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Madette

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Too agitated to sleep, I watched the sun rise, then went for a walk in town to cool my buzzing head. I don’t know why, but I decided to have breakfast at this café in a flashily understated street off Bond street. The place sat opposite a dark, minimalist lingerie shop sporting one dummy in the window and another guarding the door, letting couples in by invitation only.

Then, by crazy coincidence, Max and Odette turned up to that very knicker-shop! Right opposite me, like a dream frustrated by not getting to play in my sleep, popping out into the real world.

The gigantic Max held his dainty wife’s hand as the door-dummy bowed to them without even clicking their names on his tablet. Everyone knew who they were: The most beautiful couple in the world. “Madette”

They disappeared into the shop’s murky velvet depths and I fidgeted in my chair. My heart raced. I hadn’t expected to see them until later. I’d even pre-paid the parking space outside their house so I’d be sure to bump into them. The fact that Madette turned up to that very shop at that very moment was proof we were destined to be together forever. I could’ve burst into song.

The handsome waiter brought me my coffee and tried to hide his ogling with rapid blinks when he checked out my rear. This made me laugh, and he gave me his phone number. But my head and heart and, sorry, a special space between my legs, were already taken. And tingling. I’d loved Max and Odette even before they were Madette, but together they were simply irresistible.

Madette were shown into the luxurious sex shop, and I was locked out. For now at least.

While my heart pumped me dizzy, I kissed the velvety crema of my espresso with a sugar cube, teasing it with where it wanted to plunge! The thing is, Odette, on her own, was as super sweet and exquisite as this sugar cube. Max was a muscular double espresso; exhilarating but a difficult, acquired taste. Poised over the coffee, my cube sucked up the crema, turning from white to gold. Once she was drenched, I popped her in my mouth. Bittersweet perfection.

I checked, for the tenth time, that I had the thing I needed in my handbag. It was a mystery why I ever brought it out with me, but I was glad I did today. Of course it was there. It’d been there for weeks. Waiting like a promise.

In that shop, across the road, behind a door or two, my ethereal Odette was probably displaying herself, scantily clad, for my magnificent Max. I was already delirious from coincidence, and perhaps my caffeinated sugar breakfast served as a psychic amplifier, but in a flash I became so perfectly in tune with Madette, their minds sang in mine.

#

Fucksake, how can ten minutes in the fitting room of a posh lingerie shop with Odette knacker me more than four rounds in a cage with mighty Stipe Miocic? OK, the title fight was only last night, and the bruises are fresh and my muscles sore, but still. My wife’s a tiny, fairy creature.

Maybe it’s because this jet-eyed, black-bobbed Tinkerbelle is naked but for a two-grand, gold silk basque. And that just stole my fucking breath away. Or maybe it’s her perky buttocks slap-slap-slapping at my hips, making me pant every time I impale her. Or maybe I’m breathless because of her breathy whispers, in that fucking impossible-sexy French accent, “Oui! Oui! Oui! Cum with me cum with me…”

She’s got this thing that, because we can’t fuck during the last six weeks of my training, that we have to cum together post-fight. But together. I mean at exactly the same time. So she’s getting het up because, fucksake, I couldn’t cum last night after the fight, and I can’t cum now. I don’t know what it is.

Nah that’s a lie. Today I can’t cum because I’ve been naughty and I’m guilty. I’m painting you this perfect picture, but our life ain’t all “cum-with-me-cum-with-me”. There’s this little thorn in our horn and I’ve tried to fix it, unsuccessfully, in a kind of a shameful way:

I paid someone to reprogram my wife.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like Odette ain’t keen. She’s downright dirty in some ways. Not that you’d know from what you see of her in the press. She’s a model with this kind of whimsical-waif thing going on. Think “Amélie”, or she as she calls herself, an “ingénue”, but fuck knows what that is. All I’m saying is you’d never guess she’s the sort of girl that might slink over to you in her little black dress after your fight, in front of the world’s press, and drag your head down so she can whisper in your ear, “I’m not wearing panties.” And the next day the press is full of your grinning mug looking like an actual veiny cock.

So last night we did some polite press stuff, with my impolite hand up the back of her skirt. It was still shaky from the fight and still scuffed from Miocic’s face (ha ha) so it loved her bare bum. I have to say, in some of them photo’s, Odette looked like she might burst into flames and all.

So we basically ran home. My head felt gonged, like a full-on roundhouse know what I mean? I was şişli escort spinning. I dunno why, because I’ve been disappointed after lots of post-fight fucks, but I reckoned that day, that night, Odette’s slutty lack of underwear proved my dream was gonna cum true. My wife’s sweet and curly overbite, after two years of marriage, was gonna go down.

