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Posted on March 28, 2004 by admin

This entry was posted in Anal , Cons , Mast , MF , MM , MMF , Oral , Victor Field and tagged Cindy Crawford . Bookmark the permalink .
Having tackled Mariah Carey and Laetitia Casta, it was
inevitable that sooner or later I’d get to a tale
about my own all-time favourite, Miss Cynthia Ann
Crawford (although this is, admittedly, in the first
person). Cindy’s real, and I’m real, but this is not
an actual representation of either of us. No
under-18s, and no complaining about the ending. Praise
or complaints to the message boards or to
Friday night. A night for guys everywhere to go out,
right? It’s the end of the working week, the start of
the weekend, a good
time to unwind. Unless you’re me;
I wasn’t in the mood for going out tonight. Or most
nights, come to that; after slaving at the junk mail
(“direct marketing,” if you please) place I work at, I
just wanted to come home and vegetate before going to
bed to dream about whoever I wanted to wank to this
My regular Sunday paper once ran a piece on Britney
Spears which said “She intends to wed the universe,
having already coupled, if only in their imaginations,
with a goodly proportion of the men in it.” No shame
in admitting that this 34-year-old eternally single
man is one of that proportion. Nor is little Britney
the only lady I’ve bedded in my head; Gwyneth Paltrow,
Gwen Stefani, Monica Bellucci, Lucy Pinder, Jessica
Alba, Hilary Duff, Halle Berry, Laetitia Casta,
Jennifer Garner, even Madonna if I hate myself
particularly strongly… my list of fantasy conquests
is long and growing. But right at the top of the list
is the woman who I’ve loved from afar for Lord knows
how many years. The woman who, more than any other,
can persuade me to buy or see stuff I normally
wouldn’t, just for her. The woman who I’ve sent little
gifts to circa February 20th for years (I never got a
reply, but I wasn’t in it for the response – she
couldn’t be expected to reply to everything she gets).
And the woman who’s been the star of a lot of the
My name’s Victor, and I’m a devotee of Cindy Crawford.
Cindy Crawford. Say it loud and there’s music playing;
say it soft and it seems like praying. I know that
she’s getting on a bit at 38, that she’s a happily
married mother of two, and that she no longer works as
much as she used to, but the ladies around nowadays
just aren’t the same. That’s one reason why I call
myself Cindylover1969 around the internet; I’m not
ashamed to advertise my love, no matter what a couple
of my workmates think, and I’m not fickle the way The
Greyhound And His Current Fantasy Object is – I dream
about other ladies, yes, but none of them will ever
take her place. And I’ll never star any of them in
their own series the way I have with Cindy; I cast her
as a celebrity prostitute, but she’s her own boss. She
doesn’t work for anybody, they work for her. I’ve been
writing the Cindy Inc. stories for quite a few years
now, and the one I’m working on now has her in company
with the blonde porn star of that name –
But this isn’t about me, this is about the brunette
beauty with the distinctive mole. And how I got to
meet her; and yes, it was actually through the site I
My first hint that something was up was when I had
come back from the Post Office; I’d gotten a package
and had to go and collect it (at least they didn’t
leave it outside the door again!). Waiting for me in
my computerized inbox was a link to a news story from
my good friend Jim-Bob, one of several Cindy fans I’ve
“MADAME CIN-DY? Cindy Crawford’s publicist Annette
Wolf denied claims that the supermodel is the head of
I read the whole thing several times in amazement.
Someone was spreading rumours that Cindy was spending
her retirement from modelling as a madame… then I
felt my head swell a bit. The only way this could have
started was if my stories had been seen online by
someone. Unintentionally, this was all my fault. I was
shocked… and proud. Proud that the series that
SteyrAUG, Jim and myself had thrashed out on the
boards of Cindy’s website a few years back had
actually gotten noticed; but shocked that I had
somehow caused Cindy to be embarrassed. Though if she
had ever seen some of the other stories on CSSA, she’d
have been appalled, partly because of how badly some
of them were written, and partly because of what
I hoped she was upset by some of them. I knew I was.
One good thing about being single and not having many
real-world friends is that the phone usually leaves
you alone; people call either for my sister or for
someone who isn’t here. That Thursday night neither
was the case; I was having my usual ritual for the
evening, one that involved Alyssa Milano, Rose McGowan
and Holly Marie Combs – as usual, I was following the
plot for that evening’s episode and waiting for one of
the three sisters to face away from the camera,
swearing that tonight would be the night that I
determined whether or not Rose or Holly had the nicer
For once, timing was perfect – the phone rang just as
the first commercial break began. I picked it up on
the first ring (I hate endless rings, on either side).
