Tiffany Myles. Pop Star. Her fame based more on clever marketing of her saccharine image than on her actual talent. I had been assigned to write her autobiography. She was twenty-three. I had contemplated telling my publisher to jam it but after my latest Vegas adventure, I needed the money. Twenty-three. For fuck’s sake. At thirty-four I had minimal tolerance for pop tarts or their insipid music.
Our first meeting took place with a full entourage; lawyers, manager, publicist, record label pimps, I think there was even a trained monkey present. For two miserable hours they informed me that Tiffany, actually meaning them, would have full control over content. But I knew I had one ace up my sleeve. I had a reputation for writing the raw truth, no matter what. I also knew that she had specifically demanded me, Jack Boyd, bad boy writer with just the right amount of disreputable cachet. Finally, the pop tart herself walked in.
She was a beauty. A cascade of honey-coloured hair, perfect cheekbones and the lithe body of a dancer. She shook my hand with surprising firmness, her dark eyes searching mine. After she had gushed on for several minutes about how much she admired my work I turned over my ace.
“I’ll do this on one condition. Full creative control, no interference. Or I walk,” I stated ominously.
There was an immediate outburst from everyone in the room. They sounded like squawking crows, a thought that briefly amused me as I had been contemplating murdering the lot of them for the past two hours. I would have spared the monkey.
“Stop it!” Every head swung toward her. “That’s fine. Mr. Boyd can have full control of the manuscript.”
Another eruption followed, voices rising as they competed to be heard, battling to be the prime defender of her virtue. I got up as if to leave, bluffing my ass off.
“Please," she said, stopping me with a light touch on my arm. “I want you to write my story. Your way.”
“Do it,” she calmly announced, “or you’re all fired,” fixing the surrounding crows with a steely glare. The dollar signs flashing in their eyes changed to panic at the thought of losing their meal ticket. They caved abruptly. She smiled sweetly and turned to me.
“Tomorrow. One PM. Don’t be late,” she exclaimed, rhyming off the expected cliché of a Laurel Canyon address. She was gone before I could utter a word of protest. The fact she expected me with zero consideration of my own schedule just irritated the fuck out of me. I was already dreading every moment.
Twenty-four hours later I stood on her doorstep, somewhat disheveled from a late night of absinthe and superb indica. Reluctantly I rang the doorbell, hating myself for my own greed and debauchery that had landed me this abysmal assignment. To my surprise she opened the door herself, wearing designer jeans and a silk blouse that cost more than my car. Deliberately dressed in old jeans and a black Ramones t-shirt I immediately had one more reason to despise her.
“Hi,” she said brightly. “Come on in. I thought we would work in the library, it’s my favourite room.”
I smiled malevolently, imagining her actually reading a book. She led me through the house to a pair of oak doors. She drew them open, exposing a huge room lined floor to ceiling with shelves, absolutely stuffed with books. A small writing desk sat on one side of the room. There were two comfortable leather chairs and a matching lounge area with natural light pouring into the room through gigantic windows. She even had a ladder for access to the highest bookshelves. It looked like it had never been used.
As a writer, I had to concede the library was quite impressive. There were thousands of books, all perfectly arranged by subject and author. I loved books but could ill afford anything like this. A pang of cheap jealousy stabbed through me, as caustic as my scorn. I knew it was petty but everything about this girl just aggravated me.
She led me over to the silk brocade sofa where a simple glass jug sat on a low coffee table, filled with iced tea, condensation covering the sides. I rudely poured myself a tall glass, observing her over the brim as I gulped the tea, attempting to mitigate my hangover. Her frosty pink lips pursed briefly at my boorish behaviour. I felt a brief moment of childish glee at her reaction.
I sank into one corner of the sofa, lifting my boots to her small table and opened my notebook. She sat opposite me on the sofa, folding her delicious legs beneath her, a view I might have enjoyed had I not so studiously ignored her.
“So Jack,” she asked familiarly, “where do we start?”
“From the beginning” I replied. “You’re twenty-three; this might be a short book as it is.” A brief look of irritation flashed across her face.
“Listen, I know the book is ridiculous. I know all too well I can disappear tomorrow so it’s just marketing all right? So what do you say we make the best of it? And maybe you can stop being such a superior asshole.”
Despite her accurate appraisal of my attitude this instantly got under my skin. “So tell me, have you actually read any of these books?” I asked derisively, sweeping my arm about the room.
“As a matter of fact yes. I’ve always loved books, they let me escape. I realize you think I’m some vacuous airhead but I’m actually very well read. Pick a book, any book and randomly read a passage to me.” She spouted the words like a challenge.
