That damned piece of steel had been Gloria's last work, a statue she titled The Innocents and one that won her first place in the Los Angeles Art Critics' Awards. But Gloria Devlin won't be winning any awards now, not unless they're giving prizes for the biggest slut in San Francisco County. It's been almost two years since Gloria informed me rather matter-of-factly, over breakfast I think it was now, that she and Larry Everet were taking off for the city by the Golden Gate, "splitting for a place with better vibes", she called it. And those better vibes didn't include me, or our son, Noah, then just two weeks away from turning four and hopelessly incapable of understanding why mom preferred the company of a kid young enough to be her son to the real thing, but maybe one day I can explain even that to him.
I sold that statue as soon as I could pull myself together; even with the constant boosting of a precocious wide-eyed toddler, it must have taken something like a couple of months. I say must have because that's a part of our sordid little estrangement that would have to come from someone else. Gloria's hasty exit with another man wasn't something I found easy to swallow, but the liquor I used to forget it was. Finally one October morning, I piled Noah and the statue in our pickup and headed for the Artist Co-op Galleries just north of Malibu. Gloria had built quite a name for herself as a sculptor by then, not just in Southern California but as far as New York, and it was a newly-transplanted New Yorker that finally picked up her last work.
He'd been in school at the same time Gloria was, though as widely apart in their curriculums as their worlds must have been. He had been studying finance and economics at the downtown division of New York University, while Gloria was struggling away as a budding young artist in the school's fine arts curriculum. I gathered from the conversation we had right after he dropped off the check that he'd had a bit of a crush on my wife, though she wasn't Mrs. Wright Devlin then, just a kookie artsy type I dated from time to time. But anyway, back to this guy. He paid me well for that statue, more than I'd hoped to get and probably more than it was worth. But I was in no position to feign decency; Gloria's exit had left me empty in more ways than one.
I'm a writer . . . and until that unseasonably hot autumn morning, a damn good one. I'd been used to knocking down twenty or thirty thou without really busting my ass; editors used to call me, and I enjoyed that rare pleasure of playing hard to get. But that was before . . . now I'm lucky to get an answer at all when I call any of those same fellows who used to bid for my typewriter time. And that Coldwater Canyon split level is now housing an insurance executive, I think, or maybe it's a mortician. I don't know, or care anymore.
Noah and I are going to give it a go down south, down in a little sleepy Mexican town where nobody cares that most of my inspiration comes from a quart-sized bottle now. I understand that accursed statue, Gloria's own twisted portrayal of a young couple in the throes of hvemaking, still wore that mantle of bad luck that had rubbed off on me when it settled in with its new owner. And I suppose, in some ways, his unahppy fate had not been a lot worse than mine, though his was a heUrof a lot more permanent. I remember reading about it in the newspapers-big-shot Hollywood executive and company pilot lost over Sierras in freak snowstorm.
Once or twice, I wondered about the statue, whether his widow would keep it or if it would go up for sale again, but the booze soon quenched any serious curiosity I might have had in that direction. Yet there was something strange about that statue, something that pushed it out ahead of any of her other works. I don't know exactly what it was, maybe she knew even then that she was on the dowhill slide. Maybe she'd somehow envisioned that eternal hell of heroin pain she had in store for her in San Francisco and determined to put everything she had into one last piece of art work. Like I said, I don't know, and probably I never will.
It's for sure I'll never find out from Gloria. Nobody outside of a few of those junkie friends of hers can even communicate with her now. But that statue was something special, that much I know. And somehow, as crazy as it might seem, I've had the feeling for two years that I might be seeing it again...
Chapter Two
Karen Bellser was alone in the empty Bel-Air ranch house. Mrs. Hansen, the one servant Karen had kept on after David's death, was off for the rest of the night; she'd driven her to the bus stop just before dark, to catch the eight fifteen express Greyhound to Bak-ersfield, where the elderly Swedish woman's daughter lived with her husband. Karen always hated Fridays, not that Mrs. Hansen was much company, just that the house always seemed even more empty when she was gone than during the rest of the week.
She'd thought often enough of selling the place. It was far too much house for just herself, just as it had been overly large for her and David before he died in that plane crash. But it had been David's prize in life, the one big purchase he held off on until he felt he'd made it to the top. But it hadn't helped him much when he hit bottom-the bottom of San Xavier Canyon in the high Sierras.
And now Karen was left alone, twenty six years old, uncommonly attractive, and still proud of the figure that David had spotted in the rushes for her first movie, when he was still head of California Film Services, leasing moviemaking equipment to all the major producers on the Coast. Actually that movie, The Naked Stranger, had been both her dramatic debut and her farewell performance, for David had insisted that she devote her time solely to being Mrs. David Bellser. And that was a task she had undertaken with relish; no woman could have wanted more in a husband than David. He was kind and gentle, and as powerful and bold as they come, a man who could start with a thousand dollar loan and some borrowed space over a garage on Sepulveda Boulevard and build it, in two short years, into the largest film equipment leasing company in the country.
David's trucks and specially-designed buses had been on every continent, filming everything from medical documentaries to first-run Hollywood spectaculars. And David had created it all himself, designing the quipment, making the sales contacts, and pushing, pushing, pushing until there wasn't another company that could touch him. But unfortunately, David, like too many corporate generals before him, knew well how to lead, but lacked the foresight to surround himself with able lieutenants. California Film Services crashed that night in the Sierras with him, for his company, like his wife, was scarcely more than an empty shell without the potent life-force of David Bellser to call the shots. Creditors and tax men swooped in like hungry carrion-eaters, and when they'd finished their lurid feast, young, blonde Karen Bellser was left with a very expensive house, a fast car, and very little else. They never found enough of David to bury.
There was the vague slam of a car door somewhere out on the street. In practically any other neighborhood in America, you wouldn't have noticed it. But in Bel-Air, where the homes occupied five and ten acres instead of postage stamp lots, noises were rare indeed, unless they came from one's own driveway, and Karen was expecting no one tonight; like most other nights, she planned to stay at home, lonely perhaps, but at least safe from the ravages of being a widow in a city full of wolves. There was liquor enough here, and none of the frightening rituals of supercharged southern California sex life to contend with.
The quick slam had become a shuffling of feet on the concrete walk. Karen sat unable to move, her heart thumping hard against her rib cage. She hated herself for being frightened. Christ, she was in one of the richest neighborhoods in the United States, patrolled by a private police service as well as the local one. What on earth could she be afraid of? But she was indeed afraid. If David were here, he'd simply walk to the door, switch on the ground's lights and see who the intruder was. Only now it wasn't so easy.
Summoning every ounce of courage she could muster, Karen rose from the living room sofa and walked to the entry foyer. Her mouth was so dry her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth and she was afraid she wouldn't be able to speak if she had to. Whoever this was prowling around her house at this hour, her only hope was to bluff them and scare them away. Or at least keep them outside until she could reach the police. She glanced at the phone, thought seriously of calling the Bel-Air emergency number without waiting to see who was there, but decided against it. After all, what if it was a friend.
Karen nearly laughed aloud at that last thought, remembering the cozy dinner parties and cocktail hours she and David had hosted when he was alive..But all that was before the bankruptcy and auction sale the attorneys had agreed on as the only way to settle the company's debts; now, the parties were all held elsewhere, in someone else's shining new home. And Karen Bellser was left out; money was more than important in Hollywood society.
Standing near the door, she took a deep breath. Her breasts rose high under the bright yellow nightgown with bikini panties she was wearing. Someone was definitely just outside, though they didn't appear to be trying the lock.
Biting her bottom lip, Karen pulled back the curtain on the glass side panel at the right of the front door, at the same time nicking on the lights from the doorside switch. Her lungs suddenly emptied with relief as the slender male figure came into full view. It was Bobby Joslin, David's office boy when he was alive, and the son of one of their neighbors, the Harold H. Joslins. Karen threw open the door.
"Bobby, what are you doing here so late!" she exclaimed. But her tone was not one of anger; anyone who still came to visit was welcome, even a nineteen year old boy.
"Gee, I'm sorry, Mrs. Bellser," he fumbled, looking very nervous and rather sheepish, "Dad asked me to drop by and ask you if I could use your riding mower. Ours is in the shop and I have to cut the lawn tomorrow."
Karen was puzzled, "Your father asked you to come over here at ten past midnight to see if my lawnmower was in use?"
"Oh, no, not actually," he explained, "He told me this afternoon, only ... well, a bunch of us guys went to the beach, and..."
"Oh, I see, laughed Karen. "You got a little sidestepped on the way over, huh? Well, come on in. I'll fix you a cup of coffee before you head back home. I'm afraid that red nose of yours is a dead giveaway."
Young Bobby was visibly embarrassed that his secret was out so easily. "Gosh, I had no idea it showed. Can you really tell I've been drinking, Mrs. Bellser? My Dad would kill me if he knew."
Karen showed the slender young man in and closed the door. "Bobby, if you'll pardon my humor at a time like this, it's as plain as the nose on your face."
The custom-designed bar David had been so proud of was in an alcove off the living room facing the long expanse of carpet that angled ninety degrees in the opposite direction in the dining room. Karen turned on the electric burner next to the stainless steel sink beneath the counter of richly inlaid walnut. She filled a copper water pot and placed it on the heating coil, and emptied a couple of spoonfuls of instant coffee into two glass coffee cups.
"Why don't you check in the utility shed and see if the mower is there, Bobby," Karen suggested. His nervous pacing and hand-twisting somehow annoyed her. "Mrs. Hansen takes care of those things, and she's off tonight." She thought for an instant she had caught a faint glimpse of something odd in the boy's eyes as he glanced up at her, but he was quickly gone again and she gave it no more attention.
When he returned and acknowledged that yes, ma'am the mower was there, and no, ma'am, it hadn't cranked itself up and driven away. Karen thought first of scolding him for being impertinent but then shuddered at the prospect of being old enough to treat this young man like a son. Especially since there wasn't that many years difference in their ages, a span no one would notice if she were forty five, and Bobby were, say, thirty eight. She poured them both a cup of very black coffee, then diluted hers with a healthy slug of good cognac, a trick for insuring a good night's rest she'd learned from the family doctor. She'd never understood why the liquor didn't just offset the caffeine, but somehow it seemed to work for her.
"How about a little of that for me, Mrs. Bellser? Or are you like my mother and think I'm too young to be drinking?" asked Bobby with a grin.
Karen hesitated, then, "No, Bobby, I'm not like your mother. Here, let me see your cup." She took her coffee and headed for the tiny sofa at the end of the bar. Only when she was sitting down did she notice she had instinctively grabbed the cognac on her way. It was an increasingly strong habit she was building these days, and one she didn't like at all. Karen Bellser.had no intentions of winding up like those has-been movie starlets you see dotting the hills of Hollywood, bleached-out shipwrecks adrift in a sea of booze and pills.
Bobby had finished his coffee and cognac and was helping himself to another shot, this time straight and in a brandy glass. She noticed he'd picked the right one from the five or six dozen glasses along the back bar without a second's hesitation. Hardly like the nervous teenager she'd pegged him for all along.
And something about the way he looked at her now made her suddenly very uncomfortable. She stirred uneasily under her gown, grateful that at least it covered her down to the middle of her thighs and wasn't particularly transparent, though when she looked down once she was aware that her breasts could be seen in clear outline, right down to pert jutting tips of her nipples as they pressed into the double layer of sheer silken fabric.
They talked for a while, awkwardly at first, then more easily for both of them. Perhaps it was the liquor that did it, but something in that short span of time helped to lower the barrier of seven years that stood between them. Karen found it easier to talk to young Bobby as she would to another person, to another man. And he was obviously not ill at ease in her company, though he did keep glancing from time to time at the long bare lengths of her legs. She'd been readying herself for bed when he came, and her legs glowed with the wetness of the baby oil she'd rubbed on them to ease the drying out from the hot California sun.
"Uh, what beach did you say you and your friends went to today?" Karen asked routinely during their conversation.
Bobby looked defensive suddenly. "I didn't say. How come you want to know?" he asked cautiously, his eyes squinted.
"It was just a simple question," replied Karen. "I'm sorry if it's something personal. We'll skip it."
Bobby's smile had returned. "Oh, it's not your fault. I'm sorry. It's just that I'm so used to my mother trying to pry it out of I me. She found out about the place once from j Elaine Rogger's mother. Elaine slipped up I and said something over the phone when her mother was listening in."
"Listening in? What kind of mother would listen in on her daughter's telephone calls?"
"Elaine's mother would," continued Bobby. "And so would mine. Anything to find out where skinny dip beach is."
"Skinnydip beach!" exclaimed Karen. "You've got to be kidding. There's no beach around here with a name like that!"
Bobby nodded. "I know that. It's just a name the kids use for it. Sort of a code name, you might say. It's really a private beach. Belongs to a really neat guy. Maybe he's a little kinky, but he lets us use it. We can all go nude and there's no cops or nosey neighbors around. It's totally isolated; the only way in is through his property, so nobody can complain."
Karen realized her mouth was hanging open, so she closed it. After a moment, she was eager to hear more about this incredible place. Christ, these kids were a lot more sophisticated than she gave them credit for. Nude swimming and cognac! What other surprises did Bobby have to offer. "What about this man who owns the beachfront? You said he was a little kinky?"
"Oh, yeah. He's got some kinda' weird hangups. Likes to have young chicks piss on him and things like that," he said matter-of-factly.
"Bobby! You shouldn't be talking like that! You know that can't be true," Karen nearly shouted.
"Oh, it's true enough all right. But with all the shit that goes on there in a good weekend nobody really notices the old guy's trip. Some of the girls just take turns keeping him happy. That's what nearly fouled us up. A few weeks ago it was Elaine's turn and she told one of her friends about it."
"You mean that's what Elaine's mother heard on the phone?" Bobby nodded. "No wonder her mother was upset. And yours too!"
"Aw, come off it, Mrs. Bellser," said Bobby. "You and your husband had some pretty wild parties over here not so long ago. I've heard Mom and Dad talking often enough."
"Bobby, I forbid you to talk like that," Karen shouted, jumping to her feet in a gesture she quickly realized was to have lasting repercussions. "I won't allow things like that to be said about David."
"Aw, all right, have it your way. Who cares about your old parties, anyway. We have more than our share of fun at the beach, anyway. More than any of you old-timers ever dreamed of," he said smugly, a little bolder now with the aid of Karen's cognac.
Karen hated herself, but she was annoyed. Not so much at Bobby's coarse rudeness, but at the inclusion of herself in his sweeping categorization of "old-timers". Christ, she was only twenty six years old, still a kid to most of the people she knew. Who the hell was this smart-aleck to say something like that!
She would have liked to have dropped the whole subject, to simply let Bobby's revelation of the teenager's wild beach scene fade from her memory. But she couldn't. . , she had stumbled onto something that fascinated her. There was something wickedly perverse and tempting about the subject her young neighbor had injected into their conversation ... something that seemed to tap a hidden well of salacious curiosity she'd not drunk from in quite some time; For a brief moment, she was reminded of those first days with David, or more truthfully, those first nights. "Uh, how many kids go to this ... this skinny-dip beach?" she asked, leaning forward intently.
Bobby looked away, uncomfortable now, "Oh, I can't really say."
Karen uncrossed her legs, noticing the quick darting glance of the young slender boy's eyes as a fleeting peek between her smooth glistening thighs was his for the taking. "Yes, you do know, Bobby, now tell me, I'd like to know."