I’d just got my shirt off over my head, no time for buttons, when she pushed me back on the bed and tore off my trousers and shorts. She kicked off her shoes and jumped onto the bed, still dressed. My cock jumped for joy. Then she danced above my head, showing off her pantielessness and I figured yep, this was definitely the kind of mood that definitely ended in a blowjob.

Then she wriggled up her skirt… and straddled my face! I mean I love her fat, wet pussy and all, and it’d been weeks, so I’m not complaining exactly but… shit. So I flip-flapped my tongue and sucked her clit, all the good stuff, but she was so close to cumming she kept lifting her hips off me so her cunt could spasm it out and delay her orgasm. She was cackling like a crack-head, really enjoying herself. Sliming me up and muttering her French. She kept turning round to laugh at my cock bouncing around like it was all: “Ding-ding round one, come on, motherfucker”. Every now and then she reached over and gave it a little tug and swore at it.

Then she spent less time on my tongue than panting above it trying to calm down. And I wanted her to cum, don’t get me wrong. I was begging for it truth be told. I love my girl’s orgasms. But she was like: “No Max, together or not at all.” I guess she thought I’d cum too quick after so long so was, like, warming herself up? I mean I hadn’t even wanked in those six weeks, but she made no secret of the fact she still could, twice a week yelping on the shower head. So she hopped off my mouth one last time and hopped onto my cock instead, writhing off her dress and settling on my scaffold pole like it was a hot bath or, I suppose, the shower head. And you’d think I might have exploded, but some lock had clicked in me and though I couldn’t stop fucking I couldn’t start cumming either.

Odette didn’t complain. By the time we called it a night she was limp as I was rigid. She said she didn’t orgasm, and that she was still saving herself so we could cum together, but that was bollocks. I know she fucking did. Twice, in fact. Her hole flutters and clenches, she can’t hide it. She pretended she wasn’t panting and squeaking, but she was like someone hiding a sneeze. She’s the only woman I ever heard of who pretends she isn’t cumming. Shit at it too.

So I was pissed off all night. Odette was KO’d and snoring in a heartbeat with this little smile on her lovely gob and that made me happy, but I was still fucked off. And achingly hard.

Trouble is I love her, but Odette never goes down. I mean never. “But I’m the face of Chanel!” she says, like that’s some kind of special need like she’s deaf or blind or something so allowances must be made. But I’m a pretty famous guy too, and what with the underwear modelling and that I get a lot of offers. Cosmo voted me their: “One Suck Fantasy” for fucksake.

Not to my missus though.

Yeah, I know you’re thinking, “Poor millionaire model muscle man with your world title and your millionaire model wife who loves you to bits, it’s a hard life, innit?” But that shit eats at me. I mean I’d do anything Odette wanted. Anything. I even got my therapist to try and turn me off blowjobs. But it ain’t about the blowjob. It’s just, when I remember that the love of my life doesn’t love my cock, that she can’t bear doing this one little thing—something selfie-seekers and production assistants offer me all the time? I feel kind of deep down, right to my core… unloved.

Worse, unlovable. Don’t laugh. Just because I fight for a living don’t mean I can’t feel pain.

Then of course there’s the shit in her history. Or rather Le Shit. He was her dealer. I know what she did for him was for the love of smack, nothing else, but that Shit really gnaws. And it ain’t even that I’m jealous of him (“Darling it was just hand jobs, it was nothing, he came on my boobs.”) it’s worse. I’m jealous of her heroin addiction. She’d do more for that than for our fucking marriage.

Fucksake, did I really just say that?

Anyway, the other reason I was so fucked off last night was because, yes, I’d paid someone a lot of money to have this issue sorted.

Let me introduce Georgie.

I got two professional trainers. One, a beaten-up old veteran called Bill, who manages my fitness and diet and moves and shit. The physical side. My other trainer is this… girl. Georgie. She’s a kind of psychotherapist who gets me mentally match-fit. I’ve known her for years, since I was a failed Mr Universe and junkie brawler for hire, and she turned my life around. I don’t know how Georgie does it, but an hour chatting with her and I can break bricks with my mind know what I mean? escort ankara

Also, she makes me these hypnotherapy “whisper wavs” that I play through a special pillow with speakers in it. So when I sleep, she can give me all these subliminal suggestions. Reinforcing good habits. Breaking down bad ones. I thought it was bollocks but soon as I started doing them I started winning. Not just in the ring, out of it too. I kicked my addictions by, like, kicking the fear that holds you back, know what I mean?

