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Naughty Stories from A to Z
Pretty Things Press
Copyright © 2002
Pretty Things Press
All right reserved.
by Dante Davidson
I have to admit it-and I hope this doesn't make me sound like
a cad-but those legs were what caught my attention first. In all
my years of searching, I'd never seen perfection like that. Delicately
curved, almost achingly arched, they surpassed my wildest
fantasies. I could imagine running my fingers up and around their
smooth, supple surface for hours, getting down on my hands and
knees to worship them. I've always been something of a leg man.
Slowly, I moved closer, feigning interest in the stature of several
other, less lovely creations nearby. With extra effort, I maneuvered
myself through the crowd, and when I was close enough, I reached
out my hand, wanting just one touch....
"Hey!" a female voice said, sounding surprised. "What are you
"It's a-," I lowered my voice as I named the maker. "Isn't it?"
The owner raised her painted-on eyebrows, giving me a
quizzical stare which I processed before returning my gaze to my
newfound love. "How could you know that without checking the
label?" she asked.
I didn't look at her while I answered. My eyes were still
captivated by her table, those flawless legs, that haughty, aristocratic
stance. The color was a rich, unmarred caramel that had obviously
been untouched since it left the original creator's hands. Often, at
such appraisal road shows, we see once-beautiful objects, now
destroyed by an owner's idiotic-if well-intentioned-attempts at
refinishing. Never mess with perfection.
Just to be entirely sure that the treasure was indeed as priceless
as I thought, I got on my knees and crawled under the table. My
heart pounded even faster as I read that golden label beneath the
rim. There, in unblemished perfection, were the artisan's engraved
initials. I smiled broadly when I saw them.
"Are you okay?" the owner asked. I had forgotten all about her
until she bent down to peer at me under the table. Thinking back,
I must have looked fairly ridiculous, dressed impeccably in my
gray suit and navy blue tie, lying on the ground grinning up at the
wood. The workmanship was remarkable, and I couldn't help but
stroke the firm underside with the palms of my hands. If furniture
could make a noise, this table would have purred.
"I'm fine," I said weakly, breaking free of my daze and looking
at the owner's face. For the first time, I really noticed her. I took in
her bright blue eyes and even brighter blue eye shadow. "I'm
Jonathan Silver, appraiser for Winston-Logan."
Her attitude changed instantly, from "hands-off" to "help
"You work here," she said, indicating the breadth of the show
with a sweeping glance. As I climbed out from under the table, I
continued my brief observation of her face. She had two perfectly
round circles of rouge on her cheeks making her appear as if she'd
been playing dress up with her mother's cosmetics. Her lips sported
an orange-coral shade not often found in nature. Once an appraiser,
always an appraiser. It can be difficult to turn off the critical voice
in my head.
"My name's Lucy," she said, offering me a hand, the nails of
which were long and polished a vibrant, glistening green, like the
underbelly scales of a tropical snake. When I let go of her hand,
she ran it through her platinum teased hair, raising the height
another inch or so with the gesture. What a woman like her was
doing with a table like this, I could not imagine. But it's my job to
judge furniture, not people, and I plastered a false smile on my
face and turned on my professional charm.
"Will you go on air with it?" I asked.
Lucy gave an excited, high-pitched squeal, like a contestant on
a game show. The noise was loud enough for our producer to hear,
and when Corrine met my eyes from across the room, I nodded to
indicate I had a winner. Oh, did I have a winner. Corrine rushed
over and I whispered into her ear what I'd found.
"Are you sure, Jonathan?" Corrine asked incredulously,
inspecting Lucy's attire, which did not exactly fit the normal type
of clothes we see at the road show. Most people arrive in jeans and
t-shirts, shorts if it's a hot day. The table's owner was wearing a
revealing pink floral sundress loosely laced up the front. Part of
my brain quickly categorized it as "cheap," and possibly "slutty."
But another part of my brain - the one attached to a lower segment
of my anatomy - understood how someone might find a dress
like that appealing. The laces had come slightly undone in the front,
and for some reason I envisioned myself taking a step closer and
tying the bow for Lucy, my fingers brushing the skin of her supple
breasts, touching her just as gently as only moments before I'd
stroked the leg of her table.
