Want to hear a true story about how Hannah and I fucked Madonna?

Want to hear a true story about how Hannah and I fucked
Madonna?

“Yeah, RIGHT!” you’re saying, “In your dreams, pal.”

And, I don’t blame you one iota for doubting such a
preposterous claim. I sometimes find it hard to believe
myself. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve
rolled over in bed, waking from a half-dream, and gazed
deep into my pretty Californian wife’s blue blue eyes and
she’s just smirked back ’cause she’s known what I’m going
to ask before I even ask it. I guess I must just have
this bemused “Did I really just win 6 million pounds on
the lottery?” expression plastered over my face.

“What is it, honey?” she’ll ask, humouring me as she
playfully twists strands of silky red hair around her
finger. (Hannah’s always playing with her hair – not in a
nervous way, you understand. It’s just this cute little
habit she has.) “Have you forgotten how to speak, is that
it? Has your tongue run off to London to see the Queen?”

She’s a real smartass, sometimes, my wife. I love her for
it. I’m English – born and raised in Oxford – and so
Hannah takes every opportunity she can get to wisecrack
about the British weather, dreary soap operas or our dear
monarchy. She seems to think it winds me up but I just
think it’s funny. I’m second-generation Irish, so I’m
sure you can imagine that my Royalist sympathies don’t
run too deep.

“No, listen!” I’ll say. “I need to know. I’ve not just
dreamt all this have I?”

“Dreamt what, babe?” she’ll giggle.

“Don’t tease me, Hannah – you know what I’m talking
about. Did it really happen that night? Did I really fuck
Madonna?”

“Yes, you did, honey,” she’ll say, patting my head like
I’m some little lost puppydog.

“Really? So, I’ve not just finally gone completely
fucking insane like your weird old Uncle Jasper?”

“Oh, well now, I didn’t say that.”

“And, she really… you know… she really went down on
you?”

My wife usually moans a little at this point, her cheeks
flushing red and her eyes getting all kind of misty and
distant as the memories flood back. “Oh, my God, yes she
did.”

“Tell me again,” I’ll whisper, snuggling into the warmth
of her body.

“Well, I was just sitting there butt-naked on that cold
hard chair and she got down between my knees and she was
kissing the inside of my thigh and you had your hands on
my breasts and… and then she just did it, without any
build up whatsoever, she slid her tongue inside. I can’t
believe our daughter has a poster of this woman on her
wall. Jesus Christ, Joey! She licked my pussy. Madonna
licked my pussy.”

By this point I’m laughing out loud in glorious
disbelief. You can almost imagine me hurling bundles of
ten-pound notes up into the air and watching it shower
down on us like snowdrops. “So, all that other stuff
really happened too?”

“Uh-huh. All of it.” Then Hannah’ll get this real serious
look on her face and kind of chew distractedly on her
hair. “Look, baby, I need you to do something for me. I
need you to lick me. Right now,” she’ll say as she’s
pushing my head down under the covers.

And when she switches off the bedside lamp I know that in
my wife’s mind it’s Madonna’s face down there buried
between her sweet thighs, Madonna’s nose pressed into the
fragrant mound of red hair, her tongue running up over
Hannah’s vulva, parting her labia and slipping between
the soft folds.

And when my wife curls her fingers in my hair, tightening
them into a firm grip, she’s imagining Madonna as the
black-haired siren we once knew, or the peroxide-blonde
Goddess that writhed in the ‘Justify My Love’ video or
maybe even the sensuous soft-curled Rodeo Mama of today.

“Uh, yeah. That’s so good,” she’ll whisper, “I want you
to lick my clit now, honey,” and she may as well be
whispering, “I want you to lick my clit now, Madonna,”
cause in Hannah’s mind it’s the popstar’s tongue that’s
swirling around her engorged bud, flicking softly over it
so she shudders and sighs.

And, when Madonna sucks my wife’s clit in between her
lips and tongues it roughly, Hanna arches her back and
squeezes at her own pretty little breasts, pinching the
long red nipples between her fingers, the honey of her
arousal flooding out over Madonna’s mouth and chin.

***

My God, it was wicked while it lasted, that little
episode in our early marriage. Madonna was this debauched
Tasmanian devil-woman that just whirled into our lives
for two weeks and then was gone – away on some other
raucous adventure with God-only-knows who. But, that was
cool as far as we were concerned.

Hannah and I have never really been the bitter “Oh, how
could she just forget us like that?” types that always
come out of the woodwork whenever some fireball young
thing strikes it lucky and hits the big-time. She had her
mission in life and we had ours.

