Free Stephanie's Revenge by Susanna Hughes Page B

breast swung
into view, as well as a quick flash of dark pubic hair. The man who
had been watching her was sipping his wine. He almost choked as his
secret suspicion proved to be a reality.
    Stephanie
walked past him, wrapping the fur around herself and smiling at him
sweetly.
     
    Back in her
room she had a long bath, towelled herself down then searched
through the packages that had been delivered from the shops after
her morning shopping expedition. She soon found what she was
looking for, a short navy-blue leather skirt she had bought in
Trussadi. It came with a matching leather halter top which was
really no more than a bra - the sort of bra that was cut to push
the breasts upwards and together to form a deep cleavage, its
shoulder straps as far apart as possible.
    Since her
experiences at the castle, Stephanie had hardly worn tights. Tights
were associated with work, with the office, with her life as it had
been. But the skirt was too short for stockings, so tonight she
would need tights again. Fortunately, she had bought two or three
pairs for her shorter dresses.
    Sitting on the
bed, she pointed her toe and fitted the sheer nylon over her foot.
Gradually, she played the material she had gathered in her hands,
out over her calf, up over her knee, and then watched as it encased
her thigh. She repeated the process with the other leg, before
standing up so she could pull the hose over her belly and in
between her legs, smoothing it on to her flesh. She didn't bother
to wear knickers.
    As she stood
she glimpsed herself in the long mirror on the wardrobe doors,
naked but for the sheer black tights. Her breasts looked white in
contrast to the dark shiny nylon, but her waist was trim, her legs
looked long and strong and firm, shaped by the nylon, and her black
hair streamed down over her shoulders. Not bad, she thought to
herself smiling. She turned sideways to admire the pertness of her
arse and the prominence of her uptilted breasts. Not bad.
    She pulled the
leather skirt up over her hips and zipped it into place. She hooked
the halter top over her breasts and found a pair of high heels to
match the blue. She clipped her hair into a long ponytail so it
would stay together when she danced. She looked at herself in the
mirror again. The halter emphasised the nakedness above the skirt
and the ripeness of her breasts. The skirt was short, covering no
more than two or three inches of her thighs, leaving her long legs,
shining in the black nylon, a definite object of desire.
    She looked so
sexy as she pirouetted in the heels that she was turning herself
on. And that, of course, was her intention. Her whole body still
throbbed with a sexuality she could not control, nor had the
slightest desire to. Masturbating in the car had temporarily
relieved her most intense feelings but it had, in turn, created a
new need. Her sexual appetite had been assuaged but not sated. Now
she wanted it satisfied. What she badly needed now was cock; hard,
hot, spunking cock. She needed to feel it thrusting inside her,
taking her, using her. Nothing else would do.
    Yes, she
wanted to dance. She wanted to dance and use the energy that seemed
to be coursing through her like electricity. But dancing was
foreplay, a foreplay to sex. She wanted to fuck. Fuck and be
fucked. Sate herself with fucking.
    And since she
had been at the castle, since she had been with Devlin, since her
new life had begun, the wonder was that now she always got what she
wanted.
    She stuck her
tongue out at herself in the mirror and laughed out loud. She
picked up a small bag to carry her purse, put the fur around her
shoulders and walked out of the suite.
    'You shall go
to the ball,' she said aloud, for no particular reason.
     
    Judging from
the admiring - not to say leering - looks she got as she marched
through the spacious marble-pillared lobby of the hotel, she was
not going to have any trouble satisfying her appetites.
    Outside there
was a distinct chill in the Roman