Palmer Ch. 01

She smiled at his look of unadulterated arousal as she began to move on him, fucking him with her firm mounds. He moaned from the delicious friction as he pumped back, closing his eyes and beginning to buck his hips.

"Roxanne…" he grunted.

"Going to cum so quickly, Dominic?" she teased.

Before he could respond, she dropped her head and sucked hard on his shaft. Her warm mouth gave him three more quick sucks before preparing for his delivery. Her hands replaced her mouth on the shaft as her lips concentrated on his crown.

She loved the way his fingers wrapped around her red locks as his body gave one final jerk. He erupted. Roxanne moaned in delight as he fired in her mouth. In that sensual way of hers, she sucked and licked him continually until he grew soft between her lips.

She smiled at him as she stood up and refastened the buttons of her green dress. As she turned towards the penthouse door, she looked back over her shoulder. "Friday," she purred, "Eight o'clock. Don't be late!"

***

Jack Palmer's wife took a deep breath to shake off her nerves. It was difficult for her to believe she was sitting opposite Erin DeVere. The Erin DeVere.

Kelli knew that the exquisite looking strawberry blonde had been a supermodel herself in her younger days and now, at thirty-eight, she ran the most famous modelling agency in Britain, if not world-wide. And to think the woman was actually complimenting her!

"I love your photographs, darling," she purred in a refined accent Kelli wasn't used to hearing in most Americans. The older woman ran a hand through her short, glossy blonde hair as she flicked through the portfolio the young model had produced. "Although, of course, they are never enough. But now you are here, you've proven my instinct correct."

"I'm flattered," Kelli murmured. It was as if she hadn't spoken.

"You see," Erin DeVere continued, leaning back in her oversized chair, "there are three things I demand in a model. The first is aura. A presence. Sometimes you get an instinct when looking at photographs, but that's all."

Kelli nodded, making sure she didn't interrupt again.

"With you, my instinct was accurate. The way you entered the room. The way you hold yourself. You're confident, yet innocent. I like that. You have that aura. Let me guide you and that sexy naiveté could earn you a fortune, darling."

The older woman stood as she finished the sentence, every movement graceful as she walked across to the slate-grey Olympus couch. When she flopped down, she spread both arms out behind her on the back of the couch, crossing her shapely legs out before her.

"But now we must check the other two qualities," Erin purred. "First, in everything, I expect instant obedience. Should it ever prove otherwise, you and I will be finished. Is that understood?"

Kelli nodded enthusiastically. She'd do anything for a chance to become a supermodel. "Absolutely, Mrs. DeVere."

The woman sat forward, uncrossing then crossing her legs again. This time, the skirt rode up her thighs. Kelli looked. She couldn't help it. By no stretch of the imagination was she bi, but this classy beauty certainly had a hypnotic quality about her.

"That's good! But you still seem very nervous, darling. Can I get you something to calm your nerves? A little snow, perhaps?"

"Nu… no," Kelli quickly responded. She'd never taken drugs and never would. Under any circumstances. "I'm fine, thank you."

Erin DeVere nodded, as if dismissing the thought. "The second quality, of course, is your body. You can't be a model without a good body. And you can't be a supermodel without having a perfect body. Is yours as good as the photographs tell me it is?"

Kelli smiled. This was one area she felt confident in. All the hours spent in the gym had ensured that her stunning body, complimented by a natural deep golden tan, was in perfect condition.

"Stand up and let me see," the American woman directed, pulling her silken, blonde hair onto the top of her head before allowing it to fall again.

Kelli eased to her feet, watching as the Agency Head's blue eyes lingered on her breasts before dropping to her waist and legs. Such scrutiny. Even through her clothes, she knew the woman could see her nipples rise.

Provocatively, she did a little pirouette, comfortable in her body. Then, Erin DeVere went ahead and tested that comfort. "That's not quite what I had in mind, sweetheart," she purred. "Strip!"

The command hit Kelli between the eyes. As she spoke, Erin slowly uncrossed her legs again, as if allowing the heat between her thighs to pervade the room. Her arched eyebrows told the aspiring model she was waiting.

Instant obedience, Kelli thought. That's what this woman had demanded. And here she was on the verge of blowing it at her first opportunity. That wasn't going to happen, she decided, running her fingers through her wavy, blonde locks. She'd show Erin DeVere she had what it takes.

