Seducing the Neighbor

My telephone rang. “Cathy Dixon, Atlanta Models Direct,” I answered.

“Oh, hi,” said a female voice. “Jo Anson here, Elite Footwear.”

“Oh, Jo! How are things?”

“Just dandy, Cath. How about you?”

“Nothing to report — business is keeping up with demand, so I can’t complain!”

“Great. Hey, I was phoning to let you know our company has a summer getaway for staff, management and loyal customers and suppliers, and wondered whether you would like to come. Atlanta Models has been a good supplier for us, and we’ve never had trouble with your models. We’re pleased with the service you’ve given us for our fashion campaigns and so would like to invite you to our resort vacation weekend in South Miami Beach next weekend.”

“Wow, really? Well, that would be great! I can definitely get time off, since I haven’t used any vacation time yet.”

“Cathy! You’re the company owner! Surely there’s someone in the office who can hold the fort for a weekend.”

“Oh, sure. I can definitely find someone. Yeah, you’re right — I could use some time off, and it would be cool to come, since it at least looks business-oriented.”

“Honestly, Cath — you’re a workaholic. CHILL! Relax!”

“Yeah, Jo, you’re right.” I paused. “Well, I would be delighted to accept.”

“OK, thanks, Cathy. I really hope you can come to the resort in Miami. It looks fabulous. It’s four-star. We’ll send an invitation out to you today and you can RSVP.”

“That sounds great.”

“Oh, by the way — part of the festivities is an amateur fashion show — not about shoes — where guests can wear whatever they want — their best glam looks — to wow the audience, with the prize for the best model!”


“I was wondering if, say, three of your models could attend as judges.”

“Oh, great — well, sure, I can ask around.”

“You’re welcome to compete if you want.”

“Won’t that be a little unfair? I used to be a professional model, whereas everyone else will be an amateur.”

“No problem! You’re not the only model agency we use, although you’re the main one. There will be other ‘beautiful people’ at the event — several of whom have also done modeling in the past, so you won’t be the only one in that boat.”

“Oh, I see.”

“As long as no competitors are actually working as professional models right now. The professionals will be judges — three of yours, then three from another agency, and three from a third, so nine judges in total.”

“Oh, wow, that’s a lot.”

“You know, so there’s no bias.”

“Sure. Well, it sounds like fun. I would be delighted.”

“Awesome! If you can, get back to me on Monday with the names of your judges.”


“Thanks, Cathy! ‘Bye!”

“‘Bye.” I put the phone down. Only Cathy calls me on my landline. Everyone else uses my mobile. Still, that just showed how long Elite Footwear had been a customer for me.

I stood up from my desk at Atlanta Models. It was Friday and I was ready for the weekend. Some of my models came into my office — Amelia, Bonnie and Krystal. Amelia was thin, with a waif-like form, green eyes and long, blond hair. Bonnie was a brunette, taller than the other two, with medium build for a young woman, and with long, toned legs. Krystal was curvy, shorter, with larger breasts, wide hips and thicker thighs.

“Hi, Cathy,” said Krystal. “Heading off for the weekend?”

“Yeah,” I replied. “I can’t wait.”

“Same here,” said Amelia.

“What are you doing hanging around here on a Friday afternoon, anyway? Haven’t you got drug-fueled illegal raves and red-carpet champagne cocktail parties to go to, or something else modelesque?”

“HA!” blurted Bonnie. “We wish. No, we’re done with our shoots today and all just happened to show up back here around four or four thirty, so we’ve decided to hit a bar or two tonight, then head back to my place to watch a movie and sleep over, just for fun.”

“I see.” Then I told them all about the resort vacation weekend, the amateur fashion show and Jo Anson’s need for three models to be judges. “How about it? It’ll be more fun than just sleeping at each other’s houses.”

“Awesome!” cried Bonnie. “Let’s do it, ladies!” The other two instantly agreed.

“I knew you three would be up for anything,” I smiled. “Well, have a great time together tonight, ladies, and a great weekend, too.” I made my way across the office.

“You, too, Cathy!” yelled Amelia. “Come on, people, let’s go and have fun!”

All four of us walked out together and I saw them off, while locking up the office.

I stood there in front of my business premises, watching them walk off, presumably to grab a taxi to where they wanted to go. I sighed. Well, huh. Here begins another tedious weekend.

I walked to my car, got in and drove back home. Once inside my house in the ‘burbs, I flumped down on the sofa and looked at the four walls. Bummer.

