Donna Michelle and the singer

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: General Erotica  |  House: Booksiesilk Classic Group

Donna Michelle, Miss December 1963 and Playmate of the Year 1964, meeting a famous singer

Not really. 
OK, the song was swell Donna Michelle had decided. And Donna, brought up on theater, ballet, and fine art, had impeccable taste. Jazz was fine with Donna and this song was fine too. She liked the aggression of the horns in the opening, then the syncopated cool of the vocals easing in over the brassy punchy arrangement, “Life is swell…” Sure life was swell and the song was tuneful and snappy, but Ring-a-Ding-Ding? No thank you.

What Donna thought didn’t matter much though. Every stereo set in the Mansion was playing that song over and over. Records were getting scratched as the needle was lifted and continually dropped into the same grooves; the only variation in the sound was in the screech of the needle as it was abruptly lifted and released, all because Hefner had embraced the song as the theme music for the Playboy Mansion. Well after all, the plaque on his door read “"Si Non Oscillas, Noli Tintinnare" and he decided that “Ring-a-Ding-Ding” was as good a translation as any.  The fact that the endless repetitions of the tune from every room was boring Donna to distraction made no difference.

Donna pouted, and Donna Michelle’s pouts were glorious. Her full lush lips pressed together in a frown that was bursting with energy and her glare gleamed with fiery emotion, looking like a little girl about to belt a boy in the sandbox; the slight crinkles of her fresh flawless skin when she scowled made her even more beautiful because they highlighted the exotic and sensual shape of her almond eyes. When Donna Michelle pouted she smoldered with a raw sexual intensity that was as volatile and dangerous as high voltage wire ripped off a power line.

Her pout was alluring and seductive, and in her bedroom mirror she saw herself dressed in a simple flimsy slip of ivory silk and her pout had the look of a luscious vixen.Donna’s body was the stuff of dreams, raw sexuality stalking in a lithe and graceful ballerina’s body, young and vigorous with a face both sultry and youthful. Her curves tamed the airy lightness of the silk; the simple ivory garment draped over Donna’s voluptuous body became an angel’s robe, the gown of a seductress. Donna wore her picture-perfect sensuality with her own elegance and style; she knew she was beautiful and that she sent men’s hearts and libidos soaring but she simply shrugged it off. All she wanted now was some solitude, some silence.

Enough of the ring-a-ding-ding she decided and she had stormed up into her room, the private room she insisted on even though the ruler of the Mansion lusted after her young and nubile body night and day. Night and Day, now there was a lovely song. She smiled and her cute nose wriggled like a bunny’s; Sinatra did that sweet Cole Porter tune twice maybe three times, a jazzy big band version but also as a nice slow number, but for Donna it was the ethereal version of Fred Astaire that moved her. She loved to make love to the song, her full hips swaying with the strings.

She slammed the door to her room but Ring-a-Ding-Ding permeated through the walls, through the floor and ceiling it seemed. And the records in each room were out of synch, each in a different place in the song so she had to endure Ring-a-Ding-Ding as sort of a demonic fugue.

With a slow burn, she glared at the floor where the bass-line of the tune was throbbing. The luscious playmate looked resplendent and sexy in her ivory silk slip but she looked like an all-American teen too as she pouted and stomped through her cluttered bedroom.  While Donna had a voluptuous body and the patrician look of a queen, her sloppy room was that of the vivacious and scattered eighteen year old sprite that she could often be. She bent down and searched through the pile of LPs and forty-fives spread over the floor of her chaotic room. She had that dancer’s habit of bending at the waist with legs straight so her ivory silk gown tugged up, revealing a peek of deliciously cute lace panties.

Darn it, Astaire’s album was nowhere to be found; she remembered that she had brought it the publisher’s bedroom. Opps. Her hand rested on Nat King Cole. Yes, a rival crooner to drown out Sinatra.

A soft guitar melody streamed out and engulfed the girl; soon the seductive strings followed, caressing the young beauty’s skin. “Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa
Men have named you
You're so like the lady with the mystic smile.” 

