"No, not yet. I've narrowed it down to the top dozen, and I was going to see how each of them looked on the bike before making a final choice."
"Great, go ahead. I'll be right there." God, what Angela was doing to me felt incredible. I never wanted the moment to end, but I knew it was about to.
Keith nodded in consent and closed the door behind him as he left. No sooner had it clicked shut than I blew my wad, shooting my hot seed down Angela's throat. She guzzled it eagerly and then licked me clean. Afterwards, she zipped my trousers closed, stood up with a smile, and said, "Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Colson?"
"That will be all for now." I flashed her a grin and watched her fine ass sway as she walked away.
Yes, she was a mighty fine assistant. The relaxing blow job she'd given me was just what I needed to clear my mind and focus on the photoshoot. We were preparing to launch a new ad campaign for our newest bike, The All-American. The model chosen would be featured on the cover our publication, Speed Magazine, sitting on the bike. In a town like L.A. that was flooded with beautiful young women anxious to become stars, it was going to be one girl's lucky break.
I'd told Keith I wanted a sexy blonde for the photoshoot, and he didn't disappoint. When I walked into the room, it was filled with a dozen gorgeous young blondes, all dressed in bikinis and high heels.
"These are the finalists. What do you think?" Keith slapped me on the back as he saw me walk in.
"Start putting them on the bike one a time so we can see how they look. When I see the right one, I'll know it."
Keith and I sat side-by-side in chairs as the girls were brought up one at time by Keith's assistant to model with the bike. Some of them were clear professionals and knew how to pose on the motorcycle with perfect poise. Others were clearly a little a lost as they did their best to sit on the bike in a sexy position without falling off. One girl in particular seemed to be having a tough time.
"What's your name?" Keith asked her with a frown as he scribbled swiftly on his tablet.
"Kayla Brandt."
She handed us each a copy of her résumé and a quick glance told me she was 21-years-old. Perfect.
I didn't want the baby-face looks of an 18-year-old, but our cover model still needed to look young and vibrant, with no wrinkles, a perfect body, and large breasts. I knew it was crazy in a town like L.A., but I really wanted a girl with natural breasts and not the kind purchased at a plastic surgeon’s office. There was just something about the way those fake breasts never moved that was a major turn off for me. I wanted a real girl, with real, God-given tits; what could be more All-American than that? And I wanted them to be big and perfectly round with that little bit of bounce that made every guy's dick instantly hard.
This girl had that. Everything about her was fresh, and pure, and as American as apple pie.
The photographer positioned her on the bike while the assistant adjusted her bikini top. Then he started snapping some shots as I read the rest of her résumé. It was disappointedly sparse. She worked full-time as a waitress, had no formal training, and basically no references of note. It was the kind of poor résumé I usually tossed right in the trash, but with this girl, I couldn't. Perhaps it was her lack of experience that I found so attractive. She didn't have any of the pretenses most L.A. models had. Everything about her was natural. I closed her file to just sit back, watch, and enjoy.
Kayla was fumbling awkwardly with her bikini top as she posed with the bike, and I heard the photographer tell her to stretch her arms out towards the handlebars. Suddenly, the strings of her bikini came untied and the top came falling down, giving me a full view of her naked breasts. They were magnificent: full, round, and slightly misshapen in that perfect way that natural tits fall when they're ripe and ready to be devoured. I wanted her like I'd never wanted any woman before.
Blushing furiously, she struggled to cover herself and ended up knocking the bike over. It fell to the floor with a noisy crash, and she ran from the room, clutching her top and crying.
"Good riddance to that mess. We can forget her all together," Keith said, but I'd never been more captivated by a girl in my life. I wanted her to be the new cover girl of Speed Magazine, but after that disaster, it was going to be tough. Still, as I thought of the sweetness of her smile and the perfect way her breasts jiggled as she walked, I knew I had to find a way to make it happen.
Chapter Two
Kayla
"How'd it go?" Mick asked lazily from the couch.
"Don't even ask," I groaned as I set my purse down on the kitchen table of our cramped apartment with a heavy plop. "I thought you were going to pick me up after the audition. I had to take two busses to get home."
"I thought you'd be longer. Besides, you never called to tell me you were done." Mick was watching some show about monster trucks on the television and drinking a beer; he didn't even bother to turn and look at me. His shaggy, brown hair was tucked back behind his ears, and he looked like he hadn't shaved in days. He was wearing a tee-shirt with a picture of his favorite brand of beer on it and jeans that were in desperate need of being washed. I used to wish he'd clean himself up more, but I'd gotten used to it, and even grown to like the way he looked. Sort of modern-age-grunge-meets-Hollywood-beatnik.
"Check your cell phone; you'll see you have three missed calls on it." I tossed the phone at him unhappily, and it landed on the cushion beside him. He shoved it into his pocket without looking at it and patted the couch, indicating for me to sit.
"Sorry, baby. I thought it was just bill collectors calling, so I didn't even look. I really thought you'd be longer. Sit down next to me and tell me what went wrong."
He flashed me his most charming grin and even turned off the television set. As much as I wanted to be mad at him, I never could resist when he looked at me with his big, brown, puppy-dog eyes. I guess that's why we were still together after five years.
We'd met when I was just sixteen. He'd been the assistant manager at the Tasty-Freeze where I worked after school, selling fries and soft-serve ice-cream cones. He introduced himself to me as Mickey Palmetto and told me he was five years older than me to the day. I had never met anyone that shared my same birth date and was certain it was sign from the fates that we were meant to be together.
At 21, Mick seemed so sophisticated and grown up. I couldn't believe a man with his own car and apartment would be interested in a dumb, high school kid like me, but he was. He showered all his attention on me, giving me the best shifts and feeding me dollops of ice-cream off the tip of his finger when no one was looking. I'd been devastated when he was fired a few months later, thinking I'd never see him again, but it didn't keep him from finding me.
"What are you doing here?" I remember asking with a blush when he showed up out front of Polk High School in his black Camaro. It was an older model and the engine needed tuning, but it was still the hottest car I'd ever seen in real life and he looked amazing in it with the top down and his arm draped casually over the passenger seat, inviting me to join him.
"What do mean? You're my girlfriend, aren't you? I came to pick you up." Mick flashed me a sexy grin, and I instantly turned to Jell-O. No guy had ever been interested in me, let alone asked me to be his girlfriend. I was always the shy girl with the pale, blonde hair that nobody ever noticed. I didn't play sports, I wasn't involved in any clubs, and I didn't have the best grades, or even the worst. I was completely average in every way and utterly forgettable. Nobody cared about me — not even my ow