The fact is, I loved my job running a modeling agency. I got to hang out with a gang of great women, I had some fantastic office staff, and even the cleaning lady was nice. I had built it from the ground up. I had heard horror stories of other models in the fashion industry, seeing as I used to be a model myself for a time. I didn’t want an exploitative atmosphere, so I figured that a female-run enterprise was best. I had struggled hard to create a family atmosphere and brought each new model I hired into an existing bevy of beauties that I had taught to look out for each other. There was usually competitiveness among models, especially as older ones aged and younger ones came in.

I had wanted to eliminate that by diversifying the range of modeling work I could offer and encouraging each model to maintain a separate portfolio of work. They were free to leave at any time. Although they had contracts, there wasn’t a set length of service. I worked hard to provide them with work almost daily, which is why they hung around the office so much. Sure, there might be more lucrative offers of work elsewhere, but those were less stable and few and far between, so I always hoped that the vibe I had created and the regular work schedule would make them stay, and so far I had succeeded.

However, there was a downside. It meant I was the boss. I had to forgo all the fun and games of being a model – the private parties, the nightclubs, the offers to spend afternoons on private yachts with swanky millionaires, the movie premieres where rich people hire my women just to have someone fabulous-looking on their arm in front of the cameras. I had had to give all that up.

I was now thirty-two, a little long in the tooth, and had to maintain the “manager” role with them. I couldn’t fraternize with them in their free time or else my carefully-managed system would break down. That left me as I was right this second, at a loose end come weekends, with no one to talk to and not much to do.

Initially, I had enjoyed the freedom of spending my time pottering around the house, going for coffees, exploring second-hand bookstores, visiting markets in ethnically diverse Atlanta, and spending as long as I liked getting up in the morning on my weekends; but, in truth, it was getting old. That’s why I jumped at the chance of a trip to a four-star resort in Miami when Jo phoned.

I got up from the sofa, went upstairs and took a shower. After changing, I made a start on dinner. That done, I watched TV for a couple of hours. Then I headed to bed for an early night with a good book.

Eventually, I put the book away. I thought about the three models and their night out. By now, Amelia, Bonnie and Krystal would be sleeping over at Bonnie’s house. Did they manage to succeed in seducing any guys? Did they bring anyone home? I don’t think so. If they were sleeping over, then no one woman could expect to chat up a guy and take him home for a night of passion because the other two women would be present. She would have to split off from the rest, which means their plans would be wrecked by the guy’s being around. Unless, of course, they all decided he was hot and they went to Bonnie’s house for a foursome. Hahaha! No way, I thought. No, more than likely they spent two or three hours at a bar or two, eyed up some guys, nothing happened, then did what they said they would — go home and hang out on the sofa with some snacks watching Netflix.

Then they would have headed upstairs to the master bedroom. Hmmm! I knew what would happen next. They would strip off, get into Bonnie’s bed, then lick and suck each other and get themselves off into a frenzy of ecstasy.

Bonnie was bisexual for sure, and didn’t hide it. She was constantly horny and desired all the other models. I knew she would ravish Krystal’s huge boobs and curvy frame. Amelia was more waif-like and skinny. She was probably the straightest of the three of them, but she was currently single — in fact, they all were, although they maintained a few, non-serious guy “friends” – but she was curious, and had acquiesced to a night of passion with the other models some time ago. She was “exploring her pleasure”, she had said to me once, when I had asked her about it delicately at work once. I expected that she would not stay like this — once she met a nice guy, she would probably forget all this stuff with Bonnie, but right now she would be going along with it to stay friends.

Krystal was different. She was straight, too, but she loved her body, her curves and big breasts. She wanted fun and pleasure and LOTS OF IT, and if Bonnie was offering, I knew she wouldn’t say no. Her appearance made men go gaga for her luscious bod and va-va-voom breasts and deep, plunging cleavage, yet most guys were intimidated, so Krystal would quickly get impatient and think, ‘stuff it’, and if Bonnie was horny, off they would go. Krystal was into dildos, vibrators, sex toys, you name it — anything to max up her pleasure. She was a lot of fun and a good person, but she owned herself — she loved her own body and WOW, did she know how to use it, milking as much pleasure out of it as she could find.

Just thinking about all this was turning me on. I consider myself straight, too, but as a former model myself, I can testify that hot babes spend more time in bed with each other than with the clueless, rich losers and nervous, dweeby “fans” that represent most of the men we meet on a day-to-day level. Spending all day looking hot and sexy and posing suggestively works up an appetite in a woman, then being unable to find anyone decent to let it out on at night leads most models to climb into bed with each other.

