Live at Night with Jen Psaki Part I

[MasturbationSuperstar]

The studio lights dimmed to a sultry amber glow as the show's jazzy theme faded out. The audience--thirty or so sharply dressed adults--leaned forward in their seats, some already crossing their legs, others uncrossing them, uncertain of what they might witness.

The backdrop behind the velvet chairs and round glass table read simply:

JEN PSAKI: LIVE

Then she walked out.

Jen Psaki moved like a woman who'd never been told no--and never needed to be. Her scarlet silk blouse shimmered beneath the lights, tucked immaculately into a black skirt that hugged her hips with precision. Her heels struck the floor softly but definitively. A copper-red wave of hair framed her porcelain face. Her green eyes--sharp, almost amused--scanned the crowd like she knew exactly who had masturbated to her voice reading the news last night.

"Good evening," she said smoothly, taking her seat. "Tonight's topic is one we all think about, most of us lie about, and some of us... write about."

A few titters from the audience. A flash of white teeth as she smiled.

"Sex. Masturbation. Fantasies. Secrets." She let that last word linger like a breath against your neck.

The audience murmured.

"My guest tonight is a man who has turned those things into an art form. Erotic writer. Storyteller. Fantasist. Please welcome... Brad Hamilton."

Applause. You stepped out, hands cool but your chest warm. Jen stood to greet you, offering her hand. Firm grip. Professional.

"Brad," she said with a grin. "I've been reading your work."

She said it the way a woman says she's been reading you.

You sat opposite her, legs brushing under the table for just a second too long.

"I have to admit," she began, folding one leg over the other with slow, practiced elegance, "some of your stories made me... close my office door."

Laughter from the audience. A few knowing chuckles. Jen leaned in slightly.

"Your most recent piece--The Secretary's Undoing--was particularly evocative. The part where she kneels under the conference table while the quarterly earnings call continues... that was fiction, right?"

"Mostly," you answered, letting the corner of your mouth lift.

Jen laughed. "I like that answer."

She turned slightly to the audience. "Now, Brad has built a reputation not just on smut--though God knows it's very well-written smut--but on honesty. His characters confess. They expose themselves. They beg. They surrender."

Her eyes cut back to you.

"So tonight, we thought we'd turn the tables."

The audience stirred. You felt the current shift in the room. She wasn't here to flatter you--she was here to undress you. Not with her hands. With her questions.

"Let's start easy," she said. "Do you remember the first time you masturbated?"

A few gasps. A louder chuckle. Someone clapped.

You smiled. "I do. I was thirteen. It involved a VHS tape of a late-night movie and the living room couch."

"Leather or fabric?"

"Fabric. A poor choice in hindsight."

Jen laughed--genuinely. "Honest. I like that. Now," she said, her fingers tapping lightly on her notecard, "you write about domination. Submission. Risk. Shame. Public sex."

You nodded.

"Would you say those are fantasies you have, or fantasies you're willing to explore?"

"I'd say they're fantasies I've lived, at least in part. And fantasize about... in full."

A few moans from the audience, a couple of giggles. Jen raised a brow.

"Would you like to explore them now?"

The room froze.

You swallowed. "With you?"

She didn't blink. "We're live. You're exposed. The lights are on. The audience is watching. You tell me."

Your voice was calm. "Yes."

Jen smiled--something more private now. "Then let's go deeper."

She picked up a manila envelope from beneath her chair and held it up to the audience.

"Earlier today, Brad filled out a little questionnaire. We asked him to confess some of his dirtiest fantasies. Fetishes. What turns him on. What makes him come. Things even his readers haven't seen."

She opened it and read.

"Fetish: Women in power, especially those wearing glasses."

She slipped on a pair of slim black frames.

The audience applauded. A low, primal reaction pulsed in your chest.

"Fantasy," she continued, "being stripped mentally. Disarmed. Teased until begging."

Jen set the card down and leaned toward you.

"Are you begging yet?"

"Not yet."

"Hmm. Let's fix that."

She uncrossed her legs slowly. Her voice dropped half an octave.

"You've imagined it, haven't you? Being on this stage. Me, inches away. Watching your cock press against your zipper while you try to keep your answers clever."

