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Rickie Rai, Lingerie Model

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This story is dedicated to a different Rickie. She dressed like a hooker, had a heart of gold, and was the hottest thing I ever clapped eyes on. The girl also taught Sunday school.


I drove the Jaguar down off the highway, around some winding chicanes and through the palm groves that sheltered Morningstar Beach. It was clear and sunny, and when I wound the top back, I could smell the salt on the breeze from the ocean.

How long had it been? Six years, give or take? Eight of us, all recently married, brought our young wives to Morningstar for a long weekend in paradise. It was bikinis, sun lotion, barbeques, wine and relaxed evenings with friends.

Carol and I, and the others too, stayed in a comfortable old beach house owned by a new guy in the group – Jerry Rai, some kind of investment banker. Jerry seemed okay in his own way, but I’d be reluctant to have him minding my money. And then there was his wife. She was very young and very beautiful, but she didn’t quite fit and he treated her like shit.

I flew for a living, so eventually I lost contact with the group from Morningstar and there was never any reunion. I moved to Hong Kong to captain Cathay Pacific’s 747s on their long haul routes. A well paid dream job? Well I guess it was, but I was away so much it eventually cost me a wife. And after six years I found each eight hour stretch in the cockpit with a bunch of flight engineers was as much fun as a neighbourhood watch seminar. I never joined the mile high club or saw an exhibitionist airhostess do a striptease for the cockpit. Myths

Does this sound like I’d become a 38 year old pain? Well I had, and I knew it. And Carol leaving had hurt too. Finally, there was a one night stand in a Sydney hotel room with a flight stewardess who hadn’t come upstairs for love and romance — she’d simply decided to fuck the boss. I took a grip, resigned, and left Hong Kong.

I’d made some terrific real estate investments, inherited a modest amount from my dad, and what with the severance pay, I figured if I’d handled it right, I might be able to pull off the new career I was considering.

Don’t laugh. I’m an airline jock who paints, quite well actually. I’ve had my work shown in a few exhibitions, but my real talent is collecting. I have an eye for emerging artists, which comes from the blue, certainly not from any family artistic bent. The de Burgh family’s only bent connection is my two lesbian aunts. I stumbled on their leather bondage collection, and puzzled over a huge dildo, when visiting them many years ago. It turned out the aunts had made their kinky start with incest, as daughters fucking their father. When the shit finally hit the fan, he told his wife he’d kept his incest down to one-to-one encounters — he disapproved of group sex. They were the other de Burghs. I’m not joking.

I considered finding a coastal resort town with a gap to open a gallery, and got seduced by the idea. It was a good excuse to spend a week driving back up the coast road, making a leisurely examination of my options.

Three days into my road trip I arrived back in Morningstar, and stopped. I checked myself into a motel room, and took the turn off the highway down to the beach. It was a weekday and quiet so I was able to pull over on a grassy knoll overlooking the bay. I had a swimsuit with me and pulled it over my butt in the car, grabbed a towel, and walked down to the sand. There were maybe twenty people and as I dropped my towel and bag on the sand I noticed the closest sunbathing body, about twenty yards away, belonged to a beautiful young brunette in a red bikini. She was massaging lotion into her shoulders, her face disguised by reflective sunglasses.

The water was clear and cool and I swam for twenty minutes, and body surfed a couple of small breaks. I dried myself off, and lay down on the beach to get some sun on my back. I was there five minutes when I heard sand scuffing, and realized a pair of long, slim, suntanned legs was standing in front of me. I heard a voice.

“Sorry to disturb you but aren’t you Harry? Harry de Burgh?”

I sat up, surprised, and staring. “Yeah, that’s me. But do I know you?” She smiled and slid her sunglasses up on to her hair, revealing dark brown eyes, and a very pretty face.

“So you really don’t remember me?” she teased. Actually, she did look familiar, but I still couldn’t place her, which was surprising as she pretty much defined “unforgettable.” An absolute dead ringer for Jessica Alba, save for one thing. She had the body, the sultry face, and the pert little ass, but upstairs this beautiful beach babe was seriously stacked.

Embarrassed, and stumbling, I rose to me feet, trying not to stare down her cleavage. “Sorry, I think I know your face, but….”

“It’s Rickie — Rickie Rai. You and your wife were houseguests at our place –the beach house over there with the verandas and gardens. Remember?” Now I knew. But of course – the girl was Jerry Rai’s reluctant young wife.

“Silly me –hi Rickie,” sincan escort I said offering my hand. “So you’re down here with Jerry? How’s our man, the banking whizz?”