Keeping her sparkling brown eyes firmly fixed on the woman, she unzipped her dress and let it fall to her ankles.

The right strap of her bra demurely fell from her shoulder. She left it there, thrusting her perfect tits in Erin's direction. The glint of her diamond belly button stud shot across the room.

The Agency owner nodded, stroking Kelli's body with her blue eyes, taking in the cleavage spilling over the black bra and the delicious skimpiness of the plunging black thong. When she twirled her fingers, it was to tell Kelli to turn around.

The blonde beauty did, slowly, knowing that her new career could depend on this. She thought that Erin had what she wanted but should have known better. The soft nod of the head told her otherwise.

"Exquisite, Kelli," she praised as she comfortably leant back again. "Now the rest, darling."

With a swallow, the wannabe model instantly obeyed. She unhooked the front fastener, allowing her full breasts to bounce free. When Erin licked her lips, her pink nipples hardened. She'd always thought of her tits as her greatest asset, and certainly all her previous boyfriends had regarded them that way. Jack loved them, too.

The dreamy look on Erin's face encouraged her and she confidently eased her thumbs into the waistband of the thong. When she pulled them over the gentle curve of her hips and down over her thighs, she'd removed the last bit of modesty she had.

She felt liberated.

No longer nervous, she felt fully in control. Her thick, pink nipples proudly pointed upwards from the crest of her jutting breasts, and her pussy, oily smooth from the arousal of the moment, was only protected by the merest hint of a blonde landing strip.

The naked model cocked her hip to one side, resting one hand on it as she struck a sexy, provocative pose. "Well?" she heard herself ask the American woman.

***

Amélie Pascal stepped into Dominic DeVere's office. He knew she would. She always did after he'd entertained a female visitor. Particularly Roxanne. It wasn't jealousy, just a need to leave her mark. On him.

The Frenchwoman's hair was so closely cropped, she could have been mistaken for a man. Nor was she particularly beautiful, though there was something undeniably attractive about her long face.

DeVere had found her six years ago. At school, she'd amazed her teachers with her abilities. It was the same when she went to college. Her choice to join a circus was a temporary one, and it was at Cirque de Soleil that her unique abilities began to flourish.

From there, it was a natural progression to the movie world. She'd already contributed to three mega hits when he'd met her.

He'd told her of his idea. A vision that was so wild, so exciting, so enthralling. She'd devoted five full years to the design, development and build. Fifteen million pounds later, their masterpiece was almost ready. The dinosaurs, indeed every piece of their creation, were robots controlled from the central complex. But even to the trained eye, they appeared to be the real thing.

It would transform DeVere into a worldwide household name, up there with Walt Disney. Dinosaur Land would be the greatest attraction the world had ever seen, outstripping any entertainment in any country.

The whole creation was a new level of technological mastery. It would allow every visitor to actually partake in the adventure. To actually do battle with the dinosaurs and experience those real life thrills and buzz of danger. In a perfectly controlled and safe environment.

A superior version of the fictional Westworld.

It was a means to an end. Yes, Dinosaur Land would recoup its investment over time, but it was the guarantee it gave of entry into the worldwide business community that would make DeVere a billionaire many times over.

He would position George Blair as a long-time supporter of the project. That would give the Prime Minister elect a huge boost just before the vote. It would reinforce his status as the next PM.

DeVere's hold over him would be complete.

Amélie's hands pawed at his tailored trousers, bringing him out of his grandiose thoughts. God, he was slipping. He hadn't even noticed her undressing.

"Ay 'ope you 'ave some left for Amélie," she growled, running a hand through the blonde curls between her thighs.

He told himself again - it wasn't jealousy. Just a desire to fuck.

His recently discharged cock began to lengthen. The Frenchwoman was the opposite of Roxanne in so many ways. Slim, pale, no tits. But a regular fuck machine.

She attacked him on the couch. Her mouth slurred against his, her hands worked on his cock through his trousers. "Mmm… 'ees tres bon, Dom-en-eek. Nice and 'ard for Amélie."

She simultaneously yanked his trousers and boxers down to his knees. Swinging around, she reversed back onto him.

