The Cock Star & The Cuckquean Ch. 02

NOTE: For those of you joining us right now, this story will make infinitely more sense if you take the trouble of reading the first chapter. If you haven't the patience to go back, this story focuses upon the private life of a public couple. As the most accomplished porn star of modern times, Samson lives out popular male sex fantasies on a daily basis. Yet his heart still belongs to Sandra Kong, his business manager, high school sweetheart and shameless cuckquean.

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APRIL 21, 2017: MEDITERRANEAN SEA

"No darling," Samson murmured. "I have to sleep..."

A heated kiss silenced his dissent, and for a lengthy interval only the faint sound of lapping waves floating in through the open portholes broke the silence. Then sighing, he gently rolled away from the nude temptress. Moving out of her reach, Samson dropped back into a sleepy sprawl amid the tangle of bed-sheets, his broad, bronzed torso dark against the white satin.

"I have to do four prime time interviews tomorrow," he explained, gazing up at the siren kneeling by his side. "Be reasonable."

"You're just doing them over a webcam," she countered, her voice slightly piqued, her tumbled golden hair framing a pouty face. "You could do them from this bed if you wanted."

"This isn't John and Yoko at the Amsterdam Hilton. My publicist told me to prepare for a 'charm offensive.' I'm good with the 'offensive' part but my charm needs work," he smiled, stretching out his large frame with a yawn, the fluid ripple of muscle vivid in the gilded light of moonbeams. "Being interrogated all day will be very tiring."

"I won't need long."

Samson smiled broadly. "I know you won't. You proved that the last time you woke me tonight. But, Anaïs, it's getting late... even for me."

At that precise moment, however, Olivia's warm mouth began tracing a slow gliding path over the sculpted contour of his left quadricep, continuing along the inside of his thigh with the destination of that journey rising into the damp air like a mythological tower.

Noting his instant response, Anaïs triumphantly smirked.

A wet tongue languidly traced the thick dorsal vein of his stallion-sized erection, and he softly groaned as exquisite pleasure inundated his senses. Glancing down at the dark-haired vixen resting between his legs, then up at the clock on the teak-paneled wall, he silently debated carnal urgency against the practicalities of time.

"Just one more time, baby," Anaïs softly purred, her eyes half-lidded, anticipation stirring her blood, her gaze on his towering erection as Olivia nibbled upon his fist-sized glans.

A third woman rolled closer on the large bed, her plump breasts swelling against Samson's shoulder. Lola was small and lithe, and when she raised herself slightly to touch her lips to his ear, the silken heat of her body slid up his arm. Her voice was no more than a seductive resonance in his ear, a faint hoarse echo of the shriek that rang out earlier in the night. "You'll do it again because you're the biggest and the best."

Lust-charged adrenaline flared through Samson's body. Lola sensed his insatiability and the pride that fueled it. No woman in his bed could remain there un-fucked. The raven-haired Adonis rose to his knees. His shadowed eyes swept the lush trio, their scented flesh fragrant in his nostrils, their naked charms incarnate womanhood.

Samson faced the press more than once without sleep. The world had not ended as far as he could tell. The celebrity stud decided the viewing public would just have to be content with a less energetic guest...three hours from now.

Shutting his eyes, Samson shifted slightly to absorb the fierce jolt of pleasure convulsing his body. His concerns about the interviews vanished from his mind.

Even the sound of waves faded from his ears, until sometime later when Olivia lifted her head.

Samson opened his eyes, surveyed his lovely companions, and said with a grin "Now, then, darlings... who's going to be first?"

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"YES! YES! OH, GOD! YES, SAMSON! I'M COMING AGAIN!" she yelled, stating the obvious. Who could blame her? The cocksman had been working over the sweet lass for almost an hour. Anaïs felt like she would pass out. Her lover, on the other hand, barely broke a sweat. It was not uncommon for Samson to find himself in bed with three women. In fact, the bed and could and did accommodate several more.

Samson possessed a master bedroom in every sense of the word. Though he had more elaborate sleeping quarters in some of his other homes, his yacht afforded the luxuries he had grown accustomed to in recent years. Along with panoramic views of the surrounding sea, the bedroom had two separate bathrooms - the larger one with a Jacuzzi for six. A third door led inside a walk-in closet that outsized a studio apartment in Manhattan. Besides Samson's designer wardrobe, the racks and drawers were mostly stocked with lingerie, all carefully marked and labeled by cup and waist size. The closet was better organized than a Victoria's Secret outlet. In fact, Samson gave a buyer-to-the-stars an annual $500K budget to purchase bras, panties, corsets, stockings and other undergarments for his various homes around the world. Accordingly, unexpected guests never found themselves without proper attire for the boudoir.

