Rhiannon comes to my rescue

I’m sure you can see the steam coming out my ears as I walk out of the sorority house muttering under my breath. Then the phone rings. Marvin Gaye tells me it’s the business line. I look and see it’s Rhiannon. Oh, good. Maybe she wants something right now and I can go fuck her brains out for a while. “Hi, Rhiannon, this is Andrew,” I say. “What’s up?”

“Hi, Andrew,” she responds. She sounds a little unsure of herself, which is unusual. “Is there any chance you’re available right now?”

Yes! I pump my fist. “I’d love it,” I tell her gladly. “Where are you?”

*******

Rhiannon sends me someplace I’ve never been before—one of these businesses that lets you rent office space; it’s mostly shared space but there are separate rooms as well. She’s evasive about why she wants me to meet her here. Something odd is going on, but I trust her. I walk into the building, find the right office, and open the door.

I immediately see a familiar face—but not hers. Looking at me curiously (and eagerly?) is a face I’ve seen in a few ad campaigns, a young model whose career seems to be rapidly taking off. I don’t know her name because I don’t pay attention to the fashion world, but I only had to see her picture once for it to stick in my mind. She’s even more beautiful in person, the thought runs through my mind, as my jaw drops.

At the look on my face, she giggles, like silver bells. An equally musical peal of laughter rings out from my right, snapping me out of my stasis. I turn my head to see Rhiannon sitting there covering her mouth, eyes dancing. When she can calm herself down enough, she says, “Sorry, Andrew, I should have thought of that. This is my cousin Corette Lynn. Corette, this is my cunnilinguist, Andrew Lane.”

I blush furiously to the roots of my hair. “Rhiannon, you can’t just say things like that!” I protest.

“Why not?” she returns merrily. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

“Is it?” I ask, suddenly feeling unsure of myself. “With an audience?”

Rhiannon sobers up. “Andrew, you know I want to be a photographer,” she says quietly. I nod. We’ve talked about this. “Corette wants to help me with my portfolio. Having a supermodel for my subject—”

“I’m not a supermodel, Rhiannon,” Corette interjects. Her voice is lower than I would have expected from her laughter, a sultry, melodious alto.

“You will be,” Rhiannon retorts, “and soon. And in any case, it’s not that you’re famous, it’s that you’re a great subject. If no one had heard of you, the only difference is that this would get us both hired, not just me.” I look at Corette to see her grinning fondly, then back at Rhiannon. “But I’m fighting a case of nerves; I have so much riding on this . . . I need something to calm me down and put me in a good mood. The best possible thing is for you to eat my pussy. So I called you, and here you are.” She flips up her skirt to reveal her bare mound and sweet pink slash. “Come and feast,” she purrs.