Sara Jean Underwood and her tutu

Sara Jean Underwood and her tutu

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Details

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Summary

Sara Jean Underwood, Miss July 2006, and Playmate of the Year 2007, dances like a ballerina.

Summary

Sara Jean Underwood, Miss July 2006, and Playmate of the Year 2007, dances like a ballerina.

Content

Submitted: April 18, 2013

A A A | A A A

Content

Submitted: April 18, 2013

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The filming was not going well; the powers that be at E knew they had a tiger by the tail but they had no choice but to keep the reality show called The Girls Next Door running because it was making money. It also made three very untalented and very bitchy women minor celebrities and, as anybody who worked in Los Angeles could tell you, minor celebrities had the biggest egos. The formula was almost Pythagorean in its elegance: the less talented, the least worthy of attention always became the biggest a**holes once they realized that people who could afford basic cable now recognized them at the Seven-Eleven. The trio who comprised the Girls Next Door was proof positive of this logarithm and; in fact, because their real talent was merely being able to tolerate the sexual attentions of an octogenarian, their ability to flaunt their minor celebrity status and to inflate their own importance was trebled. Thus the entire crew on any of their shoots was miserable from set-up to breakdown.


On this shoot the choreographer was suffering the most; his job, to make the trio seem graceful and light on their feet was daunting; when Disney managed to get hippos to dance it was through the magic of animation but these three, while not as heavy as hippos, lacked anything resembling grace. To make matters worse, Sara Jean Underwood, a genuine girl next door, a warm and alluring sweetheart, and a bona fide actual playmate, was also supposed to be in the video and she, without intending to, made the bumbling trio, seem all the more ungainly in their awkward attempts to imitate her prepossessing and natural poise. Nobody’s eyes, including the choreographer’s, could leave her and for good reason too.

Her tutu was plain and simple compared to the glittery costumes the trio had demanded and she filled it with great style, her hips slim but very feminine, her lithe body luscious in its soft curves. Because the show was for basic cable, her blonde hair was strategically pasted over her firm breasts but nothing could hide the suggestive curves of their delicious pear shape, and the nipples poked out cutely from under the strands of blonde hair.


Sara Jean had the beauty and innocent allure of a princess in a Disney movie which made the trio hate her all the more, but because the gentle girl was already a favorite not only of the publisher but the entire Playboy staff; the trio could not take their vengeance on her so instead they went after the choreographer, deciding that it was his fault that they were too stupid to remember more than three steps at a time.


They taunted him with a constant stream of insults and curses through the entire rehearsal; they called him names, brazenly inferred that he was gay and when he refused to join the youngest one in the dressing room during a break they absolutely howled with derision, calling him “fag” in voices loud enough to be heard throughout the Mansion.


Sara Jean bit her lip throughout the whole debacle. She knew it was pointless to argue with the evil trio and she was more than a little afraid of them too. Besides, the choreographer seemed to shrug it all off, his face inscrutable except for a small smile of pleasure whenever Sara Jean danced in her cute little purple tutu.


Sara Jean marveled at his patience and skill in showing her the complicated steps and she wondered at his ability to ignore the harsh treatment from the malicious Girls Next Door. “How can you stand it?” she asked quietly, almost conspiratorially as they met at the snack table during a break and sipped some tea together.


“I’ve choreographed for the New York City Ballet, I’ve worked with Russian prima donnas in Moscow; trust me, this is nothing.” He popped a canapé into his mouth with a gesture of finality.


Sara sighed, filled with even more admiration and awe for the talented man; as she sipped her tea she tried to be graceful with her paper cup but she was trying to cover her bare breasts at the same time. Even after shooting her centerfold, the guileless girl was shy about being nude in front of men; oh, it was OK when she was dancing, that was performing, but here just casually talking in front of a table filled with bagels and chips and cut fruit and veggies and fancy little snack thingies, yikes! She was embarrassed, and more embarrassed as she caught herself admiring the choreographer’s cool and confident demeanor.  She blushed sweetly and laced her fingers behind her neck, covering her firm round breasts with her bent elbows. She stood on tiptoe to talk to the tall man. She looked awfully cute wearing nothing but a purple tutu and an alluring smile. “Wow, you’ve been around the world it sounds like!” With a level twinkle her eyes met his.