Bobby eyed her with the hungry appreciative gaze of a grown man; her breasts were high and firm, pressed seductively against the sheerness of her nightgown. And he could see her legs and the soft inner flesh of her thighs, a smooth unbroken expanse of warm womanly softness that tunneled his stare into the tight white band of her bikini panties. "Oh, wow, are you asking for trouble, lady?" he murmured, almost under his breath.
"What are you talking about, Bobby?" demanded Karen, her thighs tightly shut now, but reflexively, not by design. "I think you'd better go now." She stood up and motioned toward the doorway, but Bobby only grinned.
"Come on now, Mrs. Bellser," he laughed, "You wouldn't be so curious about skinny-dip beach if you didn't have something on your mind, now would you?"
"Get out! Get out of here, Bobby, and never come back!" she screamed, her face contorted with anger. But even young Bobby noticed that a certain feel of seriousness was missing from her demand.
"No, not 'till I tell you about the beach parties. You're so damned interested, it's only fair you hear the whole story."
Bobby paused, waited for her to shout her hysterical command again, but there was nothing. Something had silenced her cries, some inner emotion greater than her anger had seized control. It was true, she did want to hear! She wanted to hear all of it, everything!
He moved from his chair, moved closer to her, his drink still in his hand. "We fuck, Mrs. Bellser, we fuck all week-end long. That's it in a nutshell. Four, five, six girls, and as many guys as the chicks will go for. Sometimes one of the girls will take on a dozen or more in a gang fuck, then..."
"No, I won't hear it! I don't want to hear any of this filth!"
"But of course you do, Mrs. Bellser. It's getting you all turned on, isn't it? Just thinking about that lucky girl getting it from a dozen different boys in one night, sometimes two or three of 'em at once. You like that, don't you? Well, don't you?"
The thought was electrifying, she shuddered all over at just the tiniest mind's image of what Bobby described for her. God, what could be happening to her? What was it about this boy's story that could do this to her? "No, Bobby, you're wrong, I don't want to hear it," she said rather unconvincingly. Bobby was standing beside her, close against her right shoulder as she still sat below him. Suddenly now he was pressed hard against her bare upper arm; she could feel his youthful hardness throbbing beneath the fabric of his jeans. She wanted to slap him, to push him away, to banish him from this house that her beloved husband, David, had once lived in ... but she couldn't. His young rock-hard cock seemed to hold her as it if possessed some mysterious power all its own. She could feel little shivers of wicked wanton excitement radiating throughout her body from the point of its electric contact with her naked flesh.
"Sure you do, ma'am," he grinned arrogantly now, grinding the bulge of his youthful loins harder against her skin. Karen shivered all over. It hadn't been like this for years, not since the very first months with David, and even then, not so blatantly, glaringly sensuous as this moment. Bobby was young and slim and hard ... his whole body seemed to be supercharged with the vibrant, sensuous virility of youth. "P-Please, don't..." Her voice was suddenly weak and cracked, her lips trembling as she spoke.
"You'd like one of our little parties, Mrs. Bellser. You could do a little striptease for the guys, maybe. Sort of parade around the beach there in the light of the fire and strip for us. I'll bet you could do a real cocktease, lady. You'd have everybody cumming in their pants before you'd finished. How about it, you'd like that, huh?"
Karen suddenly felt very giddy, nearly faint from the impact of this young boy's words. Yes! He was right! God, it was insane, but he was right! It was filthy and evil, everything she'd said it was . . . but it was exciting!
"I think I've had too much to drink,'' she said weakly, her voice shaking as she spoke. Her head suddenly reeled, the room spinning around her, and she felt a pair of strong, young arms help her to the carpet below her chair. She sprawled limply at his feet, her nightgown riding up along her gleaming thighs nearly to the flimsy band of white nylon concealing her now moistiy throbbing pussy. She looked up at him; from down here he was like a young giant, towering high above her as she lay helpless at his feet.
She looked up, mute . . . Bobby had unbuttoned his jeans. He slowly lowered his zipper, stopping halfway as he grinned lewdly down at her near-nakedness. She wondered if it was all some big, insane joke, but he continued. In a moment's time, he had stripped his jeans from his young athletic legs; something struck her as odd. At first she couldn't pinpoint it, but then . . . of course, his legs are strong and sinewy, but as smooth and hairless as a young girl's! He rolled down the waistband of his crisp white athletic undershorts. Karen immediately hated herself for not catching it, but a quick gasp escaped her lips as she caught her first glance of his naked manhood. His young, hard cock was incredibly long and straight like a lance. A. tiny clump of coarse hair surrounded its base, otherwise his pelvis was flat and smooth, unbroken by a single wrinkle or ounce of flabby flesh.
"I pegged you right a long time ago, lady," Bobby confessed, "But I always figured it would be too risky. But now it doesn't matter any more. That pretty little pussy of yours is mine, Mrs. Bellser!"
Karen tried to rise on her elbows, but suddenly her neighbor's son was on top of her with all his weight. She collapsed back against the thick pile carpeting, teetering on the brink of immediate and unconditional surrender. She could barely contain her wanton excitement as his young eager hands fumbled with her nightgown, pushed it up over her breasts so that now the soft melon-shaped mounds were naked and vulnerable. Her nipples erupted into aching hardness at the first sensation of cool air across her shivering flesh; the tiny pinkish buds quivering under his clumsy, but unmistakably eager touch. His lips lowered to one proudly jutting mound, then locked onto the crinkly circle of her nipple. A jolt of electricity raced along her arched spine as his tongue lashed out at the passion-hardened, pulsing tip of her nipple. "No, no ... this isn't right, please .,. you mustn't!"
Bobby raised her head between both his opened palms and kissed her firmly on the mouth, his own lips wide and his tongue probing hard against her sealed teeth. She held him back as long as she could, yielding only when, finally he squeezed the delicate bud of her nipple between two of his fingers, causing a deep moan of helpless surrender that gave, his tongue access to the moist depths of her mouth and throat. This was no kiss of tenderness and love, this was an open, undeniable invitation to lust, pure and simple! She felt her lips parting, her mouth opened, and Bobby's tongue like a serpent's lashing around hungrily, searchingly. And like some wanton savage, she found herself responding with an incredible surge of passion she had long forgotten, her tongue burrowing into his fresh young mouth.
Finally, allowing her to catch her breath, Bobby ceased his frantic, passionate kisses as his fingers teased in under the elastic leg-band of her sheet white panties. His lips were at her ear, "If you were down at the beach stripping for all the guys, these are the panties you should wear, nice and low-cut. And so sexy!" His fingers rolled her panties down over the swell of her hips, exposing the first gentle fluff of her soft pubic mound. His fingertips paused to play in the curly hair, much like a child toying with a new discovery. "You could prance around with your big tits bouncing and drive the boys insane. You'd like that, wouldn't you? You'd like to dance around, rolling your panties down while they watched, pulling your prick-tease act and showing them your naked pussy, wouldn't you?"
Bobby cupped his hand over the soft pink folds of her vaginal lips, feeling it all warm and furry beneath his touch. Karen responded with a gushing sigh as her body shivered convulsively and then relaxed, her womanly secrets now open to this young handsome intruder.
"We could all watch you there in the firelight, your tits sticking out real nice like. We could watch your nipples get all hard and shivery and the goose-bumps break out on your naked skin from the wind off the surf. How about that, Mrs. Bellser?" He could see the effect his lascivious description of the lewd acts was having on her; her eyes were two thin smoky slits, her lips, dry now and parched, hung half open as a long, low moan escaped her throat in answer to his soft, rhythmic fondling of her naked pubic mound. Her blonde hair spilled seductively onto the carpet in a sort of fan-like swirl around her head. Bobby nearly laughed as he noticed the halo-effect the golden mane produced around her twitching head.
"Please, Bobby, we mustn't do this . . ." Her eyes were closed and her words bore the deeply-moving sincerity of a telephone company recorded message. Her hands were at her sides, relaxed and motionless, save for an occasional twitch as the young man's ringers stroked the soft, flaxen-blonde curls of her pussy-hair under the leg band of her panties, her body involuntarily beginning to move steadily in rhythm to his gentle caress.
"You'd like one of our parties, wouldn't you Mrs. Bellser?" Bobby implored through gritted teeth. "You wish you were the girl last week-end who got it from all the guys, don't you? You'd like a dozen different cocks cumming in your pussy and everywhere else in one night, huh?" Karen only moaned painfully at his words. "Answer me!"
It suddenly came out in an uncorked rush, the anguish of countless nights alone in the cold expanse of king-size bed that had once been her marital bed and was now a king-size nightmare for her to face night after night. Suddenly her body was aflame with the rekindled passion that had lain dormant so long, a smoldering ash of barely-burning desire, but ready at a moment's notice to burst into a hellish inferno of unrequited passion and need. "Oh, yes! Yes, Bobby, I'd like it more than you can imagine. I'd love all those hard young cocks inside me! Yes, yes!"
Above her, Bobby smirked victoriously pulling his hand away from the warm moist furrow of her pussy and dropping his full weight onto her, his hot aching cock ground against the smooth plane of her whitely quivering belly like a Kafkaesque dream, the image of Bobby's boyish young face swirled before her, innocent yet accusing; a child, and still, her master. Her mouth opened, her words came from the depths of her subconscious mind, "You can do anything to me you like," she groaned, her whole body writhing now as the ripples of radiant ecstasy swept over her from the rhythmic magical caresses he was bestowing on her long-dormant womanhood.
Bobby seized her shoulders and kissed her lips frantically; Karen's response was immediate and unrestrained. "Oh, it's so nice, Bobby, so nice," she murmured in a husky whisper.
"Say you want it, Mrs. Bellser... say you want me to fuck you. Say it!"
"Yes, yes, I do, Bobby. Please fuck me long and hard and deep!" Her last pretense at morality and decency had been lost now; she was a squirming, writhing mass of passion and lust, a woman in desperate need. Her magnificently formed body lay nearly nude and helpless beneath the nineteen-year-old; every fiber of her very being ached for his virility, his surging youthful hardness to fill her, quench the agonizing holocaust of unanswered passion flaming hotly around in her naked belly. She spread her legs and tilted the jucture of her naked thighs at him, "Fuck me all you want, Bobby! Please!"
The young neighbor boy lifted her and tore off her nighgown, yanking it over her shoulders as she lifted her arms in assistance. Her breasts were totally free and unrestrained now, large firm hillocks that danced with a spirit of their own beneath his eager stare. She lay back, shivering as if chilled by an artic blast as his tongue snaked over the newly exposed curves and valleys of her breasts. His whole mouth closed over the circle of her nipple and sucked voraciously; Karen was alive with the spasms of her lust for this virile teenage neighbor boy who'd come so rapidly into her life. Then his teeth nibbled and pinched each full rounded globe, her nipples quivering and broadcasting ripples of pleasure throughout her body along the messageway of her naked spine. Below the soft sparse curls of her pubic strands, her pussy-lips puckered out sensously as her cunt passage contracted and flowered open of its own accord in answer to Bobby's phrenetic fondling of her body from head to toe, moistening even more the tautly-stretched crotch band of her already half-soaked panties.
Bobby pulled away from her; for a second, she only stared dumbly, her eyes half focused and glazed with passion. "I want you to suck it first," he said, then stood up and roughly took her head in his hands, his fingers knotted in her luxuriant blonde locks. "Tell me how you'd like to suck it. Say how much you'd like it."
Without hesitation, fingers trembling, Karen reached forward and took the erect young cock in her hands, gasping softly as she felt its throbbing young hardness. Just the sight of it was like a new experience for her; it was as if David's death had ended her sex life, and now... now it was being reborn again. And with an intensity she had never felt before. This young virile cock she now fondled like a precious stone was beautiful, a gleaming, alabaster monument to this young man's untapped virility, hard and young like him. "Say it, Goddamnit!" he repeated.
"Yes, I want to," she cooed, "I want to suck it, Bobby. I want your beautiful prick in my mouth... fucking it all the way to the back of my throat." She felt herself quiver from the wickedness of the words she was using. But the unmistakable truth that she meant every syllable of it was more thrilling still.
Gently, she pulled the distended, blood-filled cock toward her mouth, on her knees now, as Bobby needlessly pushed her lips forward. His cock loomed magnificently before her passion-blurred eyes and she relished the taste of his youthful hardness between her moistly clinging lips. She was strangely proud of the single gleaming drop of fresh young semen that oozed excitedly from the tiny eye in the mushroom end of his young cock, proud that it was the sight of her nakedness that had caused it to be there. Slowly, lovingly, she caressed the throbbing roundness of it, her eyes sriining as it swelled even larger and harder between the soft caressing strokes of her small hands. It soared out from his smooth hard belly like a young sapling, longer than any cock she'd seen before, thin and arrow-straight. It was so huge it seemed threatening in her gentle grip; it was an experience she could not remember feeling before, this deliciousness of total subjugation and helplessness at the hands of a man. And this was undeniably a man that stood before her, her fingertips told her that if nothing else did.
Slowly, cautiously at first, the tip of her tongue swished the dew-drop from the end of his cock, then tasted it appraisingly. The virile young sweetness was delicious to her! God, she wanted him to cum in her mouth and she'd do anything to make it happen!
Eagerly, stifling the moan that rolled from her throat, she ovaled her glistening, lipstick-rimmed lips and let his hard youthful cock slide wetly in, filling her mouth, slithering further and fruther in, almost touching her tonsils, until she was certain she'd choke. Then, teasingly, withdrawing it to the very tip of the smoothly throbbing young head.
It was wickedly delicious. Her body quivering with excitement, Karen wished for a dozen boys like this one, hard and smooth and young. Bobby began rhythmically pumping in and out of her widely ovaled lips now as Karen sucked and swirled the long fleshy cock around in her saliva-wet mouth, her tongue coursing over the length of the hard shaft. Bobby fucked her mouth faster still, "Suck it real hard, Mrs. Bellser, baby!"
Karen obeyed, far beyond all reason and sensibility, sucking as hard as she could, determined to somehow milk all the virile teenage energy from his young naked body, to drain his young liquid manhood into her hungrily clasping lips.
With a sudden cry, Bobby pulled himself free of her wet sucking grip and pushed her back onto the floor, gasping, "Gret your legs open ma'am. Time for a little sixty-riining!"
Obediently, Karen followed his excited command, lying fully spread-eagle, naked on the carpet as Bobby tore her panties down the remainder of her smoothly tapered legs, nearly yanking them to shreds as he hurriedly finished the enviable task of stripping the twenty-six year old blonde widow completely naked. Karen had never felt more totally naked or deliciously wicked and wanton. She watched intently as young Bobby knelt on all fours over her, his head over her thighs, his gorgeously virile cock and ripely-swollen balls dangling temptingly over her face. Eagerly she took it and stroked it in her fingers, her tongue straining out for it but falling short. Bobby lowered his naked slender form onto hers and Karen seized his long cock eagerly as it came close to her pursed lips. She let it slide deeply down her throat, her lips tight around it as it slithered into her mouth, her hands reaching up and cupping the firm athletic cheeks of his youthful buttocks, struggling to pull his loins down hard against her face. She yearned for the pungent dampness of his pelvis against her face, the brushy tickle of his boyish pubic hair on her lips.
