Madonna: The REAL Girlie Show Ch. 1

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is a fantasy based on Madonna's public persona. It is in no way intended to defame the character of the real-life Madonna Louise Ciccone.

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Want to hear a true story about how Hannah and I fucked Madonna?

"Yeah, RIGHT!" you're saying, "In your dreams, pal."

And, I don't blame you one iota for doubting such a preposterous claim. I sometimes find it hard to believe myself. I've lost count of the number of times I've rolled over in bed, waking from a half-dream, and gazed deep into my pretty Californian wife's blue blue eyes and she's just smirked back 'cause she's known what I'm going to ask before I even ask it. I guess I must just have this bemused "did I really just win 6 million pounds on the lottery?" expression plastered over my face.

"What is it, honey?" she'll ask, humouring me as she playfully twists strands of silky red hair around her finger. (Hannah's always playing with her hair - not in a nervous way, you understand. It's just this cute little habit she has.) "Have you forgotten how to speak, is that it? Has your tongue ran off to London to see the Queen?"

She's a real smartass, sometimes, my wife. I love her for it. I'm English - born and raised in Oxford - and so Hannah takes every opportunity she can get to wise-crack about the British weather, dreary soap operas or our dear monarchy. She seems to think it winds me up but I just think it's funny. I'm second-generation Irish, so I'm sure you can imagine that my Royalist sympathies don't run too deep.

"No, listen!" I'll say. "I need to know. I've not just dreampt all this have I?"

"Dreampt what, babe?" she'll giggle.

"Don't tease me, Hannah - you know what I'm talking about. Did it really happen that night? Did I really fuck Madonna?"

"Yes, you did, honey," she'll say, patting my head like I'm some little lost puppydog.

"Really? So, I've not just finally gone completely fucking insane like your weird old Uncle Jasper?"

"Oh, well now, I didn't say that."

"And, she really... you know... she really went down on you?"

My wife usually moans a little at this point, her cheeks flushing red and her eyes getting all kind of misty and distant as the memories flood back. "Oh, my God, yes she did."

"Tell me again," I'll whisper, snuggling into the warmth of her body.

"Well, I was just sitting there butt-naked on that cold hard chair and she got down between my knees and she was kissing the inside of my thigh and you had your hands on my breasts and... and then she just did it, without any build up whatsoever, she slid her tongue inside. I can't believe our daughter has a poster of this woman on her wall. Jesus Christ, Joey! She licked my pussy. Madonna licked my pussy."

By this point I'm laughing out loud in glorious disbelief. You can almost imagine me hurling bundles of ten pound notes up into the air and watching it shower down on us like snowdrops. "So, all that other stuff really happened too?"

"Uh-huh. All of it." Then Hannah'll get this real serious look on her face and kind of chew distractedly on her hair. "Look, baby, I need you to do something for me. I need you to lick me. Right now," she'll say as she's pushing my head down under the covers. And when she switches off the bedside lamp I know that in my wife's mind it's Madonna's face down there buried between her sweet thighs, Madonna's nose pressed into the fragrant mound of red hair, her tongue running up over Hannah's vulva, parting her labia and slipping between the soft folds. And when my wife curls her fingers in my hair, tightening them into a firm grip, she's imagining Madonna as the black-haired siren we once knew, or the peroxide-blonde Goddess that writhed in the 'Justify My Love' video or maybe even the sensuous soft-curled Rodeo Mama of today.

"Uh, yeah. That's so good," she'll whisper, "I want you to lick my clit now, honey," and she may as well be whispering, "I want you to lick my clit now, Madonna," cause in Hannah's mind it's the popstar's tongue that's swirling around her engorged bud, flicking softly over it so she shudders and sighs. And, when Madonna sucks my wife's clit in between her lips and tongues it roughly, Hanna arches her back and squeezes at her own pretty little breasts, pinching the long red nipples between her fingers, the honey of her arousal flooding out over Madonna's mouth and chin.

