PERFORMANCE

Mike supposed he shouldn’t have been that surprised, really. People had been telling him for several months that Chantal was selfish and shallow and not to be relied on, and he’d always laughed and said he didn’t plan to marry her, but he wasn’t going to
argue with a pair of tits like hers. As well as the aforementioned tits: 38D with pert cinnamon-coloured nipples, Chantal had silky, glossy blonde hair, wide hazel eyes, a full lower lip and a turned-up nose. Her legs were slender, her feet dainty, and the little strawberry tattoo beneath her belly button cute rather than dangerously “street”. Mike liked to run his tongue over it as he licked and nibbled his way down from her nipples to her tight, juicy quim before burying his face between her thighs and reaching up to stroke her tits as he ate her out until she screamed. She was happy enough to return the favour and suck and gobble his knob, as
well, so Mike reckoned she wasn’t all that selfish. Fucking Chantal, above all, was a treat, though: the way she arched her back and moaned and writhed, clawing his shoulderblades as his cock was sheathed in her hot slit; the things she whispered in his ear when he was deep inside her, the whole performance always made him feel like King Stud.

She’d agreed to perform at the Lovebomb benefit shortly after the first pictures of her wearing one of Angie’s designs appeared in that fetish fashion mag, and people had been coming up to her in clubs and telling her how good she looked, and how she
ought to think about being a model. Angie had given her the dress in return for doing the photo shoot, and Chantal wore it a lot - so people would recognise her, Angie said once, but blushed when Mike asked what that was supposed to mean. Angie, who had volunteered to help co-ordinate the event as soon as the date and place were arranged, was a voluptuous, wide-hipped redhead with an almost translucent complexion, big green eyes in a feline sort of face and legs that went on forever, but she tended to get petite, busty blondes like Chantal to wear her designs in public, and to arrange and organize the shows and the
shoots and the performances rather than appearing in them herself. Mike had idly wondered why that was, before turning his attention to the rather more pressing problems of sorting out the right sort of publicity for Lovebomb. He knew that some people
would say it wasn’t necessary, or it wasn’t appropriate, or it wasn’t in good taste, but he knew he wasn’t the only one who thought that, when the couple who had run one of the most popular private clubs in the area some years ago were suffering horrendous financial problems due to a failed libel action against them, then maybe some of their former guests would enjoy a party designed to help them out.

Chantal, the night after she’d agreed to do it, was more dramatic and demanding in bed than usual. She wrapped her legs tightly round Mike’s waist as he slid inside her, and bit his collarbone while she squeezed her cunt muscles repeatedly around the shaft of his cock, and Mike found himself frantically counting backwards in an effort not to shoot his bolt until she’d orgasmed. Once it was over, she cuddled up close to him and started whispering in his ear about how sexy it would be for her to do a full striptease in front of all those people, and how she’d probably want to grab him and get his cock inside her the minute she came off the stage. As she talked on, in more and more luridly exciting detail, she let her hand trail across his groin, and soon Mike found
himself getting a second hardon; Chantal began to wank him and he reached for her pussy, probing it with his fingers and seeking her stiffening clit, until both of them were almost at boiling point once again, and this time she rolled on top of him, lifted herself and sank down, impaling her lovely body on his hot, throbbing prick and rocking backwards and forwards, riding him and fingering her little love button until she was thrashing and squealing in noisy ecstasy, milking every drop of spunk from his cock in a glorious eruption of passion. Mike had the feeling life just couldn’t get much better.

Ah, but that had been more than a month ago, and now, with less than 72 hours to go before the Lovebomb event, Chantal had just blown him out of the water. He’d called her when he got in from work, and she’d said she’d meet him in the All Bar One round
the corner from her place, which probably should have given him a clue at once, but he’d been quite unprepared.
“I’m flying to Amsterdam tomorrow to model for Black Mask’s new catalogue,” had been the first words out of her mouth. “They reckon it’ll take three weeks to get the whole collection shot. Sorry about your party, Mike, but I couldn’t turn this down. I mean, if
I’m going to be a professional model, maybe I shouldn’t do stuff like Angie’s any more. It is a bit sleazy.”
He thought she was waiting for him to protest, to shout at her or something, but Mike had recognized in one second of clarity that to do so would be useless. He’d said nothing until she began babbling on again about her great opportunity and how sure she was that they’d find someone else to step in and perform in her place. When she ran down again, he’d pushed his untouched glass of wine away, said simply, “All right, then, Chantal. Good luck,” and walked out of the bar. He was furious with her, and equally angry with himself for ever having relied on her, but telling her what he thought of her would serve no purpose. WHat he had to do now was concentrate all that raging energy on finding someone else who could take her place. Then he’d worry about his feelings.