If Donna looked into her mirror she would have noticed her own mystic smile, her lush full lips pursed in delight with the music, with the ends of her mouth slightly upturned in a subtle expression of her pleasure. She began to sway, her supple body writhing to the gentle music. She felt slinky and sexy, languorous and liquid in the slow shimmy of her hips. She could surrender herself to this music. 

Suddenly the cacophony of brass smashed through her walls and the singer belted out, “Life is dull
It's nothing but one big lull
Then presto you do a skull
And find that you're reeling
She sighs and you're feeling
Like a toy on a string
And your heart goes: Ring-a-ding ding, ring-a-ding ding, ring-a-ding ding.” Donna sighed and turned up her stereo.

“Do you smile to tempt a lover, Mona Lisa
Or is this your way to hide a broken heart?”

Ah, the music was sweet and soothing. She smiled her mystic smile again, her hips moving in sinuous circles in time to the tune. She hugged herself, her arms sliding under her full breasts as the nipples caressed under the silk; the smooth strings and Nat King Cole’s ice cream soft and sweet voice aroused her in every way. A thin silk strap slipped off her soft shoulder as she swayed.

But not for long; the other tune crashed through the wall: “How could that funny face
That seemed to be common place
Project you right in to space…” Ordinarily Sinatra’s voice and the jazzy rhythms would excite her, but tonight the song rammed into her reverie. “Without any warning
Don't know if its morning, night-time, winter or spring
What's the difference
Ring-a-ding ding, ring-a-ding ding, ring-a-ding ding.”

She stomped her tiny little foot in cute but sincere pique and turned up the volume on Nat some more. “Many dreams have been brought to your doorstep
They just lie there, and they die there
Are you warm, are you real, Mona Lisa
Or just a cold and lonely, lovely work of art.” She pirouetted and spun, trying to lose herself in the music but Frank pursued her. “Love's the loveliest thing
And the bell goes: "Ring-a-ding ding, ring-a-ding ding, ring-a-ding ding."

In a rage she threw herself on the bed and had a little girl’s temper tantrum , gnashing her teeth and hitting a pillow. Her feet, tiny angry birds, kicked over the bed. If she could get her hands on Sinatra she would kill him. 

As if her prayers were answered the jazzy wild rhythm of Sinatra abruptly stopped with the jerking shriek of a needle lifting off the disk. Donna smiled, pleased as the cat with the cream. Nat King Cole smoothly filled the sudden silence, “Do you smile to tempt a lover, Mona Lisa
Or is this your way to hide a broken heart
Many dreams have been brought to your doorstep
They just lie there, and they die there
Are you warm, are you real, Mona Lisa
Or just a cold and lonely, lovely work of art.”

The song faded out and yet another song seeped through the walls; for once, it was not “Ring a Ding Ding” but a confident sharp melody struck on the piano, first the treble, then the bass line, finally cords together and a drum joining in. Donna’s ears perked up; this was something new. Her feet began to tap and Count Basie’s Band really took off. And there was Frank, “Out of the tree of life, I just picked me a plum.” Wow. She sat up intrigued. Like a curious bird, she cocked her head to one side. She looked awfully cute as her eyes narrowed and her nostrils flared with excitement. She curled her toes in pleasure.

Down stairs in the room below her the singer was visiting with Hefner. He had taken “Ring a Ding Ding” off the turntable. He wanted the publisher to hear his new disk. “It’s called ‘The Best Is Yet To Come’ and it is going to blow you away,” he said with pride. 

The publisher coolly nodded to the music; this was enough to show his approval and together they listened to the song. The singer snapped his fingers, seeming to conduct the brass that played in dialogue with the lyrics. He watched for the publisher’s reaction to the new tune and as soon as he saw approval he became bored. He snapped his fingers a few more times, distracted now, and he prowled the office. His eyes wandered over the cluttered desk and he rummaged through galleys and several issues of Playboy magazine.

His own voice floated out of the speakers and he mumbled along, still distracted by the covers of the magazine. “The best is yet to come, and baby wont it be fine
You think you've seen the sun, but you aint seen it shine
Wait till the warm-up's underway
Wait till our lips have met
Wait till you see that sunshine day
You aint seen nothin’ yet.”

