The strobes flashed, and the fans churned up a make-believe ocean breeze. It even smelled like the beach in the studio, from the ton and a half of sand they hauled in for the shoot. The center of attention was a lithe, fair-skinned model with long hair that flowed like black water in the wind. As the cameras clicked and hummed, she posed expertly, every move perfect, every look to die for.
Two lighting technicians enjoyed the show. Their equipment was in place and required no adjustments.
"Man, is she a piece of ass or what?" Brad said, eyeing the way the sarong clung to the model like a colorful coating of gossamer. He was the younger of the two men, tall and blonde, with the physique of a bodybuilder.
"No shit. And she's old enough to be your mom," Ron replied, getting a look of stunned disbelief. "I kid you not. She's at least forty."
"You're full of it. She looks twenty."
Ron nodded in agreement. "But get this. Jenny in makeup says she worked with her in the early nineties—fifteen years ago."
They stopped talking as the model took off the sarong for the next segment of the shoot. She was wearing the tiniest string bikini either of them had ever seen. The triangles of yellow cloth barely covered her nipples and pussy. Her firm breasts bounced gently—and naturally—as she practiced her upcoming moves. From the back, the thong consisted of a yellow string low across slim hips, and a pencil-thin strap that disappeared into the crack of an amazing, heart-shaped ass.
"I don't care how old she is. I want to fuck her," Brad said.
Ron laughed. "Good luck. Jenny says she's the original Ice Princess. She could have been a supermodel, but instead she works little gigs like this—one shot deals. Here, Europe, Asia, everywhere."
"Maybe that's why I've never heard of her," Brad said, looking at the name on his clipboard. "Nelah Alejandro." He pronounced it slowly, letting the syllables roll off his tongue.
Greg Bryant pulled his cab to the curb and jumped out to help two elderly women disembark. He waited until they buzzed one of the apartments, got a response, and waved to him happily.
Back in the cab, he counted the bills one of the women had given him. Twelve dollars, all singles, for a fare of $11.50. A four-percent tip. Greg sighed and smiled, knowing the old broads meant well.
Besides, he couldn't complain. The night before he ferried two Japanese businessmen from LaGuardia Airport to their hotel in Midtown, then waited with his meter running while they checked in. He waited for them again outside a fancy titty bar, where they got liquored up and found a couple of young hookers. When he dropped the happy group back at the hotel, one of the men handed Greg a wad of fifties that added up to more than double the fare.
That made up for the fifty-cent tip from the old ladies. And they'd been nice, telling him about their holiday plans and calling him a 'nice young man', like his grandma used to. With his short, sandy hair and pale blue eyes, Greg did look younger than his forty-five years. Working two jobs and skipping a lot of meals helped keep him trim.
He taught English Lit at a junior college by day, and drove the cab at night because it paid better. In his spare time, he was writing the great American novel. The current attempt was a love story, fraught with irony and suspense. Greg was stuck at chapter six, trying to figure out why anyone would fall in love with the losers he had for main characters.
He checked his watch and yawned. It was only six-thirty. He decided to cruise toward Midtown and look for more Japanese businessmen.
The photo shoot was finished, and the director and client were ecstatic. The problem was going to be choosing which perfect shots to use. As they fawned over the model, Brad continued to stare, his dick hard and his mouth watering. God, did he want that bitch.
He took his time breaking down the equipment, waiting while she changed clothes. Ron was long gone, headed home to his family. When she emerged, the model was stunning in a silk blouse and suede skirt. Her long legs were bare and sleek, and needed no stockings. She paused at the control center to thank the departing crew, and to pick up her purse.
Brad walked over, drying his palms on his jeans. He blocked her path to the exit, and waited for her to turn. When she did, the look she gave him took his breath away. Poised, quizzical, as though she expected him.
"Hey," he said.
"I mean, Hi." Brad managed, swallowing hard. "I'm Brad, in lighting." He motioned toward the equipment stacked against the wall of the studio.
"How nice," she said, amused.
"You did great," Brad said. "Really hot. I mean, that suit was made for you."
"I do my best," she said, then looked him up and down slowly. She licked her lips.