Her face puckered and there was an awkward pause. “Well he’s not here of course. You don’t know what happened to Jerry?” she asked incredulously.

“No, I’ve been living in Hong Kong.”

“Well that explains it. We’d split up before Jerry went inside — he’s doing time. Four to seven years for share market and tax scams, and lucky it wasn’t longer. It’s meant a mess for me even though we’d divorced. The tax guys were hell, but I kept the beach house, and my own stuff. That’s why I moved here to live.”

Rickie squatted for a moment, giving me a peek up her long tanned thighs, and decided she’d sit. “So where’s Carol. Did she come down with you, or is she back at home?”

I shrugged and told her the short version — the one you give when it’s you who’s been dumped, and don’t feel like explaining. Rickie listened, nodding sympathetically, and for a while we chatted back and forth about the people who’d been with us on the Morningstar weekend. Then she made an observation I hadn’t expected.

“So Carol’s the cheating wife run off with some rich guy? Well no surprises. I got to talk to Carol for a bit. Everyone thought she was a two-timing bitch. You knew that, surely?” Actually I hadn’t. That thought had been taboo. But I nodded anyway, and we settled easily into more do you remember Fred, Mary, Sally, stuff. Rickie was fun. I’d remembered a reluctant, rather sad girl, but with no Jerry on her case, Ricky sparkled. In fact, she was like a bottle of joy.

She stood up, brushed the sand off her cute little butt, wriggled it jokingly, and said “So, Harry de Burgh, did you know we girls called you Harry de Hunk? I need one more swim. You want to race me?”

I chased her, laughing, to the water. The surf was light, running at about two feet and Rickie bobbed about in it, her back to the waves, laughing and chatting, her stunning tits bouncing in her brief bikini, each time she rose to let a crest surge past. But then a bigger wave caught her by surprise, knocked her into me, and suddenly her legs were wrapped about my butt, her arms round my neck, as she struggled with the surge. We both went under, and she came up, spluttering, and pulling her bikini top back over her pointy, jutting breasts.

“Sorry, gave you an eyeful there,” she said, not knowing how horny she’d made me. She’d given me an instant hard-on. Or maybe she did notice. “I’ve got to go back in,” she said, turning towards the shore. “There’s an electrician due at the house.”

We got back to our gear, and while we’d been relaxed, suddenly it was the awkward moment where we either said goodbye and good luck, or someone put a foot forward. “How long are you here?” she asked.

I lied. Now I didn’t want to leave the next morning. “Maybe a few days — it depends.”

“Then drop by home for a drink. The electrician should only take an hour. You know where I am – so six o’clock?


Rickie opened the door wearing a white wrap that showed off her slim, tanned shoulders. She popped a Bud for me, poured herself a glass of wine, and we began where we’d left off. Much as I didn’t know her well, the small connection of that weekend six years ago had given us an easy start. And Rickie was straightforward, informed, and lively. A girl it was easy to like.

I’d begun telling her about Hong Kong when her phone buzzed and she excused herself to her kitchen, leaving me sitting on the lounge. I skimmed through old women’s fashion magazines on her coffee table without much interest. Then a swimsuit magazine caught my eye. The cover girl was Rickie, and I saw she was the model on the other covers too. I held up the swimsuit girl when she walked back in, bringing another drink.

“Sorry, I’d thought you were a secretary. But a fashion model –looks like you did well?” She seemed wistful. “Yeah, I did it a while, and it was fun. But Jerry insisted I give it up when we married. He couldn’t stand competition to his own success.”

“So you’ve done with modelling now?”

“No, not done at all. I got back into it after the divorce — I needed the money badly. But I was 26 and had lost ground. Editors and agents forget. Still, there’s good catalogue work, most of it is modelling ‘young mother’ sort of gear.”

She pointed to her bust. “But these still work. I still do swimsuits. Hell, I even did lingerie for a bit. Rickie Rai, the hot lingerie model.” She rolled her eyes, and giggled. I realized she was relaxed talking about her body. It was her job.

“Was lingerie fun or a bit scary?” I asked.

“Ok at first, but the lingerie catalogues got raunchier. Now it’s also tiny thongs, teddies, sheer panties, and the whole erotic fantasy bit with stockings, suspenders, and a garter belt. If you model, you do their whole range, and it’s not just still shots. After Victoria’s Secret, all the lingerie brands wanted sexy ankara escort video parades for their websites. ‘Dress like a hooker’ is the motto. Actually I got a rush doing them — then the day came where it got out of hand.