Angie, having sent her assistant home, was taking a final prowl round her studio and examining the outfits that were going to be used in the Lovebomb stage show. They were all gorgeous; laced and buckled rubber, coloured and patterned PVC, every
attention given to detail... and the best of them was going to be worn by that tiresome Chantal. Angie bit her lip and reproached herself: Chantal was an excellent model, and it was Angie’s own fault if she was jealous. She dropped into the big black armchair she sat in when she was sketching or making phone calls, and shut her eyes for a moment, thinking of the Lovebomb show, of its organisers, Jerry and Mike. Mike, especially, was someone she’d always had a lot of time for. She allowed herself to indulge in one of her favourite fantasies: Mike coming round to discuss the show with her, on his own, without Chantal, and things progressing over a glass of wine... Angie’s nipples had stiffened to the point where they were jutting through the fabric of her old cotton t-shirt. She smoothed her palm over each of her breasts, enjoying the way the taut fleshy buds tingled at her touch. Her pussy lips were beginning to feel hot and heavy, swelling and moistening, and she pressed her thighs hard together. It had been a while since she’d actually fucked anyone; too busy working to bother, she supposed. She was quite capable of taking care of her own needs in that department, and now she had the place to herself and a rapidly rising feeling of arousal, that was just what she was going to do. She hitched up her t-shirt and began to pinch her nipples, digging her short red-varnished nails into the tender areolae and gasping as she did so. Her pussy throbbed; she could feel her juices beginning to lubricate her inner lips, and quickly she tugged down her trousers and pants, tugged them right down and kicked them and her sandals off and spread her legs high and wide, draping her calves over the arms of the chair so her pussy was lewdly spread, blatantly displayed should anyone happen to walk into her studio. She strummed her clit with her thumb and began to work her index and middle fingers in and out of her creamily-oozing snatch. It was good, but not good enough: Angie knew that she needed something in her cunt, something to fill her up and fuck her well. She opened her eyes and glanced around, and then she remembered the Dildo Dress, one of her jokier designs, in black PVC with a detachable black rubber dildo strapped to the front. She jumped up and quickly unhooked it and its belt from the dress, and ran her hand over its gleaming curves. It was quite realistically moulded, a smooth rubber cock with bulging balls and a lifelike bell-end, and Angie knew it was just what she needed for the moment. She placed the cock on the seat of her chair, holding it upright with one hand, and carefully lowered herself onto its shiny rubber head. It slipped easily inside her slippery quim, and she let herself sink down onto it until it was all the way into her cunt. She could feel it stretching her pussy walls, filling her perfectly, and she began to rock backwards and forwards, fingering her clit as she did so. Shutting her eyes, she
let thoughts of Mike overwhelm her for a moment as her vulva began to quiver and contract around the latex shaft of the dildo, and then she was climaxing with a succession of harsh little cries. She withdrew the rubber phallus from herself and took it to the sink,
washing it and drying it, before fitting it back onto the dress. She wondered if anyone would detect a faint scent of pussy juice emanating from it under the spotlights in a couple of nights’ time, but decided they probably wouldn’t. She was just checking that the windows were shut and that everything was in reasonable order when the phone rang, making her almost jump out of her skin.

When Mike took a deep breath, leaned back against the wall and surveyed the crowded club, he was able to see, just for a moment, that the event was a success, despite all the usual panics and chaos involved in putting something like this on. People were milling around, talking, laughing, flirting, drinking: they’d all seemed to enjoy the obscene comedian who had been the first performer, and they were now appreciating the jazz trio whose singer milked every innuendo she could. The only thing that was still nagging away at Mike’s peace of mind was the model parade that would have featured Chantal. Angie, when he’d phoned her, had sworn for a minute or two, then apologised and told him that she’d sort something out, but she hadn’t been contactable since then. That night, Mike had only been able to pick up from one of Jerry’s little followers the news that all the models had
arrived and were backstage, but the guy hadn’t been able to tell him who any of them were. Mike shook his head, trying to force away the doubts. Angie was competent and smart and tough, everyone said so: she could be relied on. But from what Chantal had told him in the weeks leading up to her defection suggested that the performance Angie had arranged was something quite complex. How would Angie have managed to coach whatever substitute she found sufficiently well? Mike knew that there would be an atmosphere of amiable tolerance if things did go wrong, but he wanted to show that he could run a decent event. He felt his reputation was on the line here: well, his and Jerry’s. He just hoped Angie was as good as she was said to be, that she’d pulled off some sort of minor miracle.

In the dressing room, Angie was making last-minute adjustments to the outfits she’d selected for Lula, Marti and Melanie; tweaking a zipper down to reveal just a fraction more of Melanie’s luscious cleavage, telling Marti to add more glossy red
lipstick to her mouth for the perfect “cock-sucker’s pout”, helping Lula lace up the spectacular, shiny black thigh-boots that she’d borrowed from the Fetish Footwear Co... and all the while, wondering if she was doing the right thing. Well, if she wasn’t, it was too late to bottle it and back out now. She gave Lula’s head-dress a final twist and glanced at her own reflection in the mirror. The coat, dress and corset had been designed with Chantal’s shorter, slimmer body in mind, and Angie had spent the last day and a half frantically stitching, unpicking, gluing and adjusting until the clothes would accommodate her own lush curves. THere really hadn’t been any other option: she couldn’t trust any hired-in model to learn the routine in the time, let alone the expense hiring a
model would need. She pouted at herself as a knock came at the door and one of the gang of adoring admirers that always seemed to surround Mike’s mate Jerry called that they should get ready to go on.