*** My God, it was wicked while it lasted, that little episode in our early marriage. Madonna was this debauched Tasmanian devil-woman that just whirled into our lives for two weeks and then was gone - away on some other raucous adventure with God-only-knows who. But, that was cool as far as we were concerned. Hannah and I have never really been the bitter "oh, how could she just forget us like that?" types that always come out of the woodwork whenever some fireball young thing strikes it lucky and hits the big-time. She had her mission in life and we had ours. For one brief moment in time our destinies brought us crashing together and then we were spiralling off in opposite directions like fragments from a meteor collision. I wouldn't for a second want to swap what I have with my wife and daughter for Madonna's glamorous popstar lifestyle. It's never really been my bag, that whole fame thing, but I guess that's exactly what Madonna Louise Ciccone always fantasised about. It's the dream that filled the void in her life when she was just this awkward melancholy little mid-Western kid who cried herself to sleep every night over a mother that died too young and a daddy who just didn't understand.

***

Still not convinced by my story? Of course, I wouldn't expect you to just take my word for it - it's way too 'National Enquirer' a tale to be true: a lowly immigrant New York cab driver and his student wife have wild sex sessions with the biggest female pop icon in the world. Nice story, buddy, but that kinda thing just doesn't happen in the real world. Right?

Well, here's the money-shot, my friend. We've got the whole thing on film.

Yes, you read that right. I've just sat watching it with Hannah, for the first time in 20 years, and it's incredible. That Pamela and Tommy Lee wedding video thing doesn't have a leg to stand on compared to this, believe me.

The last time we saw our little movie was about a week or so after we shot it. We sat down, all four of us - myself, Mr DiPrima (I'll give you the low-down on him later), Hanna and Madonna Louise - and we watched it in the dark, projected up onto that big white screen that Luigi had through in one of his back rooms. Every once in a while, naughty little Miss Ciccone would get this wild look in her eye, getting herself all turned on as she watched our three pink bodies thrusting and writhing on the screen, sticky with love-making, and she'd lean over to Hanna, clutching a clump of her silky red hair in her little fist and she'd French her so sweetly at the same time as she was pulling my hand up under her cute black leather skirt into the furnace between her legs. After about half an hour of this, my wife had that skirt hiked right up around Madonna's waist and was tickling her fingernails through the future pop-star's thick black pubic hair as I slid two slippery fingers in and out of her sex.

From this point on, I noticed that old Luigi DiPrima was more intent on watching our impromptu live sex show than he was his precious movie. I guess he had all the time in the world to study that in close detail after we left but what he had before him right now was a blink too long and you might just miss something deal.

As the film flickered to an end, Luigi swung his chair around and hit a switch on the wall, illuminating the room in a cacophany of tacky multi-coloured flashing disco lights. Ordinarilly I would have collapsed on the floor in laughter at the sheer inappropriateness of the display (we were kind of stoned, to be honest) but Madonna had already sunk down onto her knees before me and was pulling my jeans down over my hips. My cock sprang up, bouncing against her chin.

"Well, look at that, Mr Cabdriver," she laughed, clasping hold of it.

Hannah got down beside her and ran her tongue seductively up over the shaft, leaving behind a glistening trail of saliva. She looked up at me as Madonna sucked the head between her soft red lips into the wetness of her mouth. "Fuck her face, Joey," she whispered, turning to carefully unlace Madonna's black leather top.

"You're a strange little wife, aren't you?" I said to her, sliding my cock deeper into the warmth of Madonna's mouth.

Hannah laughed out loud and Madonna mumbled something which I couldn't make out. I could feel every syllable, though.

"Don't speak with your mouth full, Emmy," said my wife, smiling as she drew Madonna's top open.

"My friends call me Emmy," Madonna had announced that first day we met in the Autumn of 1980. For two weeks my wife and I were her friends, so we called her Emmy.

Emmy was now bobbing her head back and forth against me, trailing her beautiful lips over my cock. I reached down and stroked my fingers through her thick black hair, watching the colours dancing over her face as I rocked my hips rhythmically. I could feel her tongue swirling over me. She lovingly stroked the shaft, drawing my foreskin right back. She'd told me a few days earlier she'd never had an uncut cock in her mouth before. She seemed intrigued by the novelty of it.

By now, my wife had pulled Emmy's top off, freeing those glorious naked breasts.

Madonna breathed deeply in through her nose, her nostrils flaring. Her cheeks seemed to suck right in as she took my erection deeper into her mouth. Letting go of my shaft, she stroked her fingers up over her smooth, toned stomach (you could tell she'd been a professional dancer) and circled them sensuously around the nipples that were already jutting out thick and hard.

