cyndi wood x 69

cyndi wood x 69

Status: In Progress

Genre: Erotica


Status: In Progress

Genre: Erotica


cyndi wood,was an american model and actress chosen as playboy magazine's playmate of the month in february 1973, and the 1974 playmate of the year. her centerfold was photographed by pompeo posar and displayed her luscious 34-22-34 figure in an iconic centerfold still famous decades later. her body was beautiful but her radiant and sweet personality glowed in every photograph. and her body was delicious as this story reveals.


cyndi wood,was an american model and actress chosen as playboy magazine's playmate of the month in february 1973, and the 1974 playmate of the year. her centerfold was photographed by pompeo posar and displayed her luscious 34-22-34 figure in an iconic centerfold still famous decades later. her body was beautiful but her radiant and sweet personality glowed in every photograph. and her body was delicious as this story reveals.


Submitted: September 10, 2016

A A A | A A A


Submitted: September 10, 2016



The two men sat across from each other, the publisher behind his desk and Peter sitting in a leather chair as he leaned forward to examine the large photos spread out before him. Both men were silent, the publisher tapping the end of his pipe against his teeth and Peter gripping the upholstered arms of the chair as the beauty of the model in the photos seduced him. The publisher glanced back and forth between the images of Miss February and Peter’s eyes; the publisher was mesmerized by the girl but also anxious to gauge his friend’s reactions.

In Cyndi Wood's centerfold she appeared as if in a dream. What a pleasant dream it was! Cyndi had been posed in the French doors of the Holmby Hills mansion, one floor below from where the men were sitting now. It was a simple, direct pose; she stood erect, boldly gazing into the lens of the camera. The sheer white negligee was spread open wide to reveal the generous curves of her naked breasts but her hands were posed like a dancer’s, holding the negligee over the rich dark curls of her luscious bush. Under the soft mist of the white negligee the vee of her sex glowed in warm allure. Cyndi's breasts were at their fullest and roundest and took on a whole set of pleasing curves. As the portfolio shots show, Cyndi's chest never looks bad. Her face was at its most flattering angle, adding to the overall ethereal effect of the photo. It took a little bit of time to find these angles, and it's the mark of a good creative team that they didn't go with anything less.

Peter tried to breathe; the photo seemed to dare him to turn away. Finally the publisher spoke, “Yes, she is something special; I’m planning to make her Playmate of the Year.” Peter nodded. He was about to say something when the publisher’s secretary came in to announce that Peter’s driver was here to take him to the airport. He rose reluctantly, realizing that he’d be gone for months and would be missing the chance to meet this luscious playmate. His look was almost embarrassingly despondent as he slipped the photo into his coat pocket.

Meanwhile Cyndi’s career with Playboy unfolded with an energy suitable to the tiny girl’s vivacious personality. She was a popular model, in demand with every photographer and her laugh at every party was infectious.  Her warmth and sincerity won over everyone and the whirlwind of celebrity devotion never affected her charming and open manner. But she also enjoyed her solitude too and when the letters started arriving from Europe she was at first bemused by her correspondent’s attention but soon found herself seduced.

The first letter was merely admiration for her centerfold and she was surprised that his appreciation could be so unaffected; he saw the photo as she did, as a mystery and homage to the allure of women. Then he wrote again, describing art and music in all the cities he visited for his business. His letters made it clear that he was no nonsense in his work but used his power to enjoy the finer things in life. With some hesitation she answered the third letter, shyly asking a question about the music scene in Europe.

His reply was a set of cassettes of live recordings from exciting clubs in exotic cities; his letter asked about the scene in LA and was filled with questions about Chick Corea and Miles Davis. He also sent her Pablo Casals playing the Bach Cello Suites, music that entranced the girl night after night; although she never met him, Cyndi slowly found Peter’s shadow invading her dreams as she let Casals’ warm cello envelope her every night.

