tagIllustratedStrawberry Fields Forever

Strawberry Fields Forever


I have an obsession.

Shall I let you in on it? Well, okay. My therapist always told me that it was best to get things out into the open. This just happens to be one of them. One of many things I've worked out of my system. My proclivity for female flesh was supposed to be one of them, but I've decided to hold onto that obsession, along with this one. And so with great finesse and the sound of a dramatic drum roll, I hereby announce my obsession, the one thing that drives me absolutely crazy.

I love redheads. Sounds simple? Well, it's not just redheads, it's the thought of the pussy. A beautiful strawberry field of cunt hair that stretches across creamy skin as far as the eye can see. Pink pussy lips trimmed with flame. Sweet asshole puckers lightly furred with crimson. If a woman with red hair walks by me, I become Pavlov's dog. I slobber in the sweet anticipation of burying my face in her pussy, of tonguing her asshole until she screams my name.

Unfortunately, I've never been able to find my perfect redhead. Shall I describe her? First, of course, hair like molten flame. Hair that shines like pulsing lava in the sunlight. Creamy white skin to contrast against my African-American skin. A dusting of freckles across a small nose and a full mouth with soft lips and a tender tongue. Nice, big tits, a large B or small C would be perfect, along with nice curvy hips and soft thighs. That sort of perfection always brings Angie Everhart to mind. I've met her several times and while she never ceases to make my mouth water, there's something missing. Maybe it's innocence or inexperience. I don't know.

And that's something that's almost impossible to find in my world of modeling. As I'm typing this to you, I'm on the last Concorde flight, heading to Paris for a fitting and a show. I could say that I was lucky to get this seat, but I won't. Pierre Rampal would be scandalized if it got out that he let his models fly on anything less than the Concorde.

I disembarked with the rest of the passengers, heading for the baggage carousel and that's when I saw her. She was standing just off to the side, holding a card up that said, Stasia on it. That just happens to be my name. When she looked my way, I gave her one of my patented smiles, turning on the charm.

"I'm Stasia."

"I can see that." Whoa! I hope that she didn't see the look of disbelief on my face before I could correct it. I'm Stasia Markington, supermodel. I make more money in one circuit down the catwalk than she probably does in a decade. She turned green eyes with amber flecks towards me, her wet pink lips pinched in a line. "Better grab your gear."

"Uh, you aren't gonna get it?"

The woman looked at me as if I had two heads. "Do I look like a servant? No, don't think so. You'd better get a porter." She turned her back on me, heading toward the exit. "And make sure you tip them."

I was so stunned that I could barely breathe. Of course, my first idea, after I recovered the little bit of brains that I possess along with my bottom jaw which was rolling about on the ground, was to call Pierre. He answered on the sixth ring.


"Stasia, my darling girl! Have you arrived?"

"You might say that." I huffed, running my fingers through my hair and ignoring the gents that were salivating around me. "Pierre, who is this ... this chick that you sent to fetch me?"

"Oh, that's Lorryn. Isn't she fantastic?"

"No! She's rude as hell!"

I swear that I heard him laugh. "Oh, you must be mistaken, Stasia. She's my best girl!"

"Well, I hope you don't mind it, but I plan on taking a taxi to the studio on your dime. I'm not riding in a car with her."

"What? Oh, come on, Stasia."

"No, Pierre. I've had a long flight and I was already emotionally scarred because it was her majesty's last flight and now, I have to deal with this! I think I'll just go back home. At least my dog appreciates me!"

"Oh, now, Stasia, don't get so testy! Sometimes you're nothing but a drama queen!"

"You don't think that ... that I'm acting, do you?"

"Dear Stasia, you always act. It's something you supermodels are prone to do and something that I overlook because I love you so dearly." Pierre sighed. "Take the limo with Lorryn. If you decide to take a cab, you'll have to pay for it."

"Pierre!" I shouted into a dead phone and reluctantly put it away, knowing that she had seen the entire exchange and could probably guess the outcome from my body language alone. I grabbed my upright with wheels and the heavy square Vuitton and tried to set it on the floor without falling headlong with it. That bitch just glared at me, a smile desperately trying to escape her smug mouth. "Could you help me out?"

"Sure." She offered a brilliant smile. "I'll have the limo pull to the curb outside the main door." Lorryn headed up the walkway. "Don't take too long. We don't want a ticket."

It took me 20 minutes to drag the two bags to the front entrance. The porters were too busy to help and the only one who stopped wanted ten bucks to haul my stuff. I, of course, replied, "No." He, of course, left in a hurry. I was furious! I'd never been treated like this! The limo was waiting just outside the door and Lorryn was arguing with an airport police officer.

"It's her fault!" She was saying, pointing at me. "I told her that we'd get a ticket if she didn't hurry up." The officer glanced at me and continued writing the ticket which he handed to Lorryn with a flourish and a gentlemanly tip of his hat. At least the policeman seemed to have some manners. "Jesus, I really hate you fucking models!"

Once again, I found myself speechless. How could that bitch think that she was anything better than me, Stasia? My praises are sung the world over in as many different languages as there are countries. She's merely a glorified gopher. "How dare you!"

Her pretty, freckled nose scrunched up in anger and her eyes flashed. "Oh, fuck off!" With those final words to me, she slid into limo and slammed the door on her side. I just stood staring for a moment, truly unable to contemplate her words. I bit back my anger and again thought about a cab. However, I don't have a gazillion dollars in the bank because I've paid my way. Better to let Pierre foot this bill, especially after the way he'd treated me on the phone. I slid into the seat and glared at her.