Then he saw her cover.

“The best is yet to come, and baby wont it be fine.” The concept was simple, and the entire focus was on the girl’s limber and supple body; the background was jet black so the girl’s flawless skin and red hair jumped off the page, and the unpretentious white leotard showed off the complete perfection of her figure. She lay on her back, looking with amusement right into the camera, right at the singer; she gripped her legs behind the knees while parting her calves and folding her body into a perfect silhouette of the famous bunny rabbit head. “The best is yet to come, come the day you’re mine.” He lifted the magazine and arched his eyes into a question.

The publisher knew what the question was and he didn’t want to answer. Instead he gestured towards the galleys for Astrid Schultz’s centerfold. “Have you seen our new Miss September?”

The singer would have none of it; he opened the magazine, flipping pages until he came to the Playmate of the Year spread. He was speechless for a moment, stunned by the nubile nymphet’s sultry beauty. He read the name finally, his eyes fixed on more shots of the girl in the white leotard, or rather peeling the white leotard off of her voluptuous body. “Donna Michelle.” He grinned. “I know you gotta have her somewhere upstairs.”

His roving eyes spotted another magazine on the desk and he quickly discovered her playmate spread, including the centerfold; his face beamed as he admired her nubile body. 

Hefner  was sucking furiously on his pipe as if trying to create a smoke screen and disappear. He tried one more ploy, pulling some Polaroids out of his pocket. “Here’s a girl you need to meet. Rosemarie Hillcrest.” He fanned the snapshots like a winning hand in poker. “I took these myself. She’s quite a handful. A forty-one inch bust. Completely delightful, very eager.”

The singer scoffed at the distraction and pushed the Playmate of the Year issue under the publisher’s pipe and jabbed the picture of the girl with his finger. “So you gonna introduce me or am I going upstairs to find her.”

The publisher sucked on his pipe one more time then took it from his mouth and silently tapped it into an ashtray, his face trying to hide its displeasure. He was a peaceful man and knew better than to argue with this guy.  He picked up Donna’s Playmate of the Year cover and looked at her youthful and playful smile. “Yes, she is lovely, isn’t she?” he said almost to himself. He sighed and tossed the magazine to his desk.

The singer grinned in victory.

Later that evening Donna stood in the living room and twitched her cute little nose in curiosity. Ordinarily she would be having dinner with the publisher, especially if he had guests; he liked to have her sitting at his side so he could show off her beauty and her blossoming  sexuality. He would carefully pick her clothes, making certain that she wore low cut dresses that displayed the sweet moist deep valley between her breasts. He would make a point of rising right after dessert and taking Donna by the hand, making it clear that he just had to take her aside and bang her before the evening’s festivities could go any further. Donna didn’t mind his expert cock and tongue but she was displeased by his brazen possessiveness. Tonight was different though. The Mansion was buzzing the way it did when big and important celebrities were coming to dinner, but no one would tell her who it was. Ring a Ding Ding seemed to have disappeared too and Donna was free to play whatever records she liked. She managed to get her hands on the disk that had beguiled  her earlier. It turned out to be a demonstration disk for an album not released yet. Donna was obsessing over it, finding new meaning every time she played it. She loved the optimism and aggressive brightness of the song.
“Out of the tree of life, I just picked me a plum
You came along and everything started to hum
Still it’s a real good bet, the best is yet to come
The best is yet to come, and baby wont it be fine
You think you've seen the sun, but you ain’t seen it shine.”
She danced to the record over and over, but now she was distracted. It seemed odd to be in the living room by herself. A buffet supper was arranged on a sideboard in a corner of the fabulous room and she allowed herself a class of Champagne; the bubbles tickled her twitching nose. 

Where was the publisher? He didn’t even choose her outfit tonight so she dressed herself for comfort for once but of course comfortable on Donna looked very sexy. She wore a white top low cut with thin straps, the soft cotton snuggly caressing her warm skin. Her midriff was bare and she wore a long flowing skirt, white and almost sheer. The fabric shimmered and waved as her round ass jiggled in time to the crisp metronome beat of the record.  “Wait till the warm-up's underway
Wait till our lips have met
Wait till you see that sunshine day
You ain’t seen nothin yet
The best is yet to come, and baby wont it be fine
The best is yet to come, come the day your mine.”