The music was very personal, seductive, nuanced yet passionate: a wonderful revelation, like finding a new erogenous zone. At first, the music almost made her come, then one night full of magical beauty she found herself profoundly moved, lulled by the tones from the cello and her dreams of the mysterious Peter. Swaying airily in the Allemande of the Fourth Suite the nubile playmate guided a turquoise scarf through her legs, lifting her white dress so the soft fabric as warm as the cello’s song, caressed over her naked pussy. She melted with the flow of the cello, the waves of the ocean, the whisper of the wind. And she came in a profound shudder of surrender to the music, and she came over and over, sobbing through the Courante and Sarabande, the music fucked her into helplessness. When Pablo played the subsequent Bourreé of the same suite the notes swept over her as if floating, full of silent seduction, soft sighs and magnificent tones using the length of the bow like a cock inside her.  The music, precise and extremely sensual, balled her into a desperate desire for Peter. Cyndi had never made love so elegantly and passionately; suffused, body and soul, with yearning and fulfillment she came again and again. The notes fucked her with their plangent resonances of sex; this was music conceived to exploit the sensual nature of the luscious girl and she relinquished willingly and she came sweetly and endlessly.

Without ever seeing Peter’s face, she fell in love.

Months flew by and months of letters flew between them; Cyndi kept a map of Europe pinned to her wall and she pinned the places where her letters found him. Even when she balled the never ending array of celebrities that balled Playmates at the Mansion her eyes were on the map and dreaming of Peter’s cock drilling into her.

 And then it was time. A big reception at the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles, more celebrities, more glitterati but Peter was going to be there too.

The historic hotel had seen better days but tonight seemed to revive the glamour of the era when stars like Errol Flynn, Jean Harlow, Clark Gable, Spencer Tracy, Cary Grant, Marlene Dietrich, Lana Turner, John Wayne, Henry Fonda, and Ginger Rogers crowded the lobby and partied at the Coconut Grove. Tonight on a small stage a jazz combo played innocuous music and the crowd was famous enough and rich enough to evoke the Golden Days of Hollywood as they swirled through the atrium and headed to the ballroom.

Cyndi, although she had fucked several of the stars in the crowd, was still girlish enough to be giddy in all the glitter and glamour but tonight she was giddily eager and aprehensive, her eyes scanning the crowd for a man she had never met.

Peter entered the lobby with a cool and calm reserved for those who rule their own lives and play by their own rules. He nodded at a few celebrities who were more impressed to be seeing him than he was to be seeing them. He shrugged off Norwegian Playmate Sharon Johansen’s offer of a welcome home blowjob. Sharon had a formidable 40-23-37 body and she did give great head and he always enjoyed how she babbled in Norwegian when she came, and he had to admit that his cock tingled a bit when he heard her Scandinavian accent tonight; she made “blowjob” sound very sexy, but he had another Playmate on his mind.

Peter’s eyes scanned the room and there was Cyndi. She wore a silver sheath dress and stood in a crowd near the jazz combo, a glass of champagne in her left hand. In this light, her skin was the white of alabaster, and she looked stricken and alone, lost in a private grief. For a moment he feared she’d turn and leave the party, but then the loneliness in her face turned to a radiant smile. And he realized what had placed the grief in her face: she’d never expected to be able to spot him at this party.

Her smile widened and she covered it with her hand. It was the same hand that held the champagne glass, so the glass tipped and a few drops fell onto the cuffs of some men crowded around her. One man looked at his pants and then tried to make a comment but she didn’t hear.

Cyndi stepped back from the jazz combo and tilted her head toward the bank of elevators on his side of the lobby. Peter nodded. She moved away from the stage.

She crossed to him, a girl floating in a cloud of silver, with brown misty eyes and skin so pale he could almost see through it to the blood and tissue underneath. When they stood, finally, almost toe to toe it was all they could do to keep from igniting into flames.

She held a small purse that matched her dress and the silver feather and silver band in her hair. A small vein pulsed in her throat. Her shoulders rippled; her eyes flashed. He struggled to resist the urge to clutch those shoulders and lift her off her feet until she wrapped her legs around his back and lowered her face to his.

