Sex In Stilettos

Perspiration glistened on her dusky skin. I was delighted she had not paused to mop her brow, much less change out of her stage outfit. This was the goddess of my wet dreams, in spike heeled thigh boots of shiny black rubber and a matching creation of studs and straps that was a cross between a bondage harness and a very revealing dress. The peak of her studded leather cap was pulled low and her eyes hid behind reflective wraparound shades.

A bodyguard pulled open the door and she slid into the back of the white stretch limo, where I waited like a virgin on a sacrificial altar. The only drawback of being her post-performance entertainment was that I had had to miss the show, in order to be ready and waiting for her. However, the smell of her fresh sweat alone made that considerable sacrifice worthwhile.

A mirrored screen separated us from the chauffeur and the dark glass of the windows was impenetrable from the outside, so we were completely alone. I felt her studying me intently, as she reclined in the seat opposite. In accordance with Mandy's instructions, I was dressed to thrill, in stiletto heeled shoes and a tiny purple rubber skirt that stopped well short of the tops of my seamed black silk stockings. The upper half of my ensemble consisted of a lacy black bra and a waistcoat that matched my skirt. A diamond encrusted gold ring dangled from my navel. If the outfit looked half as sexy as it felt to wear, Tamella would surely eat me alive.

"Struck dumb or just shy?" she said finally, her voice soft and deliciously smoky.

"Awe-struck, actually," I replied.

"Well, pull yourself together and fix me one of my specials," she snapped. "Giving ten thousand fans an orgasm is thirsty work."

A little test, I realized. Only a true Tamella devotee, who paid attention to the most trivial facts concerning her idol, would know about her "special" - a potent cocktail of rum, vodka, Tia Maria and tomato juice, with a hint of Bailey's Irish cream. She called it a Turbo Lover.