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  FLESH for FANTASY

  Books by Joan Elizabeth Lloyd

  THE PRICE OF PLEASURE

  NEVER ENOUGH

  CLUB FANTASY

  NIGHT AFTER NIGHT

  THE SECRET LIVES OF HOUSEWIVES

  NAUGHTIER BEDTIME STORIES

  HOT SUMMER NIGHTS

  MADE FOR SEX

  THE MADAM OF MAPLE COURT

  TAKE ME TO BED

  TEMPTING TAYLOR

  FLESH FOR FANTASY

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  FLESH for FANTASY

  JOAN ELIZABETH LLOYD

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  CONTENTS

  SLOW DANCING

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  MIDNIGHT BUTTERFLY

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Dear Reader

  SLOW DANCING

  Chapter

  1

  “Maggie mine,” Paul Crowley’s voice echoed through the phone, “please marry me.”

  Maggie Sullivan’s laughter warmed the miles of wire between them. “Paul, you’re so sweet and you know I love you, but be real.” She spread her voluminous purple silk robe out on the wide satin-covered bed and pressed the phone against her ear.

  “I am being real. Marry me. Or, if not, let’s run away together. We’ll find an island with no one there but the two of us. We’ll live on fish and mangos.”

  Maggie pictured Paul’s deep brown hair and could almost feel its softness. He was in his midthirties and had a body that told everyone he worked out and prided himself on his physique. “Lord, after a bad day that’s such a tempting offer.” Maggie tangled her fingers in her black curls. As she twirled one strand around her index finger, she remembered when her hair had been that color without the help of her stylist. “But sweet, you’re who you are and I’m what I am.”

  “That doesn’t matter, Maggie mine. Let’s forget all that and do what makes us happy for a change.”

  “Paul, we’ve been over and over this. I’m a prostitute. A hooker. Very high priced,” she added, tucking the phone between her ear and her shoulder and leaning back against her collection of primary-colored pillows. She flipped one Mondrian-print curtain from in front of the air conditioner with her toe so the fan blew more cold air in her direction. “But still a hooker. And you’re a banker. Very straight.”

  “I don’t care. I just want you.” She heard his sigh.

  “And what about our ages. I’ll begin to collect Social Security just about the time you reach forty.”

  “Sweet thing,” he moaned. “We were just born at the wrong time. Anyway, what difference do a few years make?”

  “What are you wearing, Paul?” Maggie purred, stretching her long, shapely legs and crossing her ankles. She spread the sides of the robe and looked at her body beneath it. Still slender, with muscular thighs from working out daily, and full breasts that sagged only a bit.

  “What difference does that make?”

  “I just opened my robe and underneath it I’m wearing a lilac teddy. It’s a smooth satiny material and I’m running my palms up and down my side right now.” Maggie’s hands were, indeed, rubbing the slick material.

  “Oh, sweet thing,” Paul groaned.

  “I had my nails done today, you know,” Maggie said, gazing at her hands. “They’re extra long and bright red now. The color’s from a series called Romance. This shade is called Slow Dancing. Like we do when we’re together. That’s why I chose it. Now I’m running my nails over the front of my thigh. It feels really good.”

  Maggie could hear Paul drag air into his lungs. “The inside of my thigh is so soft, but I’m making bright red marks with my nails.” She smiled. “Talking like this always makes me hot. I wish you were here.” Paul was on a business trip and was calling Maggie in New York from his hotel room in Denver.

  “I do too. But…”

  “What are you wearing?”

  “Jeans and a blue shirt.”

  “Take them off, baby. Please.” She could hear his resigned sigh. Again she had deflected the conversation. Maggie could hear the rustling of Paul moving around his room.

  “I’m pulling off my jeans and shirt even as we speak. You always do this. I propose and you reject me in the nicest way possible.” There was a pause, then Paul said, “Now I’m only wearing my shorts.”

  “What color are they? I want to be able to picture you.”

  “Black. With a white waistband.” Paul’s voice was ragged.

  “Is your cock big and hard?”

  “Oh, Maggie,” Paul groaned. “Why do you do this to me?”

  Her smile broadened. “Because I love to make you hot. It’s one of the things I do best and enjoy most. Now tell me. Is it hard?”

  “Yes, he groaned.

  “Do you want to touch it while we talk?”

  Silence.

  “Tell me, Paul. Do you want to touch it? Tell Maggie.”

  “Yes,” he whispered.

  “Wrap your fingers around it and I’ll slip my fingers under the crotch of this teddy and rub all those spots you know I love. Come on, baby, do it for me.” After a moment she continued, “Are you touching your cock through your tight black shorts? Does it feel good? Sort of muffled through the fabric?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sliding my fingers over my slit. I’m very wet.” Her fingertips danced over her skin as she pulled the thin strip of fabric aside and explored her wetness. “Ummm,” she purred, “it feels so good. And I love knowing that you’re touching yourself, too.” She stroked her clit with her index finger, listening to Paul’s heavy breaths. “Yes, baby. Do it to your hard prick while I rub myself.” There was a long silence during which the only sound was rapid breathing. “Do you know what I’m going to do?” Maggie asked, opening the drawer of her bedside table.