I stood up, wandering over to the shelves, perusing each section. To my vast entertainment, I found an impressive selection of erotica and maliciously pulled Pauline Beange’s “The Story of O” from the shelf. Randomly I opened the book and began to read aloud. I was about half way through the paragraph when Tiffany interrupted and finished the final few sentences herself, her clear voice reflecting her smirk of satisfaction.
My irritation grew as I stood there, stunned. I was astonished at what she had just done. I wanted to dismiss it as a cheap parlour trick but I knew it wasn’t. I bowed mockingly in her direction. “I apologize, “ I remarked sardonically, “perhaps I underestimated you.”
“Oh my, a fragment of respect. Now can we get to work?” she retorted.
“Why not”, I replied disdainfully, “I’m just the paid whore here.” I could tell I had wounded her and she understood quite well the inference in my using the word whore. Livid, she dragged a book from her shelves and threw it violently at my head.
“Asshole,” she hissed, even more furious that the book had missed.
“That’s going in the book,” I smirked. I thought she was going to fire me on the spot but demonstrating remarkable control she took a deep breath and visibly calmed herself. I barely noticed how the breath had caused her chest to swell out, nipples straining against her silk blouse.
The next few weeks were a blur of tumbling words. She had grown up dirt poor but with a burning desire to succeed. At times she showed herself as a petulant child but at others displayed a warm generosity and quiet dignity towards others. To my surprise she seemed completely honest, relating events that were obviously very painful for her but often quite poignant. One particular anecdote left her with tears quietly running down her cheeks. Heartlessly I just watched, taking notes. Despite her huge success, there were frequent embarrassing failures and all too human mistakes. And to my absolute horror and dismay, I was actually starting to like her.
Our sessions often went for hours. Every day she wore a new outfit and while they were never overtly sexual her sensuality sparked one lurid fantasy after another. Tiffany never gave even the slightest hint she was attracted to me, she was the consummate professional. Yet I was examining her every move for even the slightest nuance that might signal her interest. Eventually, her tiniest adjustments in posture left me imagining outrageous scenes of seduction.
One afternoon a photographer arrived, taking a series of candid shots as we talked. These were to form the colour photo centerpiece of the book. As the shoot ended Tiffany stood up and asked for one more, taking my hand and pulling me to my feet.
“I want one for the inside cover, me and the hot shot writer.” I mumbled excuses but she was insistent. “Please, just do this for me.” Reluctantly I struck an awkward pose, glowering at the camera.
She grabbed my hand and pulled it around her waist, then leaned her head against my shoulder.
“That wasn’t so bad was it?” she asked in the resulting silence.
“You got lipstick on my shirt”
She laughed and it sounded like musical raindrops. I felt a sudden flood of heat and the familiar embrace of my old friend: trouble.
“Thank you for doing that,” she said. Then, to my utter surprise, she kissed me. I kissed her back; hard.
“Fuck your girlfriend” she purred huskily. Then she kissed me again and in seconds we were tearing at each other clothes, desperate for each other. We were naked in seconds.
She slowly dropped to her knees; her hot mouth engulfed my raging hardness, taking me to the hilt as she sank liquidly to the floor. I moaned softly as her tongue danced along my shaft. The pleasure was exquisite. As she gazed up at me I realized how badly I wanted to come in her mouth, fuck her, use her. I was maddened with desire.
She interrupted her skillful attentions, whispering, “Come for me.”
In reply, I clutched at the glorious mane of her hair, pulled her back over my cock and began fucking her hot mouth. As my speed increased her hands reached around to grip my ass, gagging as I went even deeper into her throat. I soon exploded in her mouth, her swallows audible even over my rasping breaths.
I pulled her to her feet, my hand sliding to the wet heat between her legs. She gasped as the palm of my hand brushed over her clit then moaned softly as I slid a finger, then two, inside her. With uncharacteristic crudity, I finger-fucked her tight hole just long enough to confirm she was ready. I pushed her forward roughly bending her over her writing desk. It was the perfect dimension; her flat stomach pressed down against the wood, her small round breasts and torso extending over the opposite edge. The glowing honey of her skin was intoxicating.
“Fuck me,” she whispered, looking over her shoulder. “You can do anything you want to me.”
I felt a sudden thrill of drunken power. Instantly, any vestige of gentlemanly inhibition vanished as I imagined taking pleasure from the luscious body she had just surrendered to me. My thoughts darkened dangerously, knowing all too well the most successful and powerful often welcomed their own submission. My eyes darted about the library, aching to find something, anything, that could be used to complete her desecration. A roll of book binding tape caught my eye, then a basket filled with canvas book bags.
“Don’t move,” I commanded.