“Hi, is that Victor?” said an American voice on the
other end. An American female voice. An American
soft-edged female voice. Off to a good start.
“Yes,” I replied. “How can I help you?”
“Ah,” the voice said with a little laugh, “I just need
“Like why do you keep writing those stories about me?”
My heart jumped for a moment, and I found my knees
buckling, before I caught myself. It wasn’t who I
thought it was. It couldn’t be. “Ummm… stories about
“About me saving your soul from the Devil. And you
making a plaster cast from my ass. And me eating out
Britney Spears on video. And going to bed with
Laetitia Casta for Christmas. And being fucked by
Naomi Campbell on a cruise ship. And… look, I could
go on, but I think we need to talk.”
Okay okay okay… this was either a very good
practical joke or… or… no. No, it couldn’t be her.
“Errrr… where?” I managed to say, figuring I might
“Tomorrow. Brent Cross Shopping Centre. Around 6pm
outside the Ernest Jones shop. And don’t be late…
bye.” And with a click, my life was about to change.
Starting with my being unable to appreciate Rose
McGowan’s backside for the first night in ages.
Brent Cross, early evening. Busy as per usual, and I
was standing by the watch shop, having gotten there
straight after work, glad that the bus hadn’t chosen
today to be late… not today of all days. In fact,
today had been a pretty good day all round, which
meant that something would happen soon enough to ruin
it. It was a few minutes before the magic hour; I
didn’t want to be scanning people coming into the mall
(it didn’t use that name, but let’s face it – Brent
Cross is a mall), so I started to look at the window
Watches, watches everywhere… as usual, my gaze spent
a bit longer on the Omega lineup. The main picture, to
my delight, was the one of Cindy Crawford in a car,
her hair swept back as she sat there. In the back of
my mind had been a story of Cindy with fellow Omega
spokeswoman Anna Kournikova – Anna was signed up to
Jennifer Lopez’s books in my stories, but maybe I
could have worked something out… maybe one about how
Cindy lost her? I looked again at the gorgeous
American brunette with the only truly attractive mole
And found myself face to face with a gorgeous American
brunette with the only truly attractive mole in the
Cindy was what we in the UK call “getting on a bit,”
especially for the kind of people who can’t fancy
anyone older than, say, 23. But at 38 she was still
stunningly beautiful – a lot of celebrities don’t look
as good in real life, but the law of averages means
that some of them have to live up to expectations. The
woman standing in front of me was one of them, bet on
it. The soft skin looking like you could stroke it for
years; the perfectly-placed mole up by the left side
of her face; the big kind brown eyes; the long, lean,
strong body with definite non-model-standard breasts
and fantastic legs; and the bewitching smile.
“Ah…” I squeaked, feeling the ground go to water
“Oh… my…” And that was the last thing I said
before I didn’t know anything for the next few hours.
I don’t know how long I was out, but I woke up to find
myself in my own bed. The heater was on and my room
was toasty warm; I was dressed in my pyjamas, and I
had to lie there for a moment before I remembered. I
had met Cindy Crawford in Brent Cross, and then I was
here… damn, that had been the nicest dream I had
since the time I dreamt about Liv Tyler. Definitely
something to get me through the day, I thought as I
turned over in bed and saw Cindy Crawford standing
She could have peeled the top of her head back and
sneered “You’ve got the body, and I’ve got the brain”
and I couldn’t have yelled more loudly. I jerked back
out of the bed and almost fell on the floor.
“Take it easy, Victor!” Cindy urged, coming over to me
and helping me up. “It’s not a dream, I really am
“Meet me? Why? And…” I suddenly realised. “What am I
Cindy blushed a little. “You did? And you…”
“Yes, I did. If it’s any consolation, you haven’t got
anything to be ashamed of.” A little smile played
around her face – she had to be remembering. “Trust
“Plus it’s only fair.” She tapped one of the pile of
magazines on the shelves, the one with her second
“Playboy” on top. I could see her point – I’d seen her
naked, so it was only fair that I return the favour.
“You’re not exactly Tyson Beckford, but at least
you’re not Fred Berry or somebody. And I’ll level with
you – I’ve seen less attractive guys than you get
their clothes off and expect to get paid for it.”
I looked at her, pleased and embarrassed. At least
Cindy hadn’t tried to tell me something I wanted to
hear (I wanted to hear I was incredibly sexy and hot
as much as the next person, but at the same time, as
Dirty Harry said, a man’s gotta know his limitations).
