Ingrid Tells All

Freelance journalist Sienna Westbrook-Brown interviews Ingrid Stiles, a young budding author of racy kinky novellas. For the interview, Stiles had donned four-inch stilettos that topped her out at four feet seven inches tall. I met up with her at the Film Festival, where she was a gem in the entourage of ******* [a prominent film producer-- name blanked according to Stiles's contract with us] who lost out for best picture. Stiles turned out to be extremely forthcoming, contrary to the rumors about her obsession with concealing her identity for the sake of her family. She said, “When I was thinking what to choose for a pen name, I first thought, oh yeah, I could call myself “Nov Ella” because my books are too long to be short stories, and too short to be full-fledged novels, but then I thought OMG it’s so twee, and I really want to be taken seriously as a writer.”Then she went silent for a moment, and added, “Does that sound kind of pompous and self centered?” I said, “Yes it does, in fact,”exaggerating my plummy British accent. She burst into a laugh. I knew at that exact moment that we were destined to be friends. She had appeared at the interview in a diaphanous chiffon frock that left very little to the imagination. As far as her tiny perfect body was concerned, I'd like to have one like it (except in a larger size). Pixyish she is, and beautiful. She didn't deny that her risqué books blossomed out of what people in her social circle had told her about their sex lives. She admits that the books are fiction –of a sort. Her description is, “It’s fiction that happens to be true.”
I asked her, “How do you keep your friends when their lives are going to be fodder for your fiction?”
"My friends are mostly big people and they're all titillated by being portrayed as long as they’re incognito," she told me. "And so am I. I already think that, being a writer, I’m involved in risky business, and I’m apprehensive imagining my mom reading something and busting me. So I don't allow my real name to be exposed anywhere. I'm super-careful about that. Luckily, the people in my social circle are in my social circle are ultra indulgent and protective of me because I've fucked most of them."
" That’s Ingrid. One minute sweet and vulnerable, and the next candid and--well--outrageous.
So here's a little taste of Ingrid's story
INGRID...and then we start really kissing, sucking at it like dehydrated nomads at an oasis. . The temperature rises. Tim, kissing and carrying me all the time like a baby, swaggers over to a desk between the parallel supply cupboards and sits me down, where he kisses me, and slides one hand inside my blouse and under my bra.
My purse is flopping against my side, my hands are flying around my body, grapple-hooking my clothes in a frantic effort to open the palace gates to my second, third, and fourth parties to this party.
In between kisses, I grunt, “Panties, panties. Off.” I flop back, raise my bottom, and he strips my panties down – zero to naked in point three seconds, then he launches into kissing me some more, and I grunt again, “Purse!” and “Condom!”
I tell you, I bite the end off that condom package like a starving beast at a piece of red meat, while out of the corner of my eye I'm ogling every move he's making to drop his pants, right until I have to extract the love-glove.
So when his Pierre Cardins come down and he urges, “Put it on, put it on!” I look at his equipment. Oh my god!
Tim is not extraordinarily well-endowed, just average, but I never realized how big an erect cock looks up close, and I say, “Did anybody ever run from that?”