Deftly I pulled books off her shelves, filling bag after bag. I placed several large tomes beneath each foot, leaving her peach shaped ass perched at a tantalizing angle above the writing desk. Quickly I wrapped book tape around each book bag and taped two heavy sacks to each of her spread ankles. I caught a brief flicker of fear in her eyes then watched, mesmerized as it slowly turned into a burning look of need and desire.
“What are you doing?” she murmured.
“Be quiet,” I responded harshly.
I then taped bags of books to each of her dangling wrists, the combined weight leaving her helplessly draped over her own desk. I searched the desk drawers frantically, wondering what else I could use on her. My eyes were drawn to a handful of butterfly paper clips in the top drawer. I grinned wickedly. I teased each of her small round breasts to hardened little peaks. Fishing a pair of the butterfly clips from the drawer I abruptly fastened one to each nipple. Her sharp intake of breath ended in a low moan.
“What’s your favourite book?” I demanded.
“What?”
Your favourite book. What is it?” I repeated.
“Anna Karenina”
I quickly located Tolstoy’s classic and stepped behind her haughty ass. She yelped in surprise as I decisively spanked the firm round of her derriere with her favourite book. I enjoyed a delicious thrill as I regarded the bright red rectangular mark it left on her ass. Even more satisfying was the discernible imprint of the letters ‘IN’ on one cheek, left by the embossed letters of the book’s cover.
“Do you want me to fuck you?”
“Yes,” she replied.
“Yes what?”
“Yes, I want you to fuck me.”
“Say please.”
There was a brief silence.
“Please. Please fuck me,” she murmured softly, head lowering, her voice timbered with trembling need.
I loved it. My cock ached painfully. I no longer wanted to fuck this young woman, I needed to, I had to.
By now I was practically vibrating with excitement and suddenly plunged the entire length of my throbbing cock deep into her soaked cunt. I took one long, hard stroke after another as she whimpered. On my shoulders stood an army of demons urging me on. It was something that couldn’t be denied; perhaps subconsciously I needed to exorcise my own twisted jealousy of her easy success so I could feel I was her equal. The thought was no more than a wisp; it simply evaporated in the storm of my own depravity.
I ripped several pages from her favourite book and crumpled them into a rough facsimile of an anal plug. This I wrapped in her discarded black silk panties. Unceremoniously I dumped the contents of her purse on the desk, confident I would discover some type of lubricant. Success! A small tube of Vaseline intended for who knows what purpose. I liberally coated the black silky material of her panties that covered the twisted paper. With the merest pre-lubrication of her anus from the slippery residue on my fingers, I pushed the inventive plug into her ass. She cried out with a moan that only increased my own desire.
I drove wildly into her pussy; deep, hard strokes almost merciless in their intensity. The excess material of her panties brushed against my cock with every plunge. Her soft moans quickly descended into unintelligible cries.
“Unh! Unh! Unh!” With each heaving breath, she got louder and louder. I pushed the now tattered book into her mouth giving her strict instructions to keep it in place, threatening to walk away, leaving her to be found by the maid. Pages jammed between her teeth she could only nod her acquiescence. At this point I had essentially lost all control, wanting only to take, take, take. And most of all I wanted to take her ass.
I slowed the pace of my thrusts and began pulling at her panties, gradually removing the silk covered paper anal plug from her tight hole. As it popped from her rectum I slid my slickened cock into her ass. After the invasive plug, I slipped easily past her sphincter as she mumbled through the improvised book gag. I nearly came in that very instant but somehow managed to hold off. I wanted to savour this.
Inch by inch I sank further into her gorgeous ass, briefly allowing her to adjust before pushing deeper. Slowly I began to move in and out, lost in the perfect curve of her ass and the tight pressure around my cock. I bent to lick at the tiny beads of moisture filming her back. To my amazement she somehow managed to move her hips slightly, meeting my every thrust with a reciprocal movement of her own.
The effort this must have required electrified me, I snaked one hand beneath her quaking body to push my palm against her clit. A sobbing moan escaped around the book clenched in her teeth and her hips began moving faster and faster. I responded in kind and pushed my hand more firmly against her clit as I fucked her harder. Our moans echoed about the room. Finally, I just let go, exploding deep in her ass, filling her with my cum. The book dropped from her mouth as she shook beneath me, her climax following mine almost instantly.
I collapsed across her back, both of us slick with perspiration. Recovering my breath I found scissors in the desk and carefully released her. She rose unsteadily to her feet, trembling from head to foot. She glowered at me for a moment, her smeared makeup and streaming mascara a stark contrast to her normally perfect appearance. Then her face softened and she stumbled into my waiting arms. I gently led her to the sofa where we simply melted into an exhausted heap. I tilted her chin up and kissed her with a tenderness that had previously been so completely absent. Just before she fell asleep she sighed softly, looking up at me.
“Hey asshole,” she murmured defiantly. “This better not be in the book.”