In her eyes firelights danced behind the color. He couldn’t get over how level her gaze was. She didn’t just stare at him; she stared through him. He was certain she could see beyond his face and into his soul. She stared out attentively, ignoring the crowd of the party, her eyes alighting on nothing, but unguarded just the same. They were so warm, her eyes, warmer even than her skin. The warmth of a very vibrant sunrise. Her jaw-line was soft and and her slightly pointed nose suggested freckles where there were no freckles. Nothing about her invited approach, but she seemed so approachable. She seemed vivid behind her own warm and beautiful face. She stared at him the way she had in the centerfold photograph, like she could see the pounding of his heart, the thoughts that journeyed among the corners of his brain.

Her eyes left his face and dropped to his shoes in such a way he could feel her undoing the laces like a geisha preparing him for bed. She sculled over his slacks and studied the buckle of his expensive belt, then her eyes caught the center of his chest and then up his throat and over his chin. When she found his eyes again, hers were fuller and sharper, lit with something that had entered the world a millennium before language. The sensual yearning nothing could stop.

Then she heard the music, warm and honeyed, seductive; but how could the jazz combo be playing this?  In a shock of comprehension she felt Pablo Casals lifting her up like a cello and impaling her onto Peter’s cock. Terrorized by her own imagination and desires she forced herself to turn away. Looking anywhere but at Peter she sent messages to her legs, urging them to walk, to run, to hide; she didn’t move.

She felt his hand grasp her shoulder and squeeze, then felt him move closer to her, felt the vibrations and swells in the room, the slight sigh of the crowd as it faded from consciousness and she swiveled around and came into him. She was close. He could hear her breathing, smell her minty breath. But more than that he could feel her nearby, how she seemed to displace the air, had some kind of electricity around her, how he could sense the closeness of her body, the presence of some kind of magnetism, her heartbeat throttled up, all this coming at him as an impression in space, a map his mind made, an intuition, and then finally as actual solid matter, the flesh of her face now close enough to comprehend. And she gazed at him with a fearless vulnerability.

They were, she realized, going to kiss.

Or, rather, she was going to kiss him. This was going to happen. But in that moment, in those few seconds between realizing she was going to kiss him and the actual kiss, there seemed to be so many sensations to ponder and savor. She felt the pressing and unexpected need to breathe. And touch of her delicate fingers on the back of his neck, at that spot where his neck joined to the shoulder, which she hoped would ground her and curtail her nervousness. And she did not want to move into the kiss because it was so exhilarating just anticipating that first touch of their lips. But then in her desire to savor this all too brief moment she felt herself maybe leaning back and overcompensating and she worried he might not kiss her even as her tantalizing mouth offered itself to him.

And then there was the matter of breathing. Her first impulse was to hold her breath, but then she realized if she approached slowly enough or if they kissed long enough, she would eventually run out of air and be forced to breathe mid-kiss and she wanted the kiss to go on forever. All of these thoughts happening roughly simultaneously in that brief moment before the kiss, Peter’s most rudimentary actions, his body’s most natural functions—standing erect, calm, breathing—made her feel more fragile; she was storm-tossed and dizzied by the prospect of the kiss, which is why when the kiss actually did successfully commence, it felt like a miracle.

Mostly what Cyndi felt during the kiss was relief that the kiss was happening. And also that Peter’s lips felt moist and soft. But his mouth felt hungry and she felt herself devoured. But her mind kept returning to the softness of his lips, so unexpected in all the power of his hunger. That Peter had soft lips surprised and pleased her. In her imagining of him, Cyndi suddenly realized how hard and cruel his cock would be inside her; she wanted his mouth on her pussy and her lips all over his cock. She wanted to be the kind of girl whose lips never got enough of his cock, whose pussy fed his mouth whenever he wanted and she wanted him to always want to eat her pussy. Sixty-nine was a luscious number; 1969 was when she lost her virginity (a delicious tale for another time) and she wished it was Peter who had taken her that night; and sixty-nine was the yin and yang of their bodies as their mouths pleasured each other; she’d come sixty-nine times and so would he and then he’d fuck her hard, sixty-nine brutal strokes; they’d fuck for sixty-nine hours, then sixty-nine days and nights, sixty-nine weeks and they’d still be fucking- she wanted to suck his cock right there in the crowd and she was licking her lips in anticipation. She was coming as she imagined his lips on her pussy.