"What the fuck is your problem?"

"You." She bit that word off like it was a disease instead of a pronoun. "Fucking models like you who expect someone to every little fucking thing for them."

"Well, someone should do everything for me. After all, I'm Stasia."

"So?" That single word was accompanied by a deep scowl from her. "Ninety percent of the people in this world don't give a flying butt fuck who Stasia is."

"You're wrong!"

"No, I'm right, and you know it." Lorryn continued, spewing her vitriol at me. "You may move in a few exalted circles but in reality, no one has any use for a model. Unless, of course, you're a football or basketball player." She paused for a second, feigning deep thought. "Or a rap star and then, you're not even marriage material."

God, I hated this bitch! I wanted to strangle the breath from her and shut her up. Why? Because she was right. Because every date I'd had in the last two years had been as eye candy. Even when I dated that chick from Queer as Folk, I was used as a prop. But I didn't need to hear painful self-analysis from a bitter, frigid bitch like this. No matter how cute she was.

"Who said I wanted to be married?"

"All you models want that. You marry a rock star or soccer player and expect instant legitimacy. But from those of us in the know, you'll never get it."

"Fuck you!"

I hadn't realized that I'd shouted until the silence that followed sounded like a vacuum. I also hadn't realized that I was crying until she shoved a tissue under my threatening-to-drip nose. "Here. I can't stand to see people cry and let their snot drip."

I took the tissue, turning away from her and continuing to cry. Four long ball-breaking years on the road had finally caught up to me. The quick, unsatisfying fucks, the ensuing rejection and the hectic pace of being an international model had reduced me to a heap of tears. If my enemies could see me now ...

I guess she felt sorry for making me cry and offered me a glass of champagne, which I accepted warily. She really was so pretty. Those strawberry fields tiptoed across my tongue again.

"Why are you a model?"

I thought for a moment, sucking back the champagne. It wasn't that I was solely interested in catching a good buzz. It was just that I'd never been asked that question before. "Because I'm pretty."

"There are plenty of other women who are pretty who don't feel the need to exploit their looks at every turn."

"Like who?" I spat petulantly, draining the glass.

"Maria Bartiromo. She used to do financial news for Fox, I think. They call her the 'Money Honey'."

"So that's only one person."

"What about Madonna?"

"Too fucking old. And boring to boot."

"Sherry Lansing. She runs a movie studio." I stewed in my anger. I didn't want to make friends with her. She'd ripped me open to the bone and now that she knew what buttons to push on me, I felt that I couldn't trust her. I thought about the damage she could do to my reputation and I grew even more despondent. "You really aren't a regular girl, are you?"

Her lips on my cheeks were cool and completely unexpected. She leaned over from her seat and pressed her mouth against my skin, holding the contact for a long, uncomfortable moment. I twisted my head and looked at her, angry and now confused.

"No." I held my glass out for a refill, unwilling to give up my persona. Even for a connection. "I'm far above the regular girl."

I could see Lorryn study me out of the side of her eyes, steadily searching for more chinks in my armor. "Heidi Fleiss. She was a madame."

"Okay!" I exploded. "I get your point!"

"Do you?" I could only watch in blessed awe as she unbuttoned her blouse, slipping her hands inside her shirt. "How about you touch these points?"

She was strawberry. My anger dissipated into a worthless ball of wadded paper looking for a trash can. I dropped my tissue to the floor, spread her shirt open and nearly swooned over the sight of her fat, rosy nipples perched atop mounds of freckled coconut. My mouth didn't heed my head. My lips went straight for her chest and pushed her tit into my mouth, sucking for all I was worth.

Lorryn rasped out a response, her hands grasping my head and pressing me into her body. She was so tasty that I couldn't help myself. My obsession took over full force, falling into the autumn wheat roast of her hair and becoming mesmerized by the smooth cream of her skin. Model or not, it was impossible to stop me now.

I used the muscles that Pilates had provided me with and pushed her onto the leather seat, ruthlessly tugging at her pants and wrenching them down over her ample hips. I was a hunter and I smelled the scent. Tangy and musky. A perfect combination of femininity and sexuality. That was Lorryn. I pushed her legs open and buried my Lancôme face into her perfect pussy.

She was everything I've ever wanted. Sweet, wet, arching to meet my tongue and tight enough to be modest about it. Her pussy hair was trimmed and her skin was soft. I was in strawberry heaven.

"Oh, yes." Her light but fervent whisper met my ears. "Fuck me with your tongue, you bitch!"

I could only obey her. I ardently tongue-fucked her, listening intently as her cries arose in their tenor, signaling her orgasm. She didn't disappoint me. She came in my mouth, a tiny bit of pee mixed with the tasty juice of her clutching cunt. She came thrice more before I let go of her hips, forcing my tongue into her mouth and grinding against her.

"We don't have to go right to the studio, Stasia."

No, we didn't. My mind was filled with fruit blossoms and pussy musk. "My name's Gwyn." I said, smiling into her eyes. "And no, we don't have to go to the studio."

I saw my first smile from Lorryn all day. "Michael, "She spoke to the driver through the intercom. "Can you give us a half-hour ride?"

Our driver just grinned.

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