10 min read

photo: The Life Erotic

She’s the most spectacular woman I’ve ever seen

“You’ve volunteered me?” I say. “On my day off?”

“I have,” Kirsty replies. She’s grinning as she says it, peering over the edge of her bed, red faced, glowing. I’m prone on the floor of her room, naked and slick with sweat, saliva, lube, her cum, mine, and breathing hard after what has been an absolutely marathon fucking session. Friends with benefits indeed.

I sit up, gradually, raising myself on tired arms. My cock, only slowly softening, slides down my stomach to hang heavy and wet between my aching thighs which still carry the marks of Jane Jance’s fingernails. I touch it gingerly, rubbing my pubic bone which I think is already starting to bruise.

“I need an ice pack,” I say, getting slowly to my feet.

“Me too,” she says. “You know I keep a dildo in the freezer.”

“You do?” I laugh. “Don’t your folks ever find it?”

“Ha. The only thing Mom and Dad use the freezer for is vodka. I don’t think either of them even knows how to cook. It’s buried under some old frozen peas.” She purrs. “Sometimes pussy needs icing.”

I sit down next to her, idly running the fingers of one hand up and down the curve of her spine; from the damp, matted platinum blonde hair at the nape of her neck to the cleft of her ass and back again.

She moans.

“Oh, that’s nice. But don’t you think I’ve been a naughty girl signing you up to help out at the theatre without asking your permission… Sir?”

“Hmmm. I suppose you have.” This time when my hand reaches her ass, I give it a quick light slap.

She yelps, giggles.

“On your day off, Sir. Your only day off this week. I don’t know what I was thinking. Such a bubble head. You must be so angry with me, Sir.”

“Angry?” I smile at her upturned face, fluttering eyelashes and so angelic. “I’m enraged.”

I slap her again, this time a bit harder, this time raising the hot flush of red to one perfect cheek.

“Oh, yes, Sir,” she moans. “So cross with me, livid, furious, incandescent with rage.”

She wiggles her bottom and I slap her other cheek, evening up the redness. She squeals and I do it again, harder, now leaving a handprint that flares white against the redness of her ass.

“Oh, Sir,” she gasps. “Like that, Sir.”

I slap her again, this time hard enough that my palm stings and she cries out.

I climb onto the bed, straddling her, sitting across the back of her thighs, her ass quivering before me. She looks over her shoulder at me, eyes now drunk with lust and bright with tears, and I slap her hard, once, twice, three times, each one stinging, each one reddening her cheeks.

“Oh, Sir,” she moans. “So naughty. Such a bad, bad girl.”

I slap her again leaving full palm prints across her ass, and move forwards so that my cock — which, unbelievably, is rock hard again — nudges between her glowing ass cheeks. I spread them wide and guide my cock into her soaking pussy, both of us trembling as I push into her, my hands in the small of her back, pressing her into the mattress, rocking my hips until I’m as deep as I can go. I build to a slow, steady rhythm, occasionally slapping her ass which she pushes back into me, and she squeals every time through a constant, orgasmic moaning. I tell her she has been a bad girl as I fuck her long and hard, my dick gripped between the tight walls of her pussy, until I can’t take it anymore and pull out, cumming across her ass; my cum a salve to her burning cheeks.

We lie together for a while, kissing lazily, holding each other close while our bodies cool. I murmur something about ice packs and she laughs. The clock on her bedside table beeps the hour: ten o’clock.

“I have to go,” I say. “If I’m going to help out at the theatre tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” she says. “They’ll really appreciate it. And there’s bound to be someone you like the look of.”

“Am I that transparent?”

“Oh yes, Sir.”

The theatre is more of a performing arts centre tucked away in a back street in Dana Point. Opening night is only a few days away but as is the way with these things, the set is only half built and when I get to the stage, one of the set builders is struggling to unjam a nail gun, while a couple of women are painting.

“Hey,” I say. “I’m here to help. My name’s Reid. Kirsty volunteered me. What can I do?”

They all stop what they’re doing for long enough to look at who’s doing the talking: the two women smile at me, introduce themselves as Lizzy and Justine, and turn back to painting.

“Tony,” says the man with the nail gun. “Thanks for coming down, Reid. I need six ten-foot boxes to hide the joins between the flats. Can you do that?”

I look at the lumber leaning against one wall.

“Sure,” I say. “I’ll get right on it.”

“And sorry about the heat,” he says. “They save the air con for the paying customers.”

I shake my head, tell him it’s fine and start working. I chop and clamp and nail and an hour later have made six ten foot boxes with moulded ends so they match the rest of the set and we go about screwing them into the flats.

“You want to take a break?” asks Tony. It turns out he’s the head honcho, but you wouldn’t think it: he’s spent more time telling bad taste jokes than working. No wonder they need help.