“‘Can you pull that panty gusset into your pussy so it wedges?’ they asked. Then next on the list, they brought out red crotchless panties.

Saying ‘no’ is complicated. I was near the end of their shoot, the client had spent a heap, and pussy flasher panties were the new thing in their range.

“I was reluctant — crotchless was taboo to me. But I agreed to some stills with my legs closed, so I didn’t look a total slut. Then they started on the video too and I said ‘no way.'”–.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to be nosey. You don’t have to talk —“

“No, it’s okay, it’s just shop talk,” Ricky said, tossing her hair. “Well not quite, because I’ve never talked about it to someone outside.

“You’re full of surprises,” I said. “But it’s past history now?”

“Not really,” said Rickie. She hesitated, and then walked over to her laptop, which was sitting up on the counter. “What the hell – you’ll find out anyway. Here, look at what I mean,” she growled.

“I’ll google ‘Rickie Rai Bare Pussy,'” she said, frowning. I was discovering Rickie is very direct. She clicked enter, turned the screen to me, and I saw the list of lingerie and celebrity porn websites. “If you google Rickie Fucks, or Beyonce Nude, or Paris Hilton Suck — in fact just write ‘fuck’ beside any celebrity name– and you probably get sent first to the list of these same dozen sites. Your voyeur can find Hillary Clinton Pussy but at least it’s a joke. You get a shot of Hillary Clinton with a cat.

“The porn sites pick up the lingerie brand video shoots. Like Kylie Minogue riding the bull for Agent Provocateur knickers. Boy, Kylie Minogue — what a great ass!”

Rickie clicked into the list of sites and pointed at the screen: “So here we’ve got Lingerie Model Panty Fuck. There’s no panty fuck — just me in that damn lingerie shoot. It’s everywhere.”

The screen was filled by Rickie pouting down a catwalk in a scarlet bra and panty set, with suspender belt, stockings, and red high heels. Next she strutted out a blue teddy, then black leather boy shorts, and finally a white corset bra, garter belt, and stockings. Hell, she looked hot, she was sex on fire. The next scene came up, and Rickie was on a couch, her lipstick glistening, with a horny male model leaning over her, showing a bulge in his designer briefs. She reached up, stroked his hair, and a close up showed the panty crotch tucked deep into her pussy lips.

Rickie punched my arm, and giggled. “I’m meant to turn you on Harry. Could you show a bit more interest, or are you more the knitwear voyeur? My boobs stand out good in sweaters.”

“Yeah I’ll look at your knitwear, but can you lend me a pen to write down this website?”

She laughed, and the last of the small tension we’d had watching the laptop, disappeared. She went to the fridge to get herself another glass of wine.”So is there still enough model work?” I asked.

“It’s not bad. I get by fine if I can sell a painting a month. Maybe it’s safer if I show you my paintings,” she said. With our glasses in hand, she led me to the back of the beach house into a studio with large windows that opened to a view across a small lawn and garden. She had a half finished canvas on an easel, two tables laden with trays, paints, and brushes, and three walls of paintings.

Not landscapes, but people at the beach. People sun bathing, and children at play in the water. There were old people with lined faces and sagging bodies, and young people exhibiting taut lines and vanity. Groups, individuals, some in still studies, others playing games. She watched as I took my time, appreciating how much she looked inside her subjects. She was good, very good.

“Rickie, they’re terrific. How long have you been painting?”

“After daddy died, there was me and mom, and times were tight.” Rickie’s face had turned to a mask.” I was sixteen when I won an artist’s scholarship to the Pratt Institute. But then came the first modelling job and suddenly there was money, I was young, you can guess the rest. I can’t complain, except for the Jerry mistake. That was just dumb.

“I didn’t start back painting till a couple of years ago, so that’s ten years not picking up a brush. I’m way behind where I ought to be.”

We stood in the studio talking about Rickie’s art and ambitions, and she grilled me closely about mine, and my gallery plans. We ordered in pizzas, opened another bottle, and it was my best night out in years. Rickie held me for a moment as I left, and kissed me lightly on the lips.

“You’re sad, Harry,” she said. “Life’s better than you think.”

I drove back to my motel room. I hadn’t felt like this in years. I caught myself feeling happy.


We met for a swim in the morning and coffee in the afternoon. Rickie was seeing a girlfriend etimegut escort that evening so I said the next night I’d take her to Uno, a smart new restaurant a few minutes up the coast.