His tongue had found the pink fleshy lips of her moistly waiting pussy and was probing teasingly at the soft wet walls of the hungrily quivering passage. She pulled her knees back as far as she could and opened her legs to the fullest, laying the full naked expanse of her softly hair-fringed vagina open to him like a pagan love feast. Bobby's insistently probing tongue found the throbbing, nerve-filled bud of her clitoris and began licking at it hungrily. A fresh lightning bolt of wanton ecstasy raced through her naked torso with every electrifying touch of his tongue on the super-sensitive little bud.
Like the prestidigitations of a stage magician, this young man had somehow swept away every trace of the old Karen Bellser with his touch on her shivering flesh. Gone was the young girl who was before, and in her place, a passion-wracked, maddened savage, a wild-woman aflame with an animal lust of such magnitude that it threatened at any second to consume her bodily in its orgasmic inferno.
Uttering a muffled cry, she felt the hurried, unexpected onrush of a coming orgasm and she sucked harder and more hungrily, her buttocks twisting up and rotating madly around the focus of Bobby's ravenously sucking lips and probing tongue. A brilliant kaleidoscope of colors exploded in her brain as she suddenly came, bucking upward viciously and spasmodically, her body held rigid, her whitely contracting buttocks arched high-up off the carpet in wildly trembling spasms as she came again and again with the young teenage neighbor boy still sucking frantically at the wetly soaking lips of her greedily pulsating cunt.
With a gasping cry, she fell back limp, Bobby's cock slipping wetly from her lips while her head tossed from side to side, her eyes rolling strangely around in their sockets. She nearly lost consciousness, weakened beyond endurance from the delicious ravages of her orgasm. Bobby was moving around over her, but she was only half aware. He was breathing hard, gasping in the air in huge lungfulls, his lips back on hers again as she tasted the pungent juices of her own ecstasy. Her legs were still doubled back and in an instant, she felt the sudden push of something hard and persistent against the sensitive hair-lined furrow of her still throbbing pussy. And in scarcely an instant more, a resurgent wave of awareness and decency broke over her. Her mind was clearer now, able once again to think rationally and sensibly, and she knew this wasn't right.
"No, Bobby, stop! Oh God, I can't! I won't let this happen! I . . . Aaaaaggggghhhhhh!" Her protesting cries were cut short by an agonizing scream that shook the glass in the windows as the young man thrust with all his strength into her nakedly upturned cuntal slit, his cock sliding relentlessly into her tightly lubricated passage, wet with he own orgasmic juices and his saliva from moments before. The long unused walls of her vagina gave way in rippling waves of passionate surrender before the headlong dive of his long hard cock far down into the depths of her belly. Karen winced under the sudden intense pain, but her will to fight this lascivious ravishment of her loins was gone, driven away with the first deliciously skewering thrust of this youthfully hard prick deep up inside her totally defenseless belly. She felt stretched and filled beyond belief, and a salaciously lewd thrill ran through her that left a trail of involuntary quivers in its wake.
She kicked out in the air and locked her arms and legs around his tense young body and pulled him close. The thrill of pleasing this young boy with her cunt, of bringing him ultimate fulfillment, was overpowering; It was like discovering a new talent, a long-hidden ability one never knew existed. She felt pleasurably like a slut, some two-dollar whore off the streets, and now she wanted nothing more than to fuck like one, to give this half-man, half-boy a thrill he'd never forget. She wanted to show him she was better than all those young, inexperienced girls at his beach parties! She wanted to show him a real woman!
Bobby began fucking her hard, his cock slipping with a wet sluicing noise in and out of her tightly stretched cunt as Karen held it locked firmly in the grip of her soft, hair-lined pussy lips as hard as she could. Nothing mattered but this, nothing counting for anything except being fucked by this boy as she'd never been fucked before!
Somehow, by totally abandoning everything she knew was right and decent, Karen found a new freedom even greater than that she had known before. She had, with this simple lustful act, filled a long-empty void in her life that she had accepted as being permanently empty. She found herself growing aroused again, growing more intensely desirous of lewdness and obscenity by the second, by each long punishing stroke of his de-liciously-hard cock deep into the moistly willing channel of her vagina. She could feel another hot blinding orgasm coming on and suddenly it exploded with double the fury of the first one and she could hold back her muffled scream no longer, "Yes ... YES! ... AAAAAGGGGHHHHhhhhh..."
Over her, his face contorted from the strain of the maddened pace, the young neighbor boy fucked harder and harder into her ravenously starved cunt, propelling their sweat-soaked bodies across the carpet with the blunted force of his furious thrusts. Christ, this was nothing like the girls he knew, this was no teeny-bopper naked under him. This was an honest-to-God woman, a woman who'd probably been fucked by lots of grown men in her life, and now she was writhing with ecstasy from his fucking! Damn, he'd give her the ride of her life!
Their breath came in pantings gasps now, their mouths open and Karen's sweat-soaked hair matted in thin, fine wisps across her face and eyes as they ground tightly together as one, sliding wetly against each other in a lewdness that only heightened their excitement. Karen could feel the young man's hard muscular chest smashed against hers, flattening her naked breasts under his strength. Her nipples were quivering uncontrollably, rubbing sensuously against his hardness as they wildly writhed against each other.
More unconscious than not, Karen felt herself cumming again, all the while thinking, Oh God, he's going to fuck me to death! Hell never stop!
She started to moan, and then couldn't stop herself as the agonizing cries gushed forth from her throat like the wild, wet surge of the orgasmic juices from her ravaged cunt. And Bobby too, frantically pistoning into her with long, deeply impaling thrusts, began to gasp and felt his cock swelling, straining as if to burst the hotly clinging walls of her vagina. Suddenly they both gasped aloud, mindless half-words and grunts. Their mouths locked tightly together as Karen felt a fourth and final bone-shuddering orgasm snap through her body like the cracking of a bullwhip. She was suspended in space, blasted with a heat more intense than she had ever known before as every nerve ending in her body exploded like a miniature grenade.
Bobby's throbbing young cock blasted a scalding hot flood of viscous sperm greater than she'd ever felt before, pumping in incredible quantities a seething stream of his youthful, potent sperm in her cock-ravaged cunt again and again until finally she could stand no more. Mercifully, she blacked out, her body at last dropping to the carpet from its painfully arched position as young Bobby Joslin's emptying penis jerked out the last of its thick white sperm in the deepest depths of her limply spread body.
When Karen once again dared to open her eyes, her youthful lover was gone. It was ak most dawn outside; she'd slept the night through as the neighbor boy had left her, naked and contorted on the thick pile carpet. The shades were still drawn from the night, blotting out the bright California morning, except for one skylight in the living room, the one that was directly over the statue David had been so fond of. It was primitively erotic, much like the Hindu temple carvings from India, but-bore the title The Innocents. David never talked much about it, but from the attention he lavished on it and the secretive way he went about buying it, Karen knew it was more to him than just a piece of art. He had mentioned the sculptress, Gloria Devlin, and she'd long guessed there might have been something between her husband and that woman, though it surely didn't matter at all now.
The morning light splashed in a fountain of gold through the roof glass and bathed the steel statue in a cascade of gleaming reflections. It seemed eerie, somehow ... that light coming down from the sky when nothing else was illuminated. Karen struggled to her feet, a stinging wash of tears blurring her vision as she winced from the pain in her ravaged vagina. Oh, David how could I... how could I have done that? I'm so sorry, darling, so sorry!
Chapter Three
Karen would have never accepted Art Albertson's invitation to any kind of party, much less one where she suspected she would be one of only a handful of guests. Al-bertson had been one of David's biggest clients, as well as his first, and it had fallen to her to entertain the great Mr. Hollywood Producer whenever he chose to drop in inopportunely, and always unannounced. He had never made a secret of his lust for David Bellser's young blonde wife, even going so far as to make an outright pass at her once while David was just in the kitchen getting ice. Yes, Art Albertson was one name she simply crossed out of her mind when she'd recovered from David's death; if there was anything good to come out of the shattering disaster of the loss of her husband, it was the knowledge that she would never lay eyes on that fat, leering woman-chaser again.
And yet, now, just ten minutes ago, she'd agreed when his secretary Christina called to be present at his Malibu house for a get-together. Even now she could hardly believe she had said yes.
It certainly wasn't Art's winning ways that changed her mind for her; there wasn't a coarser lecher in Hollywood. And the particularly unpleasant memories of one afternoon in Albertson's Wilshire Boulevard offices were certainly less than endearing. That was before she met David, when she was just another would-be film actress, freshly arrived in the Movie Capitol, armed with barrels of optimism derived from a successful year in stock theatre productions and a couple of words of encouragement from friends who were confident that Karen would be the hottest thing to hit the Coast since Lana Turner was yanked off that drugstore stool in Schwabs. Art wasn't a man to beat around the bush; he'd more than hinted that afternoon that there was one sure way to get recognition with Albertson Films.
And that was a route she would rather have died than follow.
But it was young, nineteen year old Bobby Joslin who changed all that. In a sense, anyway. That night last week was going to be a very, very important turning-point in Karen Bellser's life, that much she was sure of now. She'd not understood at first, of course, and the days immediately after her horrible nightmare with her young neighbor, Bobby, had been mostly hours of nearly-hysterical crying laced with fits of depression and bouts with the bottle, most of which she lost.
Karen had wondered then, as now, if she had lost her mind completely. She remembered hearing about aging movie-queens and their retinues of young lovers . . . God, that couldn't be happening to her! How could she be an aging anything at twenty-six! But, yet she couldn't escape the agonizing truth of that fateful night with her young neighbor. Something had happened . . . some hidden switch had been thrown deep in her psyche. And that nineteen-year-old kid had managed to do something to her no other man had managed.
Maybe she'd have gotten over it, maybe with only a couple of days to herself she would have just catalogued it away as one of those things that just happens. One of those mistakes we all make once in our life and is best just forgotten.
Only Karen wasn't fated to be that lucky. Saturday afternoon, not quite twenty-four hours after nineteen-year-old Bobby Joslin left the Bellser house, Karen pulled into a hamburger place off Sunset, not far from the coast. It was just a spontaneous act, a happening born out of nothing more complicated than a sudden craving for a double-hamburger. But Karen would have been far better off to have gone hungry, for when she pulled her Mach 1 Mustang into one of the few available places and pressed the intercom buzzer to order, the sound of girls giggling and young boys laughing caught her ear. In a drive-in full of teenagers, noise like that was far from uncommon, but there must have been something, some word or sound, that caused her to notice. And when she turned to see, she found herself parked right next to a blue convertible. Loaded with Bobby and a gang of his friends! Probably the same ones who spent those wild sex-fifled nights at their private beach. It didn't take much figuring to tell the object of their amusement ... it was her! She could still hear their awful shrieks and howls of derision as she raced away, leaving behind her a trail of burned off rubber from her tires.
And it was with that horrible incident in mind that Karen received the phone call from Christina Halborg, one of David's steno pool before the company collapsed, and now Art Albertson's private secretary. And from what people said, she was his very private secretary. Christina seemed almost reluctant to deliver her boss's message; it was easy to feel the animosity Christina bore for any woman Albertson deemed important enough to extend a personal invitation to, especially when, as Karen learned in their ensuing conversation Christina was going to be on vacation, and away visiting her sister in San Francisco. Even over the phone, Karen could easily sense that she was hoping for the usual refusal, for this wasn't the first time Art had phoned his greetings and struck out.
But this time, it was different. Maybe it was the stinging memory of those teenagers laughing at her ... perhaps the unconscious desire to prove to someone, even if only herself, that she was still normal. Still capable of attending a dinner party with a group of peers, still the same Karen Bellser who used to so ably make this poolside cocktail circuit without losing a breath. In any case, the answer had been yes, and just the satisfaction of that long astonished pause on the opposite end of the line was reward enough. She'd thought immediately afterward of changing her mind, or maybe just not showing up. But no, something had to change. Karen was determined to get out of that Bel-Air house, to get out of it before it destroyed her. She'd tried one avenue already, and the pressures of loneliness had driven her to an unspeakable act she would probably find impossible to forget. No, it was time to get into the swing again ... or God knows who she would let take Bobby Joslin's place between her nakedly spread legs.
Chapter Four
Art Albertson's place was like the Hollywood stereotype of a producer's home, especially a rich bachelor producer. From the outside, you could get the distinct feeling that any second now, a director would shout "strike the set", and an army of stagehands would come from behind the trees and take the false fronts down and load them into a fleet of flatbed trucks. Art always called it his Malibu place so named to distinguish it from his Beverly Hills place, though the Hills mansion was only rented, and that through the company, as a slightly-illegal tax dodge. Art belonged to an age that thought Malibu places and Fleetwood limousines with push-button telephones were marks of a man's worth; some of the newer, and more talented filmmakers about Los Angeles would have laughed themselves silly from just one look at this place.
Wyoming Skies, it was named, and so read the brass plaque that adorned the entrance gates off the beach highway, though this place was about as far from Wyoming as one could travel without getting wet. Actually it was named for Art's first film, one that barely broke even, but established him in the Film City as a top commerical film producer, one nearly devoid of talent or appreciation of the film as art, but a man who could be counted on to bring a film in on time and produce a money-making product.
To Art Albertson, making films was like making neckties, which, coincidentally, was what he did before moving west to seek his fame and fortune. As Karen drove her Mustang through the opened gates, she remembered a remark David had once made, that the sign should better read Handsom' Ties, for it was necktie money that got him on his way. A Negro gentleman, clad all in white and looking for all the world like an extra in an ante-Bellum movie, greeted her and took the keys to her car. Art himself was in the doorway; she could identify him by the distinctive egg shape of his body, nearly disguised in a three hundred dollar tailor-made suit, but still unmistakable, even in the dark.
"Karen, baby! I never thought you'd actually make it!" One arm went up in the air like a signal of some sort, the other never left its iron grip on a tall whisky and soda.
"Well, looks like you were wrong," smiled Karen, trying bravely to get things off on the right foot. "I told Christina I'd be here, and here I am."
Art paused to give her the usual Hollywood greeting, a huge hug and a kiss on the cheek; followed by the extra gesture best left for producers, directors and star properties, an affectionate pat on the behind, which Karen artfully dodged. "Christina said you had other plans and probably couldn't come," he said.
Karen almost laughed, but thought better of it and decided not to give the girl's charade away. She wasn't really surprised- in Hollywood everyone lives in constant, dread of being bumped off the top. And Christina obviously considered her a threat to her cozy little scene with the big-time producer. "Oh, well, my plans didn't work out. I'd rather come to your party anyway, Art."
Albertson roared with laughter, sloshing the top third of his drink onto the entry foyer carpet, "Boy, that's one helluva lie, sweetheart, but thanks for the effort."
Karen only smiled, her face dead-pan. It was a technique she'd mastered many, many parties ago.
"Come on in," gestured Albertson, "There are a lot of people here anxious to see you again."
There was nothing for the foyer closet, as Karen had come in only a matching hot-pants and jacket outfit with a knit form-fitting top and a pair of thigh-high vinyl boots. It was the first time since the plane crash that she'd worn anything so daring, though for the film set, she supposed, this was hardly more than something to wear shopping. She looked around quickly, anxious to see the changes Art had made since she was last here. Hardly anything was the same, but then, he had always been extremely popular with the Hollywood interior designers, since he usually threw everything out and started over at least every two years.
