woman who could handle a cock the way she did. It was as if she knew. It was like she could read and interpret every sign of what felt best. She took his cock deep down her throat, using her other hand to squeeze and fondle his balls. When Angela pulled back, her mouth was so wet that thick strands of saliva stretched long between his cock and her lips. She jacked on his cock, pumping the shaft, giving short, twisting strokes to the sensitive, bulging head before taking it back in her mouth. The way she used her tongue was indescribable. He had to stop her. One more move and he would loose it. Mark urged her down on the bed, pushing her knees back as he knelt to finally taste her. She was so wet he literally drank her in. He used his fingers to tease at her ass, fitting fingers into both openings as she squirmed and begged for more. His tongue flicked in merciless, soft strokes over her clit. He sucked her full lips into his mouth, feeling them slide over his tongue, tasting more of her juices. He licked at her clit again, sucking it, sucking her whole pussy until he knew she was poised at the edge… "Oh yes, baby," she whispered… and he stopped. He pulled Angela to her feet and spun her around, bending her over the bed to mount her from behind. With her feet stepped apart, her stilettos put her pussy at the perfect height. He pushed his cock inside. Using one hand to guide her hips as the other gathered her hair into his fingers. He pulled her back, thrusting his cock forward, and she quickly found his rhythm. She braced her hands on the edge of the bed, using it for leverage, shoving back to meet each stroke as they both climbed higher and higher. He bent down, his body folding over hers, and he reached between her legs to further the torment to her clit. "Oh god…" she sighed. "… yes..." Their scream was united as they fell over the edge together. They gave in willingly, helplessly, tumbling in the current as the wave of their orgasm crashed over them. They collapsed on the bed, crawling to some comfortable place as they floated in the aftermath. They snuggled close, drifting, grinning like naughty children as they faded off to their dreams. - Stilettos

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