“No,” I say. “I’d rather just keep on going. What else can I do?”

He shrugs. “Well, I’m going to get something to eat. You can help the girls paint, if you want. Just do what they tell you.” He slaps me on the shoulder and leaves.

Lizzy stops what she’s doing, turns round and looks at me. “Hey,” she says. “It’s Reid, right?”

“Yes,” I say. I walk over to her side of the stage and she sticks out a paint-stained hand. “Lizzy?”

“Lizzy, good to meet you.” Her handshake is strong; short and direct. “Welcome to the team.”

“Thanks. Is he always like that?” I ask.

“Tony? He is. But he pulls it together in the end. He’s just not used to having an assistant.”

“Well, how can I help?”

“Justine’s gone to buy more paint, so until she comes back can you just use some tape to outline these boards, please? I need nice sharp edges.”

We work together for a while in silence, just the two of us, with me stealing increasingly frequent glances in her direction as she stretches to reach up the set, pulling her worn, paint-spattered sweatshirt up her body. Whenever she bends over my eyes are drawn to her ass; loose denim slipping ever so slightly, showing of a flash of tattooed skin. And then I look this one time and she’s staring at me and I quickly avert my eyes.

She laughs. “You wanna take five? I’m out of the color I need now until Justine gets back. To be honest I’m surprised she’s still gone.”

She stands up from where she’s been painting, stretches as tall as she can which pulls her top up again, just enough to reveal a strip of pale skin and the hint of some ink. There’s an ice chest to the side of the stage and she strides over to it and pulls out a couple of waters, flaked ice sliding from them. She hands me one.

“Cheers,” she says. “Thanks again for helping out. It’s always a struggle to get these things finished on time.”

“No problem at all. And like I said, it was Kirsty volunteered me so I guess you can thank her.” I gulp down the ice cold water and enjoy the chance to look at Lizzy without flinching every time she looks round. Her hair is lost under a bandana, spotted with paint, as is her face. She’s intense and beautiful, emerald eyes beneath angular brows, cheekbones sharp enough to cut yourself; the marks of piercings that she no longer wears at her nose and ears and upper lip. I have to guess at her figure, hidden beneath those oversized painting clothes, stained from years of use, but what I have seen has only left me wanting more. One slight shoulder keeps slipping through the worn neck, letting me glimpse the jutting sharpness of her collarbone, a thin bra strap and the teasing hint of more tattoos.

She wipes water from her lips with the back of a hand and sits down on a worn leather sofa that’ll end up being part of the set, placing her phone on a small side table. “Come and take a load off,” she says as she pats the seat beside her. I sit down, sinking into the battered foam and old upholstery.

“Kirsty said you were at Cal Poly,” she says.

“That’s right. Engineering. I’ll be a third year in the Fall.”

She shakes her head and laughs under her breath. “Funny,” she says.

“What is?”

“I remember my third year at film school like it was yesterday. Best of the four: you know what you’re doing, you like it, you don’t have the pressure of finals.”

“When did you graduate?” I ask.

“Oh,” she says. “An absolute age ago.” She counts on her fingers. “Like seventeen years ago. Class of ‘02.”


“There you go.”

“And after that?”

“Hollywood. Fifteen years. I built sets for all the studios; all the big ones. Specialised in action movies and sci-fi.”


“It was pretty cool. If you like sixteen hour days.”

“Sixteen hour days?”

“They’re always behind schedule. But the money was good.”


“I live here don’t I? Beachfront is not cheap.”

Her phone rings and she looks down at the screen, her eyes narrowing.

“What’s up, Justine?”

Justine’s voice is muffled but loud enough for me to hear. “They don’t have enough,” she says. “I’m going to have to drive up to Irvine.”

“You’re sure they have it there?”

“Yes. I called ahead.”

“Okay. See you in a bit then.”

“I’ll be about an hour.”

She hangs up.

“Huh,” she says. “You hear that? And Tony won’t be back for ages. Did he leave you any instructions? Tell you what he wanted doing?”

“No. He literally said to do what you tell me.”

“And I’ve got nothing to do until Justine gets back. You can go home if you want; it’d serve him right… Or…” Her mouth curls into a mischievous smile. “Or you could stay…”

There’s a prickling tension to the air around us as she says that. She turns her body slightly. Emerald eyes fix long on mine and I want nothing more than to find out what’s under those clothes.

“I’ll stay,” I say.

“Good,” she says. Her jeans squeak against the old leather as she slides herself across the seat. A palm goes to my chest and her mouth finds mine, hot breath, probing tongue, lips crushing together, and I push back into her, pushing myself up off the sofa against the pressure of her hand. I’m met with even more force from her — a strength hidden beneath slender limbs — pushed down into the cushions. She rises briefly to straddle me, her mouth and tongue never once leaving mine, and now I’m pinned beneath her, looking up into her face while we kiss. Her hands pull at my t-shirt, quickly over my head, and then at her own. She sits back up off me to let me take her in.