“Cigarette?” he said, maybe only to fill in the space of the suggestive silence.


“No, thanks,” she said with that level twinkle challenging him. “I thought dancers shouldn’t smoke.”


He shrugged. “Oh dancers definitely smoke when they’ve earned it. This is my last one and I’ve been looking forward to it, so please don’t refuse.”


“But I don’t smoke.”


“Experiment with this one. While I work with…” He gestured towards the trio hunched together as if plotting. He didn’t want to say the names. “Nobody will complain. You’ve a look of a queen about you entirely, sitting here in your solitary luxuriousness. And only a queen knows how to receive a gift graciously.”


“You’re awfully silly.” She smiled, wrinkling her nose in a quizzical expression that might have been scornful or pleased.


He was in a groove now, enjoying the way his extravagant talk amused the pretty girl. “I want to remember you as the queen of the dance, the Empress of Music. So take this gift, Your Majesty, and don’t disappoint me.”


With pleasant gravity, the girl accepted the cigarette, taking a napkin from the snack table and wrapping the foolish little gift in it.


“We better get going,” the director said as he approached the table.


She looked at the choreographer for a brief second. “Go ahead.” The way she said it, still looking at him, it sounded very much like an invitation.


Sara Jean wanted to say more but the hideous trio began shrieking for the choreographer’s attention. He shrugged at her and went off to try to explain the simple steps one more time.


Sara Jean very rarely pouted but she now sat like a petulant school girl on a chair and crossed her arms akimbo and slapped her heels into the floor, her shapely legs at a discomforting angle that illustrated her annoyance. She furrowed her brow and pursed her lips, the closest she could get to being angry; and she looked cute and delectable doing it. Fuming silently she watched the spiteful trio sneer viciously and abuse the choreographer even more as they stumbled clumsily through  their routine.


It was the leader who finally snarled the whole thing to a halt. “You’re fired, faggot,” she screeched in a nails-on-a-chalkboard voice. She had messed up a simple three step and twirl and the chubby one of the trio had ‘accidently’ slapped her as they attempted the spin. “We don’t need you and we don’t need this stupid segment on the show.”


“But Holly…” The director was on his feet and sputtering. “This has already cost us a fortune.” But the leader of the trio lifted her hand in an icy imperious gesture, flaunting a power she held more tenuously than she knew; her shrug was dismissive and final. With an exaggerated huff she led her two fellow Girls Next Door out of the room. The youngest one, with a skanky sneer cackled in the direction of the choreographer, “Let the faggot clean up this mess.”


The man shrugged too, but his gesture was world-weary and almost jazz-like in its cool indifference. The director and producer were buzzing around him with apologies. “Don’t worry about it,” the dancer said calmly, “I’ll just bill you for the hours on set. Write up a codicil so I take ownership of the choreography then we’ll call it even.” The producer and director, now joined by a flock of assistants began to buzz some more but he ignored them; peeping over their heads he spotted the lovely Sara Jean looking like a jilted prom date as she sat against the wall in her wooden chair.


He slipped out of the crowd, leaving it to them to sort out what to do with all the gear for the setup. He sat next to the cutely petulant girl and smiled. “I thought you would have been fine in your part,” he said cheerfully.


“Golly, really?” Sara Jean’s face lit up, “I mean, wow! Every girl dreams of being a ballerina. Oh, you’re just saying that! But gee, it was fun and I wish we could have filmed my part.” As she chattered excitedly she rested a hand on his leg without really thinking about it.


He put a hand over hers. “No, you have a natural grace and a real feel for the music. And you are quite lovely.”
“Oh, now you’re making me blush,” she said softly.


“Very lovely,” he went on, “In fact…” He glanced over to the crew where everybody was busy either dismantling lights and camera setups or angrily waving clipboards like weapons for a duel. “In fact, Sara Jean,” he said smoothly. He pressed his hand firmly over hers, then slid it across to her lap and under her legs. “In fact, Miss Sara Jean Underwood,” He said her name like he was putting it in lights on a marquee. “In true fact, you are so lovely. So lovely that I want to spend more time with you.” His other arm went behind her back and under her shoulders. “Lucky for me, my schedule just opened up.” The cute little playmate felt herself being lifted into his strong arms.


