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by Cristiano Caffier

I was almost thirty when I first met Felisha Faubert, she was in her late forties, and had been married twice to very wealthy men, prior to which she was a teenage idol on a TV series. When her acting career collapsed, she quickly faded from people’s memories and that’s what she wanted to rectify with a book about her life.

My own career was nothing to boast about, I was a struggling writer, occasionally working for TV stations or any one that wanted a few words put down on paper. It was, therefore, a big boost to my morale when my agent suggested to Felisha that I would be an excellent ghost writer for her.

Shortly after he’d told me about the job her PA phoned me and set up a meeting. I was a little nervous as I walked up the steps to her Beverly Hills mansion. The gardens were absolutely beautiful and when I stepped into the entrance hall it took my breath away. Italian marble floors and columns were accented with gold inlays and of course, there was a huge crystal chandelier and the obligatory Scarlet O’Hara staircase.

I was first greeted by the housekeeper, then by Bobbie, her PA and after waiting in the drawing room for 20 minutes or so, Felisha entered the room dressed in a Japanese Kimono and looking quite regal. I’d taken the trouble to review some of her TV shows and I must say she was quite well preserved, quite beautiful in fact.

“Welcome to my humble abode Vincent, I’ve heard a lot about you from Morty,” she said, referring to my agent, “I’ve never done anything like this before darling and so I shall be relying on you.”

Over coffee and petite fours, served by a pretty young Filipina maid, we ran through a few details and then she asked me if I minded working in the evenings.

“I find the day time so stressful,” she explained, “I rarely get up until midday and then I have to shop, go to the beauty salon, visit my therapist, do my yoga meditation and organize my staff – it’s really quite stressful,” she repeated.

After a brief conference, I left with the agreement that I would return after eight that evening. When I did I was met by yet another maid, this one an older Hispanic lady, who took me upstairs.

I was expecting to be taken to a den or something but I was shown into a very large and ornate bedroom, and there, sitting at the dressing table, now wearing a silk gown with a long train, was Felisha.

“We’re going to work in here,” she smiled, “It’s cozy and relaxing – it will get both our juices flowing.”

I took out my lap top, and a small recorder and sat down in a velvet upholstered chair and got ready to get to work.

“I think I should start with something sexy to grab the reader’s attention,” she said, reclining on the bed like Cleopatra, “I had a very active sex life when I was young,” she continued, rubbing herself between the legs as she spoke. “I’ve fucked, directors, producers, leading men and on one occasion the man who handled the boom mike. I was attractive and the men swarmed around me like moths to a light bulb,” she paused, “Do you think that would be a good first line – the bit about the moths,” she asked.

“I told her just to keep talking and I would type something up the next day and submit it for her approval.”

She seemed to like that idea and then went on to describe the lurid details of her career in technicolor. I was beginning to doubt if any publisher would take it. And, another problem was she was getting hornier and hornier as she relived her sexual exploits. It actually got to the point where she was rubbing her twat and her breasts and even groaning occasionally.

I manage to survive that first evening and from the copious notes, I’d made I managed to almost hack out a chapter. Quite pleased with myself I re-entered the house the next evening and when I was shown into the bedroom I was somewhat surprised to find Felisha in the middle of the carpet practicing nude yoga.

For a woman in her forties, she looked remarkably good and the way she was moving it around was getting me a little excited.

“Do you know something darling,” she began, stretching her legs out wide, “Being in the nude frees up the mind, you should try it – yes you definitely should try it – why don’t you join me and take off your clothes right now.”

I was reluctant to do so but then she suggested that there could be a little bonus it for me. Being short of cash, I went along with the idea and quickly sat down in the chair, covering my dick with my laptop.

As she rhymed off the celebrities she’d slept with and the kinky things they’d got up to she started to finger herself furiously and then she let out a scream as she had a substantial orgasm. My cock got so hard it almost tipped my lap top onto the floor.

I had to wait several minutes for her to calm down and then she dropped a bombshell, “Would be interested in eating me out darling, I think I need that before I can continue.”

I have to admit I was embarrassed. Even though I was in the nude and she was in the nude, it somehow didn’t seem the time and place for me to start performing cunnilingus. In my contract, it clearly stated that I was to help her write her memoirs, not re-enact her former sex life.

“I know it’s an imposition darling but you can fuck me afterward if you want, I’ll even suck you off, I’m just desperate to have someone to pay attention to me and you’re such a nice looking young man.”

As they say, “Flattery will get you everywhere,” and so I put my tools of the trade to one side and walked over the big circular bed, grabbed onto her ankles, drew her down the sheets, opened up her legs and knelt down on the floor. She began to tremble as I put my face between her thighs and gradually licked my way up to the lips of her flower.

The first flick of my tongue almost sent her into hysterics, then I crushed my mouth against her wet pink petals and began to lick. When she came, she went ballistic and when she’d regained control she slipped off the end of the bed, shoved me back onto the carpet and took my dick into her mouth. I don’t know how she accommodated it but it seemed to go in right up to my balls.

When she worked up and down it, she made all kinds of grunting sounds and as she could feel my excitement building up she grunted louder and sucked faster and faster. I shot, what seemed like, an enormous load down her throat and she just swallowed it.

It was my turn to lay her back on the carpet and I straddled her body and began to fondle, lick and suck her tits. Fuck – she had a great set of tits. Once again she made noises and squirmed her ass as though she was sitting on an ant’s nest.

I was feeling very tense and anxious to cum again and so I turned her over so that she was kneeling on all fours with her ass in the air. I parted her legs with my knee and drove my cock into her. She gasped and raised up her head, and I grabbed onto her shoulders and started to ram it into her.

Felisha was crying out fuck and a string of other words at the top of her voice as I thrust it in with all the force I could muster. When I blew my load into her I grasped onto her hip bones and kept pounding her ass until I was completely exhausted.

We got very little work done that night and not much the following night, in fact in the following three months I achieved very little apart from making my dick sore, it was just too much for me. In the end, I had to get my agent to tell her I wouldn’t be going round there again. In my place, he sent another writer called Hal Jordan.

I found it amusing because Hal was around fifty, he was four foot fuck all and his ribs even showed through his shirt.

“I bet he won’t last the week out,” I said to Morty, “that woman is going to suck him dry – I’ll see you at the wake.”

Surprisingly Hal lasted almost six months. According to rumor, Felisha died of a heart attack while he was fucking her in the bath tub. She left everything to that sniveling little prick, and while I’ve had to move back in with my parents, he’s throwing lavish parties in his Beverly Hills mansion.

Copyright 2015 Cristiano Caffieri


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