She shivered and I could feel the tip of her tongue swirling deliciously around my cock.

By this point, Hannah had crawled up behind her and was gently kissing, licking and biting her pale neck and shoulders, tickling her hands softly round her waist so that goosepimples rose up all over Emmy's body and those small dark areolas tightened right up, the long dark buds swelling out till they looked like they could burst.

I felt light-headed, like I was floating in some erotic dream. Crazy lights flashed and spun around the room, and right in the corner old Luigi DiPrima sat intently watching us. The last time we'd all been together he'd been so intent on capturing a good quality recording of the events that he'd probably not really been able to fully enjoy the sight, sound and scents of his three young friends lost in carnal exploration.

Madonna opened her knees further and drew up her leather skirt, revealing the thick mound of black hair that glistened from her arousal like dew-covered grass in the morning. Right in the center, the pink folds of her pussy seemed to breathe, gently opening and closing as little drops of moisture trickled out like teardrops.

My wife stroked her hands round Emmy's waist, over her stomach and upwards to her breasts. She cupped those glorious globes, caressing and squeezing them as she licked her tongue all the way from Emmy's shoulder to just behind her ear.

I could feel my heart beating madly. Everything in the room seemed so bright and vivid to me as my breath grew deeper and stronger. I twisted my fingers in Madonna's hair and she looked up, kind of smiling at me with her pale blue eyes.

She slid her middle finger down between the glistening folds of her labia and slipped it into the entrance of her pussy, circling it around inside, then drawing it out all wet with her honey. She drew me right out of her mouth, then, and for a moment I could see a trail of saliva from her lips to my cock, that snapped as she drew her face away from me. She brought her finger up to just under her nose, allowing it to linger there so she could breathe in her sexual scent before sucking it deep into her mouth.

"Hmnnn, my pussy tastes good," she said, looking up at me with those wild temptress eyes.

"Yes, it does," I said. "Do you want me to lick it for you, Emmy?"

She shook her head. "I want the old man to do it." She lay back, unfastening her skirt so it fell right open, leaving her completely naked.

Old Mr DiPrima looked kind of shocked and a little afraid but Madonna twisted her head around to smile at him, gesturing with her finger for him to join us. He clambered down off his perch and shuffled awkwardly towards us, blinking as the crazy discotheque lights fluttered and danced around the room.

"Have you ever licked a woman's pussy, Luigi?" she asked.

Mr DiPrima shook his head. "Nope, I never did do that, Emmy."

"Well, I think you should be allowed to eat caviar at least once in your life," she said, giggling madly.

I smiled at my wife and she smirked back, lowering herself down so that she was straddling Madonna's face.

Madonna reached up, unzipping Hannah's skirt so that it fell away from her on to the floor. The singer reached her arms back, so that her breasts were thrust right out, and stroked her hands up the backs of my wife's legs, sliding them up onto her ass and cupping Hannah's pretty little buttocks. She lifted her head up towards the mound of soft red hair and brushed her lips over my wife's labia. "You've got a beautiful cunt, Hanna," she purred, "so pretty and fragrant." She breathed deeply in through her nose, savouring the scent.

My wife beamed, her whole body seeming to glow with feminine pride as she reached out to fondle Emmy's breasts. I could feel my throat tightening with emotion. Hanna looked so beautiful that I felt like I could burst into tears of sweet sorrow right there and then.

Mr DiPrima got down on his hands and knees and crawled between Emmy's thighs, his backside thrust comically up into the air. He seemed utterly intoxicated by the sight of Madonna's sex gaping right there before him. I don't think he'd seen a woman's parts that close up in a long long time. He coughed politely and raised his head, blinking over into Madonna's face. "So, how should I... uhm...? How do you like it done?"

Emmy laughed out loud at that. "Just imagine you're a hungry cat," she instructed. She demonstrated just what she meant by arching her neck upwards and lashing her tongue in a long sweeping movement over Hannah's tender labia.

Hannah sighed and arched her back, thrusting her pretty little breasts out towards me, as she pinched Emmy's nipples hard between her fingers.

Luigi nodded and buried his face between Madonna's thighs, licking noisily at her pussy.

"Oh, yeah, Luigi! I think you've finally found your calling in life," she moaned.

I stood entranced, watching the old man eat Emmy's cunt as she happily devoured Hannah's. My wife's eyes soon flickered sleepily shut. I could tell she was about ready to explode as she squeezed and twisted Madonna's nipples.