And that was their first kiss.

Cyndi felt her knees weakening, her body daring her to kneel before him and open his pants so she could engulf his cock with her hungry mouth. But instead he pressed a hand on her back and started to walk. She almost swooned but kept moving. Peter said, “I have a room upstairs.”

She fell in beside him as he walked away from the red carpet and past the main ballroom. The crowds were thick here but not as jammed in as at the entrance to the ballroom. You could move along the perimeter of the crowd easily enough.

“There’s a small elevator just past the concierge desk,” she said. “It’s less crowded. More private.” Words gushed out of her nervously. “I spent a week here with James Caan,” she breathed guiltily. The warmth of Peter’s hand soothed her, forgave her confession. She wanted to say she imaged it was Peter fucking her when the movie star was taking her; instead she said, “I can’t believe you’re here.”

He took a right at the next opening, his head jutting forward, and spread his entire hand over her back where her neck met her spine; she never felt so sexy and so desired. He said, “Where else could I be?”

“And I knew it was you as soon as I saw you.”

“Are you surprised?”

“I don’t know. Jesus. I want to suck your cock.”

“I want that too.”

Cyndi reached past him and pressed the up button.

The car arrived and he waited but the doors stayed closed. He counted five beats of his own heart. The doors opened on an empty car. He looked back at Cyndi. She stepped in ahead of him and he followed. He pressed a button and her heart leapt. The door closed and a motor hummed. They began their ascent.

She placed the flat of her palm to his cock and it immediately hardened as she covered his mouth with her own. He slid his free hand under her dress and between the heat of her thighs; she groaned into his mouth. Her tears fell on his cheekbones.

They floated through the kiss and floated out of the car and down the long corridor to his suite. No laws of physics could explain how the key came out of his pocket or turned in the lock since his hands never seemed to leave her body. Clothes disappeared. Her shoes abandoned in the elevator, his suit jacket on the floor in the corridor, his belt coiled a few feet after it, the silly silver feather and silver band fell from her hair. Her purse barely made into the room. The tight silver sheath disappeared in a frenzy of desire; his custom made shirt was rags. The elegant suite was littered with the remains of his suit and the garter belt and silver silk stockings she had worn.

The bed was the center of the universe and his cock pinned her to it. He watched her face as he rammed his shaft into her.

Behind Cyndi’s brown eyes and pale skin lay something coiled and caged. And not caged in a way that it wanted to come out. Caged in a way that demanded only the most dauntless come in. The cage opened when she took him inside her and for as long as they could sustain their lovemaking. In those moments, her eyes were open and searching and he could see her soul back there and the bright beacon of her heart and whatever dreams she may have dreamed forever, temporarily untethered and freed of any boundaries or rules.

Cyndi cried as he balled her; he fucked her furiously, fueled by the months of yearning. The honeyed girl sweetly fucked him back, swaying to the warm cello music only she could hear in her head.

She came in a torrent of tears and grateful giggles, one climax a frenzied thrashing of victory and a crescendo of lust finally fulfilled. Then she came again, adagio, soft and silken, delicate tears glistening over her blushing face like tiny jewels. He came; the first load blasting into her like the cork from a bottle of Champagne, then he came again in an effervescent flood flooding into her and filling her soul. She smiled in jubilant tears, surprised by joy; and she rewarded him with another climax of her own, a gigue lente and then allegro, her body writhing in erotic music.

The first time they balled it was like a collision of planets, the music of the spheres dancing to the music in Cyndi’s head. They had mashed each other’s flesh and fell off the bed and toppled a chair and when he entered her, she sank her teeth into his shoulder so hard she drew blood.

The second time, they took their time and learned each other’s rhythms. She loved his kissing, and could have kissed forever. They tested slow ones and hard ones, kisses with nips of the lips, kisses in which only their tongues touched.