“I…I can’t…” she sputtered, flabbergasted by his forwardness and confidence.

“Oh, I think you can, Sara Jean,” he chuckled; her face was close to his now and he winked mischievously. “I know for a true fact that your schedule is clear for rest of the afternoon too. And the shoot had been scheduled to go on until mid-night.” He hoisted the tiny girl up.

“What you doing?” she giggled, looking around with embarrassment.

“I want to take you  home.”

“Well you can take me to the door of my dressing room—home’s too far away.”

“Nothing’s too far away.”

She looked at him earnestly. “You mean for you.”

“I mean for me.”

The wardrobe mistress had long ago taken refuge in the dressing room Sara Jean was using; of course, the sweet angel faced blonde had the smallest room since the grasping trio had commandeered not only the better rooms but also a room for one of their dogs. Sara Jean’s dressing room was tiny but also filled with racks of clothes shoved in from the other rooms to make space for the trio’s egos.

Maria had worked at the Mansion for a number of years and had seen many different women behave badly when they assumed that the publisher’s bed was a throne from which to rule his estate, but these three scared her, so she was grateful that Sara Jean let her hide there and even more grateful that all the extra clothes racks worked to muffle the discordant shrieks of the girls out on the set. She was snoring when Sara Jean entered; or to be more accurate, still wrapped in the man’s arms the sweet playmate floated in like an sexy angel nestled in a purple hued cloud of soft sheer fabric.

“Oh dear,” she whispered, “Maria is sleeping.”

“Yes, I can see that, but don’t you think she’s going to be missed out on the set?”

Sara Jean looked into his face, her wide innocent eyes reflecting his desire in their dark pupils. She felt helpless and thrilled in his arms, both charmed and alarmed by the way he had swept her up and carried her into the dressing room. What was he thinking? What was SHE thinking? “Hum, I suppose you’re right,” she said almost reluctantly. She waited a beat, as if expecting him to put her down but he didn’t, so she reached out and gently touched Maria’s shoulder, softly speaking her name.

The older woman blinked her eyes open and didn’t seem even remotely surprised to see the topless playmate nestled in the arms of the choreographer. Still the adorable angel blushed bashfully. “Hum, Maria, I’m so sorry to wake you…but, um…” Sara Jean said, getting flustered with the strength of his arms squeezing her to his chest. “The shoot is…ah, finished? No, I mean I guess it’s just, um, over? Anyway, they’re striking so…” Her words faded in embarrassment but Maria, comprehending fully, was rising anyway. “Yeah, um, thank you, Maria…for…um, you know, everything?”

The older woman was already halfway out the door. “Maria,” the choreographer called after her and the woman stuck her head back in. “You can finish up in here last; tomorrow would be fine.” The woman nodded; she had seen it all.

Without releasing Sara Jean’s lithe body from the cradle of his arms, the man sat down on an old beat up armchair. The crinoline fabric of the tutu rustled softly as it gathered around her waist and thighs, forming a flowing purple nest for the fragile bird in his lap. She still kept her arms demurely crossed over her breasts and her eyes cast shyly to the floor. The door clicked closed with a metallic finality and the pretty little playmate gulped audibly.

The choreographer ignored her endearing hesitation; after a long day with the weird trio Sara Jean’s gentle demeanor was a refreshing tonic. He breathed in the honeysuckle scent of her soft blonde hair and listened to the rapid beating of her heart as she nestled against him, each shift of her luscious body causing the fabric to whisper sensuously.

“I was very pleased to be working with you,” he said, merely to fill the air with some soothing talk.

She nodded her head. "I'd hoped you wouldn’t mind working with an amateur like me."

He smiled slowly. "I said it before; you have a natural grace." His hand tenderly lowered one of her arms into her lap; the shy girl squirmed slightly and adjusted her free arm over her breasts. His words made her feel warm and tingling inside though.

"Truthfully?" she asked shyly.

"Absolutely true." His hand was insistent now, firmly guiding her protective arm away.

The gentle girl still looked at the floor but she could feel his gaze on her bare breasts and she knew her chest was flushing an embarrassed red glow now. She felt her nipples hardening. "I was wondering what you were thinking."