Emmy drew her face back, using her fingers to poke and stroke at Hanna's pussy and clit, maintaing a steady rhythm that was obviously driving my wife wild. The singer looked over at me, her cheeks flushed red with arousal. "Well, don't just stand there playing with you dick, Joey. Get over here. Stick it in my mouth. Fuck my tits. Do something!"

My wife groaned, her breasts rising and falling dramatically. "Oh God, lick me Emmy, please,"

Madonna pulled her wet fingers from Hannah's pussy and buried her face between her thighs, lapping noisily with her tongue.

I straddled the singer, lowering myself onto my knees so my balls tickled over her abdomen as I slid my erection between her soft breasts.

Mad light flashed and spun around the room, causing our shadows to dance erotically over the walls in many many colours.

Hanna registered my presence through half-shut eyes and reached out for me, stroking her fingers over my cheeks and running them through my hair as I squashed Emmy's tits together either side of my cock. Our faces moved instinctively together and we kissed, our lips and tongues exploring, tasting, communicating as I writhed back and forth on top of Madonna, fucking her warm breasts.

Behind me Luigi DiPrima slobbered like an old dog - obviously taking great pleasure from his work - and my God, he must've been doing a good job, cause I could already feel Madonna's body trembling beneath me. Her tits jiggled like jelly as I thrust my cock between them.

"Oh, fucking hell!" My wife suddenly arched her spine, her red hair spraying out behind her as she threw her head back, her face contorted into a grimace and her whole body pink and glistening with sweat. "Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh," she squeeled, falling back onto the floor, where she lay panting and shuddering, playing distractedly with her breasts and staring dreamily up at all those colours floating over the ceiling. She slowly looked over into my eyes, smiling as she stroked a hand down over her pubic mound, stroking two fingers delicately through her soft red hair and downwards into her cunt.

I thrust hard between Madonna's breasts, feeling the tingling in my balls as the fire began to erupt between my thighs.

Madonna's whole body was tensed up ready to explode. She was watching my face, her lips trembling and eyes wild with intensity. "I wanna see you cum, Joey. I want you to spray it over my tits. Squirt it into my face."

The words seemed to tip her right over the edge. She screamed, doubling up beneath me and I immediately felt the sperm shoot up through my cock as the climax ripped violently through my body. I groaned and gripped the shaft, showering thick cream out over her tits, splashing it up onto her face.

"Oh, that was so fucking cool," exclaimed my wife. She giggled and rolled herself onto her side. "The poor girl's drenched, Joey."

As I knelt there, panting and gasping for air, I watched globs of milky white cum trickle down Madonna's cheek, over that cute little beauty spot just above her lip and into her mouth.

"No more, Luigi, please. You're going to kill me with that tongue," she moaned, looking back at Hannah and reaching an arm out towards her.

My wife crawled unsteadily towards us, gazing in fascination at Emmy's sperm-splattered face. She kissed me softly and then turned her attentions towards Madonna, smoothing my milky ejaculate into the singer's heaving breasts and lowering herself down so she could lick her face clean.

Madonna giggled. "You're tickling me, Hanna."

"Sorry."

"Does that taste good?"

My wife nodded and their mouths moved together, lips connecting, tongues penetrating. I rolled over onto the floor, resting my cheek against Emmy's warm belly, feeling it rise and fall slowly, watching contentedly as she and Hannah passionately kissed and stroked each other's bodies.

And, that was the last night my wife and I spent with Madonna Louise Ciccone and old Mr DiPrima, although I guess we must've replayed it a thousand times since then in our fantasies.

***

Never did tell you how this whole thing began, did I? Guess you're just going to have to wait till chapter two for that, my friend. It's 7.32. The birds are singing out there in the garden. It's time to wake Hannah from her debauched dreams so she can drive our daughter to school, and I can crawl into bed and wait patiently for her to return. I've decided that this afternoon, she's going to be Madonna Louise and I'm going to be the head sales rep from her new line of intimate bedroom toys, 'Justify Your Love'. I'm pretty sure she's going to want to have a hands-on demonstration of our biggest seller, 'Miss Ciccone's Italian Stallion'. Haha. And, so this is where I must politely ask you to leave. Some things between a husband and wife are private.

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