Now she was looking around my room – scrapbooks,
magazines, tapes with her name/picture on the spine…
Cindy let out a low whistle. “I saw your video
collection out there… you’ve even got ‘Bodyguards’
on tape,” she said in an impressed tone. “Not many
people outside Italy know about that one.”
“I can’t blame them,” I said ruefully. “Oh frig –
“It’s okay. I never talk about it myself.”
“Yeah, I noticed. You were still the best thing about
Cindy blushed again, as I went over to my chest of
drawers and took out a small package. “I was going to
post this later this month, but I might as well give
this to you now. Makes a change from your people
putting all the other ones in their files or
“What, you mean like this bracelet?” And as she took
the box, Cindy held up her right wrist, from which
dangled a lovely golden object. I looked at it – it
was the very item I had sent her four years ago. So
she HAD gotten it… “And I got all the others as
well. They were lovely; I never got a chance to write
to you to say thanks. I wanted to, but you never left
“I didn’t want anything from you,” I admitted. “I just
This was going to sound a bit corny, but… “For
making me happy all these years. That’s why I call
myself Cindylover online – in your honour. And that’s
why I… but I have to ask you something before I go
“Ask away,” said the unflappable one.
“How come you haven’t run off screaming or something
by now? I mean, I’m like this great big fan of yours,
I’ve been called a damn stalker in newsgroups, even my
own family’s been on at me sometimes… and you’re
Cindy nodded. “Well, it’s because you’re a fan that
I’m here, and it’s because of how you look that I’m
still here. I know a lot of my fans got into me
because of my looks, I expect that, and I’m sure you
did too. Nothing wrong with admitting it – when was
the last time a guy who looked like Meat Loaf was on
the cover of ’16’ or something? The point is, I’ve got
a favour that I think you can help me with.”
This was sounding good. I’d do anything for Cindy
“You’ll need to be able to fly pretty soon. Over to
This was sounding even better – in addition to being a
Crawfordologist, I was also a full-on Yancophile (I
was counting down the days until the despicable Bush
made such a thing positive again by getting the fuck
out of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue; among his many sins,
he had besmirched the name of Crawford thanks to the
Texas town where his ranch was situated).
“It’s…” Cindy hesitated and waved her hands around a
little. “Oh, there’s no easy way of saying this – you
“No, the OTHER stories. They’re true.”
Visions of all the fantasies I and others had
concocted through the years danced through my head.
Cindy munching on Elle Macpherson… Cindy sleeping
“Sorry, but I haven’t been bedding Kathy Ireland or
eating out Julia Roberts in a hot tub or doing
fourways with Elle, Tyra and Rebecca. And I definitely
haven’t slept with Jules Asner or Brooke Burke. Not
that I wouldn’t like to,” she added. “The women I’ve
been with aren’t famous. But they ARE discreet. Just
“Rande likes them young, about your age,” Cindy
continued. “And he’s a lot pickier than I am – he
doesn’t like to sleep with white guys for some reason.
I had to sit down… this was all a bit too much to
take in at once. Firsthand news that the rumours were
true, and the genesis to start another one; the woman
of my dreams was picking up men for her bisexual
husband, and it sounded like she did it on a regular
basis. Who would have thought that gentle Cindy
Crawford had that kind of mind? That she was…
pimping… for her husband? It was like hearing the
And on top of that, she was asking ME to be next. She
was practically fulfilling a fantasy many fans had
about their favourite celebs – that their favourite
would turn up on their doorstep and invite them to
have sex – and she was asking me to do it with her…
husband. Not her sisters, not her mother (bless), not
her, but her husband. If it had been Melissa Etheridge
seeking out men to poke her wife it would have been
one thing (Tammy Lynn Michaels wasn’t as nice as most
of her “Popular” cast mates, but hey…), but this was
something else again. I’d never gone to bed with a man
before – hell, I’d never gone to bed with a WOMAN
But then again, this was Cindy Crawford who was asking
“You can say no,” Cindy added, seeing the doubt in my
eyes. “I’ve heard it before. You can even ask to be
paid off to keep quiet – that’s happened before as
“I’m not kidding; cash on the line – ”
“No; I mean you’re kidding that some men actually said
no to you.” I got up, my mind made up, and faced
Cindy. This was a chance to get out of the country for
a bit; and more importantly, this was a chance to
actually do something for her. Plus I thought what the
hell, I’ll try anything once. “I don’t call myself
Like I told you, I’d do anything for Cindy Crawford.