Her ass looked mighty nice rolling and rocking to the music. She danced with languid waves of her arms, tossing her red hair in high arcs over her head with each call of the horns and moving in seductive jazzy wriggles and shimmies as the music possessed her.

She saw him in the door way and he was grinning, which annoyed her; she sulked but continued to dance, slowly drawing her broad movements into an ever closing circle around her body. She locked her eyes on his, daring him to contradict the song. “Wait till your charms are right, for these arms to surround 
You think you've flown before, but you ain’t left the ground
Wait till you're locked in my embrace
Wait till I hold you near
Wait till you see that sunshine place
There ain't nothin like it here
The best is yet to come, and baby wont it be fine
The best is yet to come, come the day your mine
Come the day your mine
come the day your mine
And you're gonna be mine.”

As the song faded the circle of her dance was taut and precise; tiny lifts of her feet and tight sways of her shoulders. Her eyes smoldered. The horns wailed in more sultry call and the needle began to bump over the last groove in a constant thumping, the only sound in the room except for the thumping of Donna’s defiant heart.

The singer strode into the room with confidence. “I guess you like the song. When the album comes out in August I’ll send you one. Autographed even.” He stopped at the buffet table and popped a cherry tomato into his mouth; the gesture was insolent and arrogant and Donna fumed. He poured himself some wine, letting the bubbles spill over the edge of his glass. “You’re Donna, I know; I saw you’re thing. The photo.” He made a sign with his hand miming the three fold center spread. He looked her over with probing eyes, as if comparing the real flesh and blood beauty before him with the centerfold gazing so insolently from the page of the magazine; Donna could feel her nipples tingle. She didn’t like it.

“Yeah,” he said, still ogling her. “You look fine in that picture, but baby, you even look good with your clothes on.” He was still looking at her but he was also rummaging by the stereo. He held up the record she had been playing all afternoon. “How ‘bout we give it a rest.” He selected something and carefully dropped the needle into the right groove.

The horns were jaunty and crisp, biting out a sweet melody. The strings played along with liquid charm. Donna recognized the tune immediately. “Some day, when I'm awfully low,
When the world is cold,
I will feel a glow just thinking of you...
And the way you look tonight.
Yes you're lovely, with your smile so warm
And your cheeks so soft,
There is nothing for me but to love you,
And the way you look tonight.” She frowned at his arrogance, choosing one of his own records. But he was close to her and in a second they were face to face. 

His hand touched her thigh and she shivered. “You want to dance?” he said smoothly.



The tiny girl fell into his arms and his hand pressed into the small of her back, guiding her in a sprightly dance. He moved in perfect rhythm intriguing Donna as he trotted her around the room; she was barefoot and her feet padded a soft beat in time to the jazzy Nelson Riddle arrangement. “With each word your tenderness grows,
Tearing my fear apart...
And that laugh that wrinkles your nose,
It touches my foolish heart.
Lovely ... Never, ever change.
Keep that breathless charm.
Won't you please arrange it ?
'Cause I love you ... Just the way you look tonight.” Donna was a dancer and he was wise enough to follow the languid uncoiling of her body and her dreamy ballet  made her limbs appear to swim through the air; her dance was redolent of sex and passion even in its coolness and precise perfection. She danced the way she made love, with the entire core of her being. She swooned like a school girl in the arms of her teacher and moved sinuously, reveling in music.

She couldn’t help giggling with delight in the dance. The song ended but before the next song could start she scurried over to play “The Way You Look Tonight” once more.

This times she just swayed in place and let the snappy arrangement rush over her; she wriggled seductively in that circumscribed dance that invited no partner but he enjoyed a feast for his eyes as she writhed to the music. The jaunty horns seemed to be a dozen hands sliding the straps down off her top and peeling away her garments; fully clothed the sexy girl looked naked.