“Uno? No shit? It’s the biggest new thing – I’ve read the reviews. I’ll have to dress up.”

I spent the day anticipating, talked to a realtor, and looked at two possible gallery locations.


The weather channel said a deep low hanging off the coast was a twenty per cent chance of coming ashore with gale force winds. It was already raining steadily when I took the road down to Morning Star beach, and pulled into Rickie’s house.

I sprinted up to the veranda, and she answered the door, her hair blown and waved, and dressed in a slinky white sheath that stopped just above her knees. She teetered on spiked high heels. “You like?” she asked, throwing a pose. I liked. I presented her the flowers I’d brought, and then, as she took them into the kitchen to find a vase, the storm front struck.

It was a cocksucker. Nasty – the windows shook and rattled, a thunderclap burst immediately above, and we heard a lightning strike nearby. “Don’t worry, we get a couple of these each season,” said Rickie. “They pass in half and hour. I’ll make drinks, if you phone and say we’ll be late.”

The storm was still blowing full force an hour later when her phone buzzed. “Damn it, I was all dressed up and looking forward to this,” she grumbled as she came back in the room. “That was Ronnie, the snoopy neighbour. There are two big trees down over the road. We’re stuck here. “But don’t worry. I’ll throw something together. How about we have pasta?”

We heard another lightning strike, and the power flickered, and died. We were stranded in blackness. “Best laid plans of mice and men,” she grumbled. “I’ve got heaps of candles. When I find the matches, could you light up the fire? There’s one set in the living room, and logs beside it. No power, so no pasta. I’ll make up some cold things, and open more wine.”

We ate by candlelight beside the fire, which roared noisily up the chimney as each new gust shook the beach house. The rain squalls rattled the iron roof. We sat there, me wearing my jacket, and Rickie dressed for going out, squeezed into her tight sexy dress.


It must have been ten o’clock. The wind had died, but the rain was heavy on the roof, and the power was still down. No music, no television, no books, just candlelight.

“Maybe it’s the night for playing cards? Can’t do much else,” she said. “I’ll find the pack.”

We agreed on poker, plain old fashioned, but poker’s best with money on the table. After half an hour it flagged, and we chatted on, opening the second bottle as we unwound. “It’s a bit dull without betting. Did you ever get to try strip poker?” Rickie asked.

“Yep, it was years ago when we wanted to peek. Everyone got chicken the moment it looked serious. Nothing happened.”

“Same for me – a cheerleader girl got down to her trainer bra, and it all went quiet.”

I cocked my eye. Rickie was a little tight. “OK Harry de Hunk, it’s a cheerleader sort of a game. Put another log on the fire. We stop whenever I want to.”

I thought about it. Discarding one bit of clothing at a time, Strip Poker odds were stacked against guys. When girls dress up like Rickie had tonight, they have a lot of bits and pieces. She tucked her knees under her legs, and I got a glimpse of stocking tops, brown thighs, and suspenders. I’d have to play some damn good hands, or I’d be bare before she got to her buttons.

Ricky lost the first to jacks, and took off her big gypsy ear ring, then winked playfully at me as its partner went with the second hand. We watched each other over the cards, the fire sparking, the rain pelting, as we played. My oxfords dropped on the floor followed by her high heels, a pair of watches, a tie and belt, her bracelet — all the harmless stuff.

Then the Strip Poker crunch began. She had Kings to my nines, and I had no choice but take off my shirt and sit bare chest. “You look good Harry,” she purred as she flowed on with a straight to my pair of tens. She still had her dress on, and there I was, considering my trousers.

“Tell you what. Why not change the rules and make it gentler,” Rickie suggested. “We can do either clothes or a forfeit. So your choice is the trousers off, or I want you to come here and nibble my ear. That’s easy.”

“Ok, the ear,” I said and leaned over against her. She snuggled up beside me, lifted her hair to one side, and I dabbed her ear with my tongue.

“Don’t cheat,” she said. “It’s a minimum thirty seconds.” I softly nibbled and licked her ear again, and then I moved to the other one. She giggled. “Bad boy – I didn’t say you could put your tongue in.”

Rickie lost the next hand, and I said I wanted her to kiss me, a big juicy French one, tongue in. She climbed up on my lap, put her arms around me, and I think we went more than the thirty seconds. She tasted sexy, and the perfume on her neck made me dizzy with desire.

I was on a roll, and won the third hand in a row. Ricky looked up at me, stroking my bare chest. Then she stood up abruptly. She turned her back to me and faced the fireplace.

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