In fact it’s Georgie that introduced me to my wife, in a way. Georgie was up for best therapist at an awards gig for addicts who’d turned their lives round. Me and Odette got sat next to each other. A six-foot-eight heavyweight MMA fighter has nothing in common with a posh French model. Everything that came out my gob seemed to offend this stuck-up Bambi. I gave up my polite chit-chat in the end and just blurted, “Fuck I need Georgie to fix how much I hate these shitty events.” And Odette lit up. Georgie was her therapist too! Even had a pillow!

Six months later, Odette moved her pillow in with mine. Three months after that she married me.

But then I started losing fights. A sponsor threatened to pull out on me. I had one fight to prove myself, and told Georgie this in the session just when my final six week training kicked off. She sensed I had some extra tension she couldn’t figure out. She said I was deliberately scuppering my own chances. Not committing to the win.

“Bollocks!” I said.

Honestly, I’d been there like one minute when she laid that on me. I was still drying my hair from a shower because I’d run the ten fucking miles to her “office” (her flat). How was that not committing? I was still out of breath!

Georgie smiled and unfurled on her couch. She’s like this cat girl. I mean she gets the comfy sofa in her sessions, I get the wooden chair. And she lounges and fiddles with her bottle blonde, messy hair and purrs her croaky bombshells with a slight lisp she says is down to her “chubby tongue.” One of those people almost too at ease in their skin, know what I mean?

Like that day, she was barefoot in leggings and wearing this tatty, woolly jumper. This woman’s paid £1000 an hour for fucksake. Don’t get me wrong, she’s not like a slob or nothing, she’s even pretty in a big-gobbed, fresh-faced sort of way. If she made some effort, lost a couple pounds of that puppy fat, she could compete with my missus, I reckon. Well, Odette reckons.

It’s just she’s got no self-consciousness at all. Like at that moment. When she accused me of being “primally tense”, and I said that was bollocks too, she swivelled in her seat to face me. She had her feet up on the sofa, and her knees apart, like, ten-to-three on a clock face, know what I mean? She rested her cheek on her raised knee and glittered her sleepy brown eyes at me. Now I’m a bloke and she’s an attractive woman, so my eyes flicked to her crotch, I won’t lie. I mean it was there on show, the gusset of her leggings pulled tight over the podgy shape of her bits. I didn’t gawp or nothing, I wasn’t like drooling. Just a quick dip of the eyes.

She snorted. “That’s Interesting.”

“What?”

“How’s sex?”

“Non-existent, obviously. I’m in training.”

“Only for the next six weeks. You’ve been allowed to up till now.” She gave a creaky yawn, and reached between her legs to grasp her wriggling toes. See? Too relaxed. She even butterflied her knees flat and flapped them. “I mean, generally. Do you satisfy Odette?”

I might be a little punch-drunk, but I ain’t stupid. I weren’t gonna fall for that wind up. She likes to get me riled and blabbermouthing. “You tell me, Doc.”

“You don’t know?”

Fucksake, I’m Odette’s hubby not her therapist. I know fuck all. “She’s happy. Very happy, I think. She always…” I rolled my hand.

Georgie shrugged, but in an exasperated way. “Sneezes? Yawns? Hiccups?”

“Orgasms.”

She tilted her head, like peering through a keyhole into me. “And what are they like, her orgasms?”

My ears heated up. I can’t lie, my dick and balls heated up too. Trouble is I was getting turned on talking about sex with a woman other than my wife, but Georgie… well you got to understand she’s not your average woman. Take that room we were sat in. A spacious room, high ceilings with two tall windows and all that, but totally lined and crammed with books. I couldn’t have told you what colour the walls were, or the carpets. Books fucking everywhere. Georgie looked cute and laid-back, but she was the warm, squidgy tip of a fucking… book iceberg. She’s not someone you underestimate, that’s all I’m saying. If she asks you what you’re wife’s orgasms are like, it ain’t an invitation to whap your junk out.

But then she kind of idly cupped her bits, like I weren’t even in the room. It looked protective, but also like she was gonna rub herself off right there and I wouldn’t’ve been surprised by that, either. So, go figure. “OK,” she said. “Too ankara escor vague a question. I should be explicit. Does she orgasm mostly with penetration or…” She blushed now. And cleared her throat. “Or… orally.” She drew out the last word in a three syllable croak, her tongue flipping at the end of it.

“Both.” I stroked the back of my baldie bonce. “Well. She seems to like it most when I… ah, you know.”