For one brief moment in time our destinies brought us
crashing together and then we were spiraling off in
opposite directions like fragments from a meteor
collision. I wouldn’t for a second want to swap what I
have with my wife and daughter for Madonna’s glamorous
popstar lifestyle.

It’s never really been my bag, that whole fame thing, but
I guess that’s exactly what Madonna Louise Ciccone always
fantasised about. It’s the dream that filled the void in
her life when she was just this awkward melancholy little
mid-Western kid who cried herself to sleep every night
over a mother that died too young and a daddy who just
didn’t understand.

***

Still not convinced by my story? Of course, I wouldn’t
expect you to just take my word for it – it’s way too
‘National Enquirer’ a tale to be true: a lowly immigrant
New York cab driver and his student wife have wild sex
sessions with the biggest female pop icon in the world.
Nice story, buddy, but that kinda thing just doesn’t
happen in the real world. Right?

Well, here’s the money-shot, my friend. We’ve got the
whole thing on film.

Yes, you read that right. I’ve just sat watching it with
Hannah, for the first time in 20 years, and it’s
incredible. That Pamela and Tommy Lee wedding video thing
doesn’t have a leg to stand on compared to this, believe
me.

The last time we saw our little movie was about a week or
so after we shot it. We sat down, all four of us –
myself, Mr. DiPrima (I’ll give you the low-down on him
later), Hanna and Madonna Louise.

We watched it in the dark, projected up onto that big
white screen that Luigi had through in one of his back
rooms. Every once in a while, naughty little Miss Ciccone
would get this wild look in her eye, getting herself all
turned on as she watched our three pink bodies thrusting
and writhing on the screen, sticky with love-making, and
she’d lean over to Hanna, clutching a clump of her silky
red hair in her little fist and she’d French her so
sweetly at the same time as she was pulling my hand up
under her cute black leather skirt into the furnace
between her legs.

After about half an hour of this, my wife had that skirt
hiked right up around Madonna’s waist and was tickling
her fingernails through the future pop-star’s thick black
pubic hair as I slid two slippery fingers in and out of
her sex.

From this point on, I noticed that old Luigi DiPrima was
more intent on watching our impromptu live sex show than
he was his precious movie. I guess he had all the time in
the world to study that in close detail after we left but
what he had before him right now was a blink too long and
you might just miss something deal.

As the film flickered to an end, Luigi swung his chair
around and hit a switch on the wall, illuminating the
room in a cacophony of tacky multi-coloured flashing
disco lights. Ordinarily I would have collapsed on the
floor in laughter at the sheer inappropriateness of the
display (we were kind of stoned, to be honest) but
Madonna had already sunk down onto her knees before me
and was pulling my jeans down over my hips. My cock
sprang up, bouncing against her chin.

“Well, look at that, Mr. Cabdriver,” she laughed,
clasping hold of it.

Hannah got down beside her and ran her tongue seductively
up over the shaft, leaving behind a glistening trail of
saliva. She looked up at me as Madonna sucked the head
between her soft red lips into the wetness of her mouth.
“Fuck her face, Joey,” she whispered, turning to
carefully unlace Madonna’s black leather top.

“You’re a strange little wife, aren’t you?” I said to
her, sliding my cock deeper into the warmth of Madonna’s
mouth.

Hannah laughed out loud and Madonna mumbled something,
which I couldn’t make out. I could feel every syllable,
though.

“Don’t speak with your mouth full, Emmy,” said my wife,
smiling as she drew Madonna’s top open.

“My friends call me Emmy,” Madonna had announced that
first day we met in the autumn of 1980. For two weeks my
wife and I were her friends, so we called her Emmy.

Emmy was now bobbing her head back and forth against me,
trailing her beautiful lips over my cock. I reached down
and stroked my fingers through her thick black hair,
watching the colours dancing over her face as I rocked my
hips rhythmically. I could feel her tongue swirling over
me. She lovingly stroked the shaft, drawing my foreskin
right back. She’d told me a few days earlier she’d never
had an uncut cock in her mouth before. She seemed
intrigued by the novelty of it.

By now, my wife had pulled Emmy’s top off, freeing those
glorious naked breasts.

Madonna breathed deeply in through her nose, her nostrils
flaring. Her cheeks seemed to suck right in as she took
my erection deeper into her mouth. Letting go of my
shaft, she stroked her fingers up over her smooth, toned
stomach (you could tell she’d been a professional dancer)
and circled them sensuously around the nipples that were
already jutting out thick and hard.

She shivered and I could feel the tip of her tongue
swirling deliciously around my cock.