“Me and Gwen Stefani in a wrestling match,” Cindy said
in disbelief as the plane approached LAX. “Where’d you
“From an extreme wrestling celebrity story,” I
explained. “Where the writer had Gwen beating you up –
it was years before I could forgive Gwen for that.”
“Forgive the WRITER, Victor,” Cindy told me. “So this
was sort of your sequel – why not post that on a
“Because wrestling fans are freaks,” I told her.
“Anyway, I put it behind me and I like Gwen again. But
“Awwww,” Cindy replied, patting my hand as the plane
An hour later, Cindy having separated from me when we
got off the plane (she didn’t want people to start
wondering who the tall, dark man with her was), I
emerged from the airport with my luggage. Even though
I had been brought to the Caribbean at the age of 6
and lived there for years, a decade back in England
had made me acclimatized to the cold all over again;
coming out into the California sunshine made me break
out into the kind of sweat I normally got from
imagining something like Laetitia Casta, Jessica Alba,
Monica Bellucci and Paige from “Knots Landing”
stripping naked and rubbing oil onto each other. I
wasn’t looking forward to getting transport to
wherever I was going to be staying – Cindy had told me
Just like in the movies, a man in a chauffeur’s
uniform was holding up a sign saying “Victor.” That
“So this is Brentwood,” I said to myself as the
limousine stopped outside her house two hours later
(traffc…), and I tipped the driver. I had brought a
camera with me, but I was too busy looking at Los
Angeles as the driver took me along to actually take
any pictures. Not that it would have pleased Rogers;
little USA-bashing Cindy-hating prick…
My bags out of the car, I looked at the front door and
waved. I nearly said “Hi honey, I’m home!” to the
waiting Cindy and her family, but thought better of
it. They were all standing in the doorway to greet me;
Cindy was holding little Kaia, who waved and laughed
at me in “Hi!” mode. Presley stood there, less open to
me, but then he couldn’t have known who this stranger
was coming to see his mother; I nodded and smiled at
him. Rande gave me the kind of grin male models in
Gillette ads tend to give out; I almost expected him
to add a thumbs-up for that extra flourish.
And Cindy. Ah, Cindy. The mistress of her domain. (And
not in the “Seinfeld” sense at that time.) The reason
we were all here. She was standing there, proud and
open and friendly; she was dressed down being at home
and all, but she was still a sight to see. Even
without makeup Cindy was a beauty; I knew I wouldn’t
regret a moment of what was to come.
“Hope it didn’t hurt going down,” Cindy commented that
evening – with dinner over and settling in our
stomachs and the children tucked up asleep, the night
“It didn’t,” I told her appreciatively. I was glad
that Cindy didn’t have a problem with eating proper
food; the lamb chops, chips, vegetables and wine were
blending wonderfully inside me. “Does Rande ever
“We take turns when we’re at home,” Cindy said,
finishing her drink. “He’ll be back in about ten
minutes; and then…” She let the sentence hang in the
air, but we both knew what she meant. Even at this
stage, when it was practically a done deal, I thought
I had no misgivings. And yet, part of me still
wondered… was this really such a good idea?
“You’re having second thoughts, aren’t you?” Cindy
Did I say that out loud? Or was it that obvious from
“Well… I don’t want to go back on my word, and you
did pay to bring me here. And I don’t want to let you
“But you’ve never slept with a man before,” Cindy said
gently. “If it helps, try and imagine you’re with me.”
“That might be hard,” I said. “Unless he’s facing away
“Don’t worry about that – he will,” Cindy assured me.
My nerves started to melt. So I was going to… I got
myself under control, mentally telling myself to think
of Cindy. Think of Cindy. Think… of…. Cindy. It
was all for Cindy. And she wasn’t asking me to kill
somebody; just to give her husband, in Buffy-speak, a
And that is how I found myself inside the Crawfords’s
master bedroom ten minutes later, lying on their bed,
on top of the sheets and stark naked. I had noticed
the way Rande had been looking at me when we were
eating; I had hoped Cindy had not noticed the way I
looked at his denim-covered butt when he got up. He
was almost as sexy as his wife. But only almost.
The door opened, and I was afraid for a moment that it
was one of the children wanting some water – kids do
not need to know what a big black guy is doing lying
naked in their parents’ bedroom. I sighed in relief
when I saw it was Rande, casually dressed as usual,
and surprised to be greeted by this sight.
“Well?” I asked, seeing Rande’s eyes go all over me.
“Oh my,” the former model replied, smiling widely as
he closed the do
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