The bed itself was not the largest he owned but quite spacious. The Ultra King Size measured 12 by 14 feet, more than enough room for an intimate orgy. The bed was secreted in a large alcove with a satin curtain for privacy. However, the curtains had been left open to watch the 96" inch plasma screen television on the other side of the room. There was a satellite dish on the roof of the yacht so Samson could flip through thousands of channels around the world.

Lola flipped from channel to channel. Most of the time, she saw the same image over and over again. A steel cable dangled from a helicopter. A musclebound silhouette slowly climbed it hand-over-hand. Mighty gusts of wind blew the dangling daredevil to and fro. Samson literally twisted in the wind. More remarkably, he carried a female - the one he was fucking at that very moment - in the scissor grip of his mighty legs. The clip had gone beyond viral. It was the first video to get one billion views in 24 hours. And the story behind the image was just as compelling.

The newscasters all began with the same general account. A famous rock star by the name of Samson had been vacationing in Ibiza. He had come with his entourage to enjoy the beach. Shortly after his arrival, he invited a party of young women to join him for drinks underneath the shade of his canopy. About half and hour later, the curtains of the canopy were drawn to give the group a little privacy from curious onlookers.

At this point, the story became a little vague for two reasons. First of all, the canopy concealed whatever transpired within. Secondly, the hidden activities likely involved explicit sexual matters that were not suitable for a family newscast.

At first, disclaimers were run about "mature content." However, they stopped after a few hours. Everyone from 12 to 112 knew what happened. An intoxicated celebrity had public sex on a crowded beach.

When a curious mob gathered to investigate the loud sexual noises from within, the party decided to leave but with a less than discreet exit. A helicopter was summoned to evacuate them. Two minutes later, it swooped in from the heavens. Hovering over the beach, it lowered a "rescue basket" to the sand, the kind normally reserved for missions by the coast guard. Operated by a motorized pulley, the basket only held one passenger so it required multiple trips to airlift Samson and his harem to safety.

Though the helicopter made a lot of noise, the operation proceeded smoothly. Samson's fleet of bodyguards maintained an impenetrable cordon around the canopy and kept the seaside crowd at bay. The fifth (and last) female had just been raised off the ground when the motor for the pulley sputtered out. The basket and its female cargo dangled in mid-air. Though it hung only a couple feet off the ground, the situation was volatile. With a dense mob of fans, gawkers, and paparazzi as far as the eye could see, there was no possibility of escape by foot. The only exit was up.

That's when Samson sprung into action. He grabbed hold of the basket and hoisted himself off the ground. Samson then climbed into the basket before shimmying up the broken pulley a couple feet. Samson yelled something at the lady in the basket. She gave him the high sign. On the first attempt, Samson successfully grabbed her waist between his legs like a pair of pincers. He locked his ankles behind her back and lifted her out of the basket.

And then came the hard part. Samson had to climb a 70-foot cable while clutching 120 pounds of dead weight between his thighs. Though he no longer partook in competitions, the champion bodybuilder remained in top condition. The entire climb took about three minutes to execute and was captured on dozens of smartphones. However, one particular clip seemed to get the most airplay.

With minimal camera shake, the camera follows Samson's ascent. He is naked save for a zebra-skin speedo. Every muscle of his body is tensed with anatomical precision. He looks more like a superhero than a real person. His waist-length hair fans out suddenly. The cable twists in a gust of wind. He swings to and fro but miraculously holds on. With cinematography almost too good to be un-staged, the camera zooms in on his face, his expression the very portrait of resolution and courage.

Thankfully, what the clip did not show was Anaïs. Her wig and sunglasses concealed her face rather nicely and she wore a revealing but not uncommon black bikini. Further, the girl wisely stayed in the canopy during most of the ordeal so there was no footage of her on the ground. Up in the air, she remained a squirming blur even in HD video.

"How does it feel to be the best known unknown woman in the world?" asked Samson. Anaïs was still winded from her orgasm but capable of speech.