"Huh?" He wasn’t thinking anything; he was licking his lips and staring at the hard red candy tips of her firm breasts; he was getting drunk on the allure of her fresh aroma.

Her hands, fluttering like a nervous humming bird, alighted on the buttons of his shirt and almost unconsciously she began to finger them and slowly open them. "A little ago, when you were getting yelled at by…” She paused, not wanting to say the name. “When you were working so hard and stuff…you were so calm…and strong…with that smile on your face and I couldn't get your attention."

"Uh, I was busy, but believe me; I was thinking about you." He pressed the palm of his hand into her flat belly, feeling her tense up for a moment. The crinoline rustled slightly as he slid his hand up her torso, stopping just below her breasts. His shirt was almost completely open now.

She laughed. "Truthfully. I told you the truth, I want the same from you." Her finger lightly touched over the bare skin of his chest. She etched circles around his nipples and he began to do the same to her body, sending rushes of excitement through her.

"I was thinking about you."

"Really?" She sounded pleased and disbelieving at the same time.

"What's with you women? I lie to you and you don't believe me. I tell you the truth and you don't believe me."

She laughed softly. "What were you thinking about me?"

"Why do you want to know so much?"

"The expression on your face was. . . ."

He waited for a few moments, but heard nothing but rumbling of the crew outside and her breathing. He watched the palm of her free hand pull at edge of her tutu where it rested on her hips, then rub along the top of her thigh. He held his breath, would she pull her skirt up any?

"It was. . .?" he prompted.

"Hot," she finally admitted. She glanced at him for a moment, licked her lips, and nervously fingered the buttons of his open shirt with one hand while twirling the edge of the tutu in the other; the fabric slowly revealed more and more of her shapely thighs.

"I was thinking about hot things." He wondered how far she would take this, how far he would take this. He didn't know her, didn't know anything about her, yet he was confessing to her that he was having sexual thoughts about her. Their faces caressed each other as they spoke, kissing without lips touching, without eyes meeting.

"What kind of hot things?" She asked as if she knew, or hoped she knew.

“Me. Here. With you. All night.”

“We can’t spend the whole night…’

“Sure we can, and there’s nothing to do with the night but to spend it. You can’t save it; it won’t keep.”

“That sounds like it came from a book.”

“It will be in a book.”

“Are you a writer?”

“I will be.”

“What kind of stories do you write?”

“I’ll decide after tonight.”

She blushed sweetly. “But how can you write a story before you think about it?”

“Oh, I’ve been thinking about it.”

“I think I know what you mean,” her voice was low and soft.

“I’m sure I do.”

“Are you teasing me?” she asked petulantly. Their mouths were close enough that her lips brushed over his as she spoke; still she avoided looking into his eyes, afraid and thrilled by what she might find there. The air between them thick and moist. “Why are you making fun of me?”

“I only make fun of myself.”

“Are you that funny?”

“I’m that certain.’

“You’re wrong about love affairs.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I never mentioned any.”

“I think a person knows when they’re going to make love with someone.”

“He knows, but does she?”

She didn’t answer; she looked away.

He continued. “Does she know?”

“It’s none of your business.”

“I think it’s obvious.”

“Oh, you’ve decided that too?”

“Does the girl ever say anything?”

A funny little spark came into her eyes. She was tempted to look at him; his lips were excruciatingly close.  “Sometimes she gives him a kiss.”

“I’ve still things to learn.”

“Now, don’t  tease me. What do you need to learn?” Her fingers were nervously scratching over his chest.

“You’re teasing me too.”

“Yes, I’m teasing you. Do you enjoy that?”

“I’m enjoying the two of us.”

“What about the two of us? What are you thinking?” she asked hopefully.

Licking  your panties, he thought to himself,  "Your panties," he said out loud.

She gasped, sucking in a deep breath that sounded half moan, half surprise "Really?"

"I was thinking about laying you across the big oak table out there, hiking your skirt up, and looking at your panties." He watched her fingers dally by her knee, then curve along the smooth flesh of her inner thigh. He didn't care what kind of game she was playing anymore, he was getting seriously turned on. "What color are they?" As he spoke he shifted his body, extending his arms so he could deposit her on the counter of the make-up table. She made a pouting sound when he released her then she sat demurely crossing her legs, of course revealing her shapely calves in all their glory. He sat back in the chair and she gave him a disdainful, bratty glance. He grinned back as if explaining that the gap between them now made things safer.