She smiled, as if to a kid or a dog. “Nope. I don’t.”

“When I lick her.”

She swung her knees together, trapping her hands. “OK. Good.” She stared into my soul. “And…”

“And what?”

“What positions?”

“You want I show you some fucking videos?”

She blinked. “My question makes you angry.”

I sighed, right from my fists. Right from my poor, blue balls.

“Max, I ask because I need to know where the power lies between you. And the positions we favour in sex are like a glimpse of our deepest desires. Things we don’t even realise about ourselves become… explicit.”

Well now I really didn’t want to tell her. Another deep breath. “Her go-to position is like, sitting on my face?”

Georgie nodded, slowly. She waited, probably for more details, but honestly, how much more explicit could I be? As it turned out, lots.

She rolled her eyes, and with a kind of alright-I’ll-do-it-then sigh, got onto her knees on the sofa seat. She twisted round so her bum was toward me, kneeling akimbo. She lifted her jumper to her waist and looked over her shoulder.

“Like this?” She wriggled.

She was slimmer round the waist than her clothes let on and her booty was bigger than Odette’s. Rounder too. It jiggled. My trousers tightened. I got a weird déjà vu, like I’d dreamed I’d fucked her like this once and then buried the memory out of guilt. Double weird, Georgie got a smug look on her, like she knew what I was thinking. Or was that my guilt too?

“Yep. Yep, that’s kind of it,” I said. “That’s what she likes.”

Georgie chewed her sluggy lips. “And where are you? kneeling behind…” She actually twerked at my imaginary face. No-one needs to see their therapist twerk at their imaginary face. “Or…” She mimed a head on the sofa seat and rocked her hips along it. “Underneath?”

“Both. The last one though really. I’m underneath, like, a worm’s-eye view?” I laughed. She didn’t. “I lie down.”

“I see, that makes sense. So you can sixty-nine as well.”

“No. We, ah, we don’t do that.”

“Never?”

“Nope. Is that odd?”

“Do you feel it’s odd? Would you like to sixty-nine?”

“Thanks for the offer Darlin’, but…” I waggle my platinum-bound ring finger.

Not funny. She glowered. My cheeks burned like she was slapping them with her mind. I said something quick: “Odette usually like faces away from my body? And she’s not on her knees she’s on her feet.”

Georgie’s eyes flicked between mine as if reading the rest of the info straight from my brain. She kind of waddled onto her feet. “Like this? Crouching?”

“Thassit.”

“Ah ha.” She hopped back round to sit the way human beings sit. She grabbed her notebook. Always a danger sign. “She squats on your face.”

The words sort of bounced around the room.

“You don’t seem sure?” She peered at me.

“Well. It’s just you make it sound so… abusive.”

“Abusive,” Georgie said as she scribbled. She sucked her pen, then scribbled again, murmuring, “Worm’s—eye.” She pierced me with the look a cat might give a mouse. “Does she cum on your mouth? Or on your face?”

“Come again?” I didn’t mean it as a joke. Or maybe I did, like another one of them defensive ones.

“I mean, do you lick her to orgasm? Or does she grind on your face?”

“Jesus, Doc. Is this really—”

She slapped her pen down and flicked a frown.

I took a deep breath. “OK. I usually start by licking her, sucking her clit and that, but this gets her like overexcited and she orgasms… grinding. Yes.”

“She pleasures herself. On you. On your face.”

“Yes.” I laugh, again on my own. “Is that wrong?”

“Does it feel wrong?”

“Feels fucking great.”

“Likes—grind—on—face,” she said-scribbled. “Good. So that’s her favourite. So you do it how often?”

“When I’m not training, maybe four times a week. Five.”

Georgie whistled. “Lucky girl.”

“Is that too much?”

“Does it feel like it is?”

I shrugged. I was a can of tuna to this hungry moggy. And she had can-opener claws.

She ticked something on her pad. “So tell me more. This morning did she…” She bit back a smirk. “Do this to you?”

“Doc, you make it sound—”

“Like I said. Indulge me. So presumably you both wanted sex this morning, right?

“Yep. Well it’s our last time for the next few weeks.”

“Good. Tell me about it.” She got comfy in her seat, brushed a hair off her knee.

“Well. She gets up before me usually. When I’m not putting in the early runs. She has a shower, then… wakes me up.”

“You hesitated.”

This was just shit. Why did I have to go through all this? I stretched. Her lavender soap scent rose from my skin and gave me another boggle of déjà vu. Then I remembered she made us put lavender oil on our pillows too.

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