"Your name is Nelah?" he said, shoving his hands in the front pockets of his jeans to cover a rapidly engorging dick.
"Close," she said, studying his crotch. "It's a short 'e'. Nayluh." She looked up, and caught him staring at her tits. The silk blouse was open nearly to her waist, and she wore no bra. Her nipples showed through the sheer cloth, dark and slightly puffy.
"Oh, okay," he said.
"And you're Brad. In lighting." The tip of her tongue caressed her upper lip. "You're a big boy, Brad. Do you work out?"
He nodded proudly and flexed his arms, glad he'd worn the tight black T-shirt.
"Is there something you want to ask me, Brad?"
"I don't know, I just thought you were hot and I wondered..."
"If I wanted to fuck you?"
He stared at her, stunned. Light-headed. He could smell her hair and skin, and the effect was overpowering.
"Sure, Brad. I'll fuck you. Are you sure you're up to it?" she asked. "I play rough. Is that okay?"
He glanced around, relieved that the set was deserted. "The rougher the better! Let me get my coat." He couldn't believe his good fortune—positive he was in for the ride of his life.
A misting rain began to fall, and that was good for business. Greg had four decent fares in succession, with the new passengers getting in as the old ones were departing. He turned his light off, intending to find a place to park so he could eat his dinner. He cruised up Fifty-Eighth Street looking for an opening.
He pulled to the curb and reached for the brown paper sack next to his feet. He heard a quick rap on his window, looked up and saw the most beautiful woman in the world.
Her long, raven hair cascaded off her shoulders as she leaned forward. Her pale silk blouse gaped open, revealing a set of naked tits that took Greg's breath away.
"Are you off duty?" she asked, smiling enticingly and placing an elbow against the window frame. Greg tried not to stare at her breasts.
"Uh, yeah. But I guess I can eat later," he said, looking up into her dark eyes. They were huge, deep, and exotic. She stood and turned. Her suede skirt hugged her slim thighs, six inches from Greg's nose.
"Let's go Brad," she said, opening the rear door of the cab. Greg watched as a guy who looked like a bouncer dropped a cigarette and walked over. He was wearing a fake leather jacket over a black T-shirt and faded jeans.
"The Stratford. On Fifty-Sixth just off Park," the woman said.
Greg nodded. If it was her place, she was gorgeous and rich. The apartments on that block went for well over a million bucks.
On the way, Greg pretended not to listen as the bouncer made stupid jokes about his dick size and sexual prowess. Greg glanced into the rearview mirror and saw the woman stifling a smile. Then she intercepted the big guy's wrist as he tried to slip a hand inside her blouse.
"Behave yourself," she said, like she was with a five-year-old.
"Here we are," Greg said, as they pulled up to the Stratford. The building was first class, complete with a liveried doorman and covered walkway that extended to the curb.
"That'll be... seven eighty-five," Greg told the woman, who poked a twenty-dollar bill through the slot in the glass divider.
"I don't need change."
Greg thanked her and gave her the receipt and one of his cards, telling her to call if she ever needed a cab to the airport. As he spoke, the woman smiled as though she was enjoying a private joke.
Brad tried to grope Nelah in the elevator, despite her warnings. Finally, she gave him a shove against the wall to get his attention. He was surprised by her strength.
"Hey! I told you to behave yourself," she said.
"Yeah, but you're so goddamn hot. And you said we were going to fuck," Brad protested.
"I didn't say we'd do it in the elevator," she said. The doors opened and she stalked out, down the short hallway to her apartment door. She looked back to make sure Brad was following. She unlocked her door and waited, letting him enter first.
"Nice place!" he said, taking in the white and black leather furnishings, accented by bright contemporary artwork. He walked into the large main room, impressed by the huge plasma television and home theatre setup. Brad decided it would be sweet to move in with the model for a while. He adjusted his package in his tight blue jeans, wondering if they were going to fuck on the big leather couch or in the bedroom.
He took out his cigarettes and tapped the pack against his palm as he searched for his lighter.
"Don't," she said. He shrugged.
"You must make the bucks modeling," he said, as he took off his jacket and tossed it on a chair.
.... There is more of this story ...