  “What?” His voice was raspy and hoarse.

  “I’m getting that big dildo, you know the one, the really big one that fills my pussy almost as well as your cock does.” She pulled a large, flesh-colored penis from the drawer. “I’m going to rub it over my pussy while you slide your hand under the cotton of your shorts and hold your naked cock in your hand.” She rubbed the artificial cock over her wet skin. “Ooh, that’s cold. I’m going to push it inside. Hold your beautiful prick while I fill myself. We can pretend that you’re here beside me.”

  Maggie heard Paul moan softly and she pushed the dildo into her cunt. “So full,” she whispered. “So full of your hard shaft.” She rubbed her clit faster as she moved the dildo inside her body. “I’m so close. Are you close, too?”

  “Yes. Oh, yes, sweet thing.”

  “I’m going to come soon,” she purred. “Come with me. Soon. Soon.” She felt her climax building, flowing up through her, curling her toes and arching her back. “Yes,” she cried as the heat flooded her body. “Yes.” She could feel the clutching movements of her muscles against the artificial phallus as waves of pleasure engulfed her. “Yes.”

  “Yes,” Paul called. “Right now.”

  For a while the only sound through the phone lines was panting and a few low moans. Then Maggie slowly withdrew the dildo from
her body, reveling in the soft relaxation that always followed a good, hard climax. “That was so good,” she said, her heartbeat slowing. “Not as good as having you here, of course.”

  “Oh, shit, sweet thing. I got goo all over the bedspread.”

  Maggie giggled. “It probably isn’t the first time. It will wash. Just leave the chambermaid an extra-big tip.”

  “It never ceases to amaze me how easily you do that to me.”

  “That’s what I’m good for. I love giving you pleasure, but,” she said, not allowing him to interrupt, “that’s not what you build a marriage on. Good sex is wonderful, but it’s not enough.”

  “Oh, Maggie mine, it’s not just good sex. We have great times together.”

  “I’ve got to go now, Paul. Call me when you get back.”

  “I will. Good night, and please think about marrying me.”

  “Good night, Paul.” Maggie placed the receiver on its cradle and sighed. Maybe if I’d found someone like Paul twenty years ago, she thought, but things are as things are. She rubbed the heel of her hand up and down her breastbone trying to ease the sudden feeling of pressure. But I’m truly happy, she thought. I have regrets as everyone who is human does, but I enjoy making love and I’m well paid for it. And why not?

  Maggie took a hot shower then climbed into her wide bed, already wondering what Carl would enjoy the following evening. Carl had the most creative mind. Maybe she’d use the handcuffs and spreader bar. She fell asleep, unconsciously rubbing her breastbone.

  Maggie was totally confused. She was standing in a large room, now wearing a soft, flowing white garment. “What the hell…”

  “Not exactly,” a voice said through the heavy white mist that covered the ground and swirled about her waist as Maggie took a step forward.

  “What’s all this?” Maggie asked, her arched eyebrows almost meeting the middle. This is a very strange dream, she thought.

  “You like the mist?” the woman’s voice continued. “We had it added a few months ago. Gives the place a bit of atmosphere, don’t you think?”

  Unable to make out the speaker, Maggie took another couple of steps forward. “Real nice,” she said dryly. This is the most bizarre dream I’ve had in a long time, she thought.

  “It’s not a dream, Margaret Mary.”

  “Lord, I haven’t been called Margaret Mary since grammar school.”

  “That’s right. Forgive me,” the voice said, sounding genuinely sorry. “Maggie. Right?”

  “Yes. Maggie. I hate to ask the obvious, but where am I?”

  “That’s a bit hard to explain,” the voice continued. It was soft, melodious, and somehow soothing.

  Maggie thought she should be afraid, but somehow she wasn’t. Maybe she should be angry at whoever was playing a joke on her. But instinctively she knew it was no trick. A dream, she told herself again. This is all just a dream.

  “No,” another, sharper, voice said. “It’s not a dream. We’re quite real. Well, not real exactly.”

  “Lucy,” the soft voice said, “let me do this. You’ll just confuse Margaret Mary unnecessarily. Sorry. I mean Maggie.”

  “According to the record, she’s Margaret Mary Sullivan. We should call her by her true name.”

  “Don’t pout, dear,” the soft voice said. “Let’s just get this done, shall we?”

  “You know I hate it when you take over,” Lucy said.

  “I know you do, but when you do the introductions, you tend to get pushy and scare people to death, so to speak.”

  Maggie took another few steps and was finally able to make out the shapes of two women seated at a long table. “Maggie, my dear,” the soft voice said, “do sit down.”

  The speaker was a blonde, with shoulder-length hair that waved softly around her ears. She was extremely attractive with a perfect, heart-shaped face, tiny, sloping nose, and beautiful lips. Her most arresting feature was her eyes, sky blue and fathomless, making Maggie suddenly picture calm seas or featureless blue skies. Those eyes should look cold and distant, Maggie thought, but they gazed almost lovingly at Maggie and made her feel warm, somehow. The woman motioned Maggie to a folding chair at the table, her long graceful fingers almost hidden beneath the sleeve of the diaphanous white gown she wore.