Mike and Jerry stood together, near the side of the stage as the backing tape blasted out a choppy hardcore mix of Walk On The Wild Side and the first two of Angie’s models strutted into view. Their movements were swift and certain, swaggeringly confident and loaded with erotic challenge as they flaunted themselves in the lusciously kinky designs, all calculated to emphasise boobs and bottoms, show off shapely legs and, as they twirled and posed and advanced on each other, made for sexual display. A third girl joined them onstage and stalked round them, her hands darting here and there, undoing a zip, snapping a catch, and suddenly there was much more flesh on display, only accentuated by the straps and strips of fabric remaining. As the fourth and final model appeared, in a gorgeously sinister black PVC coat, the music changed to something with a drumbeat that went off like a volley of
gunfire, and the other three models backed gracefully away. The fourth girl danced, and preened, and then she shed the coat with a flourish, revealing a skimpy black rubber corset and a skirt, and Mike realised that it was Angie herself. Despite her luscious curves, Mike realised that he’d got used to thinking of Angie as someone unspectacular, a backroom sort of girl, but watching her now, queen of the stage, moving faultlessly through this spectacular striptease routine, he found his cock rising rapidly in his pants, and a sudden rush of lust seemed to shoot right through his body. He glanced at Jerry, and Jerry had a look on his face that probably mirrored Mike’s own: that girl is sex on a stick.

The other three models were eager to get out and mingle with the rest of the crowd, so Angie thanked them and shooed them out of the dressing room. She was just looking in the mirror again, grinning at herself in triumphant pleasure, when the door was
opened and both Mike and Jerry came in. “Angie, you’re a fucking star,” Jerry said, and Mike walked straight up to her and kissed
her on the forehead.
“Brilliant, girl,” he added. Angie couldn’t speak for a moment. Still high on the thrill of actually performing for an appreciative audience, still surfing the crest of feeling, the arousal she’d felt as she realised how many of the watchers were lusting after her body, to have both Mike, who she’d fancied for so long and Jerry, who most of the rest of the world seemed to have a crush on, hugging and praising her too, was almost too much pleasure for one night. As Jerry kissed her cheek and Mike’s hands skated
down her shoulder blades, Angie suddenly felt her body tense and jerk, and realised that she was almost coming right there in front of them. They clearly picked up on her reaction, and equally clearly, didn’t mind at all. A look seemed to pass between them and then Jerry stepped away and locked the dressing-room door while Mike undid the top two buckles of Angie’s corset and began to play with her soft, full breasts. He bent his head and sucked on each nipple in turn, and Angie whimpered, suddenly bold enough to reach out and stroke his bulging cock through his tight leather trousers.
“Take it out and play with it,” Jerry urged, moving in behind her and stroking her buttocks, easing down the little black panties that were all she now wore with her corset. Angie trembled as his fingers began to explore her dripping, highly-excited quim. When she had Mike’s trousers unfastened and was running her hand up and down the length of his hot, hard prick, he took a couple of steps backwards, holding her to him and sat down on the low padded stool in front of the make-up mirror.
“Sit on my cock,” he whispered. “Come on, fuck me, Angie, come on.”
Jerry was feeling her tits from behind as he helped her lower herself onto Mike’s rearing pole, and he pinched her nipples hard as the sensation of Mike’s cock sliding inside her wet, pouting pussy lips made her come properly, in a sharp, intense orgasm. They held her between them while it lasted, and then Mike got a grip on her hips and began to thrust up into her while Jerry unzipped his own trousers and started to stroke his cock, which was longer than Mike’s but not as thick. He wordlessly moved into a position
where he was offering his tool to Angie’s mouth and she eagerly stretched forwards to lick the head of it, drool down the shaft and then suck it into her mouth. Angie had never before felt so full of cock, both cunt and mouth plugged with hot, salty, rock-hard pricks. She sucked avidly on Jerry’s knob as she used her pussy muscles to massage and milk the spunk from Mike’s. All three of them were moving together, harmoniously and fast, speeding up now as orgasm approached each one. Jerry came first, shooting thick gobs of sperm down her throat and then rubbing his wilting cock all over her breasts while Mike slipped his hand between his body and hers and frigged her clitoris to make her come once again as he finally began to spurt his own seed inside her. They clung together for a moment, then separated, all three of them grinning. “Well,” Jerry said. “We only came back here to congratulate you on your performance.”
“I can certainly congratulate you on yours,” Angie giggled. “Both of you.” And thank you, Chantal, she thought. Bet you would never have put in this much of a performance.