Her body is a canvas. Between her breasts is a riotous flaming heart, crowned with thorns, picked out in vivid reds and oranges and blacks; her flat stomach is a stylized night sky that disappears beneath the waistband of her jeans; her arms are sleeves of coiling reptiles and writhing carp, vines and oceans and mythical gods. I’ve never seen anything like it.

She looks down at my face and my expression must be priceless because she laughs and stretches, revealing more images inked along her ribs and down her sides.

“Wow,” I breathe. “I’ve never …”

I can’t help but trace my hands across her flesh, the dark outlines of myriad images. They are astonishing, beautiful, mesmerizing. She unclips her bra. Her breasts are bare, pale naked skin a stark contrast to the profusion of color everywhere else. I kiss at her skin, across her stomach, her ribs, her breasts, feeling her shiver and hearing her sigh beneath my tongue and lips. She bends in to kiss me again, fierce and passionate, hands at either side of my head, nails running through my hair, while my hands rove across her skin, down her stomach to her waistband, pulling at her belt and the buttons of her trousers. Her jeans are tight against her ass, resisting as I slip my hands beneath the fabric, sliding across hot skin.

She stands up and they slip from her, revealing more ink pouring down toned thighs: Tiki gods and dragons, Hawaiian flowers and copperplate poems. She turns to show off her back: a cloud-wreathed column from her ass to her neck, cherubs and angels suspended motionless forever around it. She’s spectacular; the most incredible thing I’ve seen in my life and I am instantly as hard for her as I have ever been. She leans over to pull my jeans and my shorts down my legs.

“You have your own marks,” she says with a smile when she sees the tracks of Jane’s fingernails scarring my inner thighs, and I flinch as she traces them gently with her own nails. Then she stands tall and statuesque once more, peels her thong down long legs and steps out of it, naked and glorious, and straddles me again. She eases my cock between her legs, down the star covered sky, slipping it inside her pussy nestling beneath a blazing sun.

She’s all about control. Depth, angle, speed are all her; riding me slowly and deliberately; pushing up off me so just the tip of my cock parts her lips; sinking slowly onto my shaft, her stomach tightening, stars shaking in the heavens, sighing as my cock slides into her. She grinds down onto me, her pelvis moving in small circles and I feel my cock pushing against those slippery velvet walls, stirring round and round inside her molten heat. She bends her face to mine, red lips now smeared and swollen crush against mine once more, our teeth clicking together, intense, breathless, needing each other. Her hands cup my head as mine slide down her sides, across oceans and gods and monsters, to her ass, digging my fingers into her flesh, pulling her down onto me as my cock throbs and pushes back into her.

Our lips part finally, reluctantly, and with hands on my shoulders she leans backwards, her thighs trembling as she slides up and down my cock. Her flaming heart beads with sweat in the heat of the theatre, and I realise we are fucking on a stage and that if I look over her shoulder, past the wild eyes of iridescent dragons, I see rows of empty seats. For a heartbeat I imagine them full, imagine being watched fucking this inked goddess. It’s all I can do to not cum right then.

She senses it; slows.

“What?” She breathes. “What is it?”

“I just had this sensation,” I say, “because of the seats, the stage, that we weren’t alone. That hundreds of people were watching us.”

“And …”

“I nearly came just thinking about it.”

“Then we should give them a show,” she says with a laugh. She bobs up and down on my dick, faster and faster, hands now behind her head, stretching her breasts and her stomach, and maybe it’s the heat or just her but I’m lost amongst the stars; tumbling into the sun.

Her cries, building from a low moan to exultant shouts, bring me back from wherever I went, and I pull her into me, licking and biting across her breasts and nipples, chewing them to tumescent hardness and all the while, one palm is flat against her stomach, my thumb pressing into her clit. She leans back once more and while my thumb grinds against her and my cock slides in and out of her, she offers her fingers to my mouth and I suck them as hungrily as her pussy sucks at my cock.

Finally, she throws her head back in exultant orgasm, her pussy clenching relentlessly about my shaft, and I’m through, my cock swelling, pouring hot cum into her as we collapse together, sweat sticking us to the sofa.

“The tattoos,” I breathe, at last able to speak. “They’re incredible. How long did it take to… to collect them?”

“Oh, years. I had to know what I wanted and where to put it.”

“Do you still get them?”

“No. It’s finished. A bit like decorating anything, really: any more would be clutter.”

I trace my fingers across the dragon on her hip, the mermaid clinging to her ribs. All I want to do is explore her, find the meaning that I know must be hidden in here if I can only look hard enough. From somewhere in the building a door slams and the spell is broken.

“Time to get to back to work,” she says with a wink.

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