The living room was sunken, and trailed away in an enormous expanse of white carpeting onto the redwood deck that overlooked the Coast Highway and the overpriced shacks along the Malibu Beach strip. A huge stainless-steel Swedish fireplace dominated the room, and through the open doorway that led into the Albertson study and smoking room, Karen could see an array of electronic grown-up toys that would have turned Hugh Hefner green with envy. A battery of dials, switches, and gauges from every room in the house, along with four television screens and a panel full of tape decks. She recalled vaguely hearing about this from someone, that he was equipped to run video tapes of all his movies, channelled to any room in the house, as well as the latest rushes from whatever film he happened to be shooting at the moment.
"Karen! Karen Bellser!" There was a grating high-pitched shriek from somewhere in the milling two dozen or so that shuffled around the living room in search of someone less accomplished, less successful than themselves. Karen scanned the blank faces until she stopped one with an unusually insipid smile painted across it. It was Marjorie Rothman, the wife of Albertson's top director, Daniel Jacob Rothman, a specialist in, aptly enough, Biblical spectaculars, though his time was spent nowadays on sex-sational thrillers like Laura's Men and The Island of Dr. Sexus. "Come and join us, dear," continued the empty face, "It's been forever since I saw you last."
She answered all the expected questions about her life now; yes, she was still in Bel-Air; no, she had no plans for another movie; and finally, yes, why don't you drop by sometime for a chat. A silver tray loaded with drinks appeared at her elbow and Karen picked a potent-looking Scotch on the rocks-she was going to need some kind of fortification if she was to make it through this evening without losing her mind.
Marjorie soon wandered off, satisfied that there was no fuel here for a juicy bit of gossip, and Karen went through the motions of being friendly with a succession of Mar-jorie's, both male and female, until she'd made the full circuit and could be awarded entry into the chattering crowd, confident again of full membership. It was an honor she would have preferred to decline. More than once she caught herself weighing the choices, Whafs really worse, a life like this night after night, or an endless parade of teenagers like Bobby Joslin?
It was well after three and the guests were pretty well thinned out, leaving now in twos and fours for late nightcaps at another, equally as tasteless, monument to wealth, and Karen was, herself, choosing between one last Scotch or the drive back up Sunset Boulevard through the hills to Bel-Air. But she didn't have to make a decision, for Art, fresh from another round of emotionally rich good-byes, was at her side with a fresh glass.
"One more for the road, honey?"
Karen nodded, "Sure, why not. I'm not doing anything important in the morning.''
"You could be, you know," said Albertson, his voice a bit lower now.
"Now, Art Albertson," Karen pouted, "If I didn't know what a gentleman you are, I'd think that was a proposition."
Albertson held up both his arms as if he was being mugged. "Karen, I'm surprised at you. That was the old Art... you're talking to a reformed man."
"Yeah, I'll bet," snickered Karen. "Just what did you have in mind if it wasn't a roll in the sack," she asked, looser now from the liquor-courage she had found.
Art placed both his hands on the blonde's shoulders, in a fatherly gesture that seemed absurdly phony coming from him. "I was talking about your career, Karen. You could be starting on another film tomorrow, and I must say it's about time."
Karen turned away. The conversation had shifted to a topic that was serious with her, and she did not want to have to deal with anything painful tonight. "I'd rather not talk about it, Art," she said quietly.
"Well, I'd certainly like to discuss it. I'm starting shooting on Bravata tomorrow, I guess you heard."
"Yes, Rothman told me about it. Something about a cavalry hero in the Mexican Wars?"
"Right, and it's on location in the Guerrero hills. We're using the company villa in Acapulco for a shooting base. And there's a part in it for you."
"Oh, come off it, Art," Karen retorted, "I haven't been in front of a camera in years. I don't even know if I can still act... if I ever could, that is."
Albertson was persistent, but without the Hollywood brashness to his manner this time that Karen found so repugnant. She listened . . . mostly because she had never heard him like this. "The screen tests you made, remember the scene. Well, I've got it, and a full print of The Naked Stranger. Your old studio gave it to me, and I've got full assurance that they would not stand in the way if I want to use you in Bravata"
"I'm not under contract to them anyway," Karen interjected.
"Yeah, yeah, I know all that. But anyway, this part. It's the mistress of an American Army officer sent into Mexico. She follows him down there because she loves him, buys her way in on a French cargo ship that drops her in Vera Cruz. She makes it to this little village, Bravata. That's where the name comes from. But it turns out he's off fighting Mexican troops somewhere and she misses him by just hours. Well, the Mexicans ride in, find her in the village and she's raped and murdered. The rest of the film is about her lover's revenge and his subsequent court-martial for the massacre of a whole platoon of Mexican regulars. It's based on a real event . . . well, how about it? It's a juicy part, huh? You're not on camera all that much, but you're sure to be remembered. Hell, you'll be the only woman in the film outside of a few Mexican extras."
"I don't know, Art. It's been so long. I'm just not geared for the pressures of shooting now. That sort of strength has to be maintained, you know, like weightHfting. I doubt if I could just jump right in and start filming again."
"What 'ya mean?" shouted Art, the producer's bellow back in his voice, "You'd think you were one of these Hollywood-has-beens, instead of a beautiful girl still in her twenties!"
Karen winced at the familiar words, "Ouch, Art, that hurts."
"Well, I'm sorry to be so frank, honey, but I think this role is for you. And you're a damn fool if you don't take it."
"Have you really got a print of The Naked Stranger? I thought they burned all of them."
"Yeah, it was a stinker. But your part was beautiful, considering the script you had to work with. Hey, you want to see it?"
"Sure, over the foot of your king-sized bed, no doubt?"
Albertson laughed, but it didn't change the glazed look in his eyes. Karen wondered how much of it was alcohol and how much ... well, what's the harm of seeing the film? It's not like I've got anything better to do. "Okay, let's see the print. But no funny stuff, Art. You can save that for Christina and the rest of the steno pool."
He held up his hand, palm out, "On my honour as an upstanding Los Angeles citizen," he recited.
'Then I'd better have another drink. The shock of seeing myself on the screen and watching you behave yourself at the same time may be more than I can bear!"
Chapter Five
Medium close shot, Karen Bellser with tears on her cheeks, she looks up ... reverse angle, Jean Romard looks into her eyes . . . two shot, they embrace but do not kiss . . . medium shot, following, as Karen leaves the room . . .titles over and closing credits.
Art turned off the video tape recorder that had fed eighty-eight minutes of The Naked Stranger into monitor number two of his system. Karen was sitting on the leather sofa opposite, slouched down now, her muscles sore from the same position. "One thing for sure, Art, it was every bit as bad as I remembered it."
"Right, right," he answered, his hands characteristically waving, "But didn't I tell you your performance was goddamn good? Well, wasn't it?"
"Maybe better than I remembered it." He was right and she knew it; the movie did indeed stink, but she had done her best for the role, and her extra effort showed in the final result. "Got any more of that Scotch?" she asked instinctively. If she'd thought about it, she would have known she had already had one more than enough.
Albertson, seeing now the chance he'd been waiting and watching for, left to fix her another J & B on the rocks. His face, when he returned, showed nothing to betray his actions . . . there was no hint of the little extra ingredient in this last drink, three pulverized brown pills. For Art had added something special to this glass of Scotch and ice, full-strength thorazine, a drug usually used by mental hospitals to relax and control the rowdiest of patients. Dr. Simon Levy, Albertson Films' staff-retained psychiatrist, had more than willingly offered a vial of the potent drug. Willingly, that is, when Art so aptly reminded him of the annual retainer he'd stand to lose if the good doctor turned him down. Albertson had become skilled in the use of thorazine and alcohol now, almost like some bush-league shrink in his own right. And by gauging the right amount at the right time, it was nearly impossible to distinguish the rapid effects from the normal symptoms of over-indulgence in strong drink.
"Here, baby," he offered, smiling, "One more for the road. We'll talk more about this film tomorrow. I don't want you making up your mind until you've had time to think it over."
Karen's hand reached out for the drink. Damn it, I'm developing too much of a taste for this stuff. I've got to slow down . . . no, better I quit altogether. But what the hell, one last one tonight can't do any harm. Tomorrow, it's cold turkey, or I'll wind up at the dry-out farm...
Karen barely noticed the whirring sound as Albertson nipped the switch that opened the electrically-operated couch against the study wall into a full-sized bed; it was another of his many gadgets, an ordinary-enough convertible sofa bed equipped with three rheostat-controlled electric motors, geared to the necessary motions that transformed the piece of furniture into a bed. She was groggy... so groggy... the lights in the panelled study all dimmed at once into a bronze glow that barely iHurtrinated the room ... music came from a half-dozen hidden tweeters and woofers buried in the rich wood walls.
"M think I'd b-better be going," she stammered, her words slurred.
"Oh, no, you're in no condition to be driving. Come on, let me help you to the bed here," offered Albertson.
"Yeah... yeah, the bed ... that's where I should be. You're not a bad guy, Art, yToiow that?" Karen slurred drunkenly.
"Sure, sure, baby ... c'mon, over here." He helped her to her feet and propelled her toward the waiting bed. In her drugged state, she didn't notice that the bed was not there a moment ago. When her knees bumped the mattress, she collapsed forward, outstretched across the mattress. Art stood by impatiently until he was certain the drug had done its full work.
"Here, honey, let me give you a hand with your jacket. Don't want to mess it up by sleeping in it, now do you?"
"Huh ... oh, sure, sure." She rolled over and half-raised herself, enough for Art to pull the jacket from her arms and toss it on the cocktail table behind him. She started to drop back onto the soft comforting mattress, but he held her arms. Her mouth opened as if to protest when he grabbed the bottom third of her knit top and yanked it from the waist of her hot-pants, but only a low guttural sound escaped her lips. He pulled the tight garment over her head and off; it was impossible to stifle the gasp he uttered when it was removed. Like most of the girls in California with a figure to be proud of, Karen hadn't worn a bra tonight, and when the tightly sculpted fabric was yanked off her body, her breasts soared magnificently before him, her nipples already hard and jutting. Just the firm round globes themselves were ivory white, the rest of her was a magnificent mahogany tan, deepened by the southern California sun. The contrast seemed to set them off, to highlight their incredible tantalizing beauty even more. He gave her a nudge and she fell onto her back, the two goregous mounds of white, firmly rounded flesh quivering sensuously as she fell.
Her hot pants zipped on the side, and when he'd loosened the zipper's grip, he tugged them inch by inch from her hips, pulling down the sheer baby-blue panties with the shorts. With more than a little effort, he managed to get the cuffs of the hotpants over her thigh-length vinyl boots. She moaned a few half intelligible sounds as he stripped the shorts and bikini-style panties from her booted legs; the last struggling cells of her brain must have been futilely voicing their objection to this indencency, but the rest of her mind was beyond reasoning, even from within. He looked over his prize catch ... Jesus Christ, what a body! She should be in the middle of Playboy, but nobody would believe it!
He looked over her bare shoulders, draped with the long curls of her blonde hair; she was still wearing a velvet choker adorned with a tiny cameo in the middle of her throat. That and the vinyl boots . . . and no more. Her trim waist narrowed beneath the enormous twin swells of her gorgeous breasts, then flared majestically in the curves of her hips, adorned at their midpoint by a vee-shaped triangle softly curling blonde pubic hair that curled downward toward the hidden treasure between her soft supple thighs. The picture was like something a photographer would have dreamed up in his wildest fantasies! Her fantastically alluring nudity highlighted by just the neck choker and the boots!
His pants dropped to the floor as he unzipped his fly and fully exposed his long thickened prick; it was hard and blood-engorged already, just from the tempting sight of her luscious charms laid out before him. It stood out menacingly over the outstretched body of the blonde before him; he gave his organ an affectionate rub, peeling back the thick foreskin and exposing the purplish, lust-distended head. For an instant, he fantasied an image of jacking off onto her spread-eagle form, letting the thick white juice of his cum spray like a thick rain onto her face and naked tits. Christ, it would serve her right for all the times she'd rejected him! That would show the stuck-up little bitch that her proud little ass was no better than the rest!
But no . . . there would be plenty of time for the kinkier stuff, that much he was sure of. This thorazine stuff was remarkably effective; it blurred enough of the memory to serve a double end: she'd remember this, all right, but she'd never suspect it was anything but her own drinking and unleashed desires that led her to spread her legs to him.
He couldn't resist one little amusement, though, before he climbed onto her and shoved his cock into the hot, hair-lined little slit between those delicious thighs, he'd thought of it often, even tonight, and Art Albertson wasn't one to deny himself anything if it was in his reach. Her smoothly sculptured face was near the edge of the bed, and he rested himself on his knees there and turned it toward his erect penis. His hips rocked forward and the wet sticky underside of the throbbing head lay gently on the closed pink lips. He gripped the sides of her nose between his thumb and forefinger so she would have to breath through her mouth, and her lips slowly parted. Instantly, his huge cock slid over the moist ridges of her lips and along the sandpaper surface of her tongue. He shivered as he felt the warm air from her nostrils against the shaft of his aching member.
She was more unconscious than not, but as he released his fingers from her nose, her lips closed reflexively over the intruding penis, and Art began to saw back and forth, her mouth and lips lubricated with the first oozings of his seminal discharge. His hand closed over the soft tissue of her breast; he could feel the hard, crinkly nipple against his palm. It hardened and pulsed with a heartbeat of its own as his opened fingers massaged the sensitive flesh. Karen responded solely from instinct... her body began to make tiny but distinct movements, her arms moved restlessly at her sides, one leg lifted slightly in a jerky little pumping motion, her lips closed tighter around the thick fleshy length of his cock, leaving a glistening trail of saliva along its shaft as he pulled it nearly fully from her wet oral grip, then eased it slitheringly back into the warm moistness of her mouth. Her tongue, lips and mouth closed around him like a wet, warm glove, and shivers of wanton appreciation raced up his back from the pleasurable fucking of her beautifully proud face.
She began to stir more noticeably, and he pulled his prick from her mouth, leaving a thin thread of stickiness that trailed over her chin.
"David ... David, I've waited so long for you, David."
David! Damn, he's been dead for over a year! She thinks I'm her husband ... Christ, that stuff must be really working!
"David, please," she murmured faintly, her eyes still closed, "Be gentle with me, David. It's been so long." Her tongue ran slowly over her moist, sticky lips; she seemed to savor the pungent taste of his semen that tainted them. The odor of his masculine juices seemed to trigger a mechanism buried far in her unconscious; she began to squirm passionately on the covers, her legs opening and closing in that unmis-takeable gesture of a woman in heat. Tiny Hazing fires began to burn in her nipples, and a warm, liquid throbbing filled her belly with a heat like a reddened poker was rammed inside her. One leg lifted and bent at the knee; as it raised, Art caught his first real glimpse of the pink, ragged furrow between her legs. It bore a string of pearl-like drops, moisture from her own growing excitement as the thick, pouting lips began contracting, throbbing wetly against each other.
"Oh, please, David. Put your hands on me, touch me down there between my legs, David," she moaned.
Art eased himself cautiously onto the bed, careful not to jar her lest he break the drug's spell. He positioned himself over the softly squirming body, pushed her unresisting legs back until the deep brown vinyl of her boots doubled back against the undersides of her smooth unblemished thighs.
He crawled between them, panting like a dog hunting food, his face just a few inches from her open pussy. His mouth watered at the sight of her smooth flat belly and the warm soft flesh that trailed down the crevice of her crotch to the rounded creamy spheres of her ass pressed tightly against the mattress. Her buttocks-cheeks pinched the sheet between them in their opening and closing grip.