"You want to fook Amélie's pussy?" she asked, running her wet folds along his slick cock. "Mon dieux," she moaned. "Zat feels good."

He adjusted position so he could slide home but the Frenchwoman was having none of it. She eased up so that his cock hit her slim buttocks.

"Or you vant to fook Amélie's ass?"

Before he could speak, she'd taken hold of his shaft and set it against her anus. With a deft adjustment of her thin body, she leveraged herself onto him and was pushing her ass down on him.

"Mon dieux, Dom-en-eek," she hissed, gingerly pushing down. "Oh, FOOK…"

Half up on one leg, she lowered herself. Her cautious movements became a little faster as her backdoor adjusted to the size of his cock.

"Does… your… redhead… let… you… do… theees?" she gasped. One hand reached behind her to rest on his chest. Her fingers clawed into him through his expensive shirt. "Does she let Dom-en-eek fook her ass?"

He found himself thinking that he wasn't fucking anything. She was fucking him. She'd gone from zero-to-sixty in half a second and her tightness had him approaching his second orgasm of the afternoon.

Amélie knew he was almost there. Somehow, she always did.

The hand on his chest dug tighter, not caring that she was drawing blood. Her spare hand dipped between her legs, working her pussy as her asshole worked his cock.

"Going to cum? " she gasped, the fingers on her clit taking her to the edge with him. "Now, mon cherie," she gasped. "NOW, Dom-en-eek…"

She drilled down one final time as she craned her neck to look back at him. "Cum, Dom-en-eek," she shrieked. "NOWWWW…"

He didn't know how she was able to coordinate their orgasms so well, but she'd done so time and again. This time was no different. He jetted into her ass at the very moment she ejaculated over his lap, slacks and couch.

Fuuuuck!

***

Professor Dennis Price's appearance was deceiving. The spin-doctor had been described as resembling Quasimodo. Not that he had precisely the same physical deformities as Victor Hugo's character, but his hunched back was the reason for such comparisons.

Sir John Cobalt, who in a physical sense was Price's alter ego, greeted him as he answered the knock on the door to their hotel suite. Tall, stiff and upright, Cobalt was a confident man. So he should be, being part of the team that had successfully guided George Blair to the verge of becoming Prime Minister of England.

There was one final battle to fight. And the current Chancellor of the Exchequer would prove a hard woman to defeat.

Cobalt had set up the meeting with Price, although it was DeVere's idea. The keen eyed entrepreneur had counselled that he was essential to Blair's success. Not only in the forthcoming election battle. But also in the additional two and a half years before the next election.

Labour's ratings were so low it would almost certainly take the rest of the term to turn them around.

"I appreciate you coming," Blair told Price, shaking his hand. "I'm being interviewed live on television tonight, so this was my only opportunity to have this conversation."

Casting an eye over the half bent man, he now understood why the Professor stayed out of the public eye. But despite his physical appearance, the quality of his brain wasn't in doubt.

"My pleasure," Price smiled. "Though I'm not used to this cloak and dagger stuff."

"A necessary evil," Cobalt interrupted. "With the battle with Shirley Ryder coming up, you'll appreciate we don't want to take any chances. Coffee?"

Price nodded, taking the chair indicated by Cobalt's nod. He pulled out a pipe and held it up.

"Yes, of course," Blair confirmed. "When we're finished here, the suite is yours for the night. If you can live with the smell of tobacco, that's fine with me."

Price's smile creased the edges of his plump face. "A habit too hard to break."

When he stuffed tobacco into the battered pipe and lit it, he almost disappeared in the smoke cloud. Blair edged across to the partly open window, unsure whether this was a good idea after all.

"So, Dennis," Cobalt began, handing him a cup of coffee. "Are you interested in working with us?"

Price nodded. "I wouldn't be here otherwise, Deputy Prime Minister."

"And our chances," Blair asked. "How do you rate them?"

Another cloud of smoke hit the air. "I've thought about that throughout the journey here. I'd say fifty-fifty."

Blair looked at Cobalt. The Deputy PM shrugged his shoulders. "I'd rather hoped we were ahead in the contest," he muttered.

"The way I see it, it's too close to call," Price confessed. "There's no point in pretending otherwise."