At that thought, I found myself looking down at Lucy's own
legs. Clad in white fishnet stockings and high-heeled sandals, they
were a work of art unto themselves. What would they feel like
beneath the palm of my hand, I wondered. And what kind of noise
would Lucy make if my fingertips grazed her skin? The same
shocked "Hey!" that she'd shrieked when I touched her table?
Somehow, from the looks she was giving me in return, I didn't
My producer nudged me and I shook my head, embarrassed,
not having heard a word Corrine had said. But Lucy, standing a
few feet away, shot me another interested smile, as if she understood
exactly what my appraising glances meant.
It all happened quickly after that. Our producer whisked Lucy
away to sign some papers and I consulted several other appraisers
to get their opinion of the piece's value. My mind instantly and
easily refocused on my work. A table in less quality condition had
recently sold for a quarter of a million dollars at auction. I could
barely contain myself imagining what this item might bring.
When we found ourselves seated in front of the camera, I turned
my eyes from the table to Lucy, preparing to launch into the
background history of the furniture maker. I am quite adept at my
job, my mind filled with little-known facts, but when I looked at
Lucy again, I forgot everything that I'd planned on saying. The
make-up crew, in their haste, had removed her garish eye shadow
and electrifying lipstick, but had not bothered to replace either. I
was staring at a restored canvas, the beauty of her face shining
clear now that it was free from the previous hideous coat of
"Your beautiful-" I stammered, and then stopped. I'd been
about to say, "Your beautiful table," but suddenly that wasn't what
I meant at all. Change the 'your' to 'you're,' is what I wanted to
tell Lucy. "You're beautiful-" I said again, referring to her this
"My table," she said, prompting me when she realized I was
tongue-tied. She gave me that same quizzical glance she had earlier,
her eyes a softer blue now that they didn't have to compete with
the seventies-style shadow. Her cheeks had a natural flush to them,
and I wondered what hue they would turn in the throws of passion.
If I picked her up and set her down on the table, slid that flimsy
dress up her thighs, and bent to kiss in a line down her throat to
those loose laces, would her cheeks turn a dark, scarlet blush? Or
was she the type whose skin would take on a petal pink glow? I
longed to find out, but I could suddenly feel my producer's eyes
"My table" Lucy repeated, waiting.
"Yes," I said, nodding. "Your table is a masterpiece." I put my
hand on the top of the surface for reassurance, and the wash of joy
swept over me again. I found my words, launching into a history
of this fantastic piece of furniture. I told of the maker's background,
then described how each table was made by hand, focusing on the
length of time it took to create just one leg.
"One of the most interesting aspects of this table," I said, near
the end of my spiel, "is that although it appears quite delicate, it is
"Really?" Lucy asked, shooting me a look that sent my mind
spinning off into fantasy land all over again. "Sometimes delicate
items can fool you."
At that comment, I tried desperately to reboard my train of
thought, but failed. She looked delicate, yet I had the feeling that
she would last through hours of raucous lovemaking. Was that the
hidden message she was trying to tell me? Suddenly, I felt
something brush softly against my own leg. It took only a second
for me to process that Lucy had slipped out of one high-heeled
sandals and was running her stockinged toes up my calf.
I managed to complete my talk, to give her an estimate of the
table's worth, but somehow those numbers didn't interest me
anymore. The director yelled "cut," and the crew quickly moved
across the room to film a segment on wind-up toys. Lucy and I
were alone, between the makeshift curtained barriers, still sitting
at the table looking at each other.
"You mentioned that it was surprisingly sturdy," Lucy said in a
low voice. I watched as she ran her tongue along her top lip, as if
she were tasting something sweet. The gesture tugged at me, and I
wanted to lean forward and do the same thing to her, run my own
tongue along both of her lips before taking her in my arms and
kissing her. I took a deep breath, trying to analyze what she had
"Yes," I nodded, "these tables have undergone stress tests. While
some pieces are more for show than actual use, your table could
easily support five hundred pounds."
"Wow," Lucy said, her mouth, pure and naked of lipstick,
curving into a smile. "That's a lot of weight-three or four adults-when
all it has to support is two."