He touched his ravenously hungry lips to her pink hair-lined vaginal slit. "Oooooohhhh," she moaned through half-closed lips as his fingertips parted the fleecy damp down and spread apart the soft tender ridges of her pussy, allowing his devouring lips full access to the treat he'd been so long denied.
Her head rolled from side to side, her hands against the sides of her face, as his hot searing tongue shot out, its soft flicking tip circling her quivering clitoris ... his lips sucked furiously on the sensitive little bud and the fleshy ridges around it. He could taste the sweet pungency of her flowing juices... warm, soft folds of pink flesh were drawn into his mouth. Karen groaned a husky, throaty cry as the hot probing tip worked its way up and down the narrow wet slit, down over the elastic orifice of her vagina and into the crevice of her flexing buttocks where his tongue probed wickedly at the tiny, puckered ring of her anus. Her hips ground uncontrollably into the bed now, soft mewling animal sounds escaping pitifully from between her passion-clenched teeth.
Her pussy-lips were suddenly aflame with her incited lust, and it felt as if he would be sucked up into her by their ravenous nibbling. The heels of her boots dug painfully into his back as she forced his mouth harder against the moist throbbing furrow of her cunt. Karen's whole naked, writhing body was alive with passion, every muscle in her helpless body tensed as she strained her hips upward toward the maddeningly exciting probe between her thighs. The vinyl sides of her boots clamped tightly around his head, positioning him perfectly in front of her ravenous little cuntal opening. "God, God! Fuck me, please, darling please!"
Art could stand it not a second longer. He grabbed her flailing, booted legs and slammed them roughly back to her shoulders; the tops of her vinyl boots bit into the soft flesh of her thighs, leaving a reddened welt where they punished her sensitive skin. He slithered up her body at the same time, dampening her with his sweat-soaked torso as he dragged himself lustfully over her, reveling in the feel of her moist, fleecy crotch against his chest and stomach as he pulled himself into position so he could fuck her drug-incited body. His rigid, thick cock stood stiffly erect, brushing tantalizing-ly against the tickling curls of her pussy-hairs. He gripped her shoulders tightly as her ankles locked around his neck; he could look down between them over the swollen paunch of his belly and see where their naked bodies nearly came together, her narrow cunt-slit visibly throbbing its hungry lips in invitation. Her moist furrow was open wide by the pressure of her widely-spread thighs.
Karen was insane with passion, mindless of anything except the taunting closeness of the lust-quenching cock brushing teasingly against her now greedily quivering pussy. Art looked down... guided himself forward, dragging the blood-engorged head of his penis through the wet furrow of her cunt to moisten it. He eased it forward... the starving lips of her hair-rimmed slit gripped it tightly, sucked him forward in a mad attempt to pull the delicious hardness deep into her belly. Damn, she wanted it so badly! She wanted to feel it rip through her like a saw through wood, to fill her completely, to ravish her with the exquisite pain only a man's cock could give her!
Art shoved his loins forward... the elastic rimmed cunt lips resisted for an interminable moment, then suddenly parted in a moist wet welcome. He eased an inch of his long turgid shaft into her, then paused tauntingly as she squirmed ecstatically beneath him, a helpless prey savoring the impaling -member about to rend her proud little belly open like a battering ram...she moaned pitifully, maddened by the teasing entry and wildly, lustfully hungry for more of his wonderful thick penis inside her.
He could hold back no longer . . . with a coarse grunt, he rammed his prick as hard as he could into her, slamming the swollen, throbbing organ to the hilt in her belly, his balls slapping flatly against the upturned furrow of her ass as her legs splayed out wildly on either side of his thick body, her boots kicking the air madly.
"Oh, David, David . . . it's too big, it's hurting me!" Art grinned a self-satisfied smirk at the sound of her cries. Shit, I always figured that old man of hers didn't have much equipment. Vll bet she's never had a real cock in her . . . but she's getting one now, by God!
She screamed again, her cries echoing through the empty house and down the hillside, her impaled form pinned mercilessly to the bed. With every snap of his hips, the heavy-set man buried his huge cudgel-like prick deeper inside her. Her arms and shoulders were pinned against the mattress as Albertson's knees pressed her soft supple thighs back against her body. Her boot heels pummelled his back with a rain of blows, but the lust-crazed producer was oblivious to her struggle.
No, he gloated, she's never had it so deep! Squirm, you little cock-sucking bitch, squirm!
Looking between their sweat-soaked bodies, he could see the soft pink lips of her pussy straining as they stretched around the thick pistonrng shaft of his cock as it slid wetly in and out of her, each punishing thrust seemingly deeper than the one before. He paused on the bottom of each in-stroke, flexing the head of his prick far inside her, bringing a squeal of pain and delight to her trembling lips.
His deep, battering thrusts took on a new, pronounced rhythm, long, steadily skewing strokes that impaled her painfully with every downward push. Her body began to vibrate uncontrollably ... thick warm liquid oozed from her throbbing vaginal passage and soaked his pistoning cock with a oozing layer of her orgasmic juices. Her streaming warm trickle ran down the crevice of her ass and wet the sperm swollen spheres of his balls as they clapped bluntly against her upturned buttocks-cheeks. A wet smacking sound resounded through the room as his paunchy belly bumped against the smooth flat plane of her own as they ground nakedly and lasciviously together.
He locked his mouth on hers, thrusting his dripping tongue deep in her throat, stifling the low animal moans that welled there. Reaching beneath her, he forced his hands between the covers and her warm fleshy buttocks, cupping the cheeks in his palms, kneading the pliant hot flesh, pulling the firmly rounded globes far apart.
Her very insides opened to him, the taut lips of her hair-lined slit flowered wider and wider with each stroke to receive this delicious plundering of her secret genitals. Her hands reached behind his back and added their blood-tipped marks to those of her leather-heeled boots. She pulled him deeply into her and thrust her fleece-covered pelvis up hard to skewer herself deliciously on the driving hot poker of his pumping organ. She sucked voraciously on the thick wet tongue that was thrust through her teeth; she swallowed greedily the droplets of his saliva. Only the wet slurping sound of his cock rapidly fucking in and out of her open cunt could be heard. "David, David, my darling . . ."
"You hot little slut, see what you've been missing!" he snarled as his lips pulled away from hers, but her ears heard not his words. His face was contorted both with maddened lust and the agony of his incredible physical exertion; his frantic rhythm continued, every deep skewing lunge bringing a fresh sharp cry to the young blonde's lips. He lifted himself to see her clearly as she writhed helplessly beneath his ravishing assault, the neck-band cameo choker and matching vinyl boots highlighting the incredible loveliness of her naked form. Jesus, he'd fucked a lot of young, hot cunted starlets in his time, but never had he found a woman like this!
Her nakedly upturned loins received the fury of his pounding jerks; his balls, aching with the seething white sperm that was ready to burst through his flesh, beat hard against her trim, sinewy buttocks.
Karen could feel her insides splitting painfully as the head of the tormenting, deeply-sunk prick threatened to tear her belly asunder ... it began to spurt.. . she could feel the first assault wave of the scalding white liquid blast far up into her, hosing warmly into her belly as if to literally quench the agonizingly painful flames of passion that burned there... the pores of her pussy-walls clasped around the wondrous organ, erupting in answer again and again, spilling her own joy-juices into the sloshing cavern of her pinkly quivering passage. Art grunted again and again as his distended penis emptied its painful contents in a long relieving gush of ecstasy.
She reached frantically around under her squirming buttocks with both hands and began to desperately milk at the softly jerking balls pressed into the slit of her ass. Her legs kicked out, her boots high in the air over the two of them. The huge blood-veined member continued to jerk its completion . . . white hot spurts still spewed from its engorged head, a gushing flood of viscous discharge that channeled through the tiny opening on the end and became a deeply spurting stream that emptied deep in her belly, filling her completely and foaming out in a bubbling bath that soaked her pubic hair and drowned the soft ragged lips of her pussy.
"Yes, fill me, darling, fill me!" she groaned hoarsely. The walls of her jerking cunt sucked at the throbbing cock hungrily until it gave one final spasmodic jerk, accompanied by a gasping sigh of anguished relief from the flabby lover smashing her tightly to the mattress. With a groan of pleasure and pain, he pulled free of her, his rubbery prick not an inch shorter, just softened. It popped free of her with a wet slurp and he rolled on his side, his breath in heavy, gasping pants.
Karen's eyes were closed; she still lay as Albertson had left, thighs doubled back against her large breasts, hands now at her side. With the final quivering throes of her climax, the powerful chemical seemed to waver and lose at least a portion of its enslaving grip on the naked, shivering blond. Slowly, ever so slowly, the present began to take shape around her again, the awful truths of the moment drowned out the fantasies she had dragged from the past. A trickle of tears streamed down her sweat-soaked cheek ... God, even a young teenage boy would have been better than this!
Chapter Six
The stretched DC-9, on loan from the Mexican airlines in exchange for credit in the titles and forty-five seconds of on-screen footage in Albertson's next picture, banked low over the lushly covered jungle mountainside north of Acapulco. Below them, in what seemed an endless stretch to the horizon, broken only by an occasional cove or rocky overhang, was a glistening white beach, unspoiled by a single beer bottle or hot dog wrapper. Not a human being could be seen in any direction. It seemed an odd place for a Miami Beach South, as Acapulco was fast becoming, but that tell-tale wispy brown that hung over the resort city's milside high-rises and villas like a Mexican shawl was evidence enough of civilization coming up fast in the distance. Even one of the new world's most beautiful cities suffered from the faint beginnings of man's blight on his environment.
Karen was stretched out across three economy seats, the center armrest having been removed. A large net bag at her feet held the odds and ends that were left out of the dozen or so bags Mrs. Hansen had packed for her on an hour's notice. She had awakened this morning at Albertson's place, naked and cozily bedded down in one of his guest bedrooms. Her clothes were all hung neatly in the closet and a note by the dressing mirror told her the staff would fix breakfast when she awakened. It all seemed so pleasant at first, like awakening in a luxury hotel with nothing to do but leisurely dress and be on one's way. But that fleeting pleasure had indeed been short lived. For two breaths out of her deep slumber, and the memories of last night tore into her head like a .45 slug. She could only he there at first, not believing, not wanting to believe. But it was all true, she knew she hadn't dreamed it. She felt all dirty, inside and out, and even the long hot soak in the tub she'd allowed herself failed to adequately rinse away the stains of what she had done.
But yet, though she felt rotten to the very center of her being, used and debased like a servant-girl, there was still another emotion she felt. One that, given the circumstances, bordered on the ludicrous. For Karen Bell-ser was, in a small sense, relieved... relieved that her sex urges, whatever their most recent manifestations, were at least normal. Art Albertson was at least a grown man, though there was very little else she could say for him.
There was a sharp jerk and the squeal of airplane tires on concrete as the big jet touched down. The others on board, almost everyone in the production from the producer and his director, Allison Mason, to the grips and script-girl, were stirring now, waking from the cat-naps most of them had taken on the long boring stretch over the Mexican desert. Karen thought of the luggage and expensive camera equipment stored in the cargo section, but more specifically, of one particular piece of last-minute cargo. An odd-sized addition, carefully padded with two tightly wrapped sheets and bound in a canvas tarp. tt had been a spur-of-the-moment decision, just as she was leaving the house with the studio station wagon waiting outside. Something, some sensation like a voice, called her from the living room, called her back for one more piece of baggage. It was as if that piece of metal was all she had left of the David Bellser she'd once been a part of, and somehow, having accepted Art Albertson's office, she knew she'd need all the help she could get. Maybe, just maybe, that statue could give her something she couldn't give herself. Just the support she needed to help her find herself, to stand by her as she tried painfully to carve out a new identity for herself, one that wasn't a tiny chunk of David Bellser, but a whole person, the new Karen Bellser.
She should have been ecstatic; most of the other cast members were. Art had told the truth about something at least; she'd read the script on the way down from Los Angeles, and the film stood a chance of being a real box-office success. Like all of Albertson's films, there was scarcely any creative merit, but a hell of a lot of commercial appeal. Yet Karen felt strangely despondent this late tropical afternoon, oddly chilled with a sort of foreboding.
Well, it doesn't matter now, we've got a film to shoot. And the last thing they need is another temperamental actress. Maybe a double dose of good hard work wiU be just the cure.
Chapter Seven
Shooting was over early for Karen, and it being the last day of filming, the director, Allison Mason, was more than willing to release her for the rest of the day. A couple of shots were, planned for sunset, mostly action takes with the horsemen-extras playing the parts of the U.S. Cavalry in a to-the-death struggle with a band of Mexican army regulars. They were a few kilometers northwest of Jalea de Catalan, a sleepy little Mexican village in the foothills of the majestic Sierra Madre del Sur, and the only transportation effective ori the dusty, rutted mining trail that led to their location site was the dependable jeep. Albertson had been foresighted enough to rent a fleet of the vehicles, so there was always one headed back to Villa Ortega, Albertson's Film's rented hacienda-style house in the lush green hills over Aca-pulco. Karen dreaded the bouncing, dirty trip back, but it would be worth it to settle into a long hot bath in her bungalow.
She had been in Mexico for over two weeks now, and while the tropical weather had been obliging, she'd hardly had the opportunity to enjoy it. Only once had she managed to slip down to the surf, and even then she was summoned back to the villa for rehearsals before she could even get wet in the blue Pacific breakers. The filming itself had gone beautifully, and Karen had been delighted to discover the old acting promise still lingered on. Even Mason had commented on her fine, polished delivery, and getting a compliment out of him was like getting testimony out of a Mafia chieftain. Art had surprised her even more; all the way down in the jet, she'd worried that his offer of a choice role had a couple of long, binding strings attached. But that hadn't been the case-she'd scarcely seen him since she arrived. It was warmly exciting to be acting again, to be back in front of the cameras, but returning to Los Angeles would be even nicer. She never dreamed she would, but she'd found herself jnissing that rattly old house, and the electrified hustle and bustle of Sunset Strip, the monied towers of Wil-shire Boulevard. Shooting would be over for her today, if none of todays takes had to be redone; the remaining studio filming left for Hollywood didn't include her. It was all over but the waiting.
"Karen, heading back?"
She turned on the dry powdery path. It was Banning Carver, the film's new discovery and one of the studio's hottest new properties. Banning had played pro football with the Rams for three years, until a ligament ripped beyond repair in his knee, and Albertson had snatched him up without so much as a screen test. His part wasn't a big one; he was on camera quite a bit, but his lines were limited mostly to monosyllables. And even these sometimes were beyond his acting abilities. But Karen liked him; it was hard not to be appreciative of his ruggedly handsome looks. In fact, he was the first Negro she'd known whom she found genuinely handsome. "It's all right with me, Banning. You finished too?" she asked, shielding her eyes with one hand from the harsh desert sun.
"Yeah, Allison said that last take was a print. All he's got left now is that hand-to-hand scene with Tracy and Rodrigues."
"Beautiful. Maybe he'll be in a good mood tonight for a change. I don't think I can bear another of his pep talks."
The tall, broad-shouldered black laughed, his teeth gleaming white in the harsh sunlight, "Don't bother me none, ma'am. I guess I'm just used to pep talks."
Karen smiled, "Yes, Banning, I suppose you are. Do you miss football?"
He looked around as if he half-expected a reporter to be lurking behind the mesquite. "Well, to tell you the truth, Miss Bellser, I don't miss it at all,"
"What! I thought I read an interview in Life that said you could hardly live now that your ball-playing days were ended."
