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her rumpled curls, and she felt empowered, in control
of this mighty man. He had become as pliable as putty in her hands.
At that moment he would have done anything for her. She dipped up
and down, never letting him force his glans to the back of her
throat, using her tongue to caress his stalk, then sucking
strongly, entranced by the ridge of his retracted foreskin and the
smoothness of his cockhead.
    'Go for it,
kid, you're good,' he muttered. 'Wow, that's it. Pinch my nipples.
Yes, yes... pull 'em hard.'
    She reached up
and seized the blue-black nubs, but didn't stop sucking. Her breath
whistled through her nostrils. This wasn't enough. She withdrew to
grab in a mouthful of air, then returned to her task. She was hot,
her face bedewed with the sweat pooling in his groin, her mouth
filled with her own spittle and his pre-come. She sensed his crisis
was near, felt the throbbing of his stem, the pulsing of his helm.
His fingers curled in her hair, forcing her closer, jabbing at her
throat. She threshed, realising what was about to happen and not
quite ready for it. She tried to pull her mouth away, but Gus was
having none of it. He clamped her to him, holding her hard against
his belly. She couldn't move, her face pressed to that wildly
throbbing weapon. It soared and spasmed as he neared the pinnacle
of bliss.
    A hot geyser
of semen coated her face, her eyes, her nose, her mouth, spraying
her hair and breasts as he came in powerful jerks. She tried to
drag away, but he still held her, rigid in all-consuming ecstasy.
She was helpless in his ruthless grip, bathed in his rapidly
cloying libation. It cooled, mixing with her perspiration and
tears, a pearly white trickle even managing to inch past her navel,
heading for her delta.
    She sank down,
exhausted, resting her head against his thigh, and his fingers were
gentle now, fondling her hair. She wanted to wipe his come from her
face and body, but was afraid to move.
    'Get cleaned
up,' Theona said, linking her arm with Will's. 'Both of you dress,
and then I'll get into my glad-rags and we'll do the
interview.'
    'We don't have
cameras,' Will reminded.
    'Worry not, my
dear, I've equipment here that'll make your hair curl. You can
borrow that. In fact, I'll make you a present of it. Come along,
let's get started. I haven't got all night. Things to do, people to
see.'
     
    It was like
walking into a treasure house.
    As far as the
eye could see the exhibition hall was filled with display stands.
It was laid out like a glorified bazaar, a huge, beautiful expanse
of exciting fabrics. It was the stuff of which dreams are made,
samples of every conceivable material known to man - a jungle in
which ardent travellers in the heady world of couture could lose
themselves.
    Arlene Murphy
almost had an orgasm when she stepped inside; fabrics had the same
effect on her as sex. She could feel cold fingers crawling down her
spine and tickling her nipples into stiffness. She knew that her
panty gusset was damp.
    She had come
in from the rain slanting across stylish Upper Street, Islington,
into the Business Design Centre. After producing her pass ticket in
the foyer, and picking up a presentation carrier of catalogues and
other goodies, she had proceeded into this annual event, the Cloth
Show.
    She clipped a
nametag to her bodice and worked her way through the crowd, nodding
to this acquaintance and that, pleased to find that she was getting
known. It had been a long hard haul, but success was within her
grasp. She eyed the crowd boldly. There were soberly clad
businessmen pacing slowly, their heads together in earnest talk;
snappy dressers holding one-sided conversations into mobiles;
designers swanning about in their latest offerings; coltish,
willowy models and a couple of celebrities trailed by members of
the press with cameras poised.
    Arlene was
confident she was every bit as talented. As always when in crowds,
she amused herself by picturing people naked. From the highest to
the lowest, all