The room tightened. You nodded.

"Have you ever come while thinking of me?"

You answered without shame. "More than once."

The audience gasped and broke into laughter, catcalls, and gasps.

Jen leaned closer. "Where?"

"In the shower. And once on the floor of my office."

"What were you thinking about?"

"Your voice. And what it would sound like if you said my name while riding me."

The audience reaction was a ripple of heat and sound. Jen's pupils widened just slightly.

"Take off your jacket," she said.

You hesitated just long enough to feel the room's pressure. Then you slid it off, your shirt clinging slightly to your chest.

"Now," Jen said, "tell us your favorite position."

You licked your lips. "Her on top. But only after she's teased me to the edge so many times I beg to be inside her."

Jen let the silence linger. The audience was on edge. Someone in the third row crossed their legs a little tighter. Another bit their knuckle.

"Brad," Jen said softly, "if I said I wasn't wearing panties tonight, what would you do?"

"I'd ask if I could confirm that for the audience."

More laughter. Some groans. The room was almost vibrating now.

"Stand up," she said.

You stood.

Jen rose to meet you. A subtle nod from her to the crew. The cameras adjusted. The lighting shifted to a darker, warmer hue.

She stepped in close. Her voice was barely a whisper.

"Tell them what you want to do to me."

Your throat was dry. "I want to kiss your neck. Slide your blouse open. Unhook your bra while your mouth stays on the mic."

Her breath hitched just barely.

"I want to press you against that glass table. Spread you open for them. Let them watch you drip."

Jen turned to the audience. "Should we let him?"

The response was electric--cheers, claps, a rising chant: "Let him. Let him. Let him."

She reached up, unbuttoned the first two buttons of her blouse, then stepped back.

"Well, Brad. This is your fantasy."

You moved behind her. Your hands found her waist, and with one slow pull, her blouse slid open, revealing a sheer black bra that barely held her.

Jen moaned softly--into her mic.

The audience was rapt. A man in the front row was openly adjusting himself. A woman two rows back had her hand on her inner thigh.

Jen turned. Her blouse hanging open, eyes on fire.

"You want to touch me?"

"Yes."

"Then kneel."

You dropped to your knees. Her skirt was tight. You reached up slowly, inching it over her hips. The smooth swell of her thighs, garter straps, and yes--no panties.

Jen turned toward the audience, her expression defiant and aroused.

"Would you look at that," she said. "He's speechless."

You buried your mouth between her legs. She gasped, one hand on your head, the other gripping the table. The studio erupted--cheers, gasps, a chant starting somewhere: "Go, Brad, go."

Jen writhed--gracefully, sensually. She was still performing--but now for herself.

When she finally pulled you up by your hair, her mouth was on yours instantly--tasting herself, owning the moment. Her mic slipped to the table.

"You're hard," she whispered.

"I've been hard since you walked out."

She looked out at the crowd. Her cheeks flushed, hair tousled.

Then she did the unthinkable.

She pulled your belt loose.

"Live," she whispered, "means unedited."

You reached for her hips, lifting her effortlessly onto the table. She lay back, skirt bunched at her waist, blouse open, the lights catching the sheen between her legs.

You entered her with one slow, deep thrust.

Jen cried out--hands gripping your arms. The audience was a blur now, but you could hear them--moaning, clapping, reacting. Some couples kissing, others touching themselves.

You fucked her slowly at first--measured strokes, her thighs gripping your waist, her heels clacking against the glass.

Her eyes were wild. Her voice broke.

"Harder," she growled.

You obeyed.

The table rocked. The mic picked up the wet sounds, the breathy cries, the thud of your bodies colliding.

Jen came first--loud, unrestrained, gasping your name into the live feed.

You followed seconds later, pulsing deep inside her, both of you trembling under the lights.

You stayed locked like that--panting, stunned, shining with sweat--as the audience erupted into the loudest applause of the night.

Jen sat up, hair wild, lips swollen.

She faced the camera.

"Well," she said breathlessly, "that concludes tonight's episode of Jen Psaki: Live."

She looked back at you.

"Brad Hamilton, everyone. Writer. Filthy mind. Excellent stamina."

Blackout.