What surprised him was how much fun they had. Peter had had sex with many beautiful women in his life, but he’d only found magic, as he understood the definition, with Cyndi.

Cyndi reserved nothing. This left a high likelihood for injury—she pulled at his hair, she gripped his neck so hard with her tiny hands he half-worried she was going to snap it; she sank her teeth into skin and muscle and bone. But it was all part of her enveloping him, pushing the act to the edge of something that, to Peter, resembled metamorphosis, as if he’d open his eyes and find the two of them floating among the stars.

Once he’d pulled out of her, though, and her breathing slowed to normal, he watched the music of her soul recede like the tide into a gentle lullaby.

He sat up and gave her a hard kiss and she returned it just as hard. She scrambled into his lap, a sex-sweaty silver fish. Her ankles crossed at his back. She ran her hand through his hair and he looked into her, feeling if he stopped looking at her, he’d miss something, something important that would happen in her face, something he’d never forget.

 “What if it’s the end of the world? And this”—she ground herself down on him—“is all we get?”

“I love this,” he said.

She laughed. “I love this too.”

She searched his face for a reply. She took his face in her hands when she kissed him. She rocked back and forth. “I love this too,” she repeated. “With you.”

 “Why’re you crying?”

“Because I might love you.”



“And it makes you cry.” His voice was soothing and gentle, no teasing. She could say anything.

“I can’t help it, I can’t,” she said.

He’d felt her leg snake around him, smelled the single drops of perfume she placed behind each ear, opened his eyes to see hers an inch away, felt her breath on his lips. He raised his arms off the sweat-soaked sheets so he could run his palms down her bare back. And his eyes filled with the glory of her.

He felt her etching herself into his brain: a tender girl, all breathless energy, willing and eager. It was the Playmate in all the photographs, beautiful and soft, alabaster skin so unblemished it achieved a soft-sun radiance. Her beauty found his throat, stopped it for a moment, put a catch in the words about to leave his mouth, so all he could manage was a hesitant, “Cyndi . . .” And it was a beauty that evoked every thing carnal in him, but more than that. It was somehow purer than lust. The beauty of Miss February wasn’t something you just wanted to fuck, it was something you wanted to worship and protect.

It was lust but better than lust. He couldn’t image a universe where his cock wasn’t inside her soft body or engulfed by her sweet lips. So the feeling Cyndi Wood stirred in him had to be lust. But a lust unlike any he’d ever encountered. Had he ever seen eyes that soft and vulnerable? There was something so dreamy in everything she did—from walking, to breathing, to stroking his hair—that it was easy to imagine that life was nothing but a dream as her body draped over his, took him inside her while she exhaled a long breath into his ear. The life in her didn’t resemble anything he’d ever encountered. Time bent to her desire; she bent time to uncoil as she dreamed.

Cyndi let out a small involuntary cry and Peter realized he was fucking her again.

Cyndi covered her face for a moment and then she started laughing too, laughing and crying actually, Peter noticed, peeking out from between her fingers like a small girl until she dropped her hands entirely. She laughed and cried and ran both hands through her hair repeatedly and raised her hands to the stars as if to scoop them into spirals as she came.

They slept, not to dream but to recover from the dream, the impossibility of their delicious fucking.

Peter, when he woke, smiled at the luscious feast before him. She slept on her side, with her back to him, her yellow hair gone wild and overflowing on the pillow and headboard. He wondered if he should slide out of bed, and try to recover his energy. Instead, he kissed her shoulder very lightly, and she rolled his way in a rush. She covered him. And recovery, he decided, would have to wait for another day.