Most models are insecure — I’ve been told all my life how beautiful, sexy and hot I am, how amazing I look, how incredible it would be for guys to go to bed with me — but that leads most of the women in this industry to think their entire self-worth revolves around their appearance. Do I actually matter as a person, they think. Can I be accepted as I am? Will I still be valued when my looks are gone?

I had dealt with these questions in my own way, by setting up this values-driven agency as an alternative. It had helped a great deal. I now felt more confident in myself, like I was conquering the world on my own two feet as a businesswoman, something that didn’t rely on my beauty. However, sometimes I wondered whether I had simply outsourced the issue onto my models, so that they had it worse than a normal model agency.

It had been an eye-opening experience for me when I had first discovered the extent of sexual activity going on between my models. At first I had dismissed it, figuring I had seen it all before. I myself had done this, spending nights in the throes of passion enjoying the fabulous bodies of other models.

Wow, it felt amazing. All that gorgeous female flesh, the perfect eyes, the exquisite lips, the young, pert breasts, incredible legs and shaven pussies — it made me wonder why women even bother with men. Why wasn’t every woman, or at least, every model, a lesbian? Just give up on guys and enjoy all that silken, perfect flesh for ourselves. BECAUSE IT DIDN’T WORK, that’s why. We were not really lesbians, most of us — of course, a few are, and for bi women like Bonnie, life was easier at the office. She didn’t need to make too much of this.

However, for most models, heart-pounding orgasms and beautiful bodies writhing in ecstasy on silken Pratesi sheets in five-star hotels didn’t make up for the nagging sense that we were just reinforcing that our beauty was all that mattered. Sex between beautiful people didn’t make up for self-worth outside beauty. A man wasn’t necessary for that self-worth to exist, but self-belief was, and precious few models could find it in such a shallow, image-driven industry as fashion. Still, I felt that my models were indulging in bedroom antics a lot more than the average, and that was probably a side-effect of my all-female workplace, which just revved up every model’s sex drive higher.

I was horny now. Flinging the quilt off me, I gazed down at my naked body. Not bad for a 32-year-old woman. I had long, blond hair, that hung down to the tops of my breasts when I was standing, although right now, my hair was strewn all over the pillow. I was wearing no make-up on my face to adorn my slightly feline eyes, retrousse nose and soft lips. I had a slender to medium build, with still ripe-looking, pert 34D breasts. They still had good shape, although they were starting to move sideways. I predicted that once I hit 40, they would eventually start hiding under my arms.

Not yet, though, plus my nipples still pointed slightly towards my face, so they should be OK for a while. I had a slim, firm stomach and abdomen, leading down to toned, smooth, long, elegant legs. My pussy was shaven (I hate pubic hair) and my labia protruded slightly, leading up to a large pearl clit. Not that I could see it from this angle. I also had a round, pleasing butt, but I couldn’t see that either. Smooth, hairless arms led to long, elegant hands with dainty fingers. I writhed my body in response to the sexy thoughts I had had, and those fingers made their way to the raw, neglected pearl between my legs.

I began slowly, making long, oval shapes encompassing my whole vulva, using two fingers to spread the labia apart, enter my vagina slightly, then work my way down to the fourchette, then back up along the exposed vestibule to the sensitive frenulum. After teasing that, I then began the journey, making small circles around my clitoris. I pressed against the hood, my pearl swelling with need, then increased speed. Slowly, I began to climb the spiral of pleasure, not too fast because I wanted it to last, yet enough to maintain momentum. Too fast meant a big explosion that lasted literally three to five seconds max. I wanted something more luxurious – to make love to myself on my own in my house.

As I increased speed and pressure, I finally reached the rhythm I needed. It was different from the day before yesterday, but I found it. Time seemed to stretch out to infinity as my breathing deepened, my back arched and an intense and growing knot of pleasure began to rise in my loins and spread throughout my genitals.

I thrust my hips gently, then faster and faster, finally bucking wildly as I took my pleasure. I felt the wave rising up my spine, my senses alert, my muscles tensed, my mouth open to moan out my pleasure. It built and built, until finally, I surrendered to it. I felt the waves reach a crescendo — there was a plateau, that seemed to lengthen on and on, then suddenly, there it was — a huge wave of pleasure crashed into my consciousness, my body undulating to ride the orgasm, as wave after wave rolled up my spine and through my body. As I came down, I smiled. I pulled over the quilt again, closed my eyes and slept.