“Three Coins in the Fountain” came next, a more mellow tune and she deigned to let him dance with her again. 

She made conversation to hide her nervousness as they swayed to the slow sensuous music. “So what do you think of the Mansion?”

“I stopped thinking as soon as I entered the room; I’m going on pure instinct.”

“Well, that’s what you’re supposed to do at the Mansion.”

He dipped her down and she dropped gracefully, trusting him to balance and hold her; then he spun her away, finally snapping her back into a tight embrace. Her breasts pressed against him. Suddenly he felt nervous, intoxicated by the fresh scent of the young girl.
“It’s kind of hot in here.” He mumbled, trying to sound casual.

Donna could sense she was gaining an advantage and she jiggled her breasts against him. “Take off your sweater off.” She made the words sound like a proposition.

With a teasing smile she wriggled out of his arms and sat on the couch, every gesture alluring and suggestive. Delicately folding her legs underneath her hips, she softly patted the empty space next to her. He sat and she placed a hand on his thigh. She met his eyes and something in her pupils, a school girl’s shy giddiness perhaps, made him laugh.
Her reciprocal smile exposed white teeth that were neatly clamped together except for a tiny red tip of tongue pressed in between. She cocked her head, like a bird making a decision. “Take your sweater off.” Her voice was slightly petulant now; she was not used to being resisted. He was amused in his easygoing way. Plenty of time for taking off sweaters; his eyes roved her body and he decided that, yeah, it was going to be real nice to be taking the clothes off of this sweet young thing. Take the time though, why hurry. 

She could feel the heat of his blue eyes roaming over her and she melted some. He was cute, more than cute, sexy. She knew where this was going; she could take her time she decided.

She shifted herself and scrunched her knees underneath her on the couch. She reached out and took his hands in hers, caressed it. “So smooth. I love your hands. I love the touch of your hands on my skin.”

“Yeah, that’s right.” He moved to rise. He looked across the room. There it was-- the bed. Hefner had thought of everything.

“Come.” In the one word he told her everything: he would be stripping her voluptuous body bare; he would be taking her, taking her completely. “Come,” he said, gesturing towards the bed. But she tugged his arm, as if to keep him on the couch. Instead he rose and held her arms as, with the elegant grace of a fawn, she stretched out each leg and let him left her from the couch. She stood in front of him, almost on tiptoe like a dancer.

He nudged her forward with a glance so Donna allowed herself to be led across the room. She sat demurely on the edge of the sheets and tried to focus on the music, but it was a fog, a mellow, all enveloping fog. He sat beside her. Whatever had caused that allure in her eyes in the photograph on her Playmate of the Year cover was burning in her now. It was impossible, sitting this close, not to be fully consumed by how beautiful she was.  The overall impression she gave was liquid, dark eyes that shown with a gaze as clear as water, a face that was softly lush, almost overripe in the lips and chin.

He nudged her face up, his fingers under her chin. The kiss was delicate and tentative. She pressed her mouth closed as if to refuse but she couldn’t think of any reason to resist, so ever so slowly her lips parted. Soft wisps of her breath, sweet and moist and fresh breezed over his tongue. The kiss deepened, his tongue intensely exploring her young mouth. She rose from the bed to meet his passion, to press against him. 

One of his hands pressed flat against her bare midriff and she held her breath. The other hand wrapped around her shoulder, holding her in place. The hand on her belly made soft simple circles and rose steadily, caressing her breasts through the delicate material of her top.

She kissed now with more fervor, holding his head and offering her glistening pink tongue to his voracious lust. Her nipples stabbed into his palm.  She broke the kiss with a smoldering smirk, daring him. She leaned away from him, raising her arms and putting her hands behind her neck so her hair spread out over her shoulders and her breasts jutted out towards him, firm and ripe. He took up the dare. His hands lifted her white top slowly, the silk peeling away in a warm caress. He paused to appreciate the perfection of her large creamy breasts and she finished the job of stripping herself to the waist, giving him a defiant sneer as she crossed her arms and unfolded them, tugging the top off her body in one graceful sweep. For a moment her red hair flew up, then settled in soft waves around her pouty face and perfect breasts.