This was all the encouragement I needed. Quickly, I motioned
to a crew member and asked him to help me put the table into one
of our back storage rooms. "I need a little more time to appraise
it," I said, using my most business-like tone. The man didn't concern
himself with the explanation. Without hesitating, he and I hoisted
the table together and brought it to one of the private rooms. Lucy
followed, staring at me with what I can only describe as lustfully
Finally alone, I shut the door and lifted Lucy into my arms. I
nuzzled into her neck as I carried her over to the table. She smelled
delicious, spicy and exotic, and I sat her down on the edge of the
table and began to kiss her skin. Lucy sighed, then leaned back
fully onto the table, spreading her thighs and raising her arms over
I didn't know where to start first. I wanted to keep kissing her,
but I also wanted to peel off her dress and simply look at her body.
As when I'm appraising a piece of furniture, I needed to know
what I was working with. Lucy took over for me, slipping the dress
over her head and then sprawling out in her white satin bra and
panties, white fishnets, garter belt, and sandals still on.
The room we were in contained several other pieces of furniture,
including a full-length, gilt-edged mirror. I hurried to position it
against the wall next to the table, and then grabbed Lucy around
the waist and slid her toward me. I kissed her in a line down her
body, starting with her lips and then moving to the hollow of her
neck, her delicate collarbones, down to her breasts-where I
lingered until she arched her back and moaned. Slowly I kissed
my way toward her satin-clad pussy, and when I reached it, I could
smell the scent of her arousal.
I licked her through her panties first, just teasing her with my
tongue pressed hard against that shiny material. Then I helped her
out of the undergarment and began to French kiss her pussy, using
my fingers to hold open her lips while my tongue made soft and
slow circles around her clit.
After a moment, I looked into the mirror to see Lucy's face. Her
head was turned to the side, mouth open and eyes shut. Her hair
had come free from the ponytail and it fell loose to her shoulders.
Now, brushed flat instead of teased, it perfectly framed her beautiful
face. A face which I suddenly recognized-
"Oh, God," I said.
"Yes," Lucy sighed, "Oh, God, it's great."
"No," I stood looking down at her. "I know you."
She opened her eyes and locked onto my gaze. "Yes," she said,
"I'm Lucy. We met out there." Her cheeks were flushed with
pleasure, a soft pink as I'd imagined they would be, but her face
was composed. She looked a lot more at ease than I felt, my cock
throbbing beneath my slacks, desperate for contact with the warm,
wet mouth of her sex. Still, I had to get something clear.
"You're not some-" I wanted to say 'hick,' but changed my
mind quickly, "some innocent who just brought a table to be
appraised," I said, watching as she pushed herself into a semi-upright
position on the table, leaning up on one elbow. With her
free hand, she began to stroke her naked pussy, slowly and
sensuously teasing herself while I watched. She seemed to be
waiting to see when I'd get it, and finally, when she tilted her head
back as the sensations washed over her, I knew precisely who she
was. I'd seen the look on her face before, at a recent auction in
New York. Upon winning the piece she was after, she leaned her
head back and sighed, the same look of ultimate pleasure on her
"You're Lucinda Daniels," I said, undoing my slacks now, unable
to wait any longer. "You work for Rowen-McLean."
She nodded, her hands helping to guide me between her parted
thighs. The contact of my cock with the dreamy wetness of her sex
made me momentarily lose track of my thoughts. I plunged inside
her and she let out that same, pleasurable sigh again, her hand
going up to her throat, fingers beating there as if attempting to still
her pounding pulse.
I stopped trying to figure it all out at that point, driving in even
deeper inside her. The table supported our weight, but I needed to
feel her in my grip. Grabbing her around the waist, I lifted her into
my arms and then pulled her down on me. Then, inspired, I took
her over to the wall and pressed her against that antique mirror. I
couldn't get deep enough inside her, slamming into her willing
cunt and then pulling out to the tip, then slamming in again to
make her sigh like that. She dragged her fingernails down my back
and I had the vision of what they looked like, that obscene emerald
green raking against my skin, leaving marks I'd have to remember
this by. Suddenly, those nails didn't seem so offensive. There was
something sexy in the whole slutty attire-fishnets still in place,
sandal-clad feet hooked around my thighs.
"God, Jonathan, I'm going to come," Lucy said softly, and I took
her to that fantasy place with me, fucking her harder and faster
until she leaned down and bit my shoulder as the climax flew
through her. I came a second after, pumping my cock inside her as
those wave-like contractions washed over it.
Excerpted from Naughty Stories from A to Z
Copyright © 2002 by Pretty Things Press.
Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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