  “Yes, yes, sit. Please.” The harsher voice came from a dark-haired, dark-eyed woman, dressed in a tight black scoop-necked top that showed off her deep cleavage to its greatest advantage. She wore heavy makeup that accentuated the slight catlike tilt to her deep-set eyes. Her eyes, like her tablemate’s, were her most amazing feature, so dark brown they were almost black, with long curling lashes and magnificently arched black brows. As Maggie looked into this dark woman’s eyes, she fleetingly pictured a deep, bottomless well. “I’m Lucy,” the dark woman said.

  “She already knows that,” the woman in white said gently but firmly to her neighbor. Then she turned to Maggie. “And I’m Angela.”

  Maggie took a seat at the table, and crossed her legs in a businesslike fashion. “How do you do. Now, if it’s not too much trouble, would one of you two ladies tell me what this is all about?”

  “Yes, yes,” the one called Lucy said. “You see, you’ve presented us with a considerable problem.”

  “I’m afraid Lucy’s right,” Angela said. “A considerable problem.” She checked the computer monitor at her elbow, pressed a few keys and continued. “Most people are easy. One or two keystrokes, a peek at their history and the decision’s made. Actually, we’re going to introduce a system whereby the computer actually makes most of the decisions. Very straightforward. Usually.”

  Maggie looked at the two women, so different, yet unconsciously mimicking each other’s motions. Patience, she told herself. I will understand this eventually.

  “You, on the other hand,” Lucy said, clicking a few keys on her own console, “are a real dilemma.”

  “I’m really sorry about that,” Maggie said, having no idea what was going on but willing herself to play along with this dream or hallucination or whatever it was.

  “No, dear,” Angela said, “it’s not a hallucination either.”

  “No, no, of course not.” Lucy turned to Angela. “I told you that the mist might be misunderstood. But no, you had to add it. ‘Gives the place an ethereal air,’ you said.” Lucy grumbled, “Now you see? It just adds to the natural confusion.”

  “It might help if you’d begin,” Maggie said, “by telling me where we are. That might end some of the confusion.”

  “That’s a bit hard to explain right off,” Angela said.

  “Well, why don’t you try,” Maggie snapped, beginning to get a bit impatient despite all her best efforts.

  “You won’t believe it,” Angela continued, shaking her head.

  “Just get on with it, Angela,” Lucy snapped. “Oh, never mind. Look, honey,” she said, staring at Maggie, “you’re dead.”

  “I’m what?” Maggie shrieked, jumping up from her seat.

  “Lucy, don’t do that,” Angela said. “It just scares people unnecessarily. You have to break these things to them gently. How many times have I told you?”

  “If you had it your way,” Lucy said, “we’d be here for hours, breaking the news so gently that I’d starve.”

  “Ladies!” Maggie yelled. “Could you please stop arguing and just tell me what’s going on.”

  “Of course, dear,” Angela said. “Now sit back down and try to open your mind to new experiences.”

  Maggie dropped into the chair, her wobbly legs suddenly unable to hold her weight.

  “Actually,” Angela said, “although she said it crudely, Lucy is right. You are dead. You died quietly in your sleep of a massive heart attack.”

  Maggie tried to grasp what she was being told. “I did what?”

  “It’s always hardest to understand,” Angela continued, “when you’ve had no warning. The chronically ill. They understand. They’ve been expecting it. But you. You appeared to be in perfect health.”


  “But your coronary arteries,” Lucy said. “Shot. Too many french fries and rare steaks.” She gazed at the ceiling. “Actually, right now, a thick sirloin with a baked stuffed potato….”

  “Dead?” Maggie whispered, unable to make any louder sound come out of her mouth. “I’m dead? Really, truly forever dead?”

  “I’m afraid so, dear,” Angela said. “Remember that pain right here?” She pointed to her breastbone. “Just before you went to bed that night?”

  Numbly, Maggie nodded.

  “Well,” Lucy said, then snapped her fingers loudly. “That was the beginning of the end.”

  “But,” Angela said, “being dead is not bad. Really.”

  “Dead,” Maggie muttered. “And what is this place?”

  “We call it the computer room. It’s kind of a decision station,” Angela said. “You know, up or down.” She motioned with her thumb.

  “You mean heaven, hell, that sort of thing?”

  “Exactly,” Lucy said.

  “I’m finding all this a bit hard to believe,” Maggie said.

  “I can understand that,” Angela said. “But I think we can convince you.” Angela stood up and turned her back to Maggie. Two glittering white wings extended from her shoulderblades through an opening in her gown. “Angela, angel, you get it. Right?” The wings quivered and Angela rose about five feet, then gracefully settled back down.

  Lucy stood up and turned. The tight black catsuit had a small opening just above her buttocks, through which a long sinuous black tail extended. “Lucy, Lucifer. Okay?” She extended her index finger and a narrow shaft of flame shot out, then, as quickly, was extinguished.

  “Shit,” Maggie hissed.

  “Don’t curse,” Angela said.

  “Let her say what she wants,” Lucy snapped. “After all, it’s her life, or death, as it were.”