"I just think about the here and now and it's great."

"What about your voicemail? Did you check in the last few hours?"

"Nothing. A few girlfriends asked if I saw that crazy stunt in Ibiza. They knew I was planning to go on vacation there."

There was a knock on the door. Samson checked his Rolex: 9:00am. Interview time. He quickly donned a robe. The garment covered up most of his hickeys but his hair was a mess. His waist-length mane was matted with sweat and had become a knotted mop of hopeless tangles. His stylist would go ballistic when she saw him on TV.

The knocking grew louder and more persistent.

"Come in," answered Samson. "It's nothing you haven't seen before."

Ava entered. She was Samson's part-time lover and full-time valet. For once, the sultry Eurobabe was dressed in more than lingerie. She wore an Armani stretch blazer, charcoal grey blouse, and pencil skirt that almost reached her knees. She looked like a businesswoman. Or what a businesswoman would look like in a porn film.

"Outside," she ordered.

"OK."

Samson climbed out of bed to speak with her privately in the hallway.

"We cancelled your interviews."

"Why?"

"Your attorney advises against speaking to the press."

"Which attorney? I have a dozen."

"Your criminal attorney."

"Criminal. Why?"

"The Spanish government is upset about yesterday. The charges could include public indecency, reckless endangerment, narcotics possession, et cetera."

"What narcotics? A little weed?"

"The politicians are spoiling for a fight. They want to make you out to be the ugly American. The right can say you represent moral decay. The left can say you represent capitalist decadence. It's a political winner for everyone involved."

"What should I do?"

"Lay low. The setup is perfect. Stay on the yacht. You're in international waters. If you had gone back to the U.S., they could try to extradite you."

"Thank God we put a helipad on the yacht. It made perfect sense to fly here from the beach."

Whenever possible, Samson kept his yacht within 100 miles or less from his current location. Thankfully, Interpol had not tracked the helicopter after it airlifted his party off the beach. And once they flew outside Spanish airspace, even NATO would not have been able to find them. The yacht was a mere speck in the vast waters of the Mediterranean Sea. Finding him would take the same concentrated effort that governments reserved for recovering wreckage of missing airplanes from Singapore. The celebrity might have had a few million Twitter followers but he did not quite rate a multinational search effort.

Samson took a deep breath and counted to ten. He had needed almost an entire day to absorb the implications of his latest predicament. It appeared crazy even by his standards. He wondered what his girlfriends back home were saying...

"Did you charge my phones?"

"No. Don't even think of calling anyone. Your management agrees. They are contacting your inner circle to let them know you're doing fine. But, remember, you need to remain incommunicado for the moment."

"In-com-mun-i-what? I thought I was the native English speaker here."

"In other words, don't talk to anyone for now. Everything goes through me or Sandra."

Sandra Kong was Samson's former girlfriend and current business manager. They had history. She was also Ava's best friend. They also had history.

"How is Sandra?"

"She is pissed. Let her cool off for a day or two before you speak to her. I've got to get back on the phone with your lawyer. I'll have more news later."

"Did you talk to Celine?"

Celine was Anaïs' BFF. She was one of the girls from the beach fiasco that ended up on Samson's yacht. Though Anaïs was the main course, the playboy didn't mind enjoying a couple side dishes in bed. Olivia and Lola were DTF. Celine, on the other hand, slept in another bedroom last night."

"Yeah, I talked to her," replied Ava hesitantly with a naughty smile.

"How is she?"

"She's a lesbian."

"Tell me all about that."

With brazen familiarity, Samson slid his hand up her skirt and palmed her crotch. Ava dressed business formal but had not worn panties. She was moist. The playboy deftly stroked her clit with his index finger.

"I have work to do, Samson."

"Then come stay with me tonight."

"I should look after Celine."

"Then bring her too."

"You are just too much."

"And you love it."

Ava did not answer him. Her posture relaxed. Her mouth softened. Her breathing slowed but became deeper. Samson gently backed her into the wall. His giant erection sprung out of the front of his robe. One hand unzipped the back of her skirt as the other unbuttoned her blouse. His robe pooled at his feet. They were naked in less than twenty seconds.

Ava always felt giddy around Samson. There was an erotic volatility whenever the masculine icon entered the room. His valet sensed that he might try to ravish her at any moment and she would let him. It was like living inside a porn film. A few minutes of unnecessary dialogue...and BOOM! Sex inevitably ensued.