His arms reached out only to be held gently by her tiny fingers and his hands were guided to the bow holding the skirt closed. One tug and the fabric loosened around her; she spun away and the sheer white skirt spread like a sail unfurling in the warm wind, pulling away from her body until she was gloriously naked. She stood facing him, arms akimbo and brazen in her sensual beauty; her pout dared him to take her.

His eyes wandered over the glory of her nude body. He knew he would never have better. If he lived a hundred years, he’d never have anything again as good as this. This was all the parts of a woman coming together in a flawless masterpiece; nothing could be so lusciously sexual, nor more desirable or perfect than this. Not the way everything came together, the beautiful face, the big soft breasts, the firm supple body, the shapely legs, but the attitude more than anything else, the look of daring and desire, the smoldering challenge and the promise of fun. Yeah, he would never have better but he would have her now.

She moved close to him and her hands moved now in an eruption of urgency; the buttons popped free, the zipper slid down, the buckle jangled opened. Naked together they gilded towards the bed.

Her mouth flooded his with demanding and pleading kisses. Her hands danced over his skin claiming him with every touch. Her body, lithe and supple, coiled over the sheets and writhed over him. His touch on her skin sent her soaring with sensual excitement.
Excitement and expectation and her expertise overwhelmed him almost at once. With gentle smiling urgency she overpowered him. Her breasts were a heavenly feast, disappearing into his greedy mouth as she eagerly fed her flesh to him. Her teeth were teasing and dangerous, biting into his shoulders and chest and fingers. Her pussy was hot and vibrant and calling to his cock like a silky siren.

With her mouth, her hands, her arms, her legs, her feet, with every inch of her juicy flesh she writhed or wriggled or twisted or tugged or pulled or caressed; she flung herself into a desperate search to touch him everywhere and in all ways. Her red hair flew and danced and stroked over him. Her mouth licked and kissed and bit. Over and over she’d press his face into the velvet heat of her breasts then snap his head up and kiss him ravenously. 

Then it happened; his massive cock lunged into her, drove in deep and hard. Tight and wet and her pussy welcomed the onslaught with an ever contracting ripple of glee and a suddenly ferocious flooding of nectar; her mouth tried to scream but she was breathless with bliss, her body glowing with ecstasy and her soul burning into a massive conflagration of lust and submission. Donna was gone and all that was left was her body dancing in pure unadulterated sex. She fucked with the same abandon with which she danced. She fucked with her body and her soul. She fucked with dizzying voraciousness. She fucked into a lapse of memory; a shout was all that was left, a smashing squeal as the cock slammed into her. She was tight and alive, deliciously frantic in her efforts to receive him inside her. Her mind, a blur, emptied of everything except the screaming demand to fuck into oblivion.

He thrust in and out of her succulent body and her body responded with flawless sways and twists to maximize the power of the cock inside her. She howled with pleasure and then her eyes opened wide, an epiphany rushed over her; sex became an outer-body cosmic experience. She watched them fucking as if floating above the bed. She could feel each thrust enter her as though it were the long momentum of an airplane taking off. Time emptied and her body registered every sweet increment of her exploding bliss as though it were a flower slowly unfolding in the sun. She saw herself as completely sexual, totally fuckable and she fucked with almost religious fervor now; her soul was awakening to complete surrender and she was becoming Donna Michelle, sex goddess and Miss December and Playboy’s Playmate of the Year. She could feel all the eyes of all the men with all the magazines worshiping her nubile young body.

This was a cruel trick of the mind but she long ago accepted the logic of it, gaining consciousness in an almost natal state. She surfaced without a history, then spent the sighs and moans reassembling her past and her future, shuffling the shards into some rational order before submitting once more to lust.

He pumped in and out of her plump and curvaceous body and she writhed in perfection. The music now swept over her like a warm bath. 

When somebody loves you
It's no good unless he loves you all the way

The cock plunged in deep, deeper, deeper still and she sobbed with each thrust. Her arms and legs wrapped tight and she pulled him in deeper.