By this point, Hannah had crawled up behind her and was
gently kissing, licking and biting her pale neck and
shoulders, tickling her hands softly round her waist so
that goosepimples rose up all over Emmy’s body and those
small dark areolas tightened right up, the long dark buds
swelling out till they looked like they could burst.

I felt light-headed, like I was floating in some erotic
dream. Crazy lights flashed and spun around the room, and
right in the corner old Luigi DiPrima sat intently
watching us. The last time we’d all been together he’d
been so intent on capturing a good quality recording of
the events that he’d probably not really been able to
fully enjoy the sight, sound and scents of his three
young friends lost in carnal exploration.

Madonna opened her knees further and drew up her leather
skirt, revealing the thick mound of black hair that
glistened from her arousal like dew-covered grass in the
morning. Right in the center, the pink folds of her pussy
seemed to breathe, gently opening and closing as little
drops of moisture trickled out like teardrops.

My wife stroked her hands round Emmy’s waist, over her
stomach and upwards to her breasts. She cupped those
glorious globes, caressing and squeezing them as she
licked her tongue all the way from Emmy’s shoulder to
just behind her ear.

I could feel my heart beating madly. Everything in the
room seemed so bright and vivid to me as my breath grew
deeper and stronger. I twisted my fingers in Madonna’s
hair and she looked up, kind of smiling at me with her
pale blue eyes.

She slid her middle finger down between the glistening
folds of her labia and slipped it into the entrance of
her pussy, circling it around inside, then drawing it out
all wet with her honey. She drew me right out of her
mouth, then, and for a moment I could see a trail of
saliva from her lips to my cock, that snapped as she drew
her face away from me. She brought her finger up to just
under her nose, allowing it to linger there so she could
breathe in her sexual scent before sucking it deep into
her mouth.

“Hmnnn, my pussy tastes good,” she said, looking up at me
with those wild temptress eyes.

“Yes, it does,” I said. “Do you want me to lick it for
you, Emmy?”

She shook her head. “I want the old man to do it.” She
lay back, unfastening her skirt so it fell right open,
leaving her completely naked.

Old Mr. DiPrima looked kind of shocked and a little
afraid but Madonna twisted her head around to smile at
him, gesturing with her finger for him to join us. He
clambered down off his perch and shuffled awkwardly
towards us, blinking as the crazy discotheque lights
fluttered and danced around the room.

“Have you ever licked a woman’s pussy, Luigi?” she asked.

Mr. DiPrima shook his head. “Nope, I never did do that,
Emmy.”

“Well, I think you should be allowed to eat caviar at
least once in your life,” she said, giggling madly.

I smiled at my wife and she smirked back, lowering
herself down so that she was straddling Madonna’s face.

Madonna reached up, unzipping Hannah’s skirt so that it
fell away from her on to the floor. The singer reached
her arms back, so that her breasts were thrust right out,
and stroked her hands up the backs of my wife’s legs,
sliding them up onto her ass and cupping Hannah’s pretty
little buttocks. She lifted her head up towards the mound
of soft red hair and brushed her lips over my wife’s
labia. “You’ve got a beautiful cunt, Hanna,” she purred,
“so pretty and fragrant.” She breathed deeply in through
her nose, savouring the scent.

My wife beamed, her whole body seeming to glow with
feminine pride as she reached out to fondle Emmy’s
breasts. I could feel my throat tightening with emotion.
Hanna looked so beautiful that I felt like I could burst
into tears of sweet sorrow right there and then.

Mr. DiPrima got down on his hands and knees and crawled
between Emmy’s thighs, his backside thrust comically up
into the air. He seemed utterly intoxicated by the sight
of Madonna’s sex gaping right there before him. I don’t
think he’d seen a woman’s parts that close up in a long
long time. He coughed politely and raised his head,
blinking over into Madonna’s face. “So, how should I…
uhm…? How do you like it done?”

Emmy laughed out loud at that. “Just imagine you’re a
hungry cat,” she instructed. She demonstrated just what
she meant by arching her neck upwards and lashing her
tongue in a long sweeping movement over Hannah’s tender
labia.

Hannah sighed and arched her back, thrusting her pretty
little breasts out towards me, as she pinched Emmy’s
nipples hard between her fingers.

Luigi nodded and buried his face between Madonna’s
thighs, licking noisily at her pussy.

“Oh, yeah, Luigi! I think you’ve finally found your
calling in life,” she moaned.

I stood entranced, watching the old man eat Emmy’s cunt
as she happily devoured Hannah’s. My wife’s eyes soon
flickered sleepily shut. I could tell she was about ready
to explode as she squeezed and twisted Madonna’s nipples.