She finished pouting and blinked at his question. "What?"

"Your panties. What color are they?"

"Purple."

"I'd pictured you in pink, but purple is good too." His heart raced, did he have the balls to do it? She did start it, so it wasn't exactly sexual harassment. What the hell. "What kind of panties?"

"Kind?"

"Your panties."

"They're French cut."

"French cut? What do those look like?" He watched some of her fingers slide under her skirt.

"They're high cut in the hips."

"Cotton?"

"Silk, or  satin. I don’t know. Shinny"

"Wet?"

"Yes." She sucked in a breath, as if just realizing what she'd admitted to.

"I can see your hand. Well, part of it, the rest of it is under your skirt."

"Oh my god," she murmured. Her hand froze; he could see it quiver. Would she pull it away from herself?

"Didn’t you know you were touching yourself?"

"Can I…touch you?"

"I want you to touch yourself."

"You do? But I want to touch you."

"You will. You turned me on. It's hard."

"Oh my god."

"When you wear your silk-like-satin-I-don’t-know-shinny, French cut, purple panties, does it cover your pubic hair or does some of it stick out?"

"I’m,um, shaved and all And you’re teasing me again."

"Yes, I am. Are you getting turned on?"

"Yes. Do you want to do this?" Her free hand fluttered into the air, like she was releasing a bird. This could have meant being together in this room or together in the vastness of the universe.

"Oh yes, baby. Will you touch your pussy?"

She froze again, then glanced his way. He could see parts of her face. "I can't, my legs are too close together. Let me take your cock out."

"Spread your legs a little, then, touch your pussy for me."

"Your cock," she reminded him.

He grinned at her, “Close your eyes,” he demanded. She obeyed as he was yanking open the button fly of his jeans. He watched her carefully spread herself open, working her skirt up higher along her thighs. "Is your cock out?"

"It's out; what should I do with it?"

"I wish you could fuck me with it."

"That's what I was thinking of, bending you over that table, lifting your skirt up, and shoving my dick straight up into that tight, gorgeous pussy."

"How do you know it's tight and gorgeous?"

"I'm willing to bet it is. Does it taste good?"

"Taste. . .?"

He glanced to the door, still a long loud buzz of activity outside. He wanted to hear her come. "Taste, if I stuck my tongue between your pussy lips, would I like the way you taste?"

"Oh my god." Her voice was earnest, her eyes still clenched tight. He could see her fingers moving under her skirt.

"Are you touching yourself?"

"Yes. I can't believe I'm doing this."

"You don't have to." He hoped she wouldn't stop.

"Neither do you, I like this. It's making me wet." He liked the sound of that: wet. The way she said it sounded sinful and the lilt in her voice was so delightful. That lilt in her voice was one of his favorite things. "Are your fingers in your pussy?"

"I'm rubbing my… clit." She blushed to be saying something so uncouth; she felt a reckless magic lifting her.

His cock twitched. "I'm rubbing my dick too, it's leaking."

"I want to lick it."

"What?"

"I want to run my finger over the head of your cock, then lick my finger.” With her eyes closed she felt safe saying these things. “Tell me what you taste like. My nipples are so hard, they hurt."

"I'm pretty hot myself. What do I get in return?"

"I'll tell you what my pussy tastes like. You can watch me stick my fingers inside but I want to know what your cock tastes like."

He ran his finger over the slick head of his cock. "You'll lift your skirt up high enough to show me your panties?"

"Yes."

He took her free and guided her finger over his cock, collecting some of the stickiness that had oozed out and some of his sweat too. She lifted the hand into her mouth and licked it. "It's salty, a little bitter. Warm too." She whispered to hide her excitement.

"Do you like the taste?"

"I do,” she said in a breathless sigh. She paused and thought. "Will I like the taste? If I ever suck your cock?"

"I hope so, baby." He turned his head and glanced at the door, wishing they would finish and go and leave them in peace.

"Your turn."

She did it, he couldn't believe it, but she spread her legs a little wider and pulled her skirt up. He could see a flash of purple and her fingers sliding under it. Then she sucked on one, moaning in his ear.