And now, he learned a different way to satisfy her, using his mouth, the way she’d prayed for so many times, and now his mouth became his answer to her prayers, a delicious scheme for giving her pleasure. Kneeling before her, her shapely ass cupped in his hands, his mouth covering the gateway to her sex, a gateway he’d come to think of as sacred and sinful and luxuriously slippery all at the same time, he felt he’d finally found something worth saying a prayer for. He stiffened his tongue slightly and lightly thrust the stiffened tongue inside her pussy allowing her own nectar to flow freely inside her; he varied the pace and varied the delicious spots his hungry tongue teased inside her, his tongue dancing in every direction as she writhed in agonzing ecstasy. He teased near her clit, but never on it. When she responded with sweet little groans, he moved his tongue around in circles,very nice-more than nice-heavenly. He gauged her reactions, she definitely let him know, with her primal growls and endless writhing, when she especially liked a particular movement. It was pure lust, both in giving and receiving, but it called for a very, very gentle touch. He placed his very wet lips on her vulva, then everywhere, on anything but her clitoral area, and gently, softly applied a little vacuum, as though he were sucking on a straw, just enough that her skin was pulled upward toward his mouth. He finessed her with the same art Casals used with his cello. She heard the music in her bliss. He emphasized the sensation caused with the touch of his tongue to the sweet flesh inside his mouth with just a touch, slight lap, never staying in one area very long, and never, ever on the thousands of nerve endings packed into her tiny clit. His sucking was the most intimate thing that he could do, in what was obviously a very intimate act, taking her most special areas into his mouth, including her hot, sweet nectar – which, I can assure you, was extremely arousing for them both, and quite tasty, a scrumpteous feast of arousal and passion. He surrendered all preconceived notions of what a man was expected to give and receive from a woman; he was pure and alive as he felt his head between Cyndi’s thighs, and her initial protestations—no, you can’t; God, don’t make me come—gave way to something bordering on addiction. She fed her glorious bush and her luscious sex into his voracious mouth and she sang out a bashee song of orgasm.

Men love women who know when to surrender. When she surrenders to her man, it makes him feel powerful. It’s an adrenaline rush for his ego and his cock. As visually inclined as men are, there’s something to be said for the fact that many men love to see a woman parting her lips, opening wide and giving him head. And even in the heights of the brilliant orgasms flooding through Miss February’s scrumptious body, she couldn’t help being greedy, knowing the thrill of sixty-nine would propel them both into unexplored dimensions. Even in her cosmic writhing she wriggled herself into position to take his cock into her mouth.

Her tongue was exquisitely designed for giving Peter pleasure; it could move in nearly any direction, allowing her to tease with exact side-to-side, up-down and in-and-out motions with varying levels of pressure.  She licked and slurped over his cock, mirroring the dance his tongue was doing inside her sex.

The room was full of shadow and the exultant faint whispering of two mouths, heads still heavy with dreams deep inside the sex of the other, stirring slightly… inside her beautiful body, musical notes clustered for warmth, wings flying against the infinite sky. And she showed smiles through tears, and shivers of a song.

Beneath her soft mouth’s movement over his cock, she hummed low, warm dulcet notes like a cello. Mindlessly they listened to a distant murmur, her own sweet lips over his rock hard cock; often they shuddered at the clear gold voice of bliss, like a morning being born, chiming a miracle message in its crystal light, and chiming again—and the room was burning; around the beds their clothes lay tattered, scattered on the floor. The fierce blissful song moaning in their mouths. Those delicious notes played again and again! But how it’s changed, this passion from another age. A great fire crackling brightly in the bed, the sheets lit up. Crimson reflections leapt from the flames, danced over their glistening bodies—

Slurping, gobbling, sucking, biting, licking, eager mouths and joyful breath—There was a sense something was missing…where was ultimate, the end, the climax? They were in the eye of the storm, the sweet-smiling Playmate with triumphant eyes, hard-cruel lover lovingly devouring her succulence, her soul. So this night, together, soaring, they stirred the furious fire into frenzied life; he exploded, gushing into her mouth, deep into her belly and she exploded, gushing into a tsunami and an earthquake until she snapped and spiraled into perfect harmony with the chaos of her bliss, the music of the spheres, the yin and yang of ecstasy, the glorious sixty-nine secrets of the universe all flooding into the black hole of her bliss and before she fell into the infinite, she breathed out, his seed swirling in her sweet mouth, “I love you.”



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