He closely observed Blair's reaction. If he was going to work for the Prime Minister elect, he needed to understand everything about him. That included the way the smooth looking, brown haired man reacted to information he didn't particularly like.

Blair pulled himself to his full height. A fraction over six feet, his slim, muscular build was testament to the two-hour workout he religiously undertook first thing each morning. Healthy body, healthy mind was Blair's dogma. "Why?" he asked Price.

"You may be ahead in the polls," the Professor explained. "But Jack Donaldson has the power to change all that. And word has it that he's going to throw his weight behind Shirley Ryder."

Damn that Donaldson! Blair had never seen eye to eye with the outgoing Prime Minister. He may have been retiring from the Premiership due to his ill health. He may have been unpopular with the country. But he was still massively influential within the Labour party.

If he came out publicly in support of that cunning woman, it would change the picture overnight.

"You've always been a maverick, George," Cobalt reminded his friend. "Played by your own rules. Voted against a few Government initiatives. You've opposed him on several occasions

Price nodded, nibbling on his pipe. "Too many, I'd say."

Blair gave a wry smile. After Margaret Thatcher, you'd think the party would have had enough of potential women Prime Ministers. "In that case, we need a strategy to bring Donaldson round to our way of thinking. And another for discrediting Shirley Ryder."

Price smiled. This was what he wanted. A clear insight into what made George Blair what he was. Tough. Obsessed. He liked that.

"Either of those things could be essential if you're going to be the next PM," he suggested. "You know Donaldson as well as I. He can browbeat, cajole, threaten, blackmail, call in favours. In the blink of an eye, he can change the political landscape."

Blair walked across to the pot of coffee and poured himself another cup. He stirred the single sweetener slowly, his cool blue eyes fixing on Price. "Why do you want to work for me, Dennis?" he asked.

Price returned the stare. His gaze was unwavering. "Frankly? I've got to be on one side or the other. That's the way it works. I like the fact you've always been a maverick. I've followed your career for years. In the main, we agree on the same things. Same ideals."

Blair leant back against the desk. "And?"

For the first time in their meeting, Price laughed. His over-large, grey eyes twinkled. "I like your style. I know that you can do great things…"

This time, Blair's voice was sharper. "All that may or may not be true," he snapped. "But there's more. What do you want?"

Price's laughing face disappeared. A determined look took its place. "I want recognition, Mr. Blair. I want a place in the public eye. I don't want my physical condition to be seen as a drawback. I deserve more."

The Prime Minister elect pushed himself away from the table, walking a few paces across to the Professor. "I can do that for you," he decisively said. "But only if I become Prime Minister and then win another term."

Dennis Price smiled. "With me at your side, Mr. Blair, how can you lose?"

***

Savannah loved her job. Singers, film stars, rock stars or politicians, it was all the same to her. Fucking celebrities was such a turn on. She hadn't needed much persuading to join Erin DeVere. It gave her the break she'd been searching for all her life.

Her afternoon session with… what's his name… was different. God, she'd already forgotten what he was called. Gerald something, that was it. It was her first time with the television pundit, and she'd had better.

But his desire to please her was different. It was usually the other way.

The fact he had an interview tonight didn't seem to matter to him. The political commentator had slipped away from the television studio and snuck off to her apartment.

The first time they'd gotten together, he'd tried to engage her in conversation about the political merits of the two Labour candidates. She'd stopped him with her talented mouth. The sassy redhead had no idea about politics, but she knew everything there was to know about fellatio.

This time, he knew better. This time, they went right to her boudoir.

Savannah's bedroom was scrumptious. Roxanne had helped her design it. She adored her model friend, even coloured her hair to look as close to her as possible. One day she'd fuck her, too.

As Roxanne had suggested, Savannah had laid on champagne, strawberries and cream. Such luxuries made her feel like a princess. She always responded well to that feeling. It enhanced her arousal.

The king size bed dominated her room. She loved that, too. Lying there in the silky robe that didn't cover much of her curvaceous body, she smiled at her trick.

He stood in only a pair of white boxers that did little to conceal the bulge of his erection. OK, so he may be boring, but he was also cute. The hair on his chest was peppered the same as that on his head, although his muscular body defied that bit of grey.

She crooked a finger, inviting him back to the bed.