"You are the sexiest woman I've ever seen."

"But I'm not."

"Really?"

"I have this fuzz on my arms, and my skin burns too easily, and I'm covered in freckles."

"I'd love to lick every freckle on your body."

"Oh my god," she echoed. She suddenly put her free hand over her mouth, realizing the crew was still outside.

"They’re about done." He had hoped there would be a few dozen miles between them and the evil trio. "Do you want to finish this?"

There was silence for a moment, finally she yanked her hand out of her skirt. "Yes."

"Will you let me fuck you or do you just want to finish our talk?"

There was silence for a few moments. "Talk a little more. My climax isn't too far away, I'll be there."

She giggled a little in her hand, and turned to look at him. "I want it hard when I touch it."

"Of course it will be, it already is hard."

"Tell me when I can touch you," she breathed

She silently played with herself, her eyes closed, her soul lost in her own world, her lips biting down to keep herself silent.

He loved the sight of her, even loved her being so far away in a galaxy she created for herself. "Hey, still with me, gorgeous?"

"Hi." She sounded shy again. "Still with you. What were we talking about?"

"My dick."

She sucked in an audible breath. "What does it look like?"

He glanced at his cock; it was just hanging out in his lap, hard and drooling. "It looks like a dick. It's average. What does your pussy look like?"

"Like a pussy."

"Will you let me see it?"

"Maybe. I'm here. Near you, near your cock." Her eyes were still closed and her hand was pulsating rapidly under her skirt.

"I'll here. Tell me about your pussy."

"It's sweet; it tastes like honey."

"I bet. Do you let girls eat you?"

"I…why…why do you ask?"

"Make yourself come; imagine another playmate is eating you.” He could hear her fumbling under her skirt. He could smell her. She was spreading her legs and looking down at her pussy, touching it, playing with it. His dick surged again.  “How much of her tongue is in you?”

Sara Jean pictured an imaginary playmate devouring her honey-pot. "Over an inch, I think."

He watched her carefully; because she was so fervently pleasuring herself he could only see the top of her head.

"I've thought about it, I want to see your cock," she murmured.

"Anything you want, baby."

"I was thinking you could stand there and I could sit here."

He thought about that, he'd get to see her as well, even though he'd be more exposed. "Are you going to show me your pussy?"

"Yes."


"Okay."


His feet planted themselves firmly on the floor and he tugged his jeans down enough to let his dick and balls hang comfortably through the fly. Her eyes devoured him. The feeling of her raw appreciation was enough to make him forget that he in a dressing room in the middle of the day with a crowd outside. He wrapped his hand around his dick. It jumped in his fist, the head of it straining toward her face. She licked her lips.


"Let me see your pussy."


She leaned in the seat and started to wriggle out of her panties.


"No, let me see your pussy in your panties first. Pull your skirt up and lean your sweet self back. Show me."


She leaned all the way and arched her back. Her milky belly and thighs were generously sprinkled with freckles. She gathered the crinoline tutu around her waist. At the vee of her legs, a purple pair of panties, cut high in the hips, molded around bare naked lips. He could smell her pussy. She spread her legs as wide as her shyness would let her.
"Grab the sides of your panties and pull, work them through your lips." He didn't recognize his own voice.


She wrapped her fingers around the panties and pulled, sawing them delicately back and forth until the wet, purple crotch slipped between her plump lips. The fabric slid through her pussy, presumably across her clit because she arched and groaned. Her hips twisted, her legs clamping together reflexively. She spread them again, this time putting one foot up on the counter. It was obscene, it was slutty, and it reeked of female sexual arousal. He almost came.


Pulling her panties out of the way, she sank a finger deep into her pussy, groaning. "You like watching this." She sounded surprised at her own discovery.


"I could watch you do this all day."


"More than fucking?"


"No."


"Would you fuck me?"


"Do you want me to?"

 


"Yes." She sat up, leaned forward, and swallowed his cock whole. One moment his hand was slowly stroking the length of it, the next her throat was squeezing his cockhead. He sank his fingers into the corn silk blonde hair and let her mouth work over his dick. She sucked, making obscene slurping sounds with her lips.


"Oh, baby, you're good."