Emmy drew her face back, using her fingers to poke and
stroke at Hanna’s pussy and clit, maintaining a steady
rhythm that was obviously driving my wife wild. The
singer looked over at me, her cheeks flushed red with
arousal. “Well, don’t just stand there playing with you
dick, Joey. Get over here. Stick it in my mouth. Fuck my
tits. Do something!”

My wife groaned, her breasts rising and falling
dramatically. “Oh God, lick me Emmy, please,”

Madonna pulled her wet fingers from Hannah’s pussy and
buried her face between her thighs, lapping noisily with
her tongue.

I straddled the singer, lowering myself onto my knees so
my balls tickled over her abdomen as I slid my erection
between her soft breasts.

Mad light flashed and spun around the room, causing our
shadows to dance erotically over the walls in many many
colours.

Hanna registered my presence through half-shut eyes and
reached out for me, stroking her fingers over my cheeks
and running them through my hair as I squashed Emmy’s
tits together either side of my cock. Our faces moved
instinctively together and we kissed, our lips and
tongues exploring, tasting, communicating as I writhed
back and forth on top of Madonna, fucking her warm
breasts.

Behind me Luigi DiPrima slobbered like an old dog –
obviously taking great pleasure from his work – and my
God, he must’ve been doing a good job, cause I could
already feel Madonna’s body trembling beneath me. Her
tits jiggled like jelly as I thrust my cock between them.

“Oh, fucking hell!” My wife suddenly arched her spine,
her red hair spraying out behind her as she threw her
head back, her face contorted into a grimace and her
whole body pink and glistening with sweat.

“Ohhhhh,” she squealed, falling back onto the floor,
where she lay panting and shuddering, playing
distractedly with her breasts and staring dreamily up at
all those colours floating over the ceiling. She slowly
looked over into my eyes, smiling as she stroked a hand
down over her pubic mound, stroking two fingers
delicately through her soft red hair and downwards into
her cunt.

I thrust hard between Madonna’s breasts, feeling the
tingling in my balls as the fire began to erupt between
my thighs.

Madonna’s whole body was tensed up ready to explode. She
was watching my face, her lips trembling and eyes wild
with intensity. “I wanna see you cum, Joey. I want you to
spray it over my tits. Squirt it into my face.”

The words seemed to tip her right over the edge. She
screamed, doubling up beneath me and I immediately felt
the sperm shoot up through my cock as the climax ripped
violently through my body. I groaned and gripped the
shaft, showering thick cream out over her tits, splashing
it up onto her face.

“Oh, that was so fucking cool,” exclaimed my wife. She
giggled and rolled herself onto her side. “The poor
girl’s drenched, Joey.”

As I knelt there, panting and gasping for air, I watched
globs of milky white cum trickle down Madonna’s cheek,
over that cute little beauty spot just above her lip and
into her mouth.

“No more, Luigi, please. You’re going to kill me with
that tongue,” she moaned, looking back at Hannah and
reaching an arm out towards her.

My wife crawled unsteadily towards us, gazing in
fascination at Emmy’s sperm-splattered face. She kissed
me softly and then turned her attentions towards Madonna,
smoothing my milky ejaculate into the singer’s heaving
breasts and lowering herself down so she could lick her
face clean.

Madonna giggled. “You’re tickling me, Hanna.”

“Sorry.”

“Does that taste good?”

My wife nodded and their mouths moved together, lips
connecting, tongues penetrating. I rolled over onto the
floor, resting my cheek against Emmy’s warm belly,
feeling it rise and fall slowly, watching contentedly as
she and Hannah passionately kissed and stroked each
other’s bodies.

And, that was the last night my wife and I spent with
Madonna Louise Ciccone and old Mr. DiPrima, although I
guess we must’ve replayed it a thousand times since then
in our fantasies.

***

Never did tell you how this whole thing began, did I?
Guess you’re just going to have to wait till chapter two
for that, my friend. It’s 7.32. The birds are singing out
there in the garden. It’s time to wake Hannah from her
debauched dreams so she can drive our daughter to school,
and I can crawl into bed and wait patiently for her to
return.

I’ve decided that this afternoon, she’s going to be
Madonna Louise and I’m going to be the head sales rep
from her new line of intimate bedroom toys, ‘Justify Your
Love’. I’m pretty sure she’s going to want to have a
hands-on demonstration of our biggest seller, ‘Miss
Ciccone’s Italian Stallion’. Haha.

And, so this is where I must politely ask you to leave.
Some things between a husband and wife are private.

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