Taller than the tallest tree is
That's how it's got to feel
Deeper than the deep blue sea is
That's how deep it goes if it's real

Her pussy alive and hungry began to throb; the tsunami was coming and it was going to be devastating. She held her breath and the song taunted her.

When somebody needs you
It's no good unless he needs you all the way
His cock, a throbbing juggernaut, emptied of everything except the screaming demand to fuck the helpless girl into oblivion.
He shot into her, a white comet that burned and seared even as it soothed with delicious effervescence and vibrancy; it fizzed inside her and she squealed like a virgin. He blasted again and she thrust up to take it.

If you let me love you
It's for sure I'm gonna love you all the way

He filled the tender girl over and over; his huge cock pumping deeper and harder as if battering down the last resistance. He was going to make her come.

Taller than the tallest tree is
That's how it's got to feel
Deeper than the deep blue sea is
That's how deep it goes if it's real

And then she did come, finally, a roar like the roar of angels bursting from heaven, thunder claps and lightning and desperate screams. Then a softness, a soothing surrender into the bliss; suddenly they were rocking gently, making love as they came against each other over and over.

And when somebody needs you
It's no good unless she needs you all the way
If you let me love you
It's for sure I'm gonna love you all the way
All the way, I'm gonna love you all the way

Ava Gardner once said of her ex-husband, "He only weighs a hundred twenty pounds, but one hundred pounds is cock." Years later in her memoirs she would talk about the singer’s prodigious sexual equipment and his exceptional sexual skills; it was the stuff of legends. But Michelle was about to live a fairy tale; the night she spent being pleasured by the singer became legend in the annals of Playboy lore; it was said that her howls of ecstasy could still be heard echoing in the corridors late at night.

His endurance was as prodigious as his legendary cock. Even after balling the sweet girl several times into the night he aroused himself once more and snuggled against the blissed out beauty’s bodacious body and slowly entered her again.

Donna looked at him with smoldering eyes as his cock pressed into her sweet sex. Her hair was a wild swirl of damp and glimmering curls of red, her face devilishly angelic. She rolled onto her side holding him close and keeping him inside her. She kissed him lovingly and nibbled his lips, guiding his hands over her heaving breasts. “Baby,” she whispered huskily, “Would you suck on them please, fuck me and suck me all at once.” Not waiting for his assent she  pressed his head over her chest even as she thrust her hips against his. Donna’s nipple was a candy hard nub surrounded by soft smooth creamy flesh. The taste was sweet with her innocence and salty with her sweat. Her hips continued to rock slowly, drawing his cock in and out of her tight sheath; she used all her skills as a dancer to keep the rhythm steady and surprising. He sucked her nipples while they balled to the cool jazz pace Donna established with her supple and vibrant body. 

His tongue beat a rhythm over her hard nipples and the electric pulse shocked through her trembling body; slowly, excruciatingly slowly, he pumped into her and her sex tightened like a heavenly vise. Her hips kept up the cool jazz dance but her body began to rattle into a more wild frenetic beat. The music in her head was rising to crescendo and the bliss in her body was throbbing to explode. She had one more moment of coherence left and she whispered, “Come inside me, fill me up,” before the dance became a total conflagration of ecstasy. She bucked and thrashed and took every volley of his orgasm eagerly and matched each blast of his cock with her own screams of gushing bliss. She came wildly and constantly, coming like a big band stampede that could only end in a slow fade out. She faded like the end of a perfect record; the music might have faded but it would continue forever. Her orgasm  became quiet but her bliss continued into an endless dream.

She awoke still trembling; sun streamed into the window and she rose and shook her mane of hair like a nymph rising from her bower. She cocked her pretty head and perked up her ears to hear the record already playing on the stereo:
I´ve got you under my skin.
I´ve got you deep in the heart of me.
So deep in my heart that you´re really a part of me.
I´ve got you under my skin.
I tried so not to give in. I said to myself:
"This affair never will go so well."
But why should I try to resist when, baby, I know so well,
I´ve got you under my skin.

Wrapping a sheet around herself Donna rose gracefully and danced herself awake. She smiled inscrutably and decided that she had a new favorite singer.


Submitted: April 18, 2013

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