She paused a moment, her eyes flicking up to meet his. He hoped he remembered the sight forever, the classic candy-apple-red, pouting lips wrapped around his hard cock, innocently seductive eyes rising up the length of his body to meet his, and her gorgeous blonde hair spilling over to tickle his thighs. After a breath of time, she resumed sucking, pulling on his cock with her pretty mouth. Her tongue found the head and the dripping little slit in it and her pink tongue swirled. She did something with her teeth just then that made his eyes bulge and ass cheeks squeeze.


Holding her head, he started a slow thrusting motion, leisurely fucking her mouth. He couldn't believe this was happening, she couldn't be sucking his dick. Things like this don't happen in real life, gorgeous playmates don't blow strange men they meet on a TV shoot. He groaned when she swallowed, pulling his cock into her throat. Her mouth felt like a wet, wiggling vacuum. He put his hands on her cheeks and gently pushed her away. He wanted to blow his wad, just not right that moment. He'd do it later, after he'd gotten a better view of her purple panties.


She looked up at him, frowning disappointment, then opened her mouth to swallow his cock again. He was tempted to let her do it. The image of her sprawled over the make-up counter, legs widespread with him between them was just too enticing. "No, babe, you'll make me come. It's your turn."


"But..."


"Come on." He took her hand. She looked around uncertainly for a moment, then shrugged and followed him silently. "This is what I was fantasizing about, having you right here. Right now."
"I’m scared."


"You got me hard."


"Oh dear."


"Oh." He put his hand on belly, it was warm, so warm her delicate skin. "Lean back."
She grinned, catching the idea. Wiggling her ass, she slowly hiked the flimsy tutu over it, until her creamy white cheeks were covered only with a pair of soft purple panties. Arching her body, she leaned over the counter, putting her hands on the smooth wood, and lifted one long leg up to join her hand. The pose was perfect, better than anything he had thought of. It forced her ass to stick up, her back to arch, and the spread of her legs made the swell of her pussy easily available.
He took a moment to admire her ass, the smooth curves and firm skin curling into her panties. The purple satin was wet, a darker purple covering sweet treasure. He leaned in and took a long lick at her through the shimmering fabric.
"Damn you're sexy, Sara Jean," he muttered, then pulled the panties aside and stuck his tongue into her honey moist pussy. She squealed softly and squirmed against his mouth.


His fingers slipped inside and his tongue found her clit. He could have licked her for hours, she tasted that good, but he had a crick in his neck from the awkward position and she was slapping him the face with her pussy and yelling, "Fuck me! Fuck me now!"


He wasn't a man to deny a lady when she asked so sweetly. He stood up behind her, dick in hand, and froze. "God, I want you."


She froze as well, then relaxed against him, "Yes, you do."


"I need this." He rubbed his cock against her pussy, looking for that glory and that heaven.


"Yes, you do. Me too."


His cock slid through her lips, bounced off her clit, and he almost knocked them both over. "You like this?"


She wiggled her ass against him, her hot wet pussy rubbing against his knuckles and dripping all over the shaft of his dick. "Yes, I do."

Her ass rubbed back and forth on his belly. It was just too much. He'd heard about shit like this, but damned if he'd ever thought it was real. Sara Jean Underwood, Playboy Playmate. He just wanted to keep her bent over and full of cock. His cock. Speaking of which. . . .


His cock found her entrance and slid inside. She was hot and wet, basting him with her juices. He pressed in a little deeper and she wiggled against him, moaning. Her hair licked at his belly and her pussy squeezed his cock like a loving anaconda.
He held her hips, grinding her pussy down onto his cock until her lips kissed his balls. Even through the haze of bliss, he could see Sara Jean’s flawless flesh rosy with the exertions of sex. In the vague peripheral vision of his crossed eyes, he could see himself in the mirror leaning in to his playmate. Their tongues touched and her ass twitched. There was something exciting about watching her reflection while he fucked her.


"You're sexy as fuck, Sara Jean," he groaned. He started a slow thrust, just to get the feel for fucking her. Her sex sucked on his cock while he slid out and welcomed him back with a greedy hug.


The guy in the mirror grinned at him. "Thanks, laddie. Do the Irish proud. Fuck her good."


He couldn't believe this was happening. Sara Jean moaned deep in her chest. His shaft, a glory-bound bullet in enthralling intuitive flight ached into her, her sex stirring.