Ava could not help but admire his virility. After his dramatic getaway from Ibiza, the swashbuckling superstud had bedded three hot-blooded females and made love to them long into the night. The screams and moans resumed at 6am. It was only 9 o'clock and she would be his fourth conquest of the day. Most international fugitives would have had more on their mind than sex but Samson was Samson.

His ring finger skimmed her vaginal folds. His forefinger massaged her clit. She felt a pop as his middle finger penetrated her interiors. It was just as big the rest of him. Samson was playing her like a virtuoso. Ava had been getting moist from the moment she saw him.

His body enveloped her. At 6'6", Samson towered over his valet by nearly a foot. He was a human wall of cock and muscle. She felt his hands wrap behind her waist and her feet leave the ground. Samson had lifted her into the air and that only meant one thing. He was going to fuck her standing missionary.

Standing mish was a challenging sex position even for porn stars. Only a few other guys ever attempted the feat with Ava and they couldn't sustain it for more than a minute or two. A lover needed a lot of upper-body strength to hoist a woman up and down in mid-air while fucking her. Further, since his hands were occupied with lifting the girl, a guy had to penetrate her without any manual guidance. Establishing a coital linkage could be awkward and tenuous. And if his dick slipped out of her pussy, he would have to start all over again.

Samson's maneuvered her fluidly and fluently. He lifted Ava well over a foot in the air, positioned her pussy directly over the flaring tip of his cockhelm, and gently lowered her bottom a slow inch at a time onto his thick shaft. His manner was gentle but absolutely dominant. Even more impressively, Samson performed the act freestyle. He did not need to brace her back against the wall for leverage. Instead, the bodybuilder mounted her upon his tool with the casual ease with which one might handle an inflatable doll.

Ava wrapped her legs about his back. His hands went beneath her bottom cheeks to steady her, not to support her slight weight, for that rested entirely upon his pulsing, massive erection. He slowly walked down the hall toward her bedroom with his female burden.

"Not my bed," she warned him. "Celine is in there."

Samson turned the other way, walked past his own bedroom and into the bright sunlight of the middle deck that ran along the side of the ship. Each step slid his shaft forward than backward inside her cleft as he strolled toward the prow. Ava's nails dug into his shoulders. A scream gathered into her throat.

Samson ascended the outside stairs that led to the upper deck. The air was mild. The sun was overhead. The sea was calm. He walked toward the bow. His expression became serene. Facing the horizon, he slowly raised her body upward to pull ten inches of thick cock out of the strumpet's pussy and then slid his slathered, glistening shaft all the way back into her steaming, gushing depths. And Samson did that again and again and again with steady, methodical strokes.

At first, Ava held on tight, her fingers clasping the nape of his neck, in case he might lose his balance and drop her. But Samson's arms did not waver when she loosened her grip and forced him to bear her entire weight. By then, his Herculean physique glistened under a light sheen of sweat, biceps bulging to within a fingerbreadth of his wrist at the peak of each lift. Yet he maintained perfect composure, his movements executed with a practiced familiarity and grace more akin to a ballet dancer than a rutting animal. Samson looked beautiful when he fucked. Nature had built that magnificent body for one thing and he did it better than anyone.

"I'M COMING ALREADY!" she cried out, her body shaking fiercely as Samson plunged his cock into her molten core. According to a recent study Samson read, a woman needed about 14 minutes to have an orgasm. With him, she usually took about 30 seconds. Ava needed 5."I want y-y-y-you" she stuttered, her voice and mannerisms becoming animated with pleasure.

Samson turned away from the horizon to face the ship. They had an audience. The captain watched them from the wheelhouse. While Samson cavorted with his women, a skeleton crew of sailors kept the yacht afloat. Like his bodyguards, Sandra hired the seamen because they were gay and completely uninterested in his escapades. They had not said a word to Samson since he boarded the yacht.

On the other hand, Olivia, Lola, and Anaïs were riveted. The girls actually pulled up chairs to the bedroom window to watch the live sex show on deck. Lola fired up a big spliff. Samson kept a large bowl of pre-rolled joints in a bowl by the bed. He bought a coveted strain of sativa called "Green Venus" that sold for $1000 an ounce due to its reputation as a potent aphrodisiac. Samson could attest that reputation was richly deserved.