"That was for the press, ma'am," he grinned. "Tell me, what would you rather do, stand in front of a camera for a few hours, maybe get a little dirty, or spend ten or twelve hours of every day running your ass off around a football field, then getting mauled for somebody else's sport on Sunday afternoon?"
"You know, I guess you've got a point there. Come on, let's see if we can pry one of the drivers away frorn his tequila and get on the road."
They were moving slowly in the general direction of the parked jeeps when Karen heard her name shouted from somewhere far off. It echoed down the parched mountainside and frightened a hawk circling overhead; the huge bird lurched suddenly and tacked on a new course, away from the disturbances below. In the distance, along the same narrow, cactus-lined path they had just trod, she could see Allison Mason, omnipresent clipboard in hand, trudging up the gentle grade, leaving a trail of kicked-up dust behind him. She held her breath . . . maybe something had gone wrong, maybe the whole scene had to be shot again.
"Karen, Karen, I'm so glad I caught you," he panted as he neared the two of them, "Are you going back to Villa Ortega?" "Yes, that is if you've finished with me." "Oh sure, sure. It wasn't that. It's just a little errand I need run for me. Would you be an absolute doll and give this money to Hillary? I ran out this morning without leaving her a cent, and she so wanted to go shopping in Acapulco this afternoon before we leave."
"Ill be glad to give it to her, Allison. Is she in your bungalow?"
"Probably. I told her Fd be late. Thanks a million darling." He turned and started back toward the filming site; the electricians were warming up the intense lamps for the day-for-night shooting, a tricky shot in which daytime exposure is made to look like night, through a system of filters and screens, and extra-bright lighting for the areas that are supposed to be illuminated. Bluish smoke was billowing from the carbon arcs. "Oh, one more thing," he said as he stopped in mid-stride and turned, "If you see Albertson, tell him to try to get that call through again please. He'll know what you mean . . . Hey, you, get those lines back out of the shot. We can't have Mexican cavalry horses tripping over electric cables, can we!"
Karen and Banning both chuckled at Allison's animated enthusiasm as his marionette-like features vanished in the distance. Both of them were probably remembering the whispered laughs and dirty remarks that had passed around the set like a contagious disease when the story leaked that Allison Mason, noted Hollywood director, had eloped to Jamaica, and would be joining the cast and staff of Albertson Film's latest movie on location in Mexico. Hillary Mason, his new young wife, was an odd-ball in this bunch, sweet enough, though, and likeable as hell, but still a misfit in this assortment of Hollywood film set types that transcended every human frailty from pills to booze to assorted perversions. Hillary was hardly more than a kid, just turned twenty according to the newspapers, though Karen, for one, doubted she was a day over eighteen. She wished she could have seen more of the girl, but the filming schedule left little time for girl-talk, and when the day's takes were finished, no one was in shape for much more than going to bed. Karen hoped the strikingly beautiful, pert brunette hadn't heard the viscious gossip; Hollywood people can be unnecessarily cruel at times. But it did seem more than a little ludicrous at first-after all, Allison Mason was one of the film world's most notorious faggots. More than one wag, on hearing of his recent elopment, had quipped, Who's the lucky boy? And those were the warmest of the comments.
And Hillary didn't seem the type to bear up under much talk like that. She was a southern girl, in the grandest tradition of the Old South; channing, poised and oozing sweetness and pulchritude from every pore.
But on her, it didn't seem phony somehow; all that naivete was real enough, though Karen couldn't help wondering how long it would last in this crass jungle of Hollywood society she'd chosen for herself. Art had offered, much to everyone's surprise, to bring her along as assistant to the wardrobe mistress, a job that he created just to have an excuse for the auditors, surprisingly generous in light of Art's penny-pinching reputation as a producer. But the wardrobe woman could handle her assignment without anyone's help, especially that of an inexperienced youngster who'd never even been on a movie set before, so much of Hillary's day was spent alone at Villa Ortega, or shopping alone down in the city. Rumor was that she'd started giving English lessons to the servants' children. It was easy enough to believe, Hillary was just the sort one could imagine struggling against impossible odds in some missionary outpost, veiled in long, flowing dresses, like something straight out of African Queen. Karen was glad she'd been asked to" deliver the money to the Mason bungalow; it might prove to be refreshing to spend some time in the company of at least one person who didn't eat, sleep and live movie-making.
Pepe, one of their most trusted drivers, was warming up the jeep for the drive back when they crested the last rise. "Hey, Pepe, how about a lift?" bellowed Banning in his deep resonant voice. The young Mexican Indian looked up, startled.
"Si, Senor Carver, but the jeep she is loaded with equipment already."
"That's okay. We can all squeeze in the front. That is, he looked at Karen, "If it's all right with Miss Bellser."
Karen nodded. Anything would be better than standing around for perhaps another hour in the parching sun, with only a lizard or two for company.
They climbed into the military-style vehicle, Karen and the well-built black sharing the passenger seat. Banning's muscular frame pressed hard against her side and thigh; she could feel his athletic firmness and sinewy strength even through his clothing. He placed his arm around the back of the padded seat, part of it resting lightly on her bare shoulders; his eyes looked into hers searchingly, as if maybe he expected a polite rebuff... or something worse.
But Karen only smiled, her moist lips still glistening from the make-up man's glaze. In the fierce dry wind, her blonde hair swirled and tossed around her head like a fiery mane. No, she didn't mind his arm around her. It was a long, winding road back to the Acapulco highway, some of it through twelve thousand foot mountain passes, and Karen was grateful for his strength . . . grateful to have a man beside her. And particularly one as brave and powerful as the famous Banning Carver.
Chapter Eight
Allison Mason's bungalow was outside the Villa Ortega compound, beyond the six foot whitewashed wall topped with a row of champagne bottle halves imbedded in concrete. He had specifically requested a place away from the others, a quiet retreat where he could go over the day's progress and map out the strategy for the next day's shooting. Albertson had granted the much-demanded director's request, calling it a wedding present, a place for a "working honeymoon," as he chose to call it. Mason's tile-roofed cottage wasn't part of the Ortega property at all, actually, and it had taken a bit of Hollywood-style wheeling and dealing to manage its rental on such short notice. Somewhere down the mountain Acapuleo's Gold Coast, there was a very disgruntled American tourist family, probably still wondering how they could have managed to wind up without the house they had reserved months in advance. But there was a certain Senor Ramirez, pockets heavier with American dollars now, who could tell them how.
It was after sunset when they arrived, Pepe singing an Indian folk song at the top of his lungs, swearing religiously on his mother's grave that it had been handed down in his family from the Toltecs. his forebears who ruled the Valley of Mexico in the eleventh century. Karen and Banning assured him that they believed him, then reassured the raven-haired Mexican when he questioned their faith. And after a paper cup half-full of Pepe's own brand of real Mexican tequila, they discovered it was indeed possible to believe everything the Indian said.
Lengthening shadows raced along the green hillsides as they parked the jeep inside the Ortega compound. Pepe called for some help from the servant staff to handle the unloading, observing_the carefully adhered-to status structure that the peasant employees had formed. After all, Pepe Estrella Minoza de Aquiles was a driver, not a handler of baggage.
Banning offered his company on the hundred-yard uphill hike to the Mason bungalow, explaining that a pretty American, especially one with her looks, should not be out walking alone in these hills, particularly after dark. And with a choice of words like that, she'd had no choice but to accept; it had been quite a while since a man showered her with flattering phrases like this one did. He might have been lying like a gypsy, but somehow Karen suspected his concern was genuine.
The tiny wooden gate was locked when they reached the top of the hill, but Banning quickly found another way in through the back wall, a narrow slit just wide enough for them to squeeze through. The rear courtyard was serenely beautiful, a hidden alcove draped over with clinging vines that grew up the insides of the wall and over the brick terrace along a trellis of bamboo stalks. There was a tiny gurgling fountain dead center, and beyond it, in the brightest corner of the tiny hideaway, a tarnished brass bird cage filled with a fluttering assortment of larks and sparrows. Banning held her arm as she climbed the narrow rock stairs that led up to the rear veranda; the roof overhung deeply there and the tile-floored balcony was dark already in the waning daylight. A huge picture window dominated the rear wall, running almost the full length of the terrace, opening onto the rooms inside. There were red-painted wooden shutters, but they were thrown open and they banged steadily in the evening onshore breezes from the Pacific far below.
Karen paused to let Banning catch up and to allow her eyes to adjust to the sharp change from the sunlight outside and the near-blackness of the rear veranda. "I wonder if she's home . . ." Karen's casual comment was sliced in mid-sentence like a sharpened blade had passed through her throat. She stood mute, glued to the spot where she had stopped. She looked again through the glass, across an empty expanse of room and focused once more on the twin images she'd glimpsed more accidentally than not. It was Hillary! And who was that with her... Oh, my God, it's Art Albertson!
Banning reached the top step, smiling and panting for breath. He opened his mouth to speak, but Karen silenced him with a wave of her hand. His eyes followed hers into the dimly lighted room; both of them simply stared in wide-eyed disbelief at the incredibly perverse tableau they had unwittingly stumbled on. Allison Mason's young bride was naked, her youthful teen-age body without a stitch to cover her. And so was Albert-son! He hovered over her like a paunchy bear over its prey. At first their minds refused to believe what their eyes relayed; this wasn't real, it wasn't happening... not even in Hollywood did a bride betray her husband on their honeymoon!
Art was kneeling between her naked, wide-spread legs, running his lips and tongue moistly up and down her body. He had sucked her quivering young, adolescently-pert breasts into quivering hardness and then traced a wet hot path down to the flat plane of her jerking stomach and inner white thighs. Hillary writhed passionately beneath his flicking caresses like a demon-possessed savage, her hands tangled tightly in his hair pulling his lips to her tingling skin.
Karen leaned around the corner of the massive window; she and Banning were sufficiently concealed by the darkness not to be seen. She couldn't move ... it was positively mesmerizing, this gorgeously beautiful young girl, her trim, slender body in such marked contrast to Art's slobbish flabbiness. Her mind rebelled at what she was doing, but she found it impossible to turn away.
Banning, still silently behind her, had pulled a tiny handmade cigarette from his shirt pocket. He ducked down low so as not to give away their presence in the brief light of his match; a sweet smelling wafting vapor suddenly filled the night air. Karen was no fool, she knew what the big Negro was smoking. It was common enough around Hollywood, though she preferred something tried and true, like liquor, herself. Before she knew what was happening, he had held it up to her lips. She hesitated, but when he whispered his insistence, she took a long deep drag that felt surprisingly good as it filled her lungs. Her eyes closed for a moment, and a momentary giddy rushing sensation raced over her. An instant later, the burning stick was at her lips again, and this time she took a deep puff without even thinking. It tingled through her body and quickly eased the day's tensions like a half-hour rubdown. She found herself wickedly enjoying the scene before her, watching with studied detachment the pagan ritual as old as time itself.
Young Hillary was indeed beautiful, more so naked like this than with her clothes on. Her body was alabaster smooth and white, like a fragile, porcelain doll who had been cherished away in a dark Southern mansion somewhere; her breasts seemed to dominate the scene-they rose like hills from the plane of her outstretched torso, proudly erect and capped with the twin, trembling points of her soft pink nipples.
Art's head dropped, his long wet tongue snaking out to flick teasingly at the hair-lined furrow between her supple thighs. Her legs parted automatically, bent back slightly to give lascivious access to this man old enough to be her father. His tongue lashed at the quivering little nub of raw nerves at the top of the moist slit. Hillary's body jerked as the electrifying contact was completed, and her legs clamped tightly together around his head, the soft inner thighs imprisoning his in a vise-like grip. Her hips began a slow up and down movement in rhythm with the probings of his slavering tongue. Soft purring sounds of animal pleasure came from between her clenched teeth; her long, rich coal-black hair cascaded over her shoulders and swished against her naked breasts as she quivered and writhed under the older man's practiced tonguing. The luxuriant deep ebony of her hair contrasted starkly with the unblemished, almost translucent, whiteness of her soft, warm flesh. Her squirming body thus presented a strange image, like a pool of black-and-white in a room filled with color. The strangeness of the sight she offered only made the forbidden vision more exciting to Karen and Banning outside the heavy, thick glass. At first she wasn't even aware of it, but Karen soon began an involuntary swaying in time to that of Hillary's as the young girl squirmed in lewd, abandoned surrender to the nerve-shattering lickings of the lips and mouth glued to her crotch. Karen's mindless movements might have been aided by the first rich drags of potent Mexican marijuana, but whatever the reason, she was suddenly, and unwittingly, periously close to something she had not counted on. Perhaps if she'd been less tired, and consequently, the pungent smoke less effective in its efforts to seize control of her mind, she might have realized before it was too late . . . but she didn't.
Banning was right behind her, his dark eyes fixed on the slowly rotating orb of her deHciously-formed buttocks, squirming in a slow, taunting tempo beneath the taut denim fabric of her jeans. He moved swiftly, his hands deft and accurate as they had been on the football field. The metal zipper at the rear of her tight jeans was suddenly open; hot moist hands coursed under the loose hem of her skirt and closed appreciatively over the slightly dangling globes of her large, full tits. She'd not worn a bra since the shooting was to hot, exhausting work, and the fewer clothes, the better. The huge black man's hands squeezed painfully the soft tender flesh of her breasts, his opened palm so enormous that he was able to cover one in either hand.
"No, please..." Karen was torn between screaming and giving herself away, or remaining silent and allowing herself to be ravished and- toyed with by this Negro. She tried frantically to think of a way out, some excuse to use on Albertson. But no, the truth would probably come out, Banning would tell it all. Christ, he had nothing to lose; dozens of studios would sign him if Art was foolish enough to let him go. But not her ... if she lost this job, she was finished. No other producer would have given her the chance Albertson had, whatever his motives. And that colossal ego of his could never stomach the knowledge that she'd been witness to his lewd indiscretion. He'd fire her on the spot, that much was certain.
She tried to gently, yet forcefully, push the Negro's hands away from her breasts, but his athletic strength was far too much for her. She turned her head, whispering, "No, Banning, this isn't what I came here for. Please, it's no reflection on you, just stop it."
But the ex-quarterback only smiled suggestively and tightened the iron grip on her tits, squeezing her painfully swollen nipples between his fingers as he left reddened welts on the tender curves of her breasts. She looked ahead once more, Banning crouched over her, pushing her slightly forward as his masculine hardness pressed at every pore of her backside.
She watched in wide-eyed wonder as Art, dripping wet already, sheets of perspiration rolling off the countless rolls and ridges of his paunchy torso slid slowly over the young bride's nakedness and straddled her breasts. His eyes were wide with the relish of his young, innocent companion.
Like a thick rubbery appendage, his cock jutted out from beneath the overhang of his immense belly, inches from the young girl's lips. She looked confused, not frightened really, but more mixed-up, dangling on the precipice of an adventure she'd never dreamed of. Art's hand went behind him and with a quick flick of his wrist, shoved his middle finger deep between Hillary's widely-spread legs, skewering it into the moist pink flanges of her pussy up to his palm. She jerked nearly off the narrow bed as he rotated it around inside her, teasing the sensitive walls of her vagina. She began to breathe rapidly, her youthfully lovely breasts rising and falling so that as she inhaled, her quivering crinkly-pink nipples brushed against the undersides of his thighs as he squatted over her. He lowered himself a bit, and now the delicate little buds rubbed constantly against his legs and his balls rested in the deeply furrowed cleavage between her large firm breasts.
Karen could see the young dark-haired girl trying to squirm away from the teasing torture, but Art's knees had pinned her upper arms to the mattress. She was completely at his cruel and sadistic pleasure, and a lewd grin covered his round face as he reached down with his free hand and rubbed the underside of his thickly erect cock in a slow teasing circle around the girl's lips. Her tongue flickered hungrily out from between her teeth, licking at the tiny opening in the end; they could barely hear sounds from inside the house, but the squirming, passionate young woman seemed to be moaning in frustration as her licking tongue failed to totally find its mark; she seemed to want desperately to clasp her ovaled lips around the purplish organ and suck it deep into her hungry mouth.
Karen's own body shivered in reaction to the black man's constant caressing of her breasts and the smooth downward slope of her belly. One of his hands left her breast, and as he ground his pelvis tightly and sala-ciously against her backside, his fingers slipped in between the waistband of her jeans and the warm soft plane of her abdomen, fondling the subtle womanly bulge, then thrillingly probing the curly light fluff of her pubic hair. His dark fingers explored the fleecy down, then suddenly eased into the hair-lined slit below, one thick stiffened finger snaking its way between the gently parted moist ridges of her vagina and into the elastic-tight opening of her pussy, sending wild electric shocks of pleasure stabbing through her awkwardly doubled body. The rigid hugeness of his enormous black cock was now wedged deep in the sweat-moistened crevice of her ass, and she could feel it through both their clothes, throbbing as if it had a life of its own. Unable to help herself, she ground back against it, imprisoned licentiously between the black man's pulsing manhood and the thirsting finger teasing deep in her vagina.
Banning began a slow, gentle rocking motion that brought an involuntary response from her own body; together they ground together in perfect rhythm with the tormenting strokes Art Albertson was delivering to the writhing girl's now hungrily rotating little pussy.
Suddenly, there was a sound from inside the bungalow. A wet gurgling sound as Art, grinning like a sadist, took the young wife of his director by the hair, pulling her head off the mattress, and thrust his thick, turgid cock deep into her gaping mouth. She started to cry, or perhaps to gag from the immense fleshy probe crammed between her lips, but the sound was muffled entirely as his lust-distended prick filled her throat completely. Karen's eyes grew wide with amazement as the tiny girl began to suck ravenously on the fleshy dangling penis, sucking and slurping as if she'd waited for years for just this moment. Her eyes were glazed with a wild, ecstatic film of pure savagery, and her body began to wriggle and squirm along its entire naked length, her legs kicking the air futilely as if her inability to suck this man's whole cock into her belly frustrated her.
Karen felt the Negro's hands leave her tingling flesh for a moment, his finger withdrawn from the moist clasping grip of her cunt. There was a pause, a rustle of clothing, impatient breathing ... she started to turn, but a strong grip yanked her jeans from her hips and another powerful hand against the middle of her back doubled her over. Only her grip on the back of a convenient terrace chair she'd bumped against in the dark kept her from felling forward on her face. She felt a sudden onrush of chilling air, then realized _ that Banning bad stripped both her jeans and her tiny panties down to her knees, and the whole of her nakedly trembling buttocks were vulnerable and exposed to his leering gaze.
Banning stood up, edged himself forward so that his prick was perfectly positioned at the now-exposed pink lips of the white girl's moistly-pulsing pussy. Karen suddenly quivered in fear at the realization that the enormous cudgel-like organ that spread her thighs with its immensity was Banning Carver's huge cock! And he was going to put that terrifying thing in her!
Oh, God, he'll kill me with that thing! It'll split me in half!
Her buttocks involuntarily cringed forward, drawing away from the dark rubbery cock pressed into her from behind, but it followed her movements perfectly. Her forehead rested against the window sill, her eyes nearly touching the glass through which she could see Allison Mason's bride and Albert-son, the thick fleshy rod that jutted from under his belly buried to the hilt in the young girl's roundly pursed lips. The Negro's hands gripped the edges of her hips like a pair of handles, holding her securely in place, directly in line with the enormous searching monster that probed for the elastic-like opening of her tightly clenched cunt.
"Reach back and put it in," he said quietly, leaning toward her ear.
"Oh, no, please . . . don't make me do it, please," she whispered chokingly, "It'll hurt."
"Listen, you white little bitch, don't play games with me. Put it in!" His voice was louder now and Karen was terrified that Al-bertson might have heard.
In sheer desperation, she reached behind her thighs and found the immense, throbbing, cock that awaited her; she nearly cried out when she gripped its enormous shaft and discovered that her fingers wouldn't close around it! He pushed forward, barely tapping his reservoir of strength, and the throbbing head of his prick pressed against the tight elastic ring of her vagina. She felt it begin a slow prodding and obediently, she guided it into position between the pink, widely-spread flanges of her trembling pussy. And then suddenly...
She felt her thighs swept apart and Banning long, thick cock slithered wetly into her hot throbbing passage like a man's arm; the swollen, blood-filled head felt as huge as a clenched fist. The heavy weight of his loins crashed against the smooth white curve of her upturned ass-cheeks, his black, wiry pubic hair brushing ticklishly against the tender flesh of her buttocks.
"Minmmmgggghhhhh," came the muffled cry from between her clenched teeth as she felt the huge pulsating head hit bottom somewhere deep up in her stomach. Her whole vaginal tunnel seemed to be aflame; the immense invading probe stretched the sensitive flesh painfully and proded at the delicate tissues. She squirmed from one side to another, fighting to wriggle off his impaling cock before it split her open. But it was no use; she was skewered right up into her ravished belly, stuck hopelessly on the end of his long rock-hard cock like an impaled bug.
Through pain-misted eyes, she could see the young bride, Hillary, through the glass, her soft, lipstick smeared lips clasping hungrily the pulsing thick penis sawing into her mouth. The thin, elastic rim of her lips clung to it as though she feared it might be taken away from her; never had Karen seen any woman so ravenously starved for sex. Hillary had both hands free and was pulling the older man's fleshy buttocks hard against her face, fluid dripping from the corners of her tiny mouth and running in tiny, thin little rivulets down her cheeks. For some reason, the young brunette was revelling in the sadistic humiliation of Albertson's treatment; her eyes blazed with the masochistic revelry of her subjugation.
Behind her, gasping and panting with delight, Banning began to rock rhythmically and gently in and out of the moist soft confines of her tightly clasping pussy. Gradually the pain vanished and Karen, like the young girl inside, began to feel ripples of delicious masochistic pleasure along her spine. Watching the girl engrossed in the depraved sucking of her husband's boss's thick turgid cock, coupled with the lascivious thrill of this magnificently-formed black man screwing into her from behind, was sending unfamiliar thrills of wicked perverse delight along her goose-bumped flesh. Her panties hung limply where the huge Negro had left them, at half mast around her upper calves, there with the crumpled top portion of her jeans. Her shirt was still on and buttoned, though Banning has pushed it up nearly to her shoulders. It was incredible... there was something exciting about being fucked this way, not naked and under the covers, but half-clothed in the outdoors, only her buttocks and the wetly seeping furrow of her open pussy naked and bared. There was something wickedly forbidden about it, as if she'd just turned around, dropped her jeans and panties and offered her eagerly waiting vagina to this huge, muscular master. A thrill of salacious ecstasy swept over her as she suddenly felt like a slave-girl, humbled for her master's pleasure taking. She began to undulate her buttocks lasciviously in tiny hungry circles around the thick shaft of the
Negro's lust-distended penis, rotating in steady, rhythmic circles around the long thick pole imbedded deep up in her very in-sides.
"Oh God," she breathed, her words coming louder than she intended, "Your cock is so big, Banning... it's soooo big!'
Standing over her bent body, Banning gritted his teeth and fucked in and out with long, deliciously hard strokes that sent the knob-like head of his huge, ebony cock plummeting deep into her belly. A feeling of ecstatic power seized him as he watched the quivering young blonde come alive from the magic of his skewering thrusts; he could feel the soft fleshy ridges deep inside her give way before the merciless onslaught of his pistoning cock.
His black fingers gripped her harder, squeezing the soft white flesh of her unresisting thighs with sadistic strength, wringing pitiful groans from the white giri's throat as the thick, turgid length of his glistening black cock fucked into her repeatedly.
He stretched the quivering moons of her buttocks wide with his fingers, watching in the dim light as the pink folds of wet warm flesh pulled from inside her cunt with his outward stroke. He levered forward suddenly on the tips of his toes, sinking the wetly plunging shaft to the brushy thicket of his pubic hair. He prodded the deeply hidden recesses of her vaginal channelj enjoying the squeezing grip that enveloped his rigidity like warm moist elastic. His prick encased in the warm clasping sheath of her pussy pulsated with lewd pleasure.
Karen's eyes opened and closed in a lost glaze of passion. She spread her thighs wider, moving her feet apart as best she could with the restraining bonds of her panties and jeans still holding her calves close together. She lowered her buttocks, forcing Banning behind her to lower his position, bringing the thrill-producing tip of his cock up hard against new pink folds of sensitive flesh deep along the walls of her tunnel. Forgotten was the humiliation of bending like a slave while a black man fucked her from behind, venting his lust into her eagerly welcoming vagina; forgotten were her panties dangling half down her long bare legs like a lowered flag of surrender. All that mattered now was the obscene pleasure coursing through her like a raging fire out of control. She wanted this so badly .,. she wanted this Negro's subjugating debasement . . . she wanted him to hurt her!
Allison Mason's young bride, Hillary, was sucking the film producer's cock like a wild woman. His balls dancing beneath him slapped with a resounding smack against the girl's upraised chin. And Karen watched, horrified, Art suddenly jerked his cock from the young girl's tightly locked lips and holding the huge fleshy hose about two inches away with one hand and her jaw down with the other, with a groan of relief that could be easily heard outside, began spewing hot, sticky cum directly into her wide held mouth. The thin quick spurts streaming like liquid blown from a straw filled her mouth to the brim. Hillary swallowed voraciously, trying not to lose a single precious drop as she gulped again and again to keep up with the wildly ejaculating penis spewing its lewd discharge at her face. Karen gasped at the obscene panorama, Art's cock throbbing out its last remaining spurts of liquid and the thin viscous strings dribbling from her lips and bridging the gap between them and its obscenely jerking head like the tiny intricate web-strands of a spider's web. The director's young bride moaned, a strange, satiated smile on her face as she eagerly licked the last traces of the lust heated wetness from her lips.
As if the young girl's total humilating subjugation had been a long-awaited signal, Banning, behind, began to fuck into Karen's obscenely-stretched pussy like a man seized by devils. Her whole body twitched and writhed uncontrollably as she groaned openly now, welcoming in undiluted abandon the deliciously-punishing instrument sinking deeper and deeper into her cunt. Her face contorted with passion, cries of ecstasy escaped her tightly-clenched teeth, try as she might to suppress them.
"Oh, yes, god, yes," she gasped as Banning gripped her under the doubled bend of her waist and lifted her bodily off the floor. She was suspended in mid-air, joined to this incredibly virile black by only the long skewering length of his rapidly- pistoning penis as it fucked crazily into her from behind. It was wildly exciting, more fantastic than she could have dreamed! She was literally impaled on his delightfully long hard skewer, writhing uncontrollably with lustful ecstasy as he masturbated himself with her up and down on his prick, pulling her down onto the viciously probing organ like he'd pull a rubber lined sheath over the bulbous end of his cock. "Yes, yes . . . oh, god, yes! Puck me, fuck me with your wonderful black cock!"
Karen felt a instant of breeze from her left side, saw, or imagined she saw a brief flicker of light. But her mind quickly dismissed it .. . nothing in the entire universe mattered but the deliciously-wicked pistoning of the Negro's immense lust-filled prick into the pink ravaged channel of her ravenously nibbling pussy.
Her mind was playing tricks on her... or was it? She couldn't summon the energy or the will to figure it out... she thought she heard voices, but no, there were none, how could there be?
Karen raced on mindlessly, driven to an incredible pinnacle of orgasmic joy by the frantic, slithering strokes of Banning's moistly gleaming cock, wet with her flowing juices deep, punishing strokes that charged their way into the very depths of her white-ly contracting belly. She was nearly there and could not stop. Shivering fingers of maddening desire plucked at her flesh, a million devils danced in her belly, their savage revelry spreading lewdly along the soft wet walls of her pinkly clasping passage. Sweat poured from every pore in her body as she strove wildly for that last wondrous second ... her ass ground viciously back against the black man's hard driving pejyjs as he held her tightly with iron grips on her upper thighs. Her legs, dangling uselessly below, kicked the air spasticaUy as the huge Negro held her still-suspended, plundering her from behind again and again and again. And finally...
"Aaaaaaaaaaaawwwwwwwwwwwww . . . AAAAAAAGGGGHHHHHHH!!" Her wild animalistic orgasmic cry rent the still tropical night; a dozen colorful birds burst into flight in their brass cage, their fluttering wings flailing uselessly against the sides of their prison as they struggled to the uppermost bars.
"God, God, I'm cumming!" she gasped, "Aaahhhh . . ." Her cum juice flowed wetly out around the thick circumference of his wetly pistoning cock, flowing down the sides of her thighs and trickling lewdly onto the tiles of the veranda. As the last purplish waves of pleasure flashed before her eyes, she felt the black man's savage climax join her own, a thick, seething torrent of hot, viscous cum that spurted in a staccato pattern far up into her insides. It felt deliriously warm and soothing, as if the sticky flow was coating her from head to toe ... she felt the immense, turgid pole shudder, heard a low gasp and quick breath from behind her up-turned buttocks, and it was over. He lowered her feet to the floor and backed away from the soft white curve of her ass-cheeks; his prick slithered like a long black snake from the deepest depths of her cock-ravaged pussy-hole. Karen struggled to stand erect again, painfully straightening her back as though she'd been doubled-over that way for years. She stood erect, belly filled with sperm and body still quivering from the orgasmic fury of her climax. Her eyes opened once more ...
"Oh my God! Art! Art, I can explain! I..." Her hands went instinctively to her lower belly in a useless attempt to cover her nakedness; her jeans and panties were still dangling uselessly down below her knees. The wrinkled fabric of her shirt was bunched around her upper chest, over the bulging swells of her tits as they stood naked and proud, nipples still throbbing with the after-shocks of her devastating climax.
Allison Mason's young bride, Hillary, was still naked, standing at Art Albertson's side with a silly, knowing grin on her lips. Her body glistened with the moistness of perspiration. Albertson looked at her for a moment. Karen looked appealingly to Banning, as if this coupling had somehow made the handsome Negro her protector. But there was no relief to be found there.
"I guess we gave 'em one helluva show, huh? And all the time you thought we were the peeping toms!"
Karen swallowed, moistened her lips to speak, "You ... you mean they were watching all along. You knew they were watching and still..."
"Oh, don't get so uppity," interrupted Al-bertson, looking rather absurd in a pair of bedroom slippers and nothing else, "After all, you were the ones who sneaked up here for a good show."
Hillary giggled, and her hand slid along Albertson's back, out of view until it reached the bottom of his buttock crevice. Her fingers popped into view again as they toyed with the producer's deflated testicles, teas-ingly pulling at the tiny hairs that covered his balls.
Karen looked around her, into the faces . . . Banning, grinning like some dumb field hand caught behind the bam ... Albertson, smiling as if nothing were out of the ordinary. As if it was an everyday occurrence to be fucking another man's new bride while he earned his pay working at Albertson's instruction ... and Hillary, scarcely out of her teens, and yet, somehow older than any of them. Oh dear God, this can't be the world I live in! Am I like these people? Have I become some kind of animal since David's death? Oh God, is there nothing better than these people anywhere!?
Karen pulled her jeans and panties tearfully up to her waist, mindless of their snickers as she struggled to clothe herself once again. She ran down the narrow steps, tripping once in the darkness but catching herself in time. There was a brilliant tropical moon high in the night sky and the path back down the hillside was clearly defined. On and on she ran, tears streaming in helpless rivulets down her cheeks.
Pepe's jeep was where he'd parked it, unloaded now and empty. Without so much as a thought, she jumped behind the wheel. Somewhere far behind her in the darkness, she could hear the fat producer, Art Albert-son, shouting her name, others laughing. Their biting shrieks echoed off the stark hillside and followed her down toward the compound, chasing her like a band of wolves.
The engine turned over, sputtered, then fired again. She fumbled with the gear lever, finally remembered the way the Mexican driver had done it. The jeep spun a cloud of rocks and sank into the moonlit night . . . Karen drove straight down the coast highway, not knowing where she was going, not caring. Soon Acapulco was in the distance and ahead lay an endless expanse of moon-white beach and dark jungle.
Chapter Nine
Her headlights caught their brassy images in the distance. At first she thought her eyes were playing tricks on her; it looked like a light being shone into a deep pool, and down near the bottom, among the rocks, were a half dozen or so large bronze-scaled fish, darting and swimming about, more frantically now that the light grew brighter.
She drew closer, slowing as the pavement gave way to rocks and hard-packed sand; the jeep slowed to a crawl and forded a freshly-cut furrow in the trail where a rain-swollen stream had left its banks high on the hillside and was carving a new route through the undergrowth and down to the sea.
Karen swerved the jeep to avoid the darkest pool in the middle of sand and mud but it was too late; the wheels were stuck tight. The fishes swam toward her, gleaming and sparkling in the jeep's bright headlights.
When they were closer, Karen could see that her eyes hadn't failed her after all. Nor was the last shred of her sanity gone, at least not yet. What she had thought were giant fish was a group of Indian boys, all in their teens it appeared, freshly out of the crashing surf just a few yards away, where they had been spearing for bottom-fish, drawn close to shore in the darkness of night and more vulnerable for their short pointed gigs. They had waded out into the stream and were standing around the vehicle, grouped in a semi-circle. Karen thought at first she was dreaming . . . the boys were all naked! Their bodies glistened with the palm oil they had rubbed into their skin earlier to protect them from the surf. What's happening to me? Am I losing my mind?
They stayed in their positions, perhaps a dozen feet from the mired-in jeep, but venturing no closer. They spoke little among themselves, but what Karen could hear appeared to be an Indian dialect, not Spanish at all. They seemed to be laughing, laughing at her. She tried to speak to them, first in her limited Spanish, then in English, but there was no reply.
"Why won't you help me!" she shrieked finally, distraught from the night's nightmarish events and nearly hysterical with rage and fear. "Can't you see I'm stuck?" She grew more and more outraged at their refusal to help; they moved not a step closer, but their laughing comments among themselves seemed to grow more frequent. One of them was pointing . . . Karen looked down accidentally, searching for the lamp switch to save the battery. It was then that she realized the source of their amusement-in her haste to escape the Albertson compound and all that it stood for, she had forgotten the buttons on her shirt. It dangled loosely to the waist, nearly three-quarters open, and the full white firmness of her breasts were quite visible in the moonlight. Embarrassed, she hurriedly covered her nakedness and tried again, "Please, won't you help me?!"
One of the boys, who appeared to be the oldest, stepped forward through the swirling black waters. "No good, missie . . . mud too deep. I send little one here to village for truck. Then you be free."
Karen breathed a sigh of relief, 'Thank God you speak English."
The older boy nodded, "Yes, a little, from convent school. What you do here this hour? It very dangerous on this road at night . . . many sand and strong waters."
She nodded, "I ... I guess I'm lost. Thanks for your help. I don't know what I would do if you weren't out here."
"We fish for village," he explained, "No need for clothes. No women on beach. Village too far." He grinned broadly and pointed innocently at his dangling sapling-like cock; the others broke into peals of laughter at this and imitated their leader, pointing each to his own sex.
Karen turned away, her face flushed. "I see . . . Well, when will the truck be here? I'm in a bit of a hurry."
"I send little one now. Village far. Truck by many hours."
"Many hours? But I can't stay out here alone all night!" Karen was genuinely afraid now for the first time since running out of the compound. Her blind rage had cooled now and she was looking at things realistically once again; the jungle was indeed dark and forbidding. And there were no lights to be seen in either direction along the Pacific coast.
"No other way. We stay with you. No be alone." He smiled again, then gestured to the others and spoke in his native dialect. The young boys scampered like so many animal cubs back onto the sandy beach; the older one helped her from the vehicle and through the water to the safety of the hard-packed sand. She was soaked nearly to her neck when they finally were ashore, half-swimming, half-wading in the treacherously swift current. "We build fire. Dry clothes." And with that, the older boy and two others raced off for the jungle, only to return a few minutes later with armloads of driftwood they'd gathered at the winter storms' high-water edge. In minutes, they'd managed a roaring blaze; it felt good after the dousing she'd been through.
The leader stood over her, not speaking, as if waiting for something. Finally, "Your clothes. Take them off. We dry here by fire." Karen half-laughed, then shook her head, "No, no. It's okay. I keep clothes." She realized she was beginning to talk like the Indian.
But he too shook his head, and determinedly. "Must dry clothes. Circle around moon tonight. Storm before morning... very cold. You be sick if you no dry clothes."
"But I can't! I can't just take my clothes off in front of all of you!" protested Karen.
"Must dry clothes. We no have clothes. You no be ashamed your body."
Karen couldn't believe her ears, but she wasn't in a mood to argue. This wasn't darkest South America, by any means, but she didn't want to be the one to anger a gang of natives in the middle of nowhere. And she did need their help, that much was for sure. If they ran off and left her now, she might starve to death before she found her way back.
"Oh, all right," she agreed finally, and stood up to peel off the wet layers. In a couple of minutes, she was as naked as they, and two of the bronze-skinned boys had stretched her clothes on poles beside the flames. She sat there awkwardly at first, trying to ignore their openly curious stares. She folded her arms over her breasts and sat with her thighs pinched together; still, most of her nakedness was theirs to see? Yet it didn't particularly bother her, somehow; after all, they were naked too, so it was different, wasn't it?
"We smoke now. Hours go quickly." The older boy pulled a clay pipe from his leather pouch lying at his feet on the sand; it was adorned with red carved birds and looked like something an American Indian might have offered the visiting cavalry in years past. He stuffed it with some loose leafy material from another, tinier, pouch and lit it with a burning twig from the fire. As guest, Karen was to be the first.
She took it carefully and nodded a silent thank-you to the leader, then held it to her lips and took a cautious pull. It was marijuana! Of course, she'd heard that these natives down here smoke it all the time!
"You take more," said the older boy, "Make you feel better."
She started to explain that it wasn't necessary, that just the truck and a strong chain would be sufficient, but she remembered her predicament and did as the dark-haired youth said. It was stronger than any she'd had before, but it went down smoothly, not even burning her throat, though she must have taken quite a bit.
It wasn't until the pipe had gone full around that Karen realized just how potent the marijuana really was, god, it wasn't anything like the stuff in the States. She could feel her head spinning dizzily and the fire seemed to grow brighter and then fade into a tiny ember. "I ... I think Fve had enough," she managed to say before she fell back on her elbows on the ragged blanket they had spread for her. Her modesty was gone, vanished with the stupefying wave that had just broken over her; the smiling boys' faces blurred into one greasy smear as the images spun round her in a drunken roll.
Karen closed her eyes, allowed herself to float with the roller-coaster ride of the marijuana as it settled in the cells of her brain. When she opened them again, she felt strangely different . . . she stared at the naked young boys, much like they had stared at her when they found her in the swollen stream. She saw them now excited, erect young cocks all around her, smiling, innocent natives as they unashamedly stroked their precious members into stronger, more erect life.
Young cdcks, thin and hard... young, sinewy bodies ... it all came back to her in a blinding flash. That night with Bobby, the incredible magic he had managed. A terrible obscene thrill ran through her dazed mind, an erotic feeling of pure savage sensuality so strong she had to catch her breath. Her mind reeled and she felt weak, nearly faint.
She looked around at all the beautiful naked young boys, all trim and lean, their cocks rock-hard with unabashed admiration for her as a woman. Their stroking movements grew faster, and soon the naked native boys were masturbating, standing now as she lay outstretched on the sand.
One edged closer, offering his cock in his hand to her lips and, without any conscious effort on her part, they parted, for she remembered the taste and feel of Bobby's cock in her mouth and she remembered the wickedly enjoyable feeling she'd savored too. She hungrily nibbled at the long boyish cock offered her, sucked it into her wet mouth until it was pressing far back against her tonsils. The tall thin boy suddenly moaned a whooping cry, like a warrior brave before battle, his head went back, his nakedly hairless loins grinding forward, and in an instant, his cock was emptying his fresh young sperm down her greedily milking throat. It was incredible! She was mad with the excitement of it all! These boys, these wonderfully naked boys, and they all wanted her. Wanted her so badly they ached for her nakedness! Naked boys with hard slender young cocks, eager for an education, eager for what she could teach them . . . her mind still whirled dizzily, but an idea was taking form ... Karen Bellser was beginning to see the faint prospect of light at the end of the dark, harrowing tunnel.
"Please, please," she heard herself suddenly moan, "I want you boys to fuck me! I want all of your young wonderful cocks inside me!" And moments later, through her marijuana haze, she felt her cunt being opened down between her wide held thighs, eager, inquisitive fingers fondling the sensitive pink ragged edges of her vagina. She wiggled her buttocks at the" older boy, his ringers now worming around up between her thighs. He dropped to his knees as the others crowded around; he rocked forward . . . his young hard cock sank in easily, sliding through the moist, palpitating vaginal furrow like it was warmly melting butter, pushing the smooth wet walls of her cunt apart in rippling waves. A shouted chorus of enthusiastic cheers accompanied his moist slithering entry.
Karen lay back on the warm blanket, moaning as a dozen hands found her voluptuous nakedness, sixty eager fingers probed and prodded at her every crevice, and curve. Work-calloused fingers found her tightly puckered anus and entered her there; she lifted her smooth white buttocks from the sand and ground back obscenely at the naked boy's hand.
Strong hands and arms turned her over; she opened her eyes to find herself straddling the oldest one. She lifted her buttocks from his muscular belly, sitting over him, her hands on his chest. He smiled innocently as she reached around behind her thighs and found his virile young cock, guiding it to the wet hair fringed furrow between her legs. She rose higher to get above the long hard member . . . then sank down onto it with a gasping cry of relief as the incredibly long youthful prick soared hotly up into her belly, filling her with his strength and virility. Hands were on her bare back, pushing her forward. Obedient to their every whim, she leaned far over, her breasts dangling onto the eagerly licking tongue of the one beneath her. His upward strokes came faster now, bucking her like a rider in the saddle as he shoved his powerful native loins upward, driving his young prick deep into her belly.
She felt a painful probing at her backside . . . from nowhere the clay bird-pipe was at her lips again. She filled her lungs with its mystic power, oblivious to the sudden pain as yet another of the young boys found his way into her nakedly writhing body. A ripple of pain shot from her anus as a long rigid penis popped through the taut elastic nether ring of her tiny puckered rectum and drove home, deep up the velvet channel of her tightly clenched back passage.
God, it was wonderful! There was one fucking her deliciously from beneath and now this! His wondrously young hard cock was buried deep up in her insides! She could feel them both distinctly as they rubbed together through the thin membrane that separated her cunt and anus . . . there was a gasp from beneath her wildly bouncing tits, then another from behind her... she felt the gush of their fresh young sperm up in her belly and then their young cocks grow soft, then pull wetly from her body, only to be replaced by another . . . and another . . . and still another!
Karen moaned incessantly, a whining animal cry of savage ecstasy shattering the cool tropic night. She wasn't running now ... the jeep could sink to hell, for all she cared . . . the Art Albertsons and Banning Carvers of her world could touch her no more.
Chapter Ten
I thought I was dreaming that hot Sunday afternoon in Mexico City, wandering aimlesly through the Thieve's Market, mostly to kill time, but partly to put together the pieces of the article I was writing for an American news magazine. Things were getting better even then; I didn't need to look for help in the bottom of a bottle, and the simpler problems of life were enough for me, little things like teaching my boy Noah to tie his shoes or explaining why it's better to hang up one's play clothes than to leave them outside and run in the nude...
But anyway, back to what I was saying. I saw that damned statue before I was close enough to be really sure it wasn't my imagination. I must have blundered through that crowd like a Brahman bull through the streets of Calcutta, but sure enough, when I got to the stall, there it was, Gloria's last work, the last piece of sculpture she'd ever do. And sitting here in the sun in the middle of Mexico. Jesus, did I ever do a double take!
Naturally, I bought the accursed thing. Not so much for the memories of Gloria; she'd done enough to erase all the good ones anyway. But I figured maybe one day when Noah's old enough to be marching in a demonstration or occupying the dean's office, he'd appreciate having something to remember his mother by. God knows she didn't leave him anything else...
But how the hell did it get there? It nearly drove me up the wall for weeks; Christ, I'm a writer, yet I couldn't dig up a simple little story like that. Somebody had to know, there had to be a clue around somewhere. And it was three weeks to the day after I bought The Innocents back that the riddle began to make at least a little sense. I say only a little, for the facts that I unravelled made less sense the more I dug into them.
I got my lead from Leina Garceen, she's the sister of the vendor who sold me the statue. He wasn't about to talk; guess he figured I was a cop or something, but Leina was a bit more helpful. She said the statue had come to them through her friend in Aca-pulco, a sometime-chauffer named Pepe Minoza. Well, Pepe proved a hard nut to crack, but with my curiosity eating at me like a tapeworm, I finally broke down and blew my last twenty in a last-ditch attempt to loosen his tongue. It worked, all right, or at least it seemed that way. Pepe told me the whole story, how he'd taken the statue to Leina on his boss's orders, that his employer didn't want the thing in his sight. Something about a breach of contract, as near as I can figure. Damn good-looking woman in the middle, too- Karen Bellser, the wife of the guy who bought the thing in the first place. Well, that all made sense, and I would have been satisfied to leave it at that and forget the whole mess.
But that damned Mexican couldn't leave well enough alone. Cocky bastard he was, too. I guess he thought I was some kind of gringo fool that would believe anything, or maybe he just wanted his name in print and figured that the best way to insure that was to tell this dumb Americano the most outlandish tale he could dream up.
That must have been it; I can't think of another reason. But can you imagine it? That lousy little cactus-picker tried to tell me Karen had run off into the jungle down south of Acapulco, down where it's still real jungle, not the Disneyland variety. That she'd taken up with a bunch of fishermen Indians, just shucked everything, a promising career, fancy house in Beverly Hills, the works. Just to go live with some Indians. And to top it all off, Pepe said he'd caught a glimpse of her when he went looking for the jeep she'd vanished in ... running nude with a gang of savages along the beach at sunset!
Can you believe the nerve of that guy! Thinking I'd swallow a story like that!