He closed his eyes and thought about that incredible pussy. How tight it was, how hot it was, how incredibly wet it was. The wet sucking sounds her cunt made with each stroke of his cock vied with the wet sucking sounds her mouth made as he kissed her.


She suddenly squealed, bucking back against him. He opened his eyes, still a little dazed with the pleasure and disbelief. This was just a dream, a great fucking dream, but shit like this didn't happen in real life. Sara Jean gyrated her ass against him, shimmying on his cock like a hot lap dancer getting a grand to do a dance. Something touched his cock and it was her graceful hand. He met half-lidded eyes and saw she was touching herself, touching him inside her. That was unexpected, but not too bad.


Sara Jean started snorting and howling. He could feel her pussy clamping down on his cock. His balls tightened up against his body and he saw stars. He cut her off in mid-caterwaul with a hard kiss. Her cunt squeezed, her  fingers danced, and his cock throbbed. He grabbed her hips and pounded into her, giving her a fucking that rocked that counter, setting its legs to squealing like a king sized bed getting a good work out. His vision went a little hazy and dark until his entire being seemed centered on the fire boiling in his balls and his dick growing inside of her. He slammed home one last time, gritting his teeth, and emptied his balls into her.


When he came around a few minutes--or was it hours--later, he pulled away from Sara Jean and leaned against the mirror to catch his breath. Sara Jean’s soft shy face was hidden somewhere behind a curtain of gloriously blonde hair. Watching her, he felt his cock twitch. He debated on whether or not to stuff his cock back into his pants and chance the zipper. Ultimately, he decided against it.


Sara Jean looked delicious, covered in sweat and trembling like a fawn at a stream. She sobbed when he lifted her and carried her to the beat-up couch behind some of the racks of clothes. She cried out as he pierced her, one hard thrust then a heavy tremulous pause as they both savored the electricity of his shaft deep in her depths. Sara looked up at him with adoring eyes, smiling bravely through the anguish of sharp pain as his cock filled her. The sound of her heart pounding echoed through the room so when the door opened the metallic snap was jarring.


The evil three hissed into the room like venomous snakes, sniffing the air in pursuit of the diminutive blonde. The couple hidden by the voluminous rows of clothes racks remained hushed. Sara trembled in fear now  and the choreographer couldn’t help himself; he rode that fear, slowly easing his cock in and out of the sweet tight girl. She noiseless grasped his shoulders, pulling him down and pressing his chest against the diamond hard points of her nipples. Her teeth sank into his shoulders to keep herself from screaming out her bliss. His cock pumped in and out, slow and silent; the demented trio searched the room with a vicious intensity but with their usual innate laziness. They could sense sweet Sara in here somewhere but they had no intentions of moving the heavy clothes racks.


Their hissing snarls continued to frighten the young girl but slowly she began to gyrate along with his hips as he fucked her in the severe concentrated silence. In and out he slid slowly savoring the sweet tightness of the panicky girl. In the trembling of her body he could chart the rise of her orgasm and her dread of screaming out. He fucked her slowly and smoothly; she refused to writhe in the pleasure she felt but her stillness was even more erotic and arousing around his cock. He came in an easy flow, flooding quietly into her depths and the heat of his load melted her resistance; her own orgasm came in molten lava as she gushed and trembled her bliss over his cock.


The weird trio knew something was happening but they didn’t know where. They suddenly rushed from the room in pursuit of their prey, completely missing the erotic coupling just yards away from them.

As soon as the door slammed closed Sara Jean let out a long slow moan, releasing the pent up ecstasy; now her body began to buck with wild energy and she fucked him, even under him taking control and making a party with his cock. She smiled her sweet smile and felt him shoot another load deep into her womb.  

Much later she was alone in the dressing room, solitary luxuriousness he had called it. She looked around and delicately picked up a rolled up napkin and unfurled it slowly. The cigarette tumbled into her palm and she looked at it for a moment before putting it between her lips. Matches were on the counter and after two or three tries she managed to light the cigarette; she coughed cutely and smiled at the little girl acting all sophisticated in the mirror. One or two puffs were enough to remind her of his gallant teasing